It's rare if I can get Kindsay to church. And for some reason she seems to pick fast Sundays to attend, I don't know if it's to torture those of us fasting... probably.
She bought a new dress from Forever 21. New rule in my house--daddy doesn't go shopping with Kindsay. She got a gift card for her bday and I thought she would go nuts in their accessories, instead she comes home with a form fitting dress that has a wrap style so the front looks like two curtains over her legs. And it is street walker red. She puts it on for us....having an opposite hour glass figure wasn't really working in the dress.
I look over at Greg in disbelief that he would allow her to waste her money. "It said LARGE on the size." Ok...so buy it anyway? The style was the problem, it could be circus tent size and still be risqué for a girl of her age. I kept shaking my head...no way, no way. Kindsay could tell I was lifting up my foot, ready to put it down and she began her temper campaigns.
"Mom! I love this dress, I'm keeping it. Too bad, dad lost the receipt and I took all the tags off!" So, I tell her, you've simply wasted $20 because you aren't leaving the house in that. Then began the fun...she started to threaten me with the cops, suicide, CPS, all of which I agreed to...take me away... Greg sat there like dopey-do-nothing. Fine, I lament, if you wear a sweater over it people won't have to see the plunging neck line. Now she was excited to go to church, while I dreaded it.
So fast Sunday--we fast for two meals and donate the money to charity what we would've used for the meals. This means all the attending members had gone without breakfast as we sat in Sacrament. I'm a glutton or an idiot because I sit in the center of the room for all to see Kindsay's Halloween picnic. In her enormous backpack, that she carries everywhere and knocks people in the head with as she scoots down the bench to her seat, she has her Halloween bag. She sits down next to a man and her legs are wide open, which means those little drapes on the dress are now open too...not pretty. I jump up to sit between her and the man, who is a friend of ours, so we can reduce embarrassment on all sides, but Kindsay is mad that I'm pushing her down the bench towards her father while trying to shut the curtains. nothing to see here folks, just the usual.
Church is quiet, it's quiet, and while we are pondering the great sacrifice of our Savior I hear....riiiiiiiiiiip.....crunch crunch crunch.....riiiiiiiiip.....crunch munch munch munch.....riiiiiiiiiiiip....she's peeling wrappers away and eating candy like we are at the movies. I give her the stern look and go to take her bag but she cuts me off and slides to the floor so she can continue in a more subtle way.
Sacrament finishes and we all head to Sunday School. I sat on a bench to discuss ward business and Kindsay walks by as though church was her place and behind her is a man who points at her feet..."no shoes I guess!" I look down...how did I miss her size 10 bare feet? She was wearing nylons and we all know how she feels about pants, so nylons gave her the same icky feeling so they got the same rotten treatment of dismissal...into her bag they went and the hillbilly came out. I look straight ahead as though I neither noticed nor knew her. We then get to her youth class of which I am a part so she's in there with me. She curls up on the seat in a ball somehow, barefoot, chocolatey lips, chewing on her fingers in anxiety. It was only her 2nd time in the class, my 2nd as well, so we both stuck out looking like Penn and Teller. Shortly after class began, Kindsay reached her limit and slipped away without excuse. Bye. Ooookaaay. She was like a phantom or a dream because no one knew who she was, the adults didn't notice her, and she slipped away before I could show her off. She was like the phantom chocolatey hooker hillbilly of the church. There are now rumors circulating that she is only a myth....but we know how too real she is.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Siri--The New Bestie
Just when I thought things were calming down and gettng mundane, Kindsay manages to wear on the nerves of a computer. She comes home from school crying because "so and so is not my friend!" and when I ask her about what happened she says, "My friend says she isn't going to forgive me!" Oh brother...picking fights is her passion because it gives her a great reason to cry and carry on.
But then she discovers Siri.
Thankfully, I think, Siri doesn't have feelings. She can't get mad, she can't get her feelings hurt, she can't get annoyed--Kindsay can just go on and on and on and Siri will deliver every time.
Wrong.
First of all, Siri is fine, thank you for asking. Siri also has a favorite color. Just ask her/it. That was Kindsay's next question. Siri actually sounded thoughtful and interested in answering the question. But then the floodgates opened, and Siri regretted humanizing herself.
After ten "what's your favorite..." questions, Siri began answering, "I am not allowed to say" or "this is about you not me." Kindsay didn't care, she did not relent. I'm making cookies while listening and I'm thinking, my daughter is actually aggravating a machine.
Finally, with desperation, Siri starts interrupting by picking out the weird noises Kindsay makes in between questions to say, "I am looking up ssshhh" or whatever sound Kindsay made. Siri is desperately trying to redirect Kindsay. Relentlessly, Kindsay keeps coming at her..."Siri, what are you doing?" sigh..."I'm trying to improve myself." Kindsay asks again--what do you like to do? "I like helping you."
Then Kindsay gets right to the point--I want to talk. With her most monotone voice, Siri answers that she is there to help her. Kindsay says, "Ooookaaaay" annoyed that Siri isn't playing anymore. "Okey Dokey," Siri responds. I can just see Siri grabbing her mouth with her eyes wide--CRAP...why did I sound friendly??
Back to the "what's your favorite..." only for poor Siri to have to keep reminding her she can't say or wants to focus on Kindsay. Finally, Siri just starts picking out words...Kindsay--what time do you go to bed? Siri--"beds...I have matches for beds." What restaurant do you like? "restaurants--I have matches for restaurants." Kindsay--what is the weather? Siri, "it is 72 degrees." Wow..that's nice, Kindsay says. "Yes, I agree," Siri says...once again grabbing her digital mouth and displaying C-R-A-P on her mind's screen. Kindsay goes off again with a slew of other personal Siri questions. See...right when Kindsay finally understands Siri's lack of personality or personal information, Siri goes and makes human-like responses and sets Kindsay off on another trek of "Get to Know You" questions. One might feel bad for Siri, having to succomb against her will to Kindsay's nonstop pecking...but I don't. When the questioning stops I get her right back on it--"Hey, Kindsay, ask Siri how fast a chicken can run?" Off she goes looking for the speed of every known animal.
Yeah, that's right. I'm throwing Siri right under the cyberbus. Yay me.
But then she discovers Siri.
Thankfully, I think, Siri doesn't have feelings. She can't get mad, she can't get her feelings hurt, she can't get annoyed--Kindsay can just go on and on and on and Siri will deliver every time.
Wrong.
First of all, Siri is fine, thank you for asking. Siri also has a favorite color. Just ask her/it. That was Kindsay's next question. Siri actually sounded thoughtful and interested in answering the question. But then the floodgates opened, and Siri regretted humanizing herself.
After ten "what's your favorite..." questions, Siri began answering, "I am not allowed to say" or "this is about you not me." Kindsay didn't care, she did not relent. I'm making cookies while listening and I'm thinking, my daughter is actually aggravating a machine.
Finally, with desperation, Siri starts interrupting by picking out the weird noises Kindsay makes in between questions to say, "I am looking up ssshhh" or whatever sound Kindsay made. Siri is desperately trying to redirect Kindsay. Relentlessly, Kindsay keeps coming at her..."Siri, what are you doing?" sigh..."I'm trying to improve myself." Kindsay asks again--what do you like to do? "I like helping you."
Then Kindsay gets right to the point--I want to talk. With her most monotone voice, Siri answers that she is there to help her. Kindsay says, "Ooookaaaay" annoyed that Siri isn't playing anymore. "Okey Dokey," Siri responds. I can just see Siri grabbing her mouth with her eyes wide--CRAP...why did I sound friendly??
Back to the "what's your favorite..." only for poor Siri to have to keep reminding her she can't say or wants to focus on Kindsay. Finally, Siri just starts picking out words...Kindsay--what time do you go to bed? Siri--"beds...I have matches for beds." What restaurant do you like? "restaurants--I have matches for restaurants." Kindsay--what is the weather? Siri, "it is 72 degrees." Wow..that's nice, Kindsay says. "Yes, I agree," Siri says...once again grabbing her digital mouth and displaying C-R-A-P on her mind's screen. Kindsay goes off again with a slew of other personal Siri questions. See...right when Kindsay finally understands Siri's lack of personality or personal information, Siri goes and makes human-like responses and sets Kindsay off on another trek of "Get to Know You" questions. One might feel bad for Siri, having to succomb against her will to Kindsay's nonstop pecking...but I don't. When the questioning stops I get her right back on it--"Hey, Kindsay, ask Siri how fast a chicken can run?" Off she goes looking for the speed of every known animal.
Yeah, that's right. I'm throwing Siri right under the cyberbus. Yay me.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Sweet 16
The day has finally arrived--LEVERAGE. It took a long time for Greg to convince me that Kindsay should have a cell phone. After finding a text she sent from MY phone to my realtor "will you send me a picture of your daughter"...I was so against it...me..a pedophile? geez. There was no way that I wanted to be held responsible for the mass emotional destruction and nerve damage caused by Kindsay around the clock. But, I broke down.
Kindsay thought 16 was it...she was finally going to get one. Nope, I kept saying to Greg. Greg then appeals to my softer side, which with Kindsay it's near the surface but still needs scratching away to unveil.
"Yvette, she's been marking the calendar for a year now, she's researched all the phones, she's talked about this every day forever, she has few things in life to bring her joy. We have to get her a phone."
Fine.
Got her a Galaxy S2...it's nicer than mine, my husbands, and all the services are in place. Now, to give it to her.
Sixteen years ago yesterday I gave birth. I had a false alarm once before, so when I woke Greg at 2AM on Oct 2, 1996, he told me to call him from the hospital if it's a go. Yes, he was serious. We lived 3 minutes from St. Agnes, so he didn't find a problem with it. After giving him a form of hell in labor, he took me once my mom came to watch Rebekah.
The doctor said Kindsay would be delivered in less than an hour. Oh no, I said, I want drugs! I spent 12 hours in labor with Bek without drugs, I wasn't going to spend a minute with this delivery. Okay--it'll push the delivery back an hour...uuummmm -- DO IT.
The needle is lifted in the air behind me and I watch Greg's face turn from "what the h*ll is going on" to "what the %#$@^ is that?!!??" My gown slipped revealing my whole natural self to the entire staff which then turned his face to "ahhhhhhhhh!!"...of course a woman in labor willingly hands her body to everyone else, as long as they get the stinkin' kid OUT. right?
But it was the point during delivery when the nurse yelled at Greg to grab my leg and put it over my head that I thought I was going to lose him. He probably only got my leg over my head because he fainted into it while helping the nurse. As fast as Kindsay can buckle a dog into an upright carseat, she was out. We were overjoyed, we didn't know it was a girl. My in-laws, my parents, siblings from both sides--it was a party in the recovery room. Until the doctor came in and expressed his concerns and need to test her for Down Syndrome. All was quiet.
And the rest is history. No really...read the previous posts.
She got her phone alright, but not without a little torture from me. I told her that the gift she was getting from me was the party. She had 3 girlfriends come and all our family. She sat down at the pizza parlor and immediately her legs were shaking, her eyes were flitting. Alright, go ahead and open your gifts. Like the hurricane that swept Dorothy away, Kindsay had opened every envelope, not even counting the money that fell onto her lap. Only stacked it up and smelled it. The money literally stuck to her nose for a good 3 minutes. She finally opened her purse, gave one last smell good-bye and tucked the money away. $140...um, buying your own stuff for a while girlie! I let the whole party go by, and then I arranged for Rebekah to call. The phone was buried in my purse in tissue in a bag, so I pulled it out and could hear the ringing. I put it up to Kindsay's face and said, "what is that ringing?" It was seconds before she yanked the bag, pulled the phone out of the box, and had the phone flying through the air landing in 3 pieces. "A phone! I got a phone! Oh my gosh, I think I'm going to cry! Oh oh oh oh...get the phone, is it okay?" panic, mania, anxiety--all of it shooting through the roof of Me 'N' Ed's. We got the phone back together and into her hands. It was so fun to watch. We all waited for that moment all evening.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Take the Key and Lock Her Up
Can I get a show of hands who thinks locking Kindsay in her room at night is the best thing for her (us)? No takers? Allow me to plead my case.
How does waking up to fine, white dog hair all over the kitchen floor because your child took the Shetland and placed her on the kitchen table and took a pair of scissors to her fur?
How does waking up to a room full of knocked over table trays scattereed carelessly near your 67" t.v. sound?
What about realizing she left your $600 device on all night that if burns out will not be fixable, only need replacing?
How does waking up in the morning to dirty dishes in each room (3 total downstairs), stacked on your furniture along with all associated trash sound?
What about walking first thing into the kitchen in the morning, only to find every single cabinet door open like a scene from Poltergeist?
Well, that was Greg's morning the other day...not one of them--ALL of them. It's hard enough to get up in the morning and battle it out with a child who didn't sleep all night and won't get up willingly to catch a bus that comes at a certain time and only waits 3 minutes before it leaves, only to then add having to clean up after a wild night of subconscience reeling without having gotten up any earlier for work and your other two children.
OK...now then...
Can I get a show of hands who thinks locking Kindsay in her room at night is the best thing for her (us)?
Well now, that's more like it.
How does waking up to fine, white dog hair all over the kitchen floor because your child took the Shetland and placed her on the kitchen table and took a pair of scissors to her fur?
How does waking up to a room full of knocked over table trays scattereed carelessly near your 67" t.v. sound?
What about realizing she left your $600 device on all night that if burns out will not be fixable, only need replacing?
How does waking up in the morning to dirty dishes in each room (3 total downstairs), stacked on your furniture along with all associated trash sound?
What about walking first thing into the kitchen in the morning, only to find every single cabinet door open like a scene from Poltergeist?
Well, that was Greg's morning the other day...not one of them--ALL of them. It's hard enough to get up in the morning and battle it out with a child who didn't sleep all night and won't get up willingly to catch a bus that comes at a certain time and only waits 3 minutes before it leaves, only to then add having to clean up after a wild night of subconscience reeling without having gotten up any earlier for work and your other two children.
OK...now then...
Can I get a show of hands who thinks locking Kindsay in her room at night is the best thing for her (us)?
Well now, that's more like it.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Summer Lovin'
Wow...I've really let myself down...I blog to keep a journal of life with Kinsdsay, so missing an entire summer is inexusable. That isn't to say there wasn't material...every day there is material. So where do I begin? How about summer, good old summer time.
My life is never normal. I'm always bracing for battle. Kindsay has now grown to my height and wears a larger size than I do...that said, what Kindsay says--goes. Since Greg and I worked while the kids were off for summer, my mom had to come babysit. She didn't mind, until the day Kindsay didn't get her way. Thankfully, Kindsay's summer school started soon and Greg only had to work a week once the kids were home. There's always an answer--a blessing!
My mom, bless her heart, drove 20 minutes to my house every morning for that in between week to watch the boys. I say boys because they like climbing, and now having two stories, they are climbing higher. Kindsay could sit in her room with her food laid across her chest, inches from her mouth enough for her to vacuum in the next bite while watching Youtube all day, so she wasn't the worry. But then again, we have dogs. We all know how Kindsay loves to "care" for the dogs. One night she dashed into our room excited--Daddy--come see this, hurry! Greg mosied into her room expecting nothing more than more Justin Beiber on her wall only to find Lily the Shetland strapped into Kindsay's upright carseat. Lily, with all the fur probably pinched in every buckle, sat without her usual smile and wagging tail. She looked helpless and defeated. Yes, Kindsay can get ANYTHING into a carseat if that is her will. Greg was upset for poor Lily, but not before snapping a picture, knowing we'd laugh about it----later. We still don't know how she did it...don't want to know. So Kindsay has deemed Lily "her" dog because, well, Lily is a female and that's how the world works according to Kindsay. Our other dog is male...so naturally the boys' dog.
Back to Kindsay, summer, my mom, all the fun, etc, etc..
So Kindsay, in her unusual loving way, gets Lily to fall in line somehow, usually by force. We have to watch this because we don't typically believe in unnecessary roughness or mistreatment of animals, unless Kindsay becomes so unbearable we have to break our own rules. Kindsay is in the entryway preparing Lily for a walk. What a nurturing thought, right? Except Lily's collar is quite tight, she squirms and whimpers, which makes my mom angry so she goes to Lily to help get it off, while Kindsay is still getting it put on. Not a good combo.
My mom is very sensitive to dogs, so she tried telling Kindsay what was harmful to the dog, but Kindsay was having none of it. Frustrated, my mom just took the initiative to get the collar off, which Kindsay ignored and continued to put it on. Lily is in the middle, though siding more with my mom, until the collar finally came off to Kindsay's wrath. My mom stepped back to try to explain to her why choking a dog is inhumane; instead of listening and learning from her wise elders, Kindsay took the leash and whipped it at my mom, hurling the metal clip end of it onto my mom's back behind her shoulder. My mom screamed out in pain, and it was then that Kindsay was knocked out of her perseverating trance of "must take dog on walk" and realized what she had done. My mom, reeling from the burning pain of having been whipped, spewed cuss words like a southern drunk, making my boys freeze in their shoes, jaws dropped. Needless to say, the worst my boys hear in their own home is "Holy Crap!"...My mom, realized her vulgar reaction, called me bawling in embarrassment for having called her granddaughter a series of unfortunate insults. I didn't blame her, I felt terrible! Was Kindsay unmedicated? Most likely, and that comes back to me. My mom gathered the boys together, though still stuck in their spots and jaws dropped at the rated R for violence and language scene just played out, and ushered them to her car. She then went back into the house and grabbed both dogs and slammed the door behind her. Kindsay is her baby, her pride and joy granddaughter, but she'll be d***ed if she's gong to be beaten by this kid. Kindsay called me and went off, tantruming about how she wants to kill herself, hates herself, blah blah, so I ran home to get her. I came in the front door talking with Greg on the cell and Kindsay goes from screaming and bawling to "WHO'S THAT ON THE PHONE????" I say--it's your father. Her eyes get big, she lets out a big sigh...oh I thought it was grandma. She knows she blew it. My mom had a huge bruise for week on her back...but Lily appreciated it, I know she did.
My life is never normal. I'm always bracing for battle. Kindsay has now grown to my height and wears a larger size than I do...that said, what Kindsay says--goes. Since Greg and I worked while the kids were off for summer, my mom had to come babysit. She didn't mind, until the day Kindsay didn't get her way. Thankfully, Kindsay's summer school started soon and Greg only had to work a week once the kids were home. There's always an answer--a blessing!
My mom, bless her heart, drove 20 minutes to my house every morning for that in between week to watch the boys. I say boys because they like climbing, and now having two stories, they are climbing higher. Kindsay could sit in her room with her food laid across her chest, inches from her mouth enough for her to vacuum in the next bite while watching Youtube all day, so she wasn't the worry. But then again, we have dogs. We all know how Kindsay loves to "care" for the dogs. One night she dashed into our room excited--Daddy--come see this, hurry! Greg mosied into her room expecting nothing more than more Justin Beiber on her wall only to find Lily the Shetland strapped into Kindsay's upright carseat. Lily, with all the fur probably pinched in every buckle, sat without her usual smile and wagging tail. She looked helpless and defeated. Yes, Kindsay can get ANYTHING into a carseat if that is her will. Greg was upset for poor Lily, but not before snapping a picture, knowing we'd laugh about it----later. We still don't know how she did it...don't want to know. So Kindsay has deemed Lily "her" dog because, well, Lily is a female and that's how the world works according to Kindsay. Our other dog is male...so naturally the boys' dog.
Back to Kindsay, summer, my mom, all the fun, etc, etc..
So Kindsay, in her unusual loving way, gets Lily to fall in line somehow, usually by force. We have to watch this because we don't typically believe in unnecessary roughness or mistreatment of animals, unless Kindsay becomes so unbearable we have to break our own rules. Kindsay is in the entryway preparing Lily for a walk. What a nurturing thought, right? Except Lily's collar is quite tight, she squirms and whimpers, which makes my mom angry so she goes to Lily to help get it off, while Kindsay is still getting it put on. Not a good combo.
My mom is very sensitive to dogs, so she tried telling Kindsay what was harmful to the dog, but Kindsay was having none of it. Frustrated, my mom just took the initiative to get the collar off, which Kindsay ignored and continued to put it on. Lily is in the middle, though siding more with my mom, until the collar finally came off to Kindsay's wrath. My mom stepped back to try to explain to her why choking a dog is inhumane; instead of listening and learning from her wise elders, Kindsay took the leash and whipped it at my mom, hurling the metal clip end of it onto my mom's back behind her shoulder. My mom screamed out in pain, and it was then that Kindsay was knocked out of her perseverating trance of "must take dog on walk" and realized what she had done. My mom, reeling from the burning pain of having been whipped, spewed cuss words like a southern drunk, making my boys freeze in their shoes, jaws dropped. Needless to say, the worst my boys hear in their own home is "Holy Crap!"...My mom, realized her vulgar reaction, called me bawling in embarrassment for having called her granddaughter a series of unfortunate insults. I didn't blame her, I felt terrible! Was Kindsay unmedicated? Most likely, and that comes back to me. My mom gathered the boys together, though still stuck in their spots and jaws dropped at the rated R for violence and language scene just played out, and ushered them to her car. She then went back into the house and grabbed both dogs and slammed the door behind her. Kindsay is her baby, her pride and joy granddaughter, but she'll be d***ed if she's gong to be beaten by this kid. Kindsay called me and went off, tantruming about how she wants to kill herself, hates herself, blah blah, so I ran home to get her. I came in the front door talking with Greg on the cell and Kindsay goes from screaming and bawling to "WHO'S THAT ON THE PHONE????" I say--it's your father. Her eyes get big, she lets out a big sigh...oh I thought it was grandma. She knows she blew it. My mom had a huge bruise for week on her back...but Lily appreciated it, I know she did.
Friday, June 29, 2012
The Appointment
With Greg home for the summer, he has turned into Mr. Mom. I work 7-hour days, which for summer school is stinking long, plus I've been doing extra hours to prepare for the next school year, so make that 10-hour days...
Kindsay has been attending summer school, but hers goes for four hours a day...ONLY. Not enough, that girl should be out and busy all day because the minute she gets home it's "STriP" and computer harassing till bed. Except for yesterday, when she had an appointment.
I'm leaving at 7 and getting home at 6 at night, so you can imagine by the time I'm home my eyes are on fire. Yesterday Kindsay had her "period pill" appt., which is birth control to all of us folks, and we have to annually see her NP to keep those rolling in...and in previous posts you've seen what damage can be done by NOT having those pills. I had to leave work early since her appt was at 4:40, so I left in time to get home, scoop her up, and get her to that appt stat! I walked in the door, weary and Greg walks up to help unload my arms and get Kindsay out the door. I told him I would get on dinner the moment I got back and the nice guy, father of the child mind you, offered to take her to the appt. I jumped on that like it was chocolate ice cream (it's hot)...I threw the insurance cards at him, gave him instructions on what he needed to say to the NP, and tossed Kindsay the car keys to get her to leave and shut the door behind them.
Poor Greg. He's just not fully prepared for some of this stuff like I am. I do all the appts, I know all the numbers, info, stats, history, you name it. Greg is calling me for this and that and what not...the appt was down the street so thankfully he found it alright. The biggest problem? Kindsay hadn't taken her pills that day. We've been very diligent about those with her being in school, but she missed them that day and the evidence was ubiquitous. Here's Greg's account of what went on at the big OB/GYN appt of the year:
First of all, I'm the only guy in the entire building. It's closing time and it's all women exept me and I'm with my daughter of all people. We go in the room and Kindsay, being unmedicated, cannot sit still. Touching this, that, here, there...sit down Kindsay, don't touch that, put that down--that's not yours...like having a 2-yr-old in an antique store. I'm a nervous wreck with a room full of med supplies that she would love to experiment with on the dog. She goes to the hand sanitizer and loads up...pump after pump...Kindsay--that's enough--stop! Finally she pumped so much she was spreading it up her arms. The stuff was a sticky, definitely gooey, and not absorbing into her skin. It's that time that we here the tapping alert on the door that the NP was ready to see us. Kindsay leapt to attention and sat on the bench with her hands rigidly behind her back, clearly aware of potential trouble and misbehaving she's done. The NP came in and greeted Kindsay, extending her hand to shake it...I tried to stop her--no..I wouldn't if I were...too late. The sticky gooeyness was all over the NP before I could stop it. She tried to remain pleasant with the santizer working it's magic clear through next week. Kindsay just fidgeted..giggling on occasion out of madness that was consuming her that late in the day without meds. Moving on..."So, have you had any periods?" she asks Kindsay. I wish we could just pull the woman aside and fill her in--please address us because you aren't going to get straight answers from her--instead of this proper dr/patient relationship that isn't really appropriate for Kindsay's understanding. She addresses everything to Kindsay. Kindsay says, "Sunday, I had one Sunday." The NP looks over at me as if to confirm..."Any symptoms you've noticed?" I have no idea what symptoms she's even asking about...I could just shake my head and couple it with a look of complete ignorance on the whole matter. "Sunday?" the NP repeats..."as in last Sunday?" No, Kindsay says, A long time ago...a long time ago on Sunday, not last Sunday. Ahh, okay, so the pills are doing the job as we'd hoped. "Any boyfriends?" For some reason, I can't get this NP to understand that Kindsay is NOT on the pills to protect her with all her sexual activity because there is NO sexual activity, and yet she asks such a question which of course Kindsay responds with enthusiastic affirmation. "Is this something we need to worry about?" the NP addresses me now after she asks the bombing question. I recall how just that day Kindsay had an imaginative conversation with her imaginary boyfriend, Bryan, who she wants to name the backyard rat after (another story for another time), and I shake my head, trying to keep from destroying Kindsay's dream of this boyfriend of hers while conveying that indeed there is no need to worry. Just give me the pills, Lady, and we can be done with this nightmare of awkward discussion of sex, boyfriends, periods, pills, and all to do with my daughter who is always on "spring break at Daytona Beach" because we have to see in her underwear all the time because heaven forbid she wear clothing around her family.
All was said and done and Kindsay got her pills. Greg came home with her, probably some respect for what I have to do every time I take her to any appt., and yet that night when I lie in bed exhausted and needing to sleep he reminded me how he helped by taking her to the appt. "You helped by taking YOUR daughter to an appt that you've never had to do before?" Okay, I admit, a father attending that kind of appt is unusual and he gets kudos for offering. Maybe next time he'll offer instead to make dinner while I go to the appt...I'd actually prefer that. I think microwave hotdogs are okay on occasion. I have a whole year to look forward to that.
Kindsay has been attending summer school, but hers goes for four hours a day...ONLY. Not enough, that girl should be out and busy all day because the minute she gets home it's "STriP" and computer harassing till bed. Except for yesterday, when she had an appointment.
I'm leaving at 7 and getting home at 6 at night, so you can imagine by the time I'm home my eyes are on fire. Yesterday Kindsay had her "period pill" appt., which is birth control to all of us folks, and we have to annually see her NP to keep those rolling in...and in previous posts you've seen what damage can be done by NOT having those pills. I had to leave work early since her appt was at 4:40, so I left in time to get home, scoop her up, and get her to that appt stat! I walked in the door, weary and Greg walks up to help unload my arms and get Kindsay out the door. I told him I would get on dinner the moment I got back and the nice guy, father of the child mind you, offered to take her to the appt. I jumped on that like it was chocolate ice cream (it's hot)...I threw the insurance cards at him, gave him instructions on what he needed to say to the NP, and tossed Kindsay the car keys to get her to leave and shut the door behind them.
Poor Greg. He's just not fully prepared for some of this stuff like I am. I do all the appts, I know all the numbers, info, stats, history, you name it. Greg is calling me for this and that and what not...the appt was down the street so thankfully he found it alright. The biggest problem? Kindsay hadn't taken her pills that day. We've been very diligent about those with her being in school, but she missed them that day and the evidence was ubiquitous. Here's Greg's account of what went on at the big OB/GYN appt of the year:
First of all, I'm the only guy in the entire building. It's closing time and it's all women exept me and I'm with my daughter of all people. We go in the room and Kindsay, being unmedicated, cannot sit still. Touching this, that, here, there...sit down Kindsay, don't touch that, put that down--that's not yours...like having a 2-yr-old in an antique store. I'm a nervous wreck with a room full of med supplies that she would love to experiment with on the dog. She goes to the hand sanitizer and loads up...pump after pump...Kindsay--that's enough--stop! Finally she pumped so much she was spreading it up her arms. The stuff was a sticky, definitely gooey, and not absorbing into her skin. It's that time that we here the tapping alert on the door that the NP was ready to see us. Kindsay leapt to attention and sat on the bench with her hands rigidly behind her back, clearly aware of potential trouble and misbehaving she's done. The NP came in and greeted Kindsay, extending her hand to shake it...I tried to stop her--no..I wouldn't if I were...too late. The sticky gooeyness was all over the NP before I could stop it. She tried to remain pleasant with the santizer working it's magic clear through next week. Kindsay just fidgeted..giggling on occasion out of madness that was consuming her that late in the day without meds. Moving on..."So, have you had any periods?" she asks Kindsay. I wish we could just pull the woman aside and fill her in--please address us because you aren't going to get straight answers from her--instead of this proper dr/patient relationship that isn't really appropriate for Kindsay's understanding. She addresses everything to Kindsay. Kindsay says, "Sunday, I had one Sunday." The NP looks over at me as if to confirm..."Any symptoms you've noticed?" I have no idea what symptoms she's even asking about...I could just shake my head and couple it with a look of complete ignorance on the whole matter. "Sunday?" the NP repeats..."as in last Sunday?" No, Kindsay says, A long time ago...a long time ago on Sunday, not last Sunday. Ahh, okay, so the pills are doing the job as we'd hoped. "Any boyfriends?" For some reason, I can't get this NP to understand that Kindsay is NOT on the pills to protect her with all her sexual activity because there is NO sexual activity, and yet she asks such a question which of course Kindsay responds with enthusiastic affirmation. "Is this something we need to worry about?" the NP addresses me now after she asks the bombing question. I recall how just that day Kindsay had an imaginative conversation with her imaginary boyfriend, Bryan, who she wants to name the backyard rat after (another story for another time), and I shake my head, trying to keep from destroying Kindsay's dream of this boyfriend of hers while conveying that indeed there is no need to worry. Just give me the pills, Lady, and we can be done with this nightmare of awkward discussion of sex, boyfriends, periods, pills, and all to do with my daughter who is always on "spring break at Daytona Beach" because we have to see in her underwear all the time because heaven forbid she wear clothing around her family.
All was said and done and Kindsay got her pills. Greg came home with her, probably some respect for what I have to do every time I take her to any appt., and yet that night when I lie in bed exhausted and needing to sleep he reminded me how he helped by taking her to the appt. "You helped by taking YOUR daughter to an appt that you've never had to do before?" Okay, I admit, a father attending that kind of appt is unusual and he gets kudos for offering. Maybe next time he'll offer instead to make dinner while I go to the appt...I'd actually prefer that. I think microwave hotdogs are okay on occasion. I have a whole year to look forward to that.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Another Text-a-Thon
Kindsay uses my phone to call her friend, Haylee, and text some of her old friends. Fine...I've gone over with her how to text (text once and if they do not respond, no more), how to call people (only call once and leave a message, do not call repeatedly if there's no answer), and how to answer calls while on the phone (which she neglected to do the other day and caused serious headaches for us.) Every once in a while I have to take the phone away to punish her for abusing the privilege or for racking up costs because she dialed *411 over and over and over (grrrrr...$2 per call!)...but she's gotten real sneaky. She figured out that to avoid getting busted for abusing the texting, she deletes her texts, then the only way I know about anything is if there is a return text. As soon as she texts...delete. How did I find this out? The charming text received the other morning which had to do with
"Really?? 170 texts in 5 minutes?" Something about me oughta bein' ashamed of myself for such behavior...I need my mouth washed out with soap for using such language...does my mother know I talk like that? Her 8-yr-old has better manners and common sense...and THIS is why kids shouldn't have cell phones. Also, since there is record of the literal 170 texts in 5 minutes, the police could very well be involved if there is another contact.
Oh crap.
And of course, her texts are erased from my phone, but someone out there thinks I, Yvette, am out of my mind. So I text the person back apologizing for my daughter's behavior...and by the way, what kind of language are we talking about?
I get a text back soon after...someone from Oklahoma thanking me for apologizing. The language? Well...it was all erased, but it was pretty bad. And wouldn't you know the woman's child was in the ER all night so she couldn't turn off her phone...she was forced to endure Kindsay's wrath. Over what? Now the puzzle pieces are fitting into place and creating the picture I am reluctant to look at.
"I make and sell dolls and your daughter was mad that I wouldn't give her one for free."
OK--How many times have I gone over this with her...a million---and one.
"I pay $100 for the material and sell them for $200."
a two hundred dollar doll....?????
uuuuuhhhhhh.....
OK...again, sorry about that. Won't happen again--and "whew" that Kindsay didn't swipe my credit card and doesn't know my Paypal account info...I'd probably own this stinking doll.
I get another text..."If you'd like I can give you a discount and sell you one for $150...I wish I could just give her one but I can't."
At that point I imagined the all the dolls that now line up in a row on Kindsay's floor, each birthday and Christmas when she gets a new one, how it goes through the same process of Kindsay love--stripped, Vasolined up the rear, diapered, and fed when it doesn't have a hole for food. They get strapped into car seats, strollers, into the back seat of my car...how many times have I jumped after glancing in my rear view and seeing Chucky eyes staring at me? They sit on her floor, loved but unloved, staring into space wondering "how" "why"....they look like something out of Sid's bedroom in Toy Story...am I going to pay $150 for something to go through that?
No thanks, I text her, she treats them like real babies so she isn't interested in a doll on a shelf.
Will she ever want a doll that sits on the shelf, having never been hazed like her Walmart collection of cheapies? At this point, it doesn't matter...the moment I approached Kindsay about her behavior she dropped her head in shame, knowing that she crossed the line. What on earth kind of words were you using? What did you say to this lady? "I called her a fat pig." OK...there had to be other choice words, but I didn't want to hear them...fat pig was rude enough. I would've washed her mouth out, but seeing as how she can probably throw me down, I left her with a severe scolding. She might've spent an evening offending a complete stranger across the country, but all the dolls across the world are in unison sighing relief that one was spared...this time.
"Really?? 170 texts in 5 minutes?" Something about me oughta bein' ashamed of myself for such behavior...I need my mouth washed out with soap for using such language...does my mother know I talk like that? Her 8-yr-old has better manners and common sense...and THIS is why kids shouldn't have cell phones. Also, since there is record of the literal 170 texts in 5 minutes, the police could very well be involved if there is another contact.
Oh crap.
And of course, her texts are erased from my phone, but someone out there thinks I, Yvette, am out of my mind. So I text the person back apologizing for my daughter's behavior...and by the way, what kind of language are we talking about?
I get a text back soon after...someone from Oklahoma thanking me for apologizing. The language? Well...it was all erased, but it was pretty bad. And wouldn't you know the woman's child was in the ER all night so she couldn't turn off her phone...she was forced to endure Kindsay's wrath. Over what? Now the puzzle pieces are fitting into place and creating the picture I am reluctant to look at.
"I make and sell dolls and your daughter was mad that I wouldn't give her one for free."
OK--How many times have I gone over this with her...a million---and one.
"I pay $100 for the material and sell them for $200."
a two hundred dollar doll....?????
uuuuuhhhhhh.....
OK...again, sorry about that. Won't happen again--and "whew" that Kindsay didn't swipe my credit card and doesn't know my Paypal account info...I'd probably own this stinking doll.
I get another text..."If you'd like I can give you a discount and sell you one for $150...I wish I could just give her one but I can't."
At that point I imagined the all the dolls that now line up in a row on Kindsay's floor, each birthday and Christmas when she gets a new one, how it goes through the same process of Kindsay love--stripped, Vasolined up the rear, diapered, and fed when it doesn't have a hole for food. They get strapped into car seats, strollers, into the back seat of my car...how many times have I jumped after glancing in my rear view and seeing Chucky eyes staring at me? They sit on her floor, loved but unloved, staring into space wondering "how" "why"....they look like something out of Sid's bedroom in Toy Story...am I going to pay $150 for something to go through that?
No thanks, I text her, she treats them like real babies so she isn't interested in a doll on a shelf.
Will she ever want a doll that sits on the shelf, having never been hazed like her Walmart collection of cheapies? At this point, it doesn't matter...the moment I approached Kindsay about her behavior she dropped her head in shame, knowing that she crossed the line. What on earth kind of words were you using? What did you say to this lady? "I called her a fat pig." OK...there had to be other choice words, but I didn't want to hear them...fat pig was rude enough. I would've washed her mouth out, but seeing as how she can probably throw me down, I left her with a severe scolding. She might've spent an evening offending a complete stranger across the country, but all the dolls across the world are in unison sighing relief that one was spared...this time.
Friday, May 18, 2012
The Talk I've Most Dreaded
Kindsay is a part of my life like anyone else in my family, and we have adjusted to her ever-changing needs as she's grown. But there was always something we dreaded...the day when what made her different would become very clear and real to her. In October Kindsay will turn sixteen...an age she knows allows her to attempt to drive and also......date. Having watched her older sister live through her inevitable future of events, Kindsay is aware of the milestones. It was after school one day and she was having a very candid, frank talk with Greg. Normally she'll talk only when she's unmedicated and spiralling, and it's non-stop talking about nothing and everything and the listener eventually has to put a sympathetic end to the conversation, or his/her life. Not this time.
Kindsay hasn't shown an interest in driving. Obviously, being over fifteen and a half, she could've been asking for the permit already but hasn't. Maybe driving scares her the way riding a bike did. Although Kindsay does love those video games that involve driving, even Grand Theft Auto when Uncle Eric would come to town with his unsolicited collection of man-games. And she was ruthless like a thug, but with complete innocence, like it was her absolute right to yank that poor man from his car and drive over him because, well, she wanted that car for herself. What is one to do? It isn't driving that Kindsay wants so badly. It's a date.
"Dad, I already know who I want to ask for a date on my first date."
Greg asks who and she tells him it's a boy at church. "Does he know you?" No, he doesn't know Kindsay even exists let alone knows that he will be her first date.
Greg: "Kindsay, why are you going to ask him? You aren't supposed to be the one to ask for dates." Kindsay: "Well no one is going to ask me out, so I have to ask."
Kindsay is beautiful and exotic looking, long-legged and blonde hair, but her overall look tells of a disability that has her standing on the fence of what is normal and what is oblivion. That is when Greg had to tell her the heart-wrenching truth. Kindsay, he tells her, you have a disability and yes you will be able to have a boyfriend someday, but the boys you are looking at, well...they probably won't ask you out. You will have to look at boys in your class who are like you.
Kindsay wants to know why she is different, and not for the same reason she uses when she completely screws up and says, "my brain is not working right!" (using the little info we've given her in the past, although skewed, to explain her ride on the short bus every day.)
Greg had to go on and tell her the whole truth. That, despite her desperate desires, she will most likely never have a baby. She will always have to live with or near her parents, she will need help her whole life. On the bright and glorious side, Greg shared how special she was in the premortal life, how she was a brave, courageous, and righteous spirit that earned the right to be protected from the evils and ills of the world that would normally remove her innocence and thrust her into mortality to her own agency and defense. She will rise with the righteous and be exalted forever, and someday she will have all she's ever wanted, all she'll have to only watch her siblings enjoy and partake of, and she will have it for eternity.
This is no conversation any parent wants to have with a child, having to shoot down real dreams because of a disabling condition. Kindsay is so ready to have a baby: she's YouTubed how to insert G-tubes in case the baby needs to be fed through the stomach, she has researched birthing, the best carseats, scoured the Internet for a suitable home and wedding ring...it's all so close and within her grasp, and yet so far from ever happening. I have students with disabilities, and they really don't understand social conventions the way Kindsay does, and while it is more physically difficult to raise those children, it's also easier on the heart. Blissful unawareness can be such a blessing.
The next morning Greg shared the conversation with me and I cried all the way to work. She can be such a butt! So ridiculously annoying...eating all my food-- meant for specific meals I had planned that the week-- which I don't know about until I am at the stove, pot on, ready to use it! , getting into my stuff like a toddler, yelling at me after asking how her day was, refusing to clean the funk out of her room! But, she's my baby...and my dreams for her were the same I had for my other children. Those dreams must be saved for another day, another time...and someday they will all come true and more than she could ever have known. That is our hope.
Kindsay hasn't shown an interest in driving. Obviously, being over fifteen and a half, she could've been asking for the permit already but hasn't. Maybe driving scares her the way riding a bike did. Although Kindsay does love those video games that involve driving, even Grand Theft Auto when Uncle Eric would come to town with his unsolicited collection of man-games. And she was ruthless like a thug, but with complete innocence, like it was her absolute right to yank that poor man from his car and drive over him because, well, she wanted that car for herself. What is one to do? It isn't driving that Kindsay wants so badly. It's a date.
"Dad, I already know who I want to ask for a date on my first date."
Greg asks who and she tells him it's a boy at church. "Does he know you?" No, he doesn't know Kindsay even exists let alone knows that he will be her first date.
Greg: "Kindsay, why are you going to ask him? You aren't supposed to be the one to ask for dates." Kindsay: "Well no one is going to ask me out, so I have to ask."
Kindsay is beautiful and exotic looking, long-legged and blonde hair, but her overall look tells of a disability that has her standing on the fence of what is normal and what is oblivion. That is when Greg had to tell her the heart-wrenching truth. Kindsay, he tells her, you have a disability and yes you will be able to have a boyfriend someday, but the boys you are looking at, well...they probably won't ask you out. You will have to look at boys in your class who are like you.
Kindsay wants to know why she is different, and not for the same reason she uses when she completely screws up and says, "my brain is not working right!" (using the little info we've given her in the past, although skewed, to explain her ride on the short bus every day.)
Greg had to go on and tell her the whole truth. That, despite her desperate desires, she will most likely never have a baby. She will always have to live with or near her parents, she will need help her whole life. On the bright and glorious side, Greg shared how special she was in the premortal life, how she was a brave, courageous, and righteous spirit that earned the right to be protected from the evils and ills of the world that would normally remove her innocence and thrust her into mortality to her own agency and defense. She will rise with the righteous and be exalted forever, and someday she will have all she's ever wanted, all she'll have to only watch her siblings enjoy and partake of, and she will have it for eternity.
This is no conversation any parent wants to have with a child, having to shoot down real dreams because of a disabling condition. Kindsay is so ready to have a baby: she's YouTubed how to insert G-tubes in case the baby needs to be fed through the stomach, she has researched birthing, the best carseats, scoured the Internet for a suitable home and wedding ring...it's all so close and within her grasp, and yet so far from ever happening. I have students with disabilities, and they really don't understand social conventions the way Kindsay does, and while it is more physically difficult to raise those children, it's also easier on the heart. Blissful unawareness can be such a blessing.
The next morning Greg shared the conversation with me and I cried all the way to work. She can be such a butt! So ridiculously annoying...eating all my food-- meant for specific meals I had planned that the week-- which I don't know about until I am at the stove, pot on, ready to use it! , getting into my stuff like a toddler, yelling at me after asking how her day was, refusing to clean the funk out of her room! But, she's my baby...and my dreams for her were the same I had for my other children. Those dreams must be saved for another day, another time...and someday they will all come true and more than she could ever have known. That is our hope.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
What now?
Sorry...it's been too long. But it's the same stuff....put a teenager with raging hormones and mood swings that rival a Catholic church pendulum and mix with a 4-year-old's understanding of the world and you've got my life in a nutshell.
Dogs...why oh why did I get dogs? Bek moved out with the last dog and it was such a pleasure to empty my lint trap in my dryer to find only lint and not balls of dog hair. Here I am again creating new species with the amount of dog hair I'm cleaning. Our Shetland, Lily, has beautiful fur, but it's super fine and makes the Chihuahua's shedding seem null and void. Case in point: Kindsay has decided that Lily is her dog since the Chihuahua, Pee Wee, is a male and Lily is a female. The boys then claim Pee Wee, of course. So Lily has had the fun of sleeping in Kindsay's room with all the delightful smells and dirty clothes and trash strewn about (it gets cleaned regularly, but one whip through her room and it's a hoarder's palace)...Lily then has been shedding her fur all over Kindsay's room. Kindsay gets to destroy my home, suck my diet sodas down like a flushed toilet, and wipe out our food at 2 AM prompt daily, but heaven forbid a dog sheds in her room. And TRUST me, Lily is held there against her will. Kindsay cradles her like a baby and Lily always has this look on her face like "help me"...Kindsay likes to hold Lily down in the tub and wash her with waterless shampoo (OK that is annoying because she uses ALL my clean towels and I purposely bought WATERLESS shampoo to avoid to no avail.) After Lily's delightful bath Kindsay decides to groom her. Yeah...not good. Lily has beautiful fluffy white fur...you just want to roll in it it's so soft, and Kindsay took a pair of regular scissors and cut it. So poor Lily, as lovely as she was, had to walk around with a major hack job...it's barely growing out. Don't cross Kindsay, even unwittingly.
But Kindsay doesn't torture the dogs..she tortures me. Imagine waking in the morning..day dawn is breaking, birds singing, a good stretch feels good. I go to the bathroom to use the commode and jump back startled to find a mountainous blanket. Under is Kindsay going to the bathroom. Most of us just close the door. It takes a few angles to adjust to the picture, but it looks like Cousin It using my toilet. Freaky. On top of that when I inquired as to who, what, why...I got no response. She at least refrained from getting the down blanket in the toilet and did flush it, which she frequently neglects...gotta give her props for that. Nothing like an early morning scare.
But Kindsay doesn't torture the dogs..she tortures me. Imagine waking in the morning..day dawn is breaking, birds singing, a good stretch feels good. I go to the bathroom to use the commode and jump back startled to find a mountainous blanket. Under is Kindsay going to the bathroom. Most of us just close the door. It takes a few angles to adjust to the picture, but it looks like Cousin It using my toilet. Freaky. On top of that when I inquired as to who, what, why...I got no response. She at least refrained from getting the down blanket in the toilet and did flush it, which she frequently neglects...gotta give her props for that. Nothing like an early morning scare.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Just when I think the madness is normal, manageable, same-old...Kindsay pushes us to a new level. I sometimes feel despair imagining the rest of my life dealing with this. She's a teenager, yes, but there have been no improvements in her growth in the past few years, and that causes me a little anxiety seeing as how I'm always hoping she turns a corner of understanding. We've hit a plateau. How many times have we driven home the concepts: "don't touch the food in the fridge without asking" "don't walk around in your underwear" "don't eat in your bedroom" "don't make international calls on the cell" and so on...and yet on Sunday we had it ALL going on. I'm tired, people. Springing forward is NOT on my list of favorite times of the year; in fact, it is the title of my least favorite days of the year list. Add the nonsense and I'm ready to drive off an overpass.
So after $175 in calls to Jamaica have been paid to some unknown male that exhibited interest in my daughter until the harassment overwhelmed him to anonymity, I have had plenty more to pay for. You know how rare it is for me to plan a nice, balanced meal? It was Saturday and I took the meat out of the freezer. I bought all the ingredients to quadruple the recipe because my kids love love love this particular meal. Sunday afternoon and we come home from church to find the meat for the dinner on the center of the table in a bowl along with mashed potatoes and corn. The table was set for five with all the necessary utensils. My meat sat there, cold and uninviting. I look over at the sink to see the large pan that fried up my meat in vain. Defeated, I slumped my shoulders and sulked to the bedroom. No dinner tonight. Sure, there were other things...but you know when you have the perfect, comforting meal everyone looks forward to and it almost makes you feel accomplished all on its own? Well that feeling was fried to a crisp in a pan and chucked in the trash shortly after. I think Greg ate Hot Pockets and the kids had cereal. I shamefully ate three of the buttery rolls intended for the dinner along with the rest of the cheese danish coffee cake. Oh what I do to bring joy back again. I then see the dog run through the room, wet, shaking her fur intermittently as she runs through the house. Here comes Kindsay with a handful of formerly clean towels hollering to the dog. I look over to find diarrhea in the corner of the room thanks to the other dog. Neither dog was allowed in the house while we were out, and yet both were in with all their animal glory in their wakes. Greg and I dry heave while we scrub various droppings of feces out of the new carpet and I cringe when the wet dog stops to shake it off a bit. I threaten to rid our home of the dogs only to have my poor sons spend the rest of the day outside stroking their fur and lovingly tending to them. Kindsay then brings down more than a few dirty dishes from her bedroom with her underpants up her rear. She spilled a sticky substance on a comforter and had put it in the washer. She poured detergent generously in every portal in the washer...the bleach bin, the softener bin, the prewash bin, etc. and put the washer on super hot and for an hour. That was fun to find. She then proceeds to torment us with her over-the-top volume voicings through the home about this and that nonsense like hearing someone talking on their cell at the top of his lungs in Target while you are trying to shop. You have no place in the conversation and yet you are subject to it just the same and unable to get away fast enough despite the fact that you desperately need something from that aisle yet haven't selected the item. Greg and I are breathing the best we can during this very long Sunday. We eat without enthusiasm, wander through the house in labored movements, and bump into walls deliberately trying to knock ourselves out. I in no way do not appreciate our blessings and provisions provided by my Father in Heaven, but I sure would love to someday enjoy it without the exorbitant waste that fills my daily life. I can't decide if I prefer her telling me off or taking my cash and burning it in my face. Is one easier to deal with than the other? Only I would know the answer to that, and I seriously cannot decide. Lucky me...I'm sure I'll have plenty more opportunities to compare and contrast the two.
So after $175 in calls to Jamaica have been paid to some unknown male that exhibited interest in my daughter until the harassment overwhelmed him to anonymity, I have had plenty more to pay for. You know how rare it is for me to plan a nice, balanced meal? It was Saturday and I took the meat out of the freezer. I bought all the ingredients to quadruple the recipe because my kids love love love this particular meal. Sunday afternoon and we come home from church to find the meat for the dinner on the center of the table in a bowl along with mashed potatoes and corn. The table was set for five with all the necessary utensils. My meat sat there, cold and uninviting. I look over at the sink to see the large pan that fried up my meat in vain. Defeated, I slumped my shoulders and sulked to the bedroom. No dinner tonight. Sure, there were other things...but you know when you have the perfect, comforting meal everyone looks forward to and it almost makes you feel accomplished all on its own? Well that feeling was fried to a crisp in a pan and chucked in the trash shortly after. I think Greg ate Hot Pockets and the kids had cereal. I shamefully ate three of the buttery rolls intended for the dinner along with the rest of the cheese danish coffee cake. Oh what I do to bring joy back again. I then see the dog run through the room, wet, shaking her fur intermittently as she runs through the house. Here comes Kindsay with a handful of formerly clean towels hollering to the dog. I look over to find diarrhea in the corner of the room thanks to the other dog. Neither dog was allowed in the house while we were out, and yet both were in with all their animal glory in their wakes. Greg and I dry heave while we scrub various droppings of feces out of the new carpet and I cringe when the wet dog stops to shake it off a bit. I threaten to rid our home of the dogs only to have my poor sons spend the rest of the day outside stroking their fur and lovingly tending to them. Kindsay then brings down more than a few dirty dishes from her bedroom with her underpants up her rear. She spilled a sticky substance on a comforter and had put it in the washer. She poured detergent generously in every portal in the washer...the bleach bin, the softener bin, the prewash bin, etc. and put the washer on super hot and for an hour. That was fun to find. She then proceeds to torment us with her over-the-top volume voicings through the home about this and that nonsense like hearing someone talking on their cell at the top of his lungs in Target while you are trying to shop. You have no place in the conversation and yet you are subject to it just the same and unable to get away fast enough despite the fact that you desperately need something from that aisle yet haven't selected the item. Greg and I are breathing the best we can during this very long Sunday. We eat without enthusiasm, wander through the house in labored movements, and bump into walls deliberately trying to knock ourselves out. I in no way do not appreciate our blessings and provisions provided by my Father in Heaven, but I sure would love to someday enjoy it without the exorbitant waste that fills my daily life. I can't decide if I prefer her telling me off or taking my cash and burning it in my face. Is one easier to deal with than the other? Only I would know the answer to that, and I seriously cannot decide. Lucky me...I'm sure I'll have plenty more opportunities to compare and contrast the two.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Kindsay--the Anomaly of Life
Sometimes I forget Kindsay is disabled. She looks like a normal teenager, acts like a dramatic over-hormonal teenager, fights with her brothers, like a normal teen...5' 8", zits, mood swings, knows every word in every song, egocentric...blah blah blah blah...but she has those moments when Greg and I look at each other with the sweep of reality washing over us and we say, 'oh yeah.'
We're in Utah for Christmas, it's morning and Greg and I are downstairs in the kitchen milling around while Kindsay sits in the tv room watching tv...which she rarely does. Her back is to us, so she is zoned into the show which is the Disney morning show for toddlers. Mickey and Donald are on an adventure and they need the help of the viewers! Greg and I are quietly puttering when we hear Mickey say, "How many legs does this thing have?" then it goes on to take each one by one and they count aloud, teaching toddlers how to count. Then there's MY kid who is screaming at the tv--SIX! There are SIX legs...six. six. six. SIX" Finally Mickey gets to 5....then 6! She says, "See? I told you! It was SIX!" Then Donald ask about another creature with 8 legs....instead of patienly counting with Donald she is barking at him-- EIGHT! it's 8, the answer is 8...8.8.8.8.8..." until Donald hits 8 only to get it rubbed into his duckbill---"see?! I told you the answer was 8! I told you. I knew it I knew it..." Greg and I are looking at each other in awe as this grown person is trying to beat Mickey and Donald to each punch. I wasn't going to bother explaining the program format and purpose, she was just so annoyed that those two "icons" didn't know their numbers.
And yet, she's figured out how to text through the Kindle Fire. She shows Greg how to use the darn thing...peaks and valleys I tell you. Peaks and valleys.
We're in Utah for Christmas, it's morning and Greg and I are downstairs in the kitchen milling around while Kindsay sits in the tv room watching tv...which she rarely does. Her back is to us, so she is zoned into the show which is the Disney morning show for toddlers. Mickey and Donald are on an adventure and they need the help of the viewers! Greg and I are quietly puttering when we hear Mickey say, "How many legs does this thing have?" then it goes on to take each one by one and they count aloud, teaching toddlers how to count. Then there's MY kid who is screaming at the tv--SIX! There are SIX legs...six. six. six. SIX" Finally Mickey gets to 5....then 6! She says, "See? I told you! It was SIX!" Then Donald ask about another creature with 8 legs....instead of patienly counting with Donald she is barking at him-- EIGHT! it's 8, the answer is 8...8.8.8.8.8..." until Donald hits 8 only to get it rubbed into his duckbill---"see?! I told you the answer was 8! I told you. I knew it I knew it..." Greg and I are looking at each other in awe as this grown person is trying to beat Mickey and Donald to each punch. I wasn't going to bother explaining the program format and purpose, she was just so annoyed that those two "icons" didn't know their numbers.
And yet, she's figured out how to text through the Kindle Fire. She shows Greg how to use the darn thing...peaks and valleys I tell you. Peaks and valleys.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Kindsay vs. Knob
I get up about 6 AM, get me and the boys ready for school, push Kindsay along and attempt to guide her away from Punky Brewster meets Lady Gaga styles, stay at work for seven hours attempting to teach 24 kids with severe disabilities standards that have blown past them long ago, leave at 3, pick up the boys at school, get home with dinner plans forming in my mind along with the list of stuff I gotta do before I go to bed that night (which--congrats to me--includes exercising, yes I am), so the last thing I need nor want is to walk in and find some kind of Kindsay chaos. I'd say nine out of ten returns home I find her eating in her bed with dogs all around her and a stench and every cupboard in the kitchen open with food and trash lining the countertops. Then that one time out of ten I will find...well--something that makes me go--huuuuh?
I walk in...tired as you can imagine...to find her squatting at her door in her bra and underwear, or her uniform in her case, and removing the door knob from her door. At this point, both knobs are off and she's fussing with that inner door thingy that keeps the door shut. Oh no...I'm already seeing a fight with her so I call Greg--she's removing the door knob, drive the speed limit when you come home so you can get her in a reasonable amount of time--and I dare ask what the heck she is doing. Of course her answer is, "Oh, uh, I wanted a fancy door, this is not fancy." Put it back on, Kindsay. The boys walk by...unphased by her bra and underwear (I was hoping they'd never become desensitized to it, but alas), but checking out her little project. I go straight to my room because I am NOT having this fight. I'm tired People. I shut my door and moments later hear screaming "I can't get out!" The boys are panicking "She can't get out! What do we do? What about the dogs? The dogs are locked in!" So she shuts her door sans knobs and now is stuck. I pretend I can't hear the mind-blowing, decible-laden catastrophe happening just feet away. Dee da da...dee da da...hmm hmmm hmmmmm...I can't hear you. I do, however, hear them with all their scheming to get her out of the room. I'm not worried--heck, I know how to jimmie a door and rescue her, but it was nice knowing she was in her room unable to cause any more mess until Greg got home. I hear the boys still in a panic over the fate of the locked dogs. Oh brother. Soon, Greg is home and coming in my room with confusion across his face, "Did you know she is locked in her room?" Oh dear! No, she's been very quiet, that's weird. Here comes Kindsay, though she is in her room with a closet full of clothes to cover all the butt and cleavage I have to see, she decides to climb through her window that exits to our front porch undressed. Stomping down the hall she throws open my door--Mom, I had to climb out the window, my door is locked, the dogs, what are we going to do about the dogs?! She is near hysterics at this point. I casually, almost lazily, pick up a screwdriver, drag my feet down the hall, jimmie the door-POP-open it...walk back to my room. Then Greg tells her SHE has to put the knobs back on after she starts her tirade of her door not having knobs. We continue with our evening while hearing her bang, pound and scream at the dumb knob (hey, they really are as dumb as door knobs, aren't they?) I'm making dinner, the boys are doing homework, Greg is cleaning..."Stupid stupid door--OK DOOR, YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME? YOU WANT A PIECE? HERE YOU GO!" Pound, bang, slam...sigh from the kitchen (that's me)...Greg and I are actually almost giggling as she pulls a Godfather type monologue on the door. So it's another night of Honey Do lists starting with Kindsay's projects that had no right to start in the first place. I, of course, fix the door and decide it was time to lock the kitchen cabinets. Or...Kindsay's doorway to ultimately screw with her parents. I get locks on both doors and keep the key hidden away. Control at last--we finally got her! No more middle of the night rummaging...no more keeping food in my closet so we can ration out what we have for the month...no more wrappers all over the counter in the morning...no more opened cans and filled tupperware of Chef Boyardee's marvels...Greg and I have won the battle! Confidently I rise the next day fully expecting a calmness never before experienced in the kitchen...as I get closer I hear sizzling...(sniff sniff) what the...? "Oh hi...uh...I'm just, uh, I'm making chicken, I found some frozen chicken in the freezer and now I'm cooking it--yeah...cooking it for Dad...just some chicken." Is there no end? Alas, we are foiled again (along with the uneaten chicken)...pun intended.
I walk in...tired as you can imagine...to find her squatting at her door in her bra and underwear, or her uniform in her case, and removing the door knob from her door. At this point, both knobs are off and she's fussing with that inner door thingy that keeps the door shut. Oh no...I'm already seeing a fight with her so I call Greg--she's removing the door knob, drive the speed limit when you come home so you can get her in a reasonable amount of time--and I dare ask what the heck she is doing. Of course her answer is, "Oh, uh, I wanted a fancy door, this is not fancy." Put it back on, Kindsay. The boys walk by...unphased by her bra and underwear (I was hoping they'd never become desensitized to it, but alas), but checking out her little project. I go straight to my room because I am NOT having this fight. I'm tired People. I shut my door and moments later hear screaming "I can't get out!" The boys are panicking "She can't get out! What do we do? What about the dogs? The dogs are locked in!" So she shuts her door sans knobs and now is stuck. I pretend I can't hear the mind-blowing, decible-laden catastrophe happening just feet away. Dee da da...dee da da...hmm hmmm hmmmmm...I can't hear you. I do, however, hear them with all their scheming to get her out of the room. I'm not worried--heck, I know how to jimmie a door and rescue her, but it was nice knowing she was in her room unable to cause any more mess until Greg got home. I hear the boys still in a panic over the fate of the locked dogs. Oh brother. Soon, Greg is home and coming in my room with confusion across his face, "Did you know she is locked in her room?" Oh dear! No, she's been very quiet, that's weird. Here comes Kindsay, though she is in her room with a closet full of clothes to cover all the butt and cleavage I have to see, she decides to climb through her window that exits to our front porch undressed. Stomping down the hall she throws open my door--Mom, I had to climb out the window, my door is locked, the dogs, what are we going to do about the dogs?! She is near hysterics at this point. I casually, almost lazily, pick up a screwdriver, drag my feet down the hall, jimmie the door-POP-open it...walk back to my room. Then Greg tells her SHE has to put the knobs back on after she starts her tirade of her door not having knobs. We continue with our evening while hearing her bang, pound and scream at the dumb knob (hey, they really are as dumb as door knobs, aren't they?) I'm making dinner, the boys are doing homework, Greg is cleaning..."Stupid stupid door--OK DOOR, YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME? YOU WANT A PIECE? HERE YOU GO!" Pound, bang, slam...sigh from the kitchen (that's me)...Greg and I are actually almost giggling as she pulls a Godfather type monologue on the door. So it's another night of Honey Do lists starting with Kindsay's projects that had no right to start in the first place. I, of course, fix the door and decide it was time to lock the kitchen cabinets. Or...Kindsay's doorway to ultimately screw with her parents. I get locks on both doors and keep the key hidden away. Control at last--we finally got her! No more middle of the night rummaging...no more keeping food in my closet so we can ration out what we have for the month...no more wrappers all over the counter in the morning...no more opened cans and filled tupperware of Chef Boyardee's marvels...Greg and I have won the battle! Confidently I rise the next day fully expecting a calmness never before experienced in the kitchen...as I get closer I hear sizzling...(sniff sniff) what the...? "Oh hi...uh...I'm just, uh, I'm making chicken, I found some frozen chicken in the freezer and now I'm cooking it--yeah...cooking it for Dad...just some chicken." Is there no end? Alas, we are foiled again (along with the uneaten chicken)...pun intended.
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