Daddy/Daughter Date Night

If only my children knew how much their father loves them.  They speak, and he jumps to meet the need.  He won't play his video games while they are awake; instead, he'll wait until everyone is asleep and then he'll have his own free time.  He worries that he doesn't spend enough time with them.  He'll follow them around the house and check to see if they need him.  Ugh...I think...if they need me they know where to find me!  No, not Gregory, he wants them to know that their father is here for them at all times.  

So then Kindsay will spend all weekend in her room.  And it bugs him.  I say--she's happy, when she wants attention she'll come get it--right?

Greg doesn't want his baby to be alone, so he goes to her, seeks her out--Kindsay, do you want to go spend time together?  

No, she tells him, but she does want Starbucks (she loves the chocolate frappe thingie.). If you want it, he says to her, you have to go with me to get it. 

Ugh...she replies.  Annoying!--she's thinking.  Why can't he just go get it???

He wants to spend time with her, talk to her, give her some attention--is that too much to ask?

So she gets dolled up. We're talking bling, jewelry, hair bow, big purse--all 9 of the yards.  She stomps down the stairs ready to go.

"OK, I'll go, but I'm sitting in the back of the car and you're going through the drive thru."

uh...wha?  

Yes, she dressed for the tinted back seat in the drive thru.  

No, he tells her--you will go in and sit with me and we'll have a treat together. 

(Wait, how many kids have a dad that dotes as he does?) 

Kindsay really has no idea that this is actually all for her benefit.  While Greg loves being with them, he really is worried that they will grow up and wish their father spent more quality time with them.  

Yeah...I know, I've told him, and imagine how bad I'm going to look in their rearview?

So again, she's annoyed, but agrees.  I mean, she's getting a treat for heaven's sake.  She's getting something she wants.  On the drive there she laments.  "Why do I have to go in?  Why are you making me do this?  It's like you have special needs.  Yeah, I think you have special needs."  If there was a camera for Greg to look into to give a look of confusion to the audience, he would've.  No camera, he mugs to himself in the mirror.  I'm special needs?--he asks.  Yes, it's like you don't get it.  I just want the treat, I don't want to go in.

They pull up and he does not budge on the deal.  He knows that she could use some 1:1 time with him, she likes to vent about this and that.  She needed the sun on her face (literally 3-4 days indoors in a row.)  She finally gives in.  They go in, get the treat, and go out to the tables to sit and talk.  As she gets situated, here come two guys lighting up cigarettes.  If you know Kindsay, and even if you don't, she cannot tolerate for one second any smoke.  She had been blasting smokers for years about the blackness of their lungs (up until she was seven or eight years when I said people don't think it's cute anymore...don't do it.)  She just won't take it for a second, and won't hold back either.  

Greg knew this.  Up he got from his seat and to the car.

When they got home, Greg gave me the story, maybe he was breaking it to me that he is indeed special needs.  He truly was dumbfounded that she could not understand his true intention.  Here she came again, stomp stomp stomp (she has my huge feet and no grace to her walk.)  "Kindsay, " I say, "That was nice of Daddy to take you out."  She stops...halts actually.  

And here we go.  Buckle up:

"And you know what?  I'm an adult.  I don't think people should be making me do things I don't want to do.  If you think I want to go to Starbucks you're wrong.  You cannot make people do things they don't want to do.  It's wrong--and I didn't want to go.  And I'm tired of you guys making me do things that I don't want to do--it's wrong!  It's just just wrong.  And if you would just stop being bad parents and take me out and not be lazy.  You guys are so lazy you never take me anywhere. I say I want to go somewhere and you say" (use a whiny mocking voice) "'I don't want to' and I'm tired of it...."

OK..this went in a few directions.  First she chewed Greg out for his desire to spend time with her.  Then she went off on us for never taking her out.  Then she called her friend and gave her the earful.  UGH...not worth it---this is the autism spectrum in her--people are a means to an end.  If she wants something, it is our sole responsibility and objective in this life to meet the need/want.  Once we do, our job is done, our usefulness dries up, and we can scooch out of her way.  My mother thinks this is a sign of her being spoiled.  Yes, she is spoiled, but only as long as I want to spoil her.  The rest is just plain ol' Kindsay at her best.  I will remind Greg next time she's quiet in her room for a few days and he wants to get her out--do not wake the beast.

The Wall

I vow that from now on (my hand is in the air in some kind of vowing pose) I will try to write more! It's not like things haven't happened...because they have--such is life, right?  But I keep trying to write a novel loosely based on my life and every time I get three pages in I get stuck.  I'm a great writer.  I attended the G.A.T.E. schools as a kid due to my academic and creative abilities.  I wrote papers in college that would make you cry.  I had professors tell me they graded everyone else against my work which was used as the standard.  I have so few talents, and writing happens to be a minor talent that I could certainly build upon, but I keep hitting the Wall. I wracked my brain trying to figure out how and why I smack into the Wall.  I mean, I have the story, and it starts out with a great flow, but then...screeeeeeeching halt.  However....during this last attempt a week ago, I think I've stumbled upon that which slams me into the Wall.  Did you know that to write a book, unless it's completely nonfiction with indices in the back and everything, and not autobiographical, you have to show a vulnerable side of you?  Yes!  And you have to write about emotions by going into your deepest, most tenderest places in your soul and find the stuff that pulls tears out of the ducts and things that wrench the heart or even just start a flutter...for me wherever that is, it has a sign on the outside of the door with my picture on it and a line drawn through it.  I get sappy and emotional like the next gal, but something about revealing such a personal part of me is unnerving.  Even if it's "loosely" based on facts, it still requires me to go to the door of "don't go in there" and "I'm warning you" because then I might have to answer to some of it.

I mean, how many of us have thought that about the shades of gray author--that the woman gets freaky deaky, from what I hear.  Come on, you have to find the material from somewhere (the emotional stuff, people...I know I can "research" any topic and write extensively on it.)

Well, then don't get emotional in the story, you say...

This is how little I want to share--I got all the way to the part where the reader meets the male of the story.  It's based on a real person you know, and this person's eyes have this Colin Firth or Antonio Banderas gaze that captures women and draws them in--no! for real, this is for real.  But how do I explain even a little bit of that without getting "blecky" about it?  Yes, blecky.  Bleck.
I rarely cry in front of people.  Sounds like a personal problem I have?  In my defense, I've revealed those tender parts of me in little baby doses, only to have the recipient look around for a lifeboat or an exit ramp.  Just as little as three months ago I started tearing up in front of my teens sons, and they rolled their eyes.

I like the Wall...I have a Wall...I will stay behind my Wall, until I'm 80 years old when I get to do whatever, and no one can say anything.  And it's all cute too, right?

In other words, by the time I get to the point where I can write a story loosely based on my life I will have forgotten most of it.

The other side of it is the prospect of my children reading it.  My adolescence was seedy, sketchy, stuff of the underbelly...well, I never killed anyone, I've never done more than silly "girl fighting," but I've skipped along the tops of everything else, and that is stuff for my posterity after I'm dead.

Am I exaggerating?

Just the other night I shared something with my spouse, of twenty years now I'm going to add, and he stopped the conversation and said, "Did you just say that you _____  ______  ____?"  Yes, I answered in a matter-of-factly way, I am not embarrassed or ashamed of who I used to be to get where I am today.  I didn't turn out so badly, after all.  Just ask my mother.  Well, my husband was a bit jarred and probably even sad for me, but no tears over here buddy, I'm just chatting through the Wall I lean against when I share "that" stuff.

SO...that said...I will be back blogging and making light of the things in my life that I can't laugh about in the moment but certainly can a week (a month?) later.  Remember, I sit on both sides of the desk where special needs are concerned.  I do it 24/7...unless my mom wants to give me respite, and then she'll take Kindsay for an hour or two.  And then I now have two teens sons and my oldest daughter living at home, and not enough three-day weekends in the world to get rid of my puffy eyes.
Bottom line--I spend much of my day walking across the top of my Wall, leaning to one side in a self-reflective state of "to leap, or not to leap."  And that is the question.  Or rather...Y Me?

Airplane!

Summer was here before we knew it!  I had planned way back in October to take the family on a trip. We quarreled about where we were going to go.  Half of us wanted NYC, the other half wanted a cruise.  I compromised, because leaving half of us unhappy meant a 50% chance I'd have to hear about it.  We flew to NYC, spent a couple of days, boarded a boat to Canada for four days, then went back to NYC for another five days.  Despite my efforts to make everyone happy, I still heard the grumblings from my youngest son who said he wanted to go to Mexico, not Canada.  Yes, I tried to explain that Mexico wasn't possible from NYC in the time we needed, and we were still doing something he wanted to do, but he wasn't having it.  Once in the city, I gave up talking him into enjoying the sights and sounds of NYC and let him spend as much time as he wanted in the hotel room and NOT in the Big Apple.  Fine with me--one less child to please and spend oodles of money on!
Before we go into the trip itself, let's get off the ground and into JFK.  Kindsay has been on a plane before.  We took the family to Hawaii a few years ago and flew without incident.  Not one of the four kids said "BOO" about it.  For some reason this time I had two unsettled kiddies.  My youngest son, Ty, and Kindsay were not happy about getting on a plane.  Ty managed the anxiety well.  He'd try me out a few days prior by saying he wasn't going at all, and that netted him a bunch of havoc from me, so he dropped it.  Kindsay, however, didn't fuss until we were on the plane.  Here we are aboard a 767 jet with over a hundred people and almost six hours of flying ahead of us.  We've got Kindsay clutching Greg and me, her arms are across the aisle holding onto Greg while I sat beside her holding her left hand.  Instead of watching a movie on the screen in front of her, like we all did to distract us and pass the time easily, she watched the flight plan the entire time.  She watched the little plane on the screen cross the country over the course of six hours.  Yes, the entire six hours we watched the plane travel in small dots with updates about speed and elevation.  We left at noon so it wasn't like bed time or anything, and even then she wouldn't have slept.  She kept rocking back and forth, making her squealing noises every now and then, and held our hands with sweaty, nervous palms.  She'd comment every few minutes about the plane, "Mom--is it going high?  Is this how fast it is?  Is the plane moving?  Are we close?"  No Kindsay, we still have five hours and twenty minutes!  And then her bathroom breaks were more often, every twenty minutes or so.  I kept trying to keep her calm because she didn't care who heard her when she would get anxious.  I thought, If someone were on this plane and super nervous about flying and heard Kindsay talking about 'going down'...they'll lose their cool and jump up screaming for the door.
My sister has done that before on a flight, so I know it can happen.
It went okay until landing.  She could feel the landing gear setting itself in position to land.  Kindsay grabbed us and leaned way over as though it were her body keeping the plane balanced.  She squealed and started panicking in louder and louder volumes so that I had to shush her more and more, to no effect.  I know people were looking and wondering what this full grown woman (Kindsay is 18 years old and a few inches shy of six feet tall) was doing sprawled across the aisle, bent in half, shrieking as though the Wright brothers were conducting their maiden voyage with her in row 33.  When the plane hit the runway, she jolted and shrieked again then called out, "I am not flying home.  I am taking the train.  This is my last trip.  I am staying with Grandma next time!"  I was thrilled to see the beautiful city lights of New York out the window, but mostly to know that Kindsay knew she was on the ground and that would be the end of it...for ten days at least.  Alas, not to worry, Kindsay reminded me every day after that how she is taking the train and staying with Grandma next time.  It really made me look forward to breaking the news to her that she was indeed flying home...but staying with Grandma next time?  Done!

Mouse Trap

We had a smart mouse.  It would leave small traces of itself around the kitchen or bathroom, but our attempts to catch it were futile.  We finally had to call pest control.  I started thinking the pest control company had hired the mouse to torment us for business.  The mouse was finally caught, but with our own traps and not until after we paid $75 for pest control to come out and lay out more traps.  Lesson learned…pest control won’t do much more than you can already do for yourself. 

But it was a good lesson.  My husband, you know the animal rights carnivore that he is, didn’t want to hurt the mouse.  You know how he found a pack of baby squirrels and hid them in our closet because he knew I’d be furious, but his heart was so broken that the mother wasn’t around that he couldn’t take it anymore.  I had squirrels in my closet.  He reluctantly, (other options?), took them to the animal shelter where I am sure they nodded with agreement while my husband pleaded their case.  “Sure, we’ll feed them and nourish them and get them on their way.”  He left satisfied while they probably chucked the box of squirrels in the canal behind the shelter.  So he bought mousetraps that would keep it alive until he was able to set it free outside.  I’d say—what, so it can come back in?  Let’s just make it a bed while we’re at it?  He couldn’t bear the thought of killing it, but after months of finding torn this and poop that, he agreed—we have to get rid of the mouse!  And we had to be serious about it!

So I bought a bunch of those old fashioned, Tom and Jerry mousetraps.  Amazing how years will pass and some things don’t change.  I’ve never used one, but they are simple contraptions that can be figured out after watching just a few cartoons as a kid.  My husband was hesitant and a little uneasy about putting them together, but I assured him it would be no big deal.  Never underestimate my husband. I’m sitting on my lounge chair in the den, and I can hear my son and husband in the kitchen.  They are working together to get these mousetraps ready to lay in wait for their intellectual victim.  The way they were talking I imagined them with their heads together, one doing the work while other did the coaching.  “Okay, careful now, pull it back, don’t let go!  Okay, pull and clip…there!  Okay, be careful…careful…easy.”  Oh good, one down only eight more to go.  I thought, See?  You CAN do it…easy!  Just load and pull back the clip. 

Then I hear them again…oh dear.

“Okay, now gentle, gentle, set it down…oooh!  Careful!”  I sat up.  

No, they weren’t.  They didn’t.  I didn’t have a comment because I didn’t want to believe it. 

“Gregory….are you putting the peanut butter on AFTER you set the trap?”

“No…we are using cheese.”

Cheese?  Okay, now I know he’s stuck in a Tom and Jerry cartoon only Tom was smarter by putting the food on FIRST.  He’s got my son holding the trap while he sets down a piece of cheese, gingerly, with the hope that the trap doesn’t go off on my son.  I look around the corner to see for myself that this was happening.  They both look up at me and realize their erroneous ways so apparent through the sheepish look on their faces, which turns to embarrassment…and so they should be!  Despite my call out of their backwards methods, I still verbally instructed them in case the obvious to me wasn’t obvious to them—Put a bit of peanut butter on the plank THEN set the trap. 

Lucky for them, the mouse fell for it.  

Greggy Part 2

I wish I could share with you the wedding of my oldest daughter three years ago.  This is a child I cherish beyond words, so for me to give the details on the wedding might break her heart so I will refrain and save the story for my personal journal.  However, I can share with you my wedding...which happened a long time ago, in a land far...no, right here in Fresno, sort of. 
Back to Greg...Greg and I dated for 3 and a half years, which in Mormon years is FOREVER.  I wasn't allowed to mention the "M" word to the guy, though I could never figure out why this virgin wouldn't jump on the chance to get married and do the married thing (no puns or irreverence intended, it's just the honest truth.)  We'd been Disneyland fans from day one, and during one random visit, he popped the question on the bridge in front of Sleeping Beauty's castle.  He'd carried that darn ring box in his sock achingly all day...what a trooper and romantic.  I said yes right away, we took pictures (strangers willing to snap them of course) which ended up being exposed by a child I love dearly and will no longer continue to punish with my ever-resentful reminders..but it was a happy day.  I remember feeling light as air, I even allowed people to cut in front of me in the lines, whereas any other time I would've "handled my business."  We married 6 weeks later--ah, there's the awakening of the virgin. We should've waited a few months to get married to give us time and money to have a decent reception.  Since my dad and sister had been married that year there wasn't any money left for a reception.  But Greg was not waiting any longer than he had to.  Alas, we had to have an open house.  No biggie...Greg didn't even WANT a reception--huh!  Imagine how I, the bride, reacted to that.  So here's how lame the open house was.  First, the invitations we picked out were meant for people on their 3rd and 4th weddings...completely unconventional, non-traditional, didn't mention the names of the parents so half the invitees were like--who is this again?  Next, we had to have it at my mom's house.  No money...so we had to serve some local Mexican fare on plastic silver platters...mini burritos I think was all.  Dumb, we weren't Mexican, no Mexican theme, where did that come from?  Burritos?  No fruit, no cute frilly platters...burritos and punch.  If you are like me, the food is the driving force behind any function attendance.  BOMB!  Then, I wanted a chocolate cake--again totally non-traditional.  But hey, I like chocolate.  We had a vanilla sheet cake for those weirdos that don't eat chocolate (they should be dragged somewhere and...)  My hair was flat and my make-up practically gone since the wedding was in the LDS Oakland temple, and we had to drive 3 hours back home right away to the reception.  I looked like some lady out of a 1950's catalog whose photo shoot got cut at the last minute because thankfully some other photographer pulled through with a REAL bride.  Of course, it was a mess...half of Greg's family wasn't there...or more than half.  It was too foggy for anyone to want to drive who was over 60 years old.  My nail broke on my ring finger so showing my ring in any photo was a tossed sentiment.  When we finally got to the hotel room it was so awkward I don't remember any of it except for the lone bath I took in the suite's tub.  And yet, here we still are, been together for 20 years and not much has changed except that I've broken Greg down enough to not be embarrassed to buy toilet paper.

Prom

Kindsay had the choice of two proms to attend for her senior year.  First is the one our church holds annually for seniors.  It's a place where kids can congregate and know it will be tasteful.  (Have you been to a school dance lately?)  The second is her school prom.  She was planning on attending both with her teachers taking her to her school prom, but for the church prom, she asked her dad and I if we would take her.  Not a moment of hesitation.  We bought her a dress.  Her preference?  Bling. And pink.  I found one at Macy's with the required qualities, and we picked out a cute furry cover-up to make sure she was modest.  Because she has problems with her feet, we picked out open sandals covered in guess what...more bling.  And she picked out a new tiara (yes, there's an old one) and jewelry.  Bottom line, Kindsay wanted to be a princess right out of a Disney movie.
But we had an unexpected surprise.
Knowing all the seniors at church were going with each other made me feel kind of bad.  I know Kindsay wouldn't be the easiest date because the evening would have to revolve around her (or else!), so I understood when no senior boy at church asked her out.  And then my bestie's son had a great idea.  Being a senior himself and not planning on attending the church prom, he thought it would be a great thing for her if he asked her.  I didn't want to place any expectations on him in case he changed his mind so I didn't say anything to Kindsay.  They've known each other all their lives so Kindsay would've known there wasn't anything romantic, and Nathan, our hero, wouldn't have been her type anyway, not with his short hair (she loves it shaggy, remember?)
Well, Nathan didn't hold back any fun for the event.  He made her a poster to help pose his question and brought it to our house.  I had to give her a heads-up so she wouldn't lose her manners. (She'll straight out ignore you if she's in the right mood.)  I went to her room and told her we had a special guest coming over to ask her to the church prom.  (I also wanted her to be dressed since she prefers walking around in her sports bra and briefs.)  Immediately the questions came flying, "Who who who who who who who who who?" (in a variety of forms)  I kept assuring her it was a friend, that it would be just a night for friends and fun, that she would get to put on her pretty dress, that she would get to go to dinner and have steak (serious carnivore), but I doubt she heard anything I said.  I think she would've bursted if I had given her any more heads-up than the five minutes I gave her.
Then he came over, and the rest is history!  To make it more special, our wonderful church leader and bishop agreed to Nathan driving his brand new truck.  Did you know Kindsay loves trucks?  Well, not all trucks, brand-new 6-seaters is what she loves, and our bishop's truck was just that.  We kept that as her evening's surprise.  After pictures, we walked her outside and told her, "See that truck over there?  It's how you and Nathan are getting to the prom!"  She ran and Nathan almost became invisible (if it were possible for her and the truck to take off into the sunset, she would have.)  I think she hugged the truck too.

Anyway, watch the video--it was a night to remember.  Once they got to the actual prom, she announced the end of the evening, which was okay because that was what Nathan expected her to do.  After all, he enjoyed driving the truck too, so home they came just after arriving at the prom, and since driving in the truck was the best part, they drove well below
the speed limit.

The First Shopping Trip

Kindsay loves food.  When she wakes in the morning, she goes straight to breakfast.  (most of us will hit the bathroom first?) She gets her Pop Tarts, slams herself into the recliner, and devours them.  She gulps her milk down so fast you can hear it upstairs.  When she finishes with breakfast she secures her lunch for school.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, she gets dressed for school...hair thrown into a ponytail and clothes placed on her body without thought, such an inconvenience.  When she walks through the door at the end of the day she calls me.  It doesn't matter that every time she does I ignore it (if I'm close to being home) or answer it and tell her "I don't know," and hang up.  I know what she wants.  "What is for dinner?"  Boy, if I don't have that planned out...you can forget it!  I will suffer.  And if she finally gives up on me and eats something random, and I actually do cook dinner, I get an earful for not telling her.  I say, "I didn't know at the time.  I told you to just wait!"  But that's not good enough.  Why didn't I tell her?  Did I know she was going to go eat something else?  Why did I let her do that so now she is too full to eat what I've made?
Well, at least someone cares about dinner...my boys eat everything doused in ketchup so they don't care what I cook.
Kindsay finally got some money for her groceries.  She always told us that when she got her money for groceries when she turned 18 that she was going to buy her food and we were not going to be allowed to eat it.  We would not be able to have any of her food.  It would be hers and we would get in huge trouble if we touched it.  OK...uh-huh.  We know, Kindsay, we won't touch your precious food.
So she gets her money and we go to Target.  I get a shopping cart, and she comes up from behind with one of her own.  She has some big humongous blingy boots on with her maxi skirt swaying down the aisles like the food is being emptied off the shelves as we speak.  She is like a bullet train getting to her next destination.  Yikes.  I can't even tell people fast enough "excuse us" because she is blowing past them.  I stop worrying about other people.  If they can't get out of her way on their own, it's their problem.
I tell her, "I have to go grab a few things over there, so I will meet you in the food section.  Just for now pick out a couple of things you like."  I don't know that she cared if I was still in the store, she was already zoned into the food.  I asked Greg to follow her because...well, you never know.  Just follow her please.
I get my things and head back to the food section.  I can't see her but I can hear her bellowing, "Where's the _____?"  "Can I get one of these?"  "How many should I take?"  It's like she's never eaten before the way she is looking at the food.  I follow her voice to find her and Greg in an aisle.  I look in her cart.  No kidding--five 2-liters of soda, 3 bottles of sparkling cider, 1 box of hot cider packets, 2 bottles of sparkling flavored water, some mini wrapped cheeses, and a couple boxes of Pop Tarts.  Wait a minute!--I say.  I start putting things back, like 3 of the sodas, 2 bottles of sparkling cider...she starts protesting.  I look at Greg, "Really?  You couldn't say no to her?"  He tells me that what I see in the cart IS a result of him saying no.  "You should've seen the cart before I said no!"  Well, we need to say it some more because she is not going to drink through her grocery money and she's not eating like royalty out of Target (who eats baby cheeses?)  I tell Kindsay, "You have to keep your voice down, I can hear you across the store."
"That's nothing," Greg tells me, "You should've heard her earlier.  She was so loud while looking for things, a guy three aisles away hollered that what she was looking for was over by him."
Oh geez.  It takes a village, doesn't it!?
I finally get Greg to pull in the reins more, he's shooting down all her requests for this and that gourmet whatever, until she mentions seafood.  His eyes lit up and he floated behind her while she headed to the frozen food.  They pull out frozen shrimp and Greg loses his judgment completely.  I have to monitor both of them at this point.  It also didn't help that Kindsay's favorite food is steak..."Where's the steak?"  I explain that we can go to the Meat Market for steak, not Target.  That satisfies her only if I can give her an actual date that we'll go. Uh, Monday, Monday, okay?...I choose whatever day is enough away that I can get her to forget or at least hush about it for now.
So now we're up to a bag of bagels, flavored cream cheese, flavored oatmeal, frozen shrimp and fish fillets, mini powdered donuts, a few boxes of sugar cereal, some frozen pasta dishes, and mac n cheese.  I resign, but, I tell her...This is IT until next month!  You get one trip, then you have to eat it slowly or you'll be out of food in a matter of days.  I don't know that she is able to register what I say while her eyes are whirling looking at the food in such a new light.
We get home and I assign her a drawer in the pantry and a part of a shelf.  She can have those for her food.  Oh, thank goodness for sugary, salty, over-processed food--the factories are working overtime now that Kindsay has grocery money!  Manufacturers are partying hard--Kellogg's is treating their employees to a cruise...General Mills just wrote bonus checks to their employees, Kraft's processing plant just pushed the conveyer belt speed to "Kindsay's here!"  A new chapter in our lives.  And this one is going to be long.

A Friend Indeed

For many of you, you know Kindsay is online a lot...I don't need to be in touch with anyone because Kindsay does it for me.  She knows all my relatives, their kids, friends, co-workers, and their parents. When we had our family reunion I was so excited for everyone to actually meet Kindsay since they all knew her, and when the gathering came, she clammed up, acted uninterested, and everyone just faded away to their own groups.  Why?  Nervousness, shyness, anxiety, all of the above.  I tried to explain the best I could while she was sitting there that she wasn't actually being aloof, but was extremely nervous.  In any case, the fun was lost and they all moved on.
So Kindsay wants to know--why doesn't anyone like me?  Why doesn't anyone respond when I text them?  Why do I get unfriended or banned from Facebook?
Sadly, she really doesn't know.  She really doesn't "get it" that when she posts picture after picture of herself, she is setting herself up for ridicule and negativity.  She doesn't understand that adults, especially those of my parents' generation, don't want to chat with her all day.  She doesn't know why her peers from school, usually from the general population, don't text her back.
YES, I've explained myself blue.  Only for her to over-voice me with her overly sensitive reactions to people.
Well...sometimes tables turn, and it is Kindsay who is sought out by a friend.  One particular friend calls her maybe once a week.  She doesn't call often during the week, but when she does pick a day to call Kindsay, she will call non stop until she is given the time of day.  Even worse is that she is calling my phone.  Kindsay, amazing...never ceases to amaze me, tells me she can't talk to this girl because (her words) "I am busy.  I am on the computer, I am listening to music, I am watching my shows, I am shopping on the computer.  I do not have time for this!"  Her hands are on her hips and as she tells me and gets further down her list of what she has better to do, she is rising in excitement to the point of anger and frustration.
"Give her five to ten minutes of your time, that's all I ask," I tell her.  Lips pursed, head shaking back and forth, she tells me the girl is harassing her, she is going to call the cops, and when she moves out, she is not inviting this girl to live with her.  Five minutes...? really?
So I try psychology.
"Don't you feel bad when you try to talk to someone and they ignore you?"
I'm talking to a wall.
Kindsay fires back, "And do you know how that makes me feel?  Bad!"
Okay, I say, now you are doing it to this girl.  She just wants a friend the same way you do.
"I am getting tired of this!  I do not want her to move out with me in my own place.  I do not want her calling me.  You know what? I'm going to call her mother and tell on her!  Now, I need your computer!"
I shook my head...I'm not giving you anything until you give your friend five to ten minutes.  "Fine!" She by now is up for an Oscar.  "But you know what?  I'm going to tell her she needs to stop harassing me! I will talk to her when I want to talk, but not now--I'm busy!  And I'm sick of people ignoring me!  Now she is calling calling calling.  So you know what?  We're just going to have to see how it goes in the past!"
That is not a typo...she wants to see how things go...in the past.  I didn't even approach that--by now just too tired.  My head feels like Exorcism trying to understand her logic.  Her reasoning is like a big ring of fire, going in a circle fueled by the heat coming off her head in her imagined fury at the gall someone has to seek her attention.  Soon she is in her room, furious at my nerve.  I can hear her talking to herself, going over and over how this is not okay.  She calls the poor girl and has ten minutes of laughter and fun.  hm.
Kindsay suddenly bursts into my room.  "OK you know what?  I told her she couldn't move out with me.  But then we started laughing and I liked talking to her so I told her sorry for what I said, I will think about letting her move out with me!"  She tells me this as-a-matter-of-fact, and what did I, her mother, know about anything...these are her revelations and none of my doing.  The time she took to tell me what she thinks, rattling off nonsense, she could've been on the computer having a go at contacting people who probably feel harassed by her.  And you know what?  You know how that makes her feel?  BAD!
Kindsay's reality?  There's only one side of the table--hers.

Opening Weekend! (whoops.)

If you didn't know this about me, I will tell you now--I love going to the movies.  I love shutting off my brain to the outside world and immerse myself into another place and time.  I'll even go alone--many times I have and will continue to--the anonymity of the darkened screening room, the maximum amount of snackage I can carry without the guilt from someone else's judgmentally widened eyes, the escape from the redundancy that is my life...ah, movie bliss.  I don't see everything, mind you! Movies that are rated R or higher will not play for me, and some PG-13 movies aren't going to be viewed in the theater by me either (only if cleaned up for television viewing, maybe.)  I also don't watch drippy tear-jerkers or sport-themed movies, unless they are raved over by the majority.  What gets me to the theater?  Action and/or historical movies will have me there on opening weekend (remember, also based on the rating and parental guides, although my parents will see just about anything.)  I love sitting in the front with the bar so I can lean back and put my feet up.  I get me a big popcorn with butter and a large diet soda (I know, I know...the one doesn't cancel out the other.)  I also go to a theater based on how they serve the popcorn.  One theater where I live will hand over the large popcorn and point me to the butter dispenser so the top five kernels get soaked while the remainder sit unscathed beneath.  The other theater, however, will fill the bag halfway, butter, then fill the rest, and butter again.  I'm so there.  They also serve Pepsi products, which also call my name.  Every now and then I'll get a bag of peanut M&Ms or Junior Mints to add the sweet with the salty and really spoil myself.  To keep my habit alive I will use my American Express rewards to buy discount tickets at Costco so I get an extra $25 for every $100 I buy.  Hey...I don't drink, I don't gamble, I don't spend money on my cars (except for maintenance,) and I don't shop till I drop.  So there, I've justified the indulgence.
Now, as serious as I get about this, I have to make sure I get my seat.  In some ways I'm like Sheldon on Big Bang Theory when it comes to the movies.  He has to sit in a certain place, have a certain type of snack, and watch a certain type of movie.  Ditto~!  Anyway...
It's opening weekend for the highly anticipated Guardians of the Galaxy.  What a beautiful combo of action, fantasy, and comedy!  I always try to arrive at the theater thirty minutes before start time so I get all my little duckies in a perfect little row.  On this occasion, I had to take my son to his friend's house, which meant leaving my husband at the theater to secure my spot while I ran to the friend's house, and then back.  Whew! Hey, so worth it.  My husband, well-trained I might add, knows where to go and what to do.  Since he doesn't want any snackage, I send him in first so I can get my goodies closer to start time.  (Don't you hate it when you're popcorn is over halfway gone and the movie trailers are barely over?)
I made great time, like you questioned that, and I went to screening room before the snack line so I could check in with my husband and set my purse down.  I walk in, the room is lowly lit, and I see him with his baseball hat on, head down, his leg is up on the bar (bam!) and he is playing on his phone.  There are a few patrons scattered around the theater, but we were still fifteen minutes from go time, and opening weekend will fill up. I spotted my husband and went up to the bar in front of him and playfully smacked the bill on his cap.  Instead of going up the stairs to the row and walking to my seat, I climbed in between the bars.  For some reason my husband always lets me squirm and awkwardly climb when I am trying to get to a seat, so this time I reached in front of me through the bars and grabbed onto his legs then arms, pulling myself up as I crawled through the narrow space.  I finally plopped down beside him and looked over at him.  Only, it wasn't him.
Just inches from my face is a stranger. His eyes are bugged out, his mouth is slightly open in dumbfoundedness (I just made that word up, but it works, right?), and he is perfectly still as though waiting for the next assault.
"You are not my husband," I say to him, but more to myself because at this point I'm having an out-of-body experience.  I realize too that I am the show, I am the pre-show entertainment for all those behind us trying not to slam their popcorn before the movie starts.  I look around with exasperation, wondering if I had gone to the right cinema, the right screen, the right planet?  I look to my right and there's my man, doo doo dee, not having looked up for a second to see my mishap, head is down with his ballcap, one foot up on the bar, and playing with his phone.  I alerted the poor doppelganger fool beside me, "Look!  See?  That's my husband...you can see he looks just like you with your head down!" Like he's feeling any better.  But to show him I'm not out of my mind I go the extra mile to convince him.  I turned back to him and apologized, but then thanked him for letting me grab onto him to pull me through the bars.  Of all the days I choose to be aggressive when I climb to my seat!  I jump up and quickly shuffle the five seats over to my husband who is still oblivious to me.  I plop down beside him, now with humiliation, not relief.  I tell him what I did and he calls me a liar.  I am not making this up!  He finds it amusing, more than amusing.  The even scarier thing for the poor man unawares was that he was alone, and even during the movie he was alone, which means he wasn't expecting anyone, so I probably really scared the holy rats out of him.  I decided that I had already made a fool of myself and I was just going to embrace the discomfort of my being in the theater.  I wasn't about to pass up my awesome seat to the awesome movie over my hasty idiocy.  I jumped up, WALKED to the end of the row (away from the husband look alike) and went to the snack bar to continue with what I started.  I actually considered buying the "wrong" guy a candy as a peace offering, or maybe it was a matter of guilt that I had shared a brief moment of my movie experience with him and he wasn't compensated for the wear and tear (I'm no ladybug on your finger when I pull myself through the bars, ahem.)  *thinking about this more deeply*~ But spending my movie money on him will eliminate a future snack item for me...nah.  Snapped out of it, over it already.  Hollywood--take me away!

The Special in Special Olympics

You know you've become desensitized to something when it occurs and you stop blinking.  My extra special guy, I'll call Buddy (because that's actually what a lot of adults call him, even though it's not his real name,) continues to hit, grab, and chase staff and students.  What I don't think I mentioned is that when he realizes we aren't going to react to his shenanigans (yes, I said it) he will do something more drastic.  Like...dropping his pants and underpants.  I can count on both hands how many times he has stripped to nakedness on our campus during school hours when other students are out, especially during lunch.  It's like dinner and a show when Buddy is on one of his episodic rants to get out of being at school.  It got to the point where we put a belt on him and tighten it pretty snug so he can't pull his pants down.  He knows which buttons to push--and when, smart kid.
So I'm actually doing a little teaching last week when Buddy decided to get my attention--once again, away from the other students.  I'm at the white board helping a student write the date.  He keeps making his Ds look like Qs.  I figure I'd better do a dot-to-dot so he can trace on top of mine.  While I do that, Buddy darts up to the front of the room and starts slapping me open-handed on the back.  Smack! Smack!  I don't even look over my shoulder (is this what the district is hoping for?...that I learn to just live with this?)  Buddy's attempts to get me riled up go no where, so in front of the classroom, with three students at their seats and one at the board, Buddy pulls everything down.  The belt was on the second-to-last notch...see how we have to keep it tight?  He stands there with just a tee shirt on, still smacking me.  Smack!! Bam!! on my back, I'm still teaching the other student how to write the name of the day.  I turn to look at him and see that his pants are down, the bare moon risen, and I turn back to the board.  Funny thing is...the students didn't react either.  Snooze, yawn they say.  Is that all you got Buddy?  they think.  I pull the radio from my pant waist and call for the other teacher to come pull up his pants so I can continue teaching, which is a rare event these clogged days.  Smack!  All the while my back is on fire from being slapped.  But hey--the other student traced the D with much more accuracy this time.  Good job.
But we aren't here for Buddy today.  Kindsay has begun Special Olympic swim training.  She loves to swim. Physical activity is not on her top twenty of things she loves to do.  I don't even know that it's on the top thirty.  But when it comes to swimming, it jumps to the top ten.  She's been swimming since she was two.  I took her into my grandpa's pool and laid her on her tummy and off she went.  Little polly wog.  The only thing that kind of bites is that the swim training is being done across town...bleh...other than that, it's over two hours twice a week that she is swimming laps.  Take that Mac 'n Cheese microwave packs!  She will burn you off with a flip of her foot!  (she probably eats three of those a day.)  The problem we are having is that she isn't understanding the concept of competition.  "Mom...I want a gold medal, do I get a gold medal?  What do I have to do to get a gold medal."  Well, Kindsay, you have to win the race. You have to beat all the other kids in the race.  "If I can't get a gold medal, I don't want to do swimming.  What about 2nd or 3rd or something, am I going to get that?  oh...I don't want that, I want 1st."  Again, I say, you have to win the race, and that will require you to practice.
We are at the pool for the first practice.  There must be thirty athletes ranging in ages from fourteen to twenty-four.  They jump into the warm water with their goggles, swim caps, and uniform suits and wait for the coach's call.  Kindsay doesn't have goggles or a swim cap and her pink and black Speedo swimsuit was from Dick's Sporting Goods (Kindsay calls it the Inappropriate Sport Store.)  Nevertheless she jumps in.  Coaches line the lanes as they prepare to assist three lanes full of athletes at a time.  Their shouts of swim strokes "free stroke!" "butterfly!" "dolphin swim!" "back stroke!" fill the evening air.  Kindsay is hanging on the ropes going, "Eeeeeee, Eeeeeee, Eeeeee..."  If I can't find her among the athletes in the water I just have to follow the noise.  Finally I verbally nudge her, "Kindsay!  Start doing laps!"  Off she goes, doing a little free stroke, and then a dip, feet up, and on to doggy paddle or her sea bass swim wear she pops up and cruises on her stomach.  The other athletes are feverishly working to get to the end of the lane.  Kindsay pops up, "eeeeeeee, eeeeeeee" and continues on.  Midway through the lane she stops to hang on the rope.  "Kindsay!  Keep swimming!"  I call to her.  I'm trying to get her to take this seriously but she thinks its July at grandpa's pool.  Okay, I tell myself, she's out of shape and this is hard work, let her body adjust to the rigor.  "Eeeeeeee!"  I want to jump in the water and pull her tugboat style down the lane to finish.  The athletes then go to the edge of the pool to await more commands from coaches.  Kindsay cruises up, hangs on the rope watching the "hot" guys on the dive team next to them.  She then hangs on it to stare at the athletes next to her with their goggles and caps and stern swimming faces.  "Eeeeeeee..."  She's not mimicking a dolphin, though it does sound like Sea World.  She makes the noise because she just makes noises--it's what she does.  Coaches are asking if she's okay...what, have you never seen a special needs child?  like mine?  Just when I think she is getting the hang of the laps and lanes and spirit of the practice I look up to see her on her back, kicking her feet, hands floating beside her.  I think I saw her spout water from her mouth too.  Just la-dee-da'ing down the lane, running into athletes who see her coming because they have goggles while she heads straight for them on her back.  And then when she does her dip and cruise her four-foot long legs are bumbling around in people's faces while they are working on their gold-winning strokes.  I gave up trying to quasi-coach her from the bleachers.  I found it better to act like I'm there for someone else.  Go! kid in the scuba goggles....Go!..girl with the swim cap...uh, go! athletes that are swimming and not leisurely strolling down the watery lane.  I have to remind myself that these aren't regular Olympics, these are Special Olympics.  Everyone better get a medal, or I'm in big trouble.  Actually, none of us will ever hear the end of her torment, so we'll all be in trouble.  With that in mind, I might as well cheer her on.  Go!...girl with the best float form and dolphin imitation.  Go! Go! GO!...seriously, just go.  *sigh*

Now What?

I've probably had the most trying year as a teacher.  It's been over eleven years since I began my teaching career, first with students with learning disabilities.  These are students who have normal intelligence, but are unable to learn like typical peers without support to tap into their learning styles.  Then, I made a leap to the moderate/severe spectrum, requiring me to get another credential, which in California meant another two plus years of schooling.  All in all, I spent thirteen years in college to become a teacher.  Odd as it sounds, right?  Shouldn't I be a doctor?  I could've spent less time and be earning significantly more money!  Hindsight...tsk tsk. 
But I can't complain. I've birthed four children and been able to see all their firsts and be with them until they went into school.  I had my first child and went to get an administrative assistant certificate...what a waste of time.  I flew through that eighteen month program without a blink of the eye.  What a bore.  Did I need that to be able to answer phones?  I was hired at a produce procurement company that brokered produce for companies nationwide and into Canada.  Three months I spent there answering phones.  I was moved up to assistant buyer and was eventually placed on the largest account.  I worked with some terrific people, and some not so terrific.  I remember one day looking at the gentlemen next to me.  They worked there many, many years, most of them without college educations, and there I sat among them, topping out at twenty-two.  What was I doing?  I didn't love the job, got paid very little, and had almost no respect being one of two women doing what I did.  It was time I did more.  With my oldest age four by then and my second child, Kindsay, just nine months old, I headed to college.  I gave birth to my first son between semesters, and then had my youngest three weeks into my credential program and returned after missing only two classes.  I barreled through, accomplishing my bachelor's, master's, and two credentials with two levels, and only two Bs the entire thirteen years without a drop of sweat from my head.  (I don't get on myself for the Bs.  One was in Calculus, and I took it at the same time I took pre-Calc, and the other was in an online pilot class for level two statistics.  It was a challenging class to do online.)  Hmph...whatever, right?  So I worked my tail off to get where I am.  Ahhh...finally--right where I want to be.  Teaching children with intellectual disabilities how to manage their lives, be independent, learn to navigate their ways into adulthood...it truly is rewarding when you see a child with Down syndrome accomplish a task that was foreign only months before.  I used to want to go into administration, but I've since learned that you can't be a mom first.  You have to give up many hours, uncompensated, to keep up appearances that all is well when in fact the school is a mess because higher ups lose touch with the work in the trenches.  Not only that, but the lawmakers make it more and more restrictive for school districts to do what is necessary to graduate students who are truly ready to tackle life in the way they are most suited for.  That is waaaay too frustrating for me to have to see up close.  As a teacher, I can see it from a distance, and it doesn't feel so ugly like I imagine it does from the front row. 
Snooze, bore...come on Yvette...blah blah blah, me me me.  No, I'm not great, I'm no hero, I'm not one of the noble ones (although if you haven't been in a classroom, particularly in the communities I serve, then you have absolutely no idea what awaits teachers every day unless you watch Dangerous Minds or something...there was no exaggeration in that movie whatsoever--except leave out the heart-warming ending.)  I'm not here to talk about my accomplishments--those are mediocre and done out of necessity.  What I do want to say is that I went through all that education, spent the money, time, energy to be where I wanted to be--and now I want out.
Typical job boredom?  No.  Ready for more challenging work?  No.  Feel like it isn't me?  No.  Tired of getting my butt kicked and life threatened every day?  Yes.
Here is the criminal part of teaching, especially in California, in the United States--teachers have no rights...only the students have rights, even their parents have more rights than the teachers.  What is considered appalling to many civilians is what I face daily.  I am slapped, spit on, hair-pulled, violated, and scratched just about daily, and there is nothing I can do about it.  There is a lot I've said already, so I won't go on any further at this point, but I will share with you in subsequent entries what I am dealing with this year, and probably from now on, so that you understand what the teaching trenches are burdened with.  All I ask of you, reader, is that you refrain from judging me or my fellow teachers, as we do the very best we can with what resources we have.  Unfortunately, there are no resources grand enough to subdue a student who wants to go home and will stop at nothing to make it happen, including taking me by the hair and yanking me to the ground.  I must offer this student a full day of education whether I want to or not. 
Thirteen years...thousands of dollars...to get spit on?  Sounds crazy?!  That's just the tip of it.

scratches received by a student...just another day at the office

I will be writing more frequently on this--I'm a bit overwhelmed and frazzled these days, but venting through my blog releases enough to get me by.

Let's Sum Up 2013, Shall We?

It was a blur...that's all I have.  Probably the most difficult year as a teacher.  I am ready to do something else.  Teaching kids with special needs all day and then coming home to it has finally begun to deeply wear on me...meaning, I'm having to dye my hair more, exercise, and yet eat more junk food just to comfort myself.  If you think I'm joking--well, if you could ask anyone that has come into my classroom you will be told the same, "Whatever diet I was on went out the window by period 2."  Truth.
It's also been a nightmare with my youngest son.  He's in sixth grade and all the sudden failing all his subjects. How he went from honor roll to an SST (Student Study Team) is beyond my understanding.  On top of that, I had my mom watch him one day and she watched Insidious while he was there...the child hasn't left my side since October.  If he's not with me, he's carrying the poor dogs everywhere he goes.
It's also been a challenge with my oldest son becoming more like a teenager.  His love for me and need to snuggle with me has now become a secret since any touching by me in public is a NO-NO.  This day I have dreaded and never actually thought it would come because he is so affectionate with me.  He gives me a no signal with his hand, while with his eyes he is saying, "Later, Mom...not now!"  I wish I could shout to all his friends, "He still cuddles me all the time!!" but that would be for my own ego.
My oldest daughter has been my reprieve!  She's been doing so well, been happier and more eager to come home to visit...sigh.
Kindsay, well....she's Kindsay, isn't she?  Not much will change I'm afraid.  And yet, we have had a lot of fun with her lately.  We played Pictionary (Disney version) a few nights ago and she kicked all our butts.  I couldn't let her pick the picture for her to draw because we all guessed "princess"...of course that's what she'd pick, but when it was her turn to guess she was on fire!  We need those moments with her to realize she's got so much going on inside--it IS there...it's getting out that is the real challenge.
Unfortunately, her doctor, as you've read, has wanted to "cure" her by cutting back all her meds.  Are we suffering yet?  Kinda...she's been very hyper.  She blurts oddities all day.  I'm called a "cuckoo head" about fifteen times a day, and she doesn't hold back on anyone else.  She also repeats the dogs' names all day..."Lily, Pee Wee, Lily, Pee Wee, Lily, Pee Wee..." ....once she did it for fifteen minutes straight.  The dogs at first thought they were getting something out of it.  Now their ears don't even perk up.  She better hope she never falls into a well.  Those dogs will NOT come running.
As far as her love life goes...she is "dating" a boy in her class.  She tells us, "E*** is dating me and another girl.  Yeah, he wants to date us both."  When she says 'date' she doesn't mean going out.  She doesn't go out, so how does that work when the only time the boy sees either girl is at school?  My son asks, "How does he date both of you at school?"  Kindsay said very seriously, "I have NO idea."  Love life: right where we want it.  It's weird to think that in ten months we'll be filing for conservator-ship for her so we'll have rights when she's an adult.  Sometimes I think it'll be hard to convince a judge, but then when I tried to tell her the truth about Santa, she fired up on me in his defense.  I'll tell the judge, "Ask about Santa."  If that doesn't work I'll have my family come vouch for me.  For Christmas Eve I gave each child a new set of jammies.  I bought her footie pajamas in leopard print with a cat face that sat on top of each foot.  She's 5'8"...no small duck, so this was a large jammie, (XL actually)...they opened them up at my mom's with all the family sitting around.  When she pulled it out she was so happy...anything that makes her feel like an infant is a great gift, so footie jammies nailed it.  I told her to go try them on and come show us.  Seconds later, and I mean seconds, she came out and stood before us.  Aaaaahhh, could be heard around the room, and then...wait...what?  My sister said, "Why does the neck part look like it's choking her?"  I looked down at her feet and the cat faces were on top like they should be.  and yet, the neck did look high.  "Turn around Kindsay."  Sure enough, there was the zipper up her back.  Kindsay, I say, how on earth did you get those on backwards?  I mean, that zipper went from her shin to neck.  She had twisted the feet around so the cats were on top, but the neck was high on her because it was supposed to be on the back.  OK all...I say...when I apply for conservator-ship, you come as my witnesses--she put her jammies on backwards.  We still have no idea how she zipped that mother up.
As far as my husband and I go...we survived another year.  I never wish the time to go by.  I never say, "I can't wait until they are grown!"  I know it will be here very soon...the Legos will be picked up and put away finally, the sound of boys wrestling and throwing couch pillows will be gone, the tees and jeans will no longer need daily washing...although I will still be hearing "Lily, Pee Wee, Lily, Pee Wee, Lily, Pee Wee....Mom--you're a cuckoo-head!"
Ah, that I am.

*Beep* This!

My house alarm has a light that won't go off.  This light indicates a low battery.  The low battery signals the alarm to let ME know that it is low in battery and needs replacement.  This indicator sounds like a smoke detector alert--beep beep beep beep.  On top of that, the alarm company keeps getting alerts from my system saying there's a problem, so they keep calling me with a recording telling me about the problem.  Phone calls every half hour, beeping every thirty seconds. 
Finally, the alarm company comes out to fix it.  Only for it to start beeping again.  The alarm company comes back out again to fix it.  This time, it sounds like the alarm tech is calling someone in China from a loud touch-tone phone--beep beep beep beep boop boop beep beep  boop beep...he's in my living room at the entry of my home beeping and booping, and that went on for three hours straight until he finally realized the outlet the alarm was using didn't have a constant charge and was thus triggering the alert.  If that had been my only problem--but let's..
Add to that, my oldest son makes a comment about a boy at school who's kind of a jerk.  He even did a foot plant off my son's back.  My son is new to his school, in for about a week since we transferred him there, and I'm a little ticked that some punk is messing with my baby.  I'm agitated now, wanting to save my son from Lumpy and wanting to pant-chuck the alarm guy out my front door (I know it's not his fault, he's trying to help, but beeeeeeeeep!!!)
Add to THAT...in my functional skills program I have just been told I'm getting a new student.  He's a teenage boy who's been suspended twenty (20) times for hitting a teacher.  Hoo-RAY...I feel for the parents, I really really do, but C-R-A-P...crap.  The unknown of what is to be my fate begins to fill me with dread.  I want to quit my job, karate chop Lumpy, and punch the alarm system flat...
Add to that my younger son.  He has five hundred pages of math that he doesn't understand.  I can't teach him math.  He's an artist, I'm an analyzer...we don't mix well learning together.  It's obvious to me what to do, it's like reading Chinese for him.  I want to tear the math book with my teeth, quit my job, do a clothes line on Lumpy, and let the robbers come take what they want from my house.
Add to that--I'm standing in my kitchen looking for dinner, trying to tune out beep boop boop beep just feet from me, my sons in crises of their own, and they both look up and say, "Mom, why is there a crack in our ceiling?"  I look up to find a pressure crack coming towards my face above my head.  I'm looking at the bottom of my bathroom from upstairs, the exact place where my tub and shower are.  I get on a chair to touch it, see what it does.  Crumble into my hand, so now I have a 3-4" hold in my ceiling.  Terrific.   I get online to my home owner's insurance.  I call in to make a claim.  In the meantime I wondering who's life should I risk to empty the dishwasher because that is exactly where the bathroom will drop if it so chooses. 
My stomach is churning...beep beep beep...Kindsay comes in, "Mom!  Why is the ceiling cracking?  Is it going to break?  What is for dinner?  What are you making?"  I feel defeated so I tell her she can make dinner.  "I don't know how.  You know how, you make it."  I will tell you what to do, I calmly tell her.   Having seen this girl in action, I know what she is capable of.  The box of mashed potatoes she made at midnight one night and left untouched, the frozen lasagnas she bakes when I tell her I don't have dinner planned, the millions of boxes of mac n cheese she's cooked...and on and on.  I give her step by step for making shepherd's pie.  She cooks the meat, the mashed potatoes, stirs, sprinkles, mixes, fills the pan, oven on...then as she is setting the pan in the oven she moves her hand up too high and burns it on the top burner.  And of course, it's my fault.  "Mom!  Look what you made me do!  If you had just cooked dinner I would not have burnt myself!"  I grab cold water, flour, you name it to get some relief to her.  The burn is white on her skin.  Instead of dipping it in cold water or flour, she starts peeling the burned skin back and exposing the raw skin.  Now she's really in pain and letting the world know.  Beep beep boop boop all along. 
Between the hole in my ceiling, my boys' personal crises, the singed skin...If I hear "Mom" again, I'm changing my name.  Then my oldest calls--
MOM...I'm coming home!  I'm done!...sobbing in my ear.  At that moment my husband comes home to find Wife of the Year with all the fun to myself for the last two hours--"Waaaaaa!  Mom burned my hand!"  "Dad! Dad!  Look at the hole Mom put in the ceiling!"  "How come I have all this homework and no one else does! Not fair!"  Beep beeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
I sit in my lounger, blank expression.  Daughter packing her car to come home, daughter peeling her burned skin, son with friend I need to beat up, other son with inability to do math and pass...I'm imagining the relief I may get if my new student just punches me out clean.  My husband assesses the status of the house, and after five minutes--"Wow, that beeping is annoying.  I'm ready for that to end."  He didn't earn the darts coming out of my eyes, but he got them. 
If only I used curse words.  I'd have my own censor to bleep out my words...until 6:00 P.M. that is, when three hours later the alarm guy finally just unplugged the dang system and left. 

Dr. Obvious

So, my next appointment with our new psychiatrist was only two weeks after the first, since we're changing meds.  She feels that the meds Kindsay's been on since she was 5 or 6 are the culprits of her emotionally disturbed levels of anxiety.  Week by week she has been decreasing, with hopes that Kindsay will forever be changed and ready to face the world.  How's this working for you doctor?  I had to pick her up from school last week because she was threatening to "kill" herself if she had to go to the special education dance at another high school with her class.  She'd never really kill herself, but her threats are still coming, her anxiety is still through the roof, and she is getting more and more difficult with getting her to leave the house at all.

The doctor is bent on fixing this kid.  I'm all for trying, heck, but let's face it...I've been raising this kid for what....16 plus years?  I think I know her well enough to be able to move on to higher levels of treatment, whatever they may be.  At least, higher than the doc was aiming for.

To show her how very nervous Kindsay is, I tell her that Kindsay will go to lengths of nervousness by biting her toe nails.  She pulls her leg up to her mouth and chews.  She gnaws, better yet.  The doctor looks over at Kindsay.
Doctor:  Kindsay, if you need to cut your toenails, just get some clippers.
Kindsay: (nodding)
Me:  What?  We have LOTS of clippers.
D:  Do you know what you are putting in your mouth?  It isn't safe to chew on your toenails.
***Please be using a heavy Indian accent so you can feel the depth of the cultural chasm**
Me:  I don't think Kindsay is worried about what germs she is putting in her mouth.
D: (ignoring me)  Kindsay, you really need to use clippers, on your nails and toenails.
Me:  (grabbing Kindsay's hand and putting it close to the doctor's eyeballs)  See this?  See how her nails are chewed to the skin?  When she runs out of nails, she puts her foot in her mouth and starts on those.  This isn't a hygiene issue, it's a nervous issue.  We HAVE clippers.  And you should see what she puts in her mouth.  Germs from the ground are the least of her worries, in fact, they are cleaner than all the bodily stuff she picks at and sticks in her mouth.
....okay, so I was a little frustrated, and I held my tone together so as to keep the frustration in check...
Moving on, the doctor makes a couple of notes...
Then I tell her Kindsay never wears clothing either.  She walks around our house in her underwear with her queen-sized comforter over her head like a big green ghost. 
D:  Kindsay, you must wear clothing.  (Looking at me)  You must insist she wear clothing.
Me:  (DUUUUHHHHH)
D:  Kindsay, it isn't polite to walk around in your underwear.
Me:  (now why didn't I think of telling her to get dressed?  that's so simple..der)
K:  (nodding furiously now and getting more nervous by the second)
Me:  Kindsay doesn't care who sees her, she walks around in front of any one like that, except perfect strangers, but even then she doesn't rush to dress.
D:  Kindsay, you cannot walk around...(yes, she did go through the do's and don'ts of walking around in front of strangers)  Why don't you give her some rewards for putting on her clothes?
Me:  (now why didn't I think of using rewards???)
D:  Kindsay, maybe your mom and dad should give you a reward for wearing clothes.  and if you don't, maybe they should take something away.
Me:  (Now this is what I get for starting parenting yesterday.)  We actually do use incentives for good behavior.  She just doesn't care after a while.  She's more interested in living how she wants, rules don't apply to her in her mind.
--Kindsay is looking at her phone and giggling.
D:  Kindsay, what is funny?  Is something funny?
M:  When Kindsay is unmedicated, she begins to think everything is funny.  It's like when a person is high on something they get this paranoid laugh, and it really stems from nothing except the nerves. 
D:  Well, clearly something is funny on her phone.  She is laughing.
--I'm looking at her phone.  I see her icons sitting neatly on her wallpaper.  Kindsay is just looking at her phone and the giggles are getting worses. 
M:  No, there's nothing on her phone that is funny.
D:  She thinks it is funny.
--I take her phone and show the doctor, again inches from her eyeballs.
M:  See?  There's nothing.
Kindsay then looks up at the clock on the wall, an ordinary school clock, and she starts giggling more and more.
D:  Kindsay, what is so funny about the clock?
Me:  Nothing is funny, she isn't laughing with humor.  This is what she does when her meds wear off, it turns to mania after a while. 
--The doctor is so perplexed.  How can her mother know her so well?  How can she know what Kindsay is doing and why?  Heaven knows how I know my own child.  If clippers and a pack of stickers was all I needed to get this kid to behave like a normal person, I would've wiped Walgreens out a long time ago.
Finally, I'm frustrated and I let her know.
M:  I don't usually bring this up, but I think it might help for you to know that I have been trained to work with kids with behavior issues.  I teach children with special needs for a living.  This isn't my first day on the job.  I'm trying to tell you that her behaviors aren't triggered by anything externally.  This is something on the inside.  This is why she struggles with sleeping, this is why she eats around the clock, this is why she won't leave the house, this is why she chews her nails clean off and digs into her skin.  We Need Meds.
D: (writing the prescription at last) Okay, Kindsay, we are going to lower your Concerta and I want to see you in 3 weeks.
--Ah, lower, great...sounds like the obvious answer.  LOWER the meds, duh.  I mean, we're on the verge of medical breakthroughs here, there's nothing to see but typical teenager and crazy mom.  Lower her meds, but increase mine...isn't that what we REALLY need to do? 
Our next appointment is Thursday night.  Can't wait.  I wonder if she'll tell me that if I just fix dinner, she won't get into the fridge at night.  If I wash her clothes, she'll wear them.  If I put her in the car, she'll leave the house.  Easy breezy!!
Problem solved.

Yes, I'm still alive

Why I thought I had posted recently just shows you that I'm either on drugs or not on the right ones.  It's been a hectic winter, a cold one, thank goodness, but crazy.  Kindsay has been her usual self--calling me a child abuser because I want her to stay off of Facebook, passing her gas and telling us how much she loves to smell it, and eating us out of our house.  I told her pediatrician that something has to change.  She's not sleeping at all at night...up and down the stairs, cupboards banging, microwave beeping all night.  But because of her challenges, he said he wanted us to find a psychiatrist.  Problem is this--she's at full height and weight where she will be when she hits eighteen, but alas...she is only sixteen...so there are only a handful of doctors willing to prescribe mood-altering/behavior-modifying medicine.  I've seen them all too.  One stopped taking my insurance, another was so arrogant that I decided I'd rather deal with an unmedicated Kindsay than see him again, another quit the clinic and disappeared, another is so backed up with patients that he doesn't accept any.  Stuck.  I called the mental health people for my insurance and they told me they'd get back when they found one they would pay for.  Usually I'd get a call in 24 hours, but this time it was a week.  It was to a woman, an Indian woman, who was so new to private practice that the office she works in has no physical or visible indication that she exists....which made it a blast to find her when it was time for our first evening appointment. 
I've been around psychiatrists enough to know the ones who have to prove their ever-exceeding knowledge to me versus the ones that just want to write the dang prescription and collect their $125 versus the ones who really want to treat the symptoms.  This doctor is all of them, which makes her a collection of good and bad practice.  At this point, I'm so happy to have a psychiatrist that I ignore many of the warning signs that say--this is just going to jack you up somehow--and make appointments with her.  She really wants to get to know Kindsay.  Now...keep this in mind...Kindsay had been without a nighttime pill for a few months.  The old one made her dizzy and had her screaching down the hall at bedtime, "I'm having a heart attack!"  Good enough sign to flush those.  So over and over Kindsay is hounding me..."when am I going to get new nighttime pills?"  "when do I get new pills?'  "when will I get something for bed?"....always I say---when I find a doctor...when I find a doctor...when I find a doctor...boop beep...repeat.  Finally, I have a doctor so I tell Kindsay--we will be able to get you some new pills so you can stop this incessant wandering around at night eating yourself sick.  Kindsay jumped up to dress and leave for this appointment...only other time she'd jump up and get dressed to leave is if I promise her a bean burrito from Taco Bell, drive-thru only so she doesn't have to be around people, and cash...in singles. 
We finally find this unmarked building in the dark after I crept around a parking lot that I knew to be the correct one, just finding the actual office was not happening...so I looked like a stalker driving in circles, peering into windows, watching people carefully as they exited a building.  It was quickly getting dark so I sat in the car in front of the office I thought just had to be the one.  No reception, a light, but locked door.  A call comes through to my cell--Uh, is this Kindsay?  I am waiting for you to come to your appointment.  (please, without taking offense, read her words using a strong Indian accent so you understand the cultural and verbal miscommunications that are frequently occuring with this doctor.)  I told her I was sitting in a dark, empty parking lot without any clue as to where she was located.  She comes out of the very door I assumed was it and said, "it is here, I am here."  OK...the locked door really threw me off, and the closed reception window was a bummer too, but how could I have not known she was in her office waiting for me all this time? 
Our first visit was frustrating.  She wanted to get to know Kindsay, so all her questions were aimed at Kindsay.  Kindsay wanted to shrink into the floor.  She was nervous, unsure, looking at me constantly for help...all the while the doctor would say, "Don't look at your mom or I will have to have her leave.  I want to see what you know, I want to hear your answers." *use accent please.   Kindsay wasn't answering, however, but repeating what she was saying.  It was like the doctor was leading her and getting the answers she wanted to hear because Kindsay was agreeing with everything.  Kindsay just wanted to get her pills and get the bleep out of there. 
Doctor:  What time do you go to bed at night?
Kindsay:  Um...8 or 10
D:  Which is it, 8 or 10?  8?
K:  Yeah, 8.
D:  When do you get up at night to eat?
K:  uummm...10 or 11 or 12
D:  Which is it?  10?
K:  Yeah 10.  (at this point she is sounding and acting like every other teenage girl--aloof, bored, normal...of course the rash goes away when the child is placed in front of the doctor.)
D:  Why are you eating at 10?
K:  Ummmm, I'm hungry.
D:  What time do you eat after you  get home from school?
K:  Uummm I eat dinner at 5.
D:  And do you eat anything else before you go to bed?
K:  uummm..(chewing her hands mind you and not looking up), no.
D:  So you eat dinner at 5 and then get up at 10 for a snack?  (She's thinking, well, Mom...how crazy is she?  Should I prescribe the strong stuff now or work our way up to it?  Are you just completely unable to control a 10:00 PM snack that you need a doctor??)
K:   ummm, yeah.
D:  So maybe you just need a snack, huh?
K:  yeah.
Me:  (I am now done with Kindsay appearing to be the poster girl for every American teen.)  Okay, so do you want to hear the real answers to those questions?
D:  (looking at me with a smile but not a happy smile...more like an inconvenienced smile.)  Yes of course.
Me:  She gets home at 3 PM and then she eats every hour after that until she is put to bed at 8, then I fall asleep at 9 and then she eats another 2-3 more until the crack of dawn comes and she comes into my room looking for Pop Tarts that her dad keeps on his nightstand so he can control when she gets those, which she is promised she gets one a day.  So, she eats all day and night, and doesn't ever get a good night's sleep.
D:  (Looking over at Kindsay now)  Do you need to take a pill to go to bed every night?
K:  um, maybe, yes, um, no, not every night, sometimes, maybe three or five nights.
D:  So you don't need one every night?
K:  no, no, no I don't.
(at this point I am dumbfounded...prescribe ME the pills lady and let's get this over with.)
Ultimately we leave with a new prescription for her daytime pills, a DECREASE from what she is normally taking, and NO nighttime pills.  I'm waiting for it..waiting....waiting...waiting...
WHERE ARE MY NIGHTTIME PILLS??  is the first question she has when we are driving to the pharmacy for her new dosage. 
Kindsay, I say, you told her you DIDN'T NEED THEM. 
I'm dumb, I don't know what to say, I don't know, why did I say that?  I need nighttime pills!  I have to get nighttime pills!  When am I getting nighttime pills? 
I'm clutching the steering wheel, which of course already has my hand indentations from previous white-knuckle drives with an irrational child sitting beside me, inches from my ear but volumes past hearing anything clearly.  The only thing that saved me was the appointment I made for our next visit...then, Kindsay, you will tell her what you need.  She won't listen to me, she wants to hear it from you, and you told her you didn't need them.  What are you going to say next time? 
K:  that I need nighttime pills.
YES...that you DO need help sleeping, EVERY night, not 3 or 5 or 4 or 2 times a week...EVERY night. 
So you think this visit was a disaster...wait until I tell you about the next one. This time I promise I won't be away for long.

A Fast Sunday

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.

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.

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. 

And you know what?  She's been the nicest sweetest compliant -- you name it-- child.  "Mom, I'm going to clean my room.  Oh oh oh, let me get my pills.  Hey Garon, you want to look at my phone?  Here...look at it."  All while I sit back in amazement, joy, and trepidation--who will she text first?  could be you...buckle up.