Birthday Conundrum

MoMo's birthday party is this weekend.  Her birthday isn't, and we've already had a small family party, but this weekend is her "invite the friends from daycare and mom and dad's friends to hang out with cupcakes and bubbles" party. 

And in a weak moment, I FB-invited Leigh.  She replied that yes, she was coming.  Now, I'm not sure I want her to come. Yes, I miss her, but I've enjoyed the peace and sense of boredom that she's left in her wake. 

Here's the thing. We've passed along her school uniforms, a pair of shoes and some basic hygeine stuff.  If she comes home, even for a little bit, she'll want to take stuff with her.  I'm not willing to let her do that.  But I'm having an internal dilemma about that.

I'm honest enough with myself that I can't decide if I'm doing this to full-on embrace the tough love we're living out, or because I'm just flat hurt that after everything we've been through, she left.  I want her to "suffer" the consequences of storming out in a snit and leaving behind all her makeup, her ipod charger and her favorite books.  I want her to know that she is truly on her own to fend for herself out there in the big world, but I don't know if it's because it's what's best for her, or because I know she's missing those things, and I have them. 

We went through so much with her in the ten years, four months and seven days she lived with us.  I at least deserved a hug goodbye.  Or to be picked over a burgeoning drug habit.  Or both. 

Weekly Wrap-up, June 20

Here's the week.  Nothing spectacular.  Just us and general crazies...

Funniest Moment at our Children’s Expense: I get random emails from http://www.freebizmag.com/, a website that helps market magazines to specific target audiences, based on the professions of the readers. Occasionally, they’ll throw a free subscription at you for something totally not related to your job… Like me as an English teacher with an offer for a year of Auto World or Opera Today.  Or Maxim. On a whim, I agreed to the most recent Maxim sales pitch, thinking Hubby might like it. When it arrived, he was a little perplexed and said, “Do you really want me reading this?” I said, well, if you don’t like it, Danae might.” He stopped, looked puzzled, had an AHA! Moment, and laughed. “Sometimes I forget that whole ‘she’s gay’ thing.” I related the conversation to Danae later, and she laughed, saying, “I’m glad me coming out has freed up so many jokes for you and Dad.”

 

New Favorite Website: http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/. Have you see this? I laughed until I cried, and then laughed some more. Some of them depress me a little, but to think that A. People do that stuff, B. They tell other people they do that stuff C. Then they post it to share with others, is just astonishing. It’s like watching a bad break up argument at the mall—you want to stop watching, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it.

Boot Camp Mom Update: Leigh is still not happy with her new life this summer. She has to read everyday, do her chores and keep her room clean or she gets no freedom. We tried to make a bargain with her last week, putting off a chore on the promise she’d do it as soon as we got home. It’s still undone as we speak, and she’s still pouting about having to do it with a sunburn.

 

But sweetie, I explained, you managed to do work detail yesterday with a sunburn.

 

Her: I had to, or I’d go to jail.

 

Me: Hmmmm, maybe I’ll talk to PO about that Monday, to see if we can add chores to that list.

 

Leigh was not happy.

 

Catching up with old friends… I talked to two of my best friends from my youth—my best friend from HS and my best friend from college, all in the same night this week. I guess Karma decided since I was feeling all sentimental and emotional (see graduation discussion next), that it was time to reconnect with some of my youth. NK, my bestie from HS, has a beautiful three-year old daughter, and a full head of hair after battling cancer for the last two years. She has the sweetest, most gentle spirit of anyone I have ever known, and I remember being irate and pissed and furious when I heard that she had cancer. This is a woman who has battled the odds her whole life, and just when she’s finally getting what she deserves in life—a good marriage, a daughter (she’d been told it would be unlikely that she’d be able to have a child), cancer showed up. That just flat drove me nuts. But then my own craziness interfered, and I wasn’t able to “be there” for her at all during her fight. But, NK, if you’re reading this, I thought of you every day, and prayed for you and your family. You amaze me.

 

JS, my bestie from college is doing what he always wanted to do: decorate and play piano. He has a partner and an amazing home and is just fabulous.

 

I miss both of them. Especially after…

 

Graduation of the Class of 2010     Of the 243 young adults we graduated, I taught 147 of them. Some of them are astonishing simply because of their tenacity. I’m going to tell you some of their stories.

• DP lived in a car with his dad for three years after his mom took off with her crack dealer.
• CJ lost her dad and grandma when she was 12, and her mom two weeks before prom. Her brother, now her guardian, is deployed in Afghanistan.  
• KL has never met her dad, and her mom died her tenth grade year in an industrial explosion.
• CB and AB, two of a set of triplets walked with their dad, mom and two other brothers, from Central America when they were about 7. Walked. Say what you will about illegal immigration, but how do you turn your back on that. Plus, AB is legally deaf.
• AW, profoundly deaf since birth, is on her way to art school.

My school has about five public housing project that feed into it, so we're overcoming all kinds of socioeconomic issues to get these kids through HS. 

 

Of that 143, I can only count about ten that I know for sure have been raised by both mom and dad in their home.

 

Of that 143, I know two who have had abortions, and three who have children.

 

Of that 143, most have worked part time, and lots have done so to help parents pay bills.

 

Most don’t read on grade level, but they have managed to survive high school and all the drama that goes with it, along with personal obstacles I can’t even begin to fathom.

 

Parenting Question of the Week: Is it wrong to have different expectations for our kids? How do you get the RAD kid, and the mostly normal kid, to understand that they have to meet different expectations because of their differing levels of sanity? Is this wrong? How is should be? Should we give up on dealing with the RAD and just normal her to death? Ugh. I hate existential conversations when I’m supposed to be on vacation.

 

Weight loss—YAY ME!!! The capris I bought yesterday were two sizes smaller than the ones I bought at the beginning of the school year.

 

Last Minute Planning Grump Why is it that even when I try to plan ahead, no one is with me, but when I don’t try, everyone else has?? Hubby and I have been planning a 2000 mile road trip since January, scheduled to depart July 8. We still don’t know if his vacation time has been approved. I’m starting to get a bit pissy about that. And, I want to hang with my blog buddy while she’s traveling this summer, but I can’t find a place to stay near her for less than $100 that still has hot water and AC. Ugh.

 

Snarky Me Moment:  I emailed my dad a Happy Father's Day wish. I haven't spoken to him since August, at his dad's funeral (my favorite grandpa.) Prior to that, it had been almost two years.  I enclosed updated pics of the two daughters he's met, and picks of the four he hasn't, including the babies, who have a much, much better tans than I do.  I didn't warn him that his newest grandchildren are black.  I wish I could see his face when he sees the pictures, but I'll just have to imagine it, which might be more fun...

 

Recess!! It’s officially summer, and the smut reading and spring cleaning has begun! If you know a teacher, you know that as the year drags on, the cleanliness and organization of the house slowly tanks, and that the first few weeks of summer, everything gets caught up on and done. That starts Monday!

 

And in honor of summer, I am now reading total brain candy: Agnes and the Hitman by Jennifer Cruisie.

The coming week:  WIC, foster care paper work AGAIN (they lost several months' worth of invoices during all the caseworker shuffles), eye doc and dentist. Finalizing summer travel plans.

 

Woot!!

 

Natural consequences or a subsitute for cutting?

Today was blissful. It almost makes up for tonight. I took the teenagers to the beach, and as much as they are capable, they behaved. We saw dolphins and pelicans, a cute baby in a shark suit, and floated in the light waves chit-chattin about not much of anything. Danae held her sharp tongue in check most of the afternoon, and Leigh worked at being appropriate. Except where sunscreen is concerned. It was 96 degrees today. In the shade of my carport, with a light breeze. You can imagine what the temp was in the unrelenting sunniness of the beach. It was hot. I, being of Italian and Cherokee descent, could feel my skin baking through my SPF 60. Danae, who is 25% black, 50% Hispanic and 25% other, just got browner. Leigh, who's dark side only accounts for 25% of her genetic background, is not so lucky as to turn brown right away. She turns magenta. Painfully, painfully deep pink. Then peels. Then turns brown. I used my suncreen. Danae doesn't ever need it, and Leigh, who knows she needs it, refused it... despite the motherly warnings and reminders about the last time she didn't use it. And when one refuses to wear sunscreen, one must pay the inevitable consequence: Painful sunburn all over her chest, arms and face. Then tonight, as I was doing my chores and nagging at the whiningly red Leigh to do hers, these thoughts crossed my mind:

1. Leigh is on probation.
2. Leigh's probation is through juvenile mental health court.
3. Mental health court has ruled that self-harm is not allowed.
4. Leigh hasn't cut since being on probation, but she has done other things that "hurt," but that don't constitute cutting.
5. Could this be one of them?

Let's look at the evidence. In the past six months, since the entrance of the court in our lives, Leigh (who tests borderline gifted) has:

1. Cut off all her hair and some of her eyebrows (and "accidentally" some skin) with an eyebrow shaper razer stolen from my room
2. Pierced her lip, nose and both ears--with pins and earrings she had in her bedroom
3. When those piercings got infected after we made her take them out, she had lots to pick at.
4. Purposely worn too small shoes to the point of blisters.

Hmmmm.... I guess I'll add this to the ever expanding list of behaviors to discuss with the therapist, and practice my aim with the spray sunscreen. Because let's face it, finding a babysitter for a 15 year old RAD kid is impossible on the very best of days.

Odd How We Measure Progress

Once upon a time, 2002 to be exact, our daughter Leigh was crazy. She still is but in different ways, or in differently manifested ways. Here's a look at past and present, in order to measure progress: Then, we had to take all her furniture, including her mattress out of her room. (She had a blanket and a pillow.) This because everything became objects to use to hurt us with, or had been destroyed. I didn't know a seven year old could dismantle a dresser, and by dismantle, I mean destroy. All drawers in pieces, the frame literally shredded. In just a day. Now, she has furniture. It's grubby, but it's there and functional. And she's had it for more than a year. Then, we had to board over her windows and closet door. This because she was trying to punch her way through the glass of the windows, and had climbed to the top shelf of her closet and was playing with the light bulb socket. She had also ripped out the chair rails out of the walls with her bare hands and was using them to beat holes in the drywall, and we were afraid she'd do the same to the windows or the wall of her closet...behind which lie the plumbing to our home's only bathroom. Now, she has windows and a closet. The windows are bolted shut and the closet has no door, but it does have *some* clothing hanging appropriately in it. Then, she had no toys in her room because: A.) She'd destroyed most of them. B.) She'd use them to throw at us C.) She'd use them to destroy other things D.) She used them for a form of stress relief that starts with M and rhymes with perturbation. E.) All of the above. The answer is E. Now, she has some "stuff." A few books. A beat up stereo. Lots of pens, pencils and paper. Makeup and perfume. Lotions. A few decorations picked up at yard sales and Goodwill. Still beaten pretty hard, but most of it used appropriately. Then, she'd rage for hours until she passed out from exhaustion. Now, she just sleeps or eats when she's bothered or upset. Then, she'd pee, poop and vomit in her room ON PURPOSE and hide it. (Nasty story: The worst was when she managed to shove some under her boarded up closet door. We couldn't find the smell for weeks. It was gross. Just gross.) Now, she only has what we euphemistically call "hygeine issues." (Based on her refusal to make friends with this stuff we call "soap" at our house. However, this summer on Mom Bootcamp, we are addressing them. Then we had attachment therapy, play therapy, bi-weekly lunch sessions with a school counseling, a therapist, lots of family friends, a psychiatrist and meds. Now, we have two probation officers, in home and at school therapy, special school placement, a psychiatrist and meds. Very few family friends have survived our adoption, but the ones we have we know are the real deal. Then, she'd eat things she found on the sidewalk, attempt to smoke dropped cigarette butts off the street, and sampled drywall, carpet, rocks and most of her toys. Now, she eats any food she can find, and smokes anything she can find. Then, we attended church, and thought we had a good support system. Then, we also thought we had a good grasp on what we needed to do as parents. Now, we don't go to church, because having that support system means having to tell too many people too many stories and being judged way too much. Then, she had no friends. Now, she has no friends. ____________________________________ It's a really strange concept for normal families to grasp that an appropriate goal for an adopted child with issues could be "Leigh will not use her bedroom for a toilet in anger." For an adoptive family of a kid with issues, it's just another day at home. It's name is RAD, or mental illness, or, as one therapist explained it 'holes in her heart.' Either way, it's no fun, and all you can do is hope that, in the end, the progress you've seen is worth it. ___________________________________________ Inspired by today's post at This Work Stinks... Hang in there Mom! You're doing a great job!

Bitch Mom

Tonight, I unveiled the new Mommy Me... Bitch Mom. At least in Leigh’s eyes. She didn’t want to play nicely with others (i.e. make her room stop smelling badly and looking like a homeless man’s dumpster), so I told her to stay in her room while I was gone. And left. With the three other daughters.

She is fifteen, and I am tired of my life—of all our lives—playing second fiddle to her mental illnesses. Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Reactive Attachment Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Anxiety, Depression, Self-Mutilation, General Pain in the Ass Refuses to Do Anything She’s Asked or Be Nice to Anyone Syndrome.

She is so angry, with every breath it just oozes off of her, and I wonder when she’ll snap. She lies, with every word she speaks. And I'm tired of all of it.

So now, the answer is NO. To everything.

No. No. No.

No.

No, you may not _____, until you have _____. No ifs, no ands, no buts, no negations, NOTHING. Until you can be nice, feel free to stay in your smelly room. Feel free to sleep 24-7. Feel free to wear the same clothes day in and day out, and not bathe. But until you no longer smell like unwashed hooker clothes and look homeless, you will not get in my car to go anywhere with me.

I will not fight you about the cigarettes, alcohol and weed you sneak every chance you get. But if you indulge these on my property, by GodAllahBuddha, your probation officer will be called, as will the local PD and they will haul your ungrateful, ever-expanding ass to juvie.

I don’t care that I can’t have you committed anywhere. I don’t care that you aren’t suicidal or homicidal enough to get the damned insurance company to pay attention—eventually, mental illness or not, you have to make a decision.

YOU have to decide if you want a life, if you want to do more than just live. Or not. And nothing I do or don’t do will fix that. I will continue to lay out your meds in the morning. I will continue to buy food. I will continue to make sure you wake up to get on a bus. I will continue to love you no matter what. But I have learned that I don’t have to like you. And I don’t remember the last time I really liked you.

But from now on, if you want something, the answer is no, unless you meet my terms. I don’t care how crazy you are, it will be my way.

Because I AM the mom, and I’m in charge, damn it, whether you like it or not. And if you don’t?  Oh well. You’ve survived worse.

And I can lock my bedroom door.

Why you do the things you do? (very, very long...)

I’ve heard it called many things—Crusader Complex, Bleeding Heart, Sucker, Stupid, Trying to Save The World, A Wonderful Thing, a Blessing, Crazy.

And they are all true. All of those describe what people have said to me about my family, and our adoption and fostering. “It takes special people.” Oh yes, very special. “I could never do what you’re doing.” Yes you could. You’ve just chosen a different path. Hope it works for you. “You are such a blessing.” Maybe, but mostly, I feel cursed. “You must be so patient.” You have noooooo idea, babe. “Is it hard?” So many metaphors, so little time. “What do your real children think?” Um, since I gave up Glen, my pretend friend, in third grade, I haven’t really dealt with not-real people.

I’ve been following with interest the traffic jam that has become the life and times of the wonderful moms at Navigating the Maze: Adoptive Parenting and Life for about two weeks now. They are on a path very similar to mine, and are having many of the same problems we have had and are continuing to have. The day-to-day trudge that is the life of a RADmom is one that so few people can understand and relate to, that I felt both relieved and guilty that I was glad to find so much kinship among bloggers with horrible kids.

I say horrible kids, and some of you out there might think less of me. Oh well. I really don’t care. You probably haven’t walked the path we have in the last nine years. And unless you have, you can’t judge us.

My husband and I have horrible kids. Our first one is Leigh.

Leigh has been psychiatrically hospitalized three times. The first time in kindergarten, the second time in first grade, and the third time at the end of 8th grade. We’ve been trying unsuccessfully to have her admitted long term for a year now. If she isn’t actively suicidal or homicidal, no one will admit her because of the cost of long term psychiatric treatment. And that’s with TWO complete coverage plans. In the past nine years, we have:

1. Been bitten, spit on, puked on (intentionally and repeatedly), had things thrown at us, and had our hair pulled out.

2. We’ve been every horrible thing you can think of from a bad prison gang—all from a very cute little girl.

3. She ripped the chair rails out of her wall when she was 6 and tore out drywall down to the studs.

4. We had to board up her windows—she tried to punch through the windows after we bolted them shut.

5. For about three years, it took both my husband and me to hold her while she freaked out and raged.

6. We had to board up her closet—she kept climbing up onto the top shelf and attempting to dismantle the light fixtures, and throwing things at us.

7. After we boarded up her closet, we had to un-board it several times to get the shit out of it that she crammed under the door.

8. We had to rip the carpet up and throw it out. Use your imagination. Yes. And that too.

9. We had to reverse the door knob so she couldn’t lock us out.

10. We had to take down and pack away up most of our antiques and family pictures after she started systematically breaking and destroying them.

11. She has destroyed EVERYTHING we have ever bought her (toys, furniture, bedding, clothing, bicycles, books, school supplies, etc)… except her ipod. That she loves. Headphones, however, are fair game.

12. She ruins new clothes intentionally. And wears dirty stuff continuously because she refuses to wash her clothes.

13. She’s been a cutter since she was six, and is on probation for having blades at school and showing another kid how to cut himself.

14. She has run away on three different occasions, and that doesn’t count the times she has just disappeared to attempt to hang out with people in the neighborhood, or gotten off the bus and taken off for a few hours.

15. She steals from everyone in the family, including her sisters, parents and grandparents.

16. In the past two years, she has had SIX xrays on her right hand because she punches wall so hard her knuckles swell up, turn purple, and look horrible. And because I hate how people look at me when I don’t take her to the doctor for the obvious answer, “No, it’s not broken, and you really shouldn’t punch walls” I take her for xrays.

17. She once tried to set the house on fire… toilet paper and matches on the bathroom floor.

18. If she gets a bug bite, it turns into an infected, oozing mess because she refuses to wash and continuously picks at it.

That mom from Tennessee who sent her adoptive son back to Russia? I don’t approve of her methods, but I have stood at that breaking point and asked myself if being a mom is really worth it. The longest, hardest conversation my husband and I ever had was about whether or not we were going back to the hospital to pick up our daughter and bring her back home. There but for the grace of GodAllahBuddha….

We did go back and get her. Twice. And honestly, it was not because of a deep emotional attachment, or an unbreakable mother-daughter bond. It was because a very nice social worker convinced us that if we didn’t, Leigh didn’t have any more chances.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy-- I’ve learned that sympathy is for wimps. It is completely useless. It does nothing but make the offerers feel better about their own lives, and the receivers feel worse about their own.

You want to help a RADmom? Offer to babysit—knowing that the kid is crazy, no matter how cute and harmless she looks. She'll probably be really nice to you.

Offer to order pizza one night for that mom who, after working AND dealing with the horrible child, is just too freaking tired to cook.

Offer a non-judgmental hug.

Offer to come sit at her house with her and put up with the bullshit going on there because in reality, raising kids is not forever. The kid will eventually leave or get locked up, and the parents will be left to look around the trailer park and wonder where the tornado went. And at that moment, they will need friends more than they ever had before.

I’m not sharing this to earn cool points, either. I gave up on being cool a LONG time ago. Right about the time I had to apologize to another parent for Leigh's treatment of her child. Right about the time I called the police on my 7 year-old daughter for stealing from us. Right about the time I had to teach my middle school aged kids how to use condoms because they were already having sex. Right about the time I had to apologize to my mom, a week after her hysterectomy, after Leigh head-butted her abdomen. (And yes, she knew about the surgery, mom had shown her the stitches.)  To my mom's credit, Leigh is not dead.

What Eema and Abba are going through is part of what a silent majority of adoptive parents experience, but we don’t tend to go public with our battles. Maybe we should. Maybe people need to know what our lives are like behind the closed doors and drawn blinds. But we don’t talk about how hard it is. How exhausting and draining, and how much it strains the relationships we have with people we care about.

In my case, I haven’t gone public for lots of reasons. I never wanted Leigh to be able to say we hadn’t done everything in our power to help her “get better.” I never wanted people to look at her any weirder than they already do. I have always held on to a sliver of hope that one day, Leigh will wake up and be “normal.” And honestly, I hadn’t NEEDED to go public until recently. And for now, my little anonymous blog is all the public I’ll go.

I’m sharing this peephole-glimpse into ONE of my daughters because Fosterabba is right—Love ISNT enough for these kids. And after adopting three, I am almost convinced that NOTHING will ever be enough for them.

Think about what follows here, and bear with my very blunt assessment. These kids come from crap. Absolutely the lowest crap on the crap scale. Abuse. Neglect. Drugs. Alcohol. Violence. Lack of supervision. Untreated mental illness. Generations of poverty and ignorance and incest.

Most people don’t know exactly what it takes to have a child taken away from their birth family permanently. It’s a lot. Abuse like the parent has been pimping out the child in exchange for drugs. Abuse like letting your kids drink and do drugs because it conks them out so you can party. Or punishing them with hot water, cigarette burns, being locked in small spaces (closets or bathrooms) for hours. Or days. Or being locked outside over night in their underwear. Neglect like a baby who hasn’t been bathed in two weeks, or bottles that have never seen hot, soapy water. Or toddlers left in a crib all day while the mama goes out to party. (all true stories, btw, from my kids, or those of other adoptive parents I know.)

And for the kids, this is normal. That is the way everyone lives because IT IS ALL THEY HAVE SEEN.

Then suddenly, they’re taken by people with good intentions who make them live with other people with good intentions, who don’t do any of the things that they think are normal. So they think the new people are the weirdos. Not them.

My husband asked me a few weeks ago which of our kids was MOST likely to take care of us in our old age. That gave me a very long, very depressing pause, and gave me even more motivation to work our debt snowball and save like crazy. My answer was that I didn’t have one. I can’t see any of our kids either caring enough about us to care for us in our dotage, or being able to, financially or physically.

So the question becomes, why? Why do seemingly ordinary people go to such extraordinary measures to become parents? To keep their crazy children?

For me, I’ve never wanted anything more than I wanted to be a mom. When I couldn’t get pregnant, I really and truly wished I were dead. Or would be stricken with some horrible disease that would either kill me, or be bad enough that I could blame infertility on it, and not on my own rotten plumbing and genetics. We stopped infertility treatments before surgery and meds because we came this conclusion: Did we really want to work so hard to pass along our completely screwed up genetics? Seemed kind of mean when we looked at it like that.

I have never quit anything in my life, or let something I wanted to achieve pass by because it was too hard. I have sort of put parenting my children in that same category. I haven’t given up because I just don’t do that. However, hubby and I have begun a countdown and a to-do list for when the last crazy child leaves the house. It’s helped keep us sane lately.

I tell people all the time that I don’t regret anything about how our family has turned out. But if I’m really honest, in that dark little corner of my heart, I know I’m lying.

I regret that my career has been tanked by Leigh and Dawn. I regret not having been able to get my doctorate because I couldn’t leave our teenagers at home alone for a few hours once a week. I regret all the money we’ve wasted on therapy that hasn’t worked and replacing clothing and furniture and bedding. (For Leigh, we have purchased an average of two new mattresses a year since we got her. Again, use your imagination. Yes, that. And that. I know. Gross.)

So I’m writing this tonight, and wiping the tears off my face, wishing I could hug Abba and Eema because they are so much more honest with themselves and other people than I am. And I know how they feel about Danielle, because I feel the same way about Leigh and Dawn.

Clearly, it's not about my anniversary.

Tonight is my fifteenth wedding anniversary. Hubby and I were supposed to go out to dinner and a movie or something. Dawn was supposed to come sit at the house with everyone else so that we had an 18 year old present. Danae is truly okay to babysit both babies, but she's only 16. I don't really trust Dawn to do it, but to leave the babies with Danae, we have to have someone over 18.

She was supposed to be at the house with ONLY the girls. No Dumbass Boyfriend. At the last minute, he HAD to come with her. Because he's out on felony bond right now, we will not allow him to be at the house with any of our kids unsupervised. I don't think he'd do anything to hurt the kids, but I don't trust him. At all. Bina knows this, but insisted that he HAD to come with her because he had nowhere else to go. (He's 21. If he needs a keeper that badly... Nevermind. I don't have the energy to get up on my soapbox.)

So we canceled. And she got all upset wondering why.

All we wanted was a quiet dinner alone. But we didn't get it. What we got was a semi-annoying dinner with Danae and Leigh and the babies. Leigh doesn't know when to quit. Ever. So we end up yelling at her.

Often. Frequently. Hourly.

For example...

"Leigh, get your face away from the baby."

Evil giggling.

"Oh. My. God. Leigh! Get your nose OUT of the baby's mouth! That's just fucking disgusting!"

"Now, Leigh. Leigh. Leigh! Leeeeee-eeeeigh. LEIGH! NOW!"

"Dammit, Leigh. NOW! Should I call MaryJo?"

Now I get a dirty look designed to quell a mob boss. But at least her nose is out of the baby's mouth. (A note on Leigh's nose: She breathes like Darth Vador because she has really bad allergies and asthma, does not clean her room EVER, rarely takes her asthma meds, and smokes as much as she can whenever our backs are turned. She picks her nose. Until it bleeds. So it’s scabby and boogery, and noisy. Does this help the "why is that so incredibly wrong and disgusting?" question you were pondering? Thought so.)

MaryJo is the probation officer. I had high hopes for her, but she's just as pussed out as the rest of anyone having to do with juvenile court.

Anyway, that's a real conversation that occurred after dinner, during which we corrected her -- and I kid you not-- at least 100 times.

There are weeks that go by when I haven't said a single nice thing to her or about her. And I'm embarrassed to take her anywhere because she's so horribly behaved and so gross that I don't want to be seen with her. How horrible is that? I'm supposed to be her mom, and while I love her, I feel /think all of the following, sometimes all at once:

1. I don't like her. I don’t like people who do shit to annoy people on purpose, and she constantly does that.

2. She drives me completely bat-shit crazy… on purpose. (See #1)

3. She smells like an old locker room most of the time. No deodorant refuses to wash the fishy parts, and has the worst foot odor known to man.

4. She has gone from a size 10 to a size 20 this school year.

5. She believes really tight or really baggy t-shirts are dress clothes. But only if they haven’t been washed. She doesn’t do her laundry. (See #4)

6. She cut all her hair off using an eyebrow razor. She looks like a boy with that genetic giant boob disease.

7. I gauge the time I leave work by how long I'll have to put up with her before she gets tired of driving us nuts and puts herself to bed. Sometimes I invent errands to avoid spending time with her. But then, when no one else is around, she’s okay.

I know I should be more sympathetic toward her. She has an alphabet soup of diagnoses and issues, but dammit, she's been with us since 2001. At almost 16, you'd have thought she'd have figured out SOMETHING by now.

Granted, she no longer bites, pulls hair or goes into hours-long rages where she has to be held down. She still puts holes in the wall, but at least she hangs posters over them now. Maybe I’m being too hard on her? Or maybe I’m just tired and numb to the drama.

Regardless, my fifteenth anniversary was not spent in the solitary company of my sexy bald husband holding hands and enjoying refreshing adult beverages. It was spent wondering why Dawn has to take every chance to force the Dumbass Boyfriend down our throats, and why Leigh would want the baby to suck on her nose.

Weekly Wrap-up, April 25

And the Jury says: In the case of Sketcher’s Shape-Ups, the Jury says No, with explanation. Most people would probably be fine, and if I didn’t have plantar fascitis, I’d love them. However, they aggravated my plantar fascia, and that alone is reason not to wear them again. However, they are right on point as far as what they’re advertised to do. My posture was better, and I noticed a difference in how I walked and moved.

So, if you’re a normal type person, money well spent. If you’re kind of special like me, not a good purchase. That being said, I have a gently used pair or white ones, size 9.5, for sale…


Biggest Frustration: I hate being sick and not having anyone at home give a shit about it. I missed three days of work this week with an ear infection, sinus infection and something bronchitis/asthma-related. I spent Wednesday in bed, and tried to Thursday and Friday, but my children didn’t seem to care that inhaling at a speed other than really slow would send me into a coughing fit. I got no help with the babies other than my husband. Except when I walked in the room, handed them to one of the teenagers and said, give me two hours to sleep. That worked today.  But really, when your parents were sick, didn't you at least pretend to care? Or am I being delusional?

Biggest TMI Moment: Dawn asked about boobs. And sex. “When you’re, you know, having fun, is it true that they grow a cup size?”

Having fun?

“You know, messing around.” Oh. Sometimes it really sucks having such a vivid imagination. The ensuing conversation about what might make your boobs grow a cup size in a short amount of time lead to a discussion about what it means to “like it rough.” Leigh and Danae were appalled at that part. Bina was intrigued.

Pleghmiest Situation that Lead to a New Friendship: I’ve been sick most of this week. I went to the doctor Tuesday morning, and was told I have an ear infection, a sinus infection and crud in my lungs. I took the nose drops, inhaler and antibiotic and stuck it out at work the rest of the day. I called in for Wednesday because I was still coughing so ridiculously hard. I attempted to sleep on Thursday, but instead, went back to the doc. Two more prescriptions, and $75 later, I had cough syrup and steroids. Of that money, $68 of it was for cough syrup.

Cough syrup!

 I was livid, and cursed my doctor, her PA, the nursing staff, and all their offspring for the next five generations. Then I met Tussionex. I’m not hawking a product, but da-ummm! That stuff is amazing! Up until my little bottle of miracle drug and I were introduced, I’d been coughing so much that I pulled muscles in my chest and couldn’t talk.

One dose of my new friend, and I slept without coughing for about seven straight hours.

Meanest Mom Moment: Did you know that I discriminate against Danae's friends because I wouldn’t let her have one of them spend the night Saturday night? She was gone from 11:45 am to 8:30 PM Friday. She was gone from 10 AM Saturday to 6 PM Saturday night. My theory was that she didn’t need to have a friend over or go anywhere, as she’d had plenty of on the go time already. I was told that my discrimination against her friends is why she so desperately wants to leave. Okay. If that’s the worst thing anyone says to me in a week, it’s been okay.

Self-Realization Moment: I have become that Mom. The one who dresses her children in matching outfits. I can’t help myself. They’re so cute. The baby girls AND the clothes. My teenagers think I’ve lost it, but they mostly just roll their eyes. Carter's makes these cute little outfits that look like dresses, but have built in undies, and I have bought two sets of matching outfits for the babies. Pictures to come.

Other frustrating things: I still can’t find a way to breach Dawn's loneliness. She seems to be slipping further and further away, and no matter what I try, how I approach her, she wants nothing to do with me. We’ve always said that she was smart enough to know she had problems, but not mature enough to do anything about them. RAD, Depression and Borderline Personality Disorder are an icky, icky combination.

Positive Notes:

1. I have officially lost 13 pounds.

2. We got our federal tax refund a month early. MiniVan here I come! New windows here I come! New bicycles here we come! (We finalized an adopted last year, which makes for a nice visit with Uncle Sam the Tax Man.)

3. We are getting a hellacious deal on a 1999 Plymouth Venture. It was donated to the local tech school, and I know the guy who teaches automotive repair there. He’s going to sell it to us for the cost of the parts needed to get it up and running. It was repossessed, and the guy who wasn’t paying his bills refused to tell the repo people how to turn off the alarms system. So, the repo company, rather than have to dismantle the alarm system, donated it to the school to play with. It's been sitting for about a year, but I can’t wait!! One car, and my WHOLE family can go at the same time!

4. Hubby has begun working on his second book. Go hubby!

5. NaNa has gone from Scrawny Chicken Baby to Michelin Tire Man Baby. With a cuter smile. It melts my heart when she smiles and babbles at me.

On-Going Frustrations:

1. MoMo has issues with the word please. I don’t know if all toddlers do this, never having had one before, but why is it so hard to her to say “Please?” She can say the word, and will repeat it if we’re playing around, but when she wants something and we tell her to “say please” she completely loses it. Throws herself down and screams and cries.

2. Trying to get Danae and Leigh to be nice to each is officially impossible. Danae nags Leigh, who then shuts down and sends herself to her room, or becomes so annoying that we want her to leave us alone.

This week: Hubby and I will celebrate fifteen years of marriage. He’s awesome. And we have a WIC appointment on Wednesday. That will be nice. Bio family took the WIC vouchers out of our diaper bag during a visit, so we haven’t had any WIC support since mid February.

Moment of Gratitude: I was sorting and packing baby clothes tonight and realized exactly how much our friends, and in some cases, strangers, have helped us to be able to parent the babies. I don’t know what we would have done without them. When we got MoMo at the end of January, we had NOTHING for toddlers or babies. Within 48 hours, we had everything we needed. When we found out we were getting her sister, we had everything in place the same day. How I will ever repay these wonderful people is beyond me. I love them, and would like to say Thank You, even though none of them will ever read this.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So, another week, more gray hair, and less space in our house. What can I say? We are our own unique brand of crazy.

And we only have one bathroom.

Crazy Lying and Epiphanies, II

Today, she wants her phone back. Now. Period. It's hers and she wants it.  End of story. Woke me up from a nap (which also ended up waking up NaNa). Got in my face and very VERY L.O.U.D. 

Lots of cursing and yelling ensued after I told her no. 

Here are the highlights:

1.  She did ride the bus home, she just didn't ride it all the way, and the fact that she was late was not her fault. (Do I need to point out the logical stupidity in that, or are we all smart enough to figure it out on our own?)

2.  I'm trippin' because I have no reason to be mad, and reminded me that I said I'd think about giving it back to her. ("I did think about it, Danae, and decided not to.")

3. She's smart enough to know that she learned her lesson (I'm pretty sure that doesn't make sense to anyone...)

4.  We only buy stuff to hold it over their heads.  (This from the same child who tried to argue yesterday that because she bought the phone we couldn't relieve her of it.)

5. We never punish Leigh, and never punished Dawn.  (For the record, our punishment actually put Dawn in jail, and Leigh has no friends, ergo no life, so breathing in and out is pretty much a punishment for her.)

6.  She'd stick it out until she was 17 and then she was leaving because we were the reason no teenager ever wants to get adopted. (My two replies:  She did want to get adopted.  It wouldn't have happened had she not have wanted it.  And, we don't need to wait til you're 17.  If you want to go back to your group home, call them up and make the arrangements.)

7.  You don't know what you're talking about. (Duh.  Since you've been lying about your whereabouts we might as well be talking about how Windex and lotion do the same thing for as much sense as that makes.)

8. At the top of her lungs, and at this point two neighbors have come out of their houses to see what's going on, "I DIDN'T FUCKING DO ANYTHING WRONG TO BEGIN WITH!"

Really?  I must have dreamed all that.  To quote Bina....  What-EVer.

Can I make a "you'll get your phone back when you're nicer" rule?  Can I make a "it's okay to punch her teeth in when she acts like this" law?

Crazy Lying and Epiphanies

Tonight was a verbal slugfest, a bout of epic proportions, between 16 year-old Danae and The Mom, AKA me. 

The topic(s): 

1. Why, dear, dear, Danae, have you been lying about staying for tutorial? 
2. And where oh where have you been going after school? 
3. And with whom and for what purpose........ for the past two weeks?
4. And for GodAllahBuddha's sake, why would you do that to us knowing that we have to drag the babies out and across town to pick you up? 
5. And, why would you NOT take the bus home today, after clearly being told to, and then lie about how you got home? 

Now, I know she did not take the bus home because I waited for it to arrive, saw that she was not on it, and proceeded to take her sisters shopping and out to dinner. 

To the casual reader, dinner and shopping might seem like a callous response to a possible runaway-missing persons type situation involving one's own child.  However, I have some experience in these matters and realize that getting all wound up does nothing but give me a headache and turn my face red.  Plus, I have two other adopted kids who have run away for a combined total of six times, and, as a Homo Sapiens Sapiens, I can be taught. Eventually.

So Danae finally called my cell from the house phone at 6:28 and tried to convince me that she had indeed ridden the bus home.  Her bus arrives in our neighborhood between 4:55 and 5:10.  I told her to reconsider her story and go with the truth, as she would be in less trouble in the long run. (Sidebar, your honor:  I never believed that argument from my mom when I was a teen, so I'm not sure why I keep trying to convince my kids of its veracity, but that's a whole other blog I guess, sometime when I have no fodder... Things We Do Because Our Parents Did Them.  Remind me to write that....)

Anyway, birdwalk. Back to subject. 

It comes to this:  I have irrefutable truth and proof on my side.  She has "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

But then she realized (because she is much smarter than the average teenager) that I must have something on her, because then she said, "I did ride the bus home. I just got off at an earlier stop, called Amanda to pick me and bring me the rest of the way because I didn't want to get home so late.  But then, Amanda couldn't come right away, so I was late."

Not once in this fiasco did she call me to let me know she was okay. I had other sources tell me they knew she was alive, but that they didn't know where.  But she did call and text Amy, and only Amy--definitely not me. I'm pretty sure that's because she knew she was going to get in trouble, so she might as well avoid hearing it on the phone.

Now, ask me if I believe that story. 

Seriously. Do I look THAT stupid?  Of course I don't believe her. I think she didn't want to ride the bus, DID want to hang out with friends, so she did what she wanted.  And as I thought,  the epiphany hit... 

It's something that I should have known or at least figured out WAY sooner.  Kids with attachment disorders, also known as Reactive Attachment Disorder, don't trust.  They don't believe in parental benevolence in any form, and don't for a second think that you have their best interests at heart.  And trying to convince any of them to trust is almost like asking Boppo the Chimp to reproduce Mona Lisa.  Messy and impossible.  And while not a total waste of time, but definitely not the best way to spend an afternoon, or year or a decade.

So why would I ask that of a young lady who is at the point in her life where she is trying to prove her independence and pull away from her family?  Duh.  Now who's got issues? 

I'm asking her to bond and pull closer when biology and society are telling her to pull away.  Or she could just have doubled up on her daily dose of Pain in the Ass Pills and decided to see if she could pull off another lie. 

No wonder we argue so much.

In the meantime, she wants to know if she can go spend the night with a friend and have her phone back. 

Attachment disorder or not, I'm thinking no.

Rough Draft... Peace

BIG SECRET----- Don't tell anyone, but I'd love to be a real writer who gets a real paycheck from writing.  I love poetry, and sometimes I write it, but I'm REALLY shy about sharing it...
<<< takes big deep breath >>>
So here goes....


Peace is the knowledge
That with what little you were given
You have climbed a fortress protected by
The sharp fragments of years of broken dreams
And the twisted barbs of biological families
And poured into the sieve of her heart
all the love and
faith and
laughter
you could find.

And your calloused, tired, bruised hands tried to plug the holes
Stop it all from running down the drain,
But you watch again and again and again as your efforts bleed down your
fingers onto your forearms.

Peace is knowing that some of those things will slowly
stick to the sides of her heart,
trapped on the very holes of the sieve you tried to plug.
Or caught on the patches of scar tissue left by those who didn’t truly love.
Peace is walking the shore at sunset, her picture in your hand, and facing the
Ocean, the wind, the coming storm, yourself and your God, and knowing
Beyond everything else,
That you did
As right as you could.