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.
Monday, March 12, 2012
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.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Surprise Surprise!
If my husband knew I was posting this he would K-I-L-L me....but it's history that must be written down and if I don't it will be forgotten, though it may take our lifetimes to forget it.
First...a little update on my other children. Ty is my free spirit who looks up on Google "How to be a hippie"...rainbows, long hair, Birks...hurray. I tell him it's also a view on life and that he may need to wait to understand life a little more before he rushes into a lifestyle. He takes art classes on Fridays and rolls his eyes that he has to be "the oldest one there--I mean, the others are what, seven, eight? and I'm nine! Just great." Oh the trials in life. His interest in Spongebob has resurfaced and his interest in school has shlumped, which means bye bye computer, video games, and tv! I recently asked him to describe someone he had teach a class and he said "she's blond." I said, can I have more detail (he didn't know her name)...is she skinny, a little heavy?...what's heavy? he asks. Well, I say, it means a little bigger than skinny, maybe rounder than others. "Mom...all you adults are heavy-look how big you are!" note to self-stop eating.
Garon takes fencing two nights a week. Get that kid's energy OUT, I mean--jumping on my lap at 3 wks, running at 10 mos...wide-eyed at birth? Hep me hep me! (praying to the heavens) So out of the 3 types of swords he can choose from he chooses to learn Saber (as opposed to Epee and Foil)...but on Friday nights they bout all night versus receive instruction. Greg and I are standing by the door Friday night waiting for him to finish up and he's fighting some 15-yr-old and getting his butt-kicked (it's not leveled by experience)...afterward, in his frustration, he approaches the crowd of awaiting parents and explains, "We're using foil tonight and I'm a Saberist, so that's why I'm not that great." Oh brother...I'm slinking out the door as the parents look around for the parent of the child who is a "Saberist" and must explain his weakness at fighting that night to save face. He's also playing basketball which is great--come home tired, child! Just walk in the door and fall into bed---love it I tell you.
Bek is doing great as a missus. She "missus" me, she "missus" her brothers, she "missus" her dad, her home, her state of CA that has more than po-dunkiness to offer. No seriously, she's a lovely lovely young woman and a good friend now. I told her--no kids till your dog dies. Let's see how long that gives me.
Back to The Kinz...as we call her. I told the kids I was spending X dollars on each of them for Christmas. As they blow it with me, I subtract their dollars. The boys are scrambling to keep track of their hoodies, backpacks, etc., that would cost them out of their $, but The Kinz couldn't care less. Let's see....so she's learned how to make grilled cheese. Here's how:
Put one stick of butter in a bowl and nuke for a minute, allowing butter to splatter inside microwave for parent to clean later, slather bread and put on electric skillet that will sit out until parents put away. Use all the bread because making grilled cheese is so much fun and sit sandwiches out for the duration of the day to get old and nasty only to be tossed by parents later. Leave my sandwich on my bed for dog to get and run away with so I can chase her and throw her (literally) out the back door, only to feel bad and bring her back in a make MORE grilled cheese to feed the thieving dog.
OK--so I never have bread and butter, essentials, wouldn't you say? (and I buy REAL butter...NOT ANY MORE).
Hmmmm there's some muffin mixes in the cupboard. Mom wouldn't mind if I made those. To make muffins: put all ingredients of each box in separate bowls. Fill 2 muffin tins to the top with no liner and no spray, stick both in the oven and let bake until something is burning. Then open the oven to release smell even stronger and let brothers run through the house screaming that the house is on fire while parents nap on a Sunday afternoon. Leave cinnamon bread muffuns in cupboard so Mom can find it later and trash the whole thing, tin and all, and leave poppyseed in oven so it can continue to burn while Mom gets up and walks into kitchen with make-up smeared nap face and the look of death.
Enjoy!
Oh but we're not done. Chef Kinz continues....get up at 3 AM and empty can of Spaghettios into bowl. Nuke uncovered for 2 minutes and let tomato sauce splatter all over microwave so Mom can find it four hours later so it's good and caked on. Leave empty can on counter, spilled tomato sauce on grout, and put contents of bowl into tupperware and put in fridge. Go back to bed.
Voila!
Now for the surprise.
A note left on bathroom counter for my niece who lives with us to find:
Britney--I love you! Look in the bathtub! It's a surprise! You will laugh LOL LOL (heart heart)....this is written over and over on back and front of two pages with a "beautiful mind" motif, folded like a Hallmark card, and left on the counter at 5 AM. Brit, she doesn't watch enough horror movies to know that when something is awaiting you behind a curtain, you don't go alone. She moves to the commode/bath area and pulls back the curtain. The MONSTER TURD attacks!!! The size of a bear's log, she jumps back in a shriek, ewwwwwwwww....scoops it out with a toilet paper roll and it's so big she has to plunge it until it goes down. Since no one was awake yet and she had to get ready for work, she felt she had no choice...but for me? Oh no--that kid would've been yanked out of her Justin Beiber filled dreams with the fury of a spurned demon and ear-dragged into the bathtub. LOVE? what? Surprise? huh?? OK--she FINALLY gets a sense of humor and it involves her squatting in the tub and taking dump to leave as a surprise??
Greg was so disturbed by the whole incident, he made me take an oath of silence because to him it was a clear sign of her leaving to the dark side of insanity and embarking on a new kind of disabling condition. Let us not forget that Greg still says Number One and Number Two when talking about the bathroom, so yeah, for him this is like entering a Jewish woman in a spare rib eating contest.
No, I didn't think it was funny...it was twisted and freaky and weird, but honestly, I wasn't Surprise!'d.
First...a little update on my other children. Ty is my free spirit who looks up on Google "How to be a hippie"...rainbows, long hair, Birks...hurray. I tell him it's also a view on life and that he may need to wait to understand life a little more before he rushes into a lifestyle. He takes art classes on Fridays and rolls his eyes that he has to be "the oldest one there--I mean, the others are what, seven, eight? and I'm nine! Just great." Oh the trials in life. His interest in Spongebob has resurfaced and his interest in school has shlumped, which means bye bye computer, video games, and tv! I recently asked him to describe someone he had teach a class and he said "she's blond." I said, can I have more detail (he didn't know her name)...is she skinny, a little heavy?...what's heavy? he asks. Well, I say, it means a little bigger than skinny, maybe rounder than others. "Mom...all you adults are heavy-look how big you are!" note to self-stop eating.
Garon takes fencing two nights a week. Get that kid's energy OUT, I mean--jumping on my lap at 3 wks, running at 10 mos...wide-eyed at birth? Hep me hep me! (praying to the heavens) So out of the 3 types of swords he can choose from he chooses to learn Saber (as opposed to Epee and Foil)...but on Friday nights they bout all night versus receive instruction. Greg and I are standing by the door Friday night waiting for him to finish up and he's fighting some 15-yr-old and getting his butt-kicked (it's not leveled by experience)...afterward, in his frustration, he approaches the crowd of awaiting parents and explains, "We're using foil tonight and I'm a Saberist, so that's why I'm not that great." Oh brother...I'm slinking out the door as the parents look around for the parent of the child who is a "Saberist" and must explain his weakness at fighting that night to save face. He's also playing basketball which is great--come home tired, child! Just walk in the door and fall into bed---love it I tell you.
Bek is doing great as a missus. She "missus" me, she "missus" her brothers, she "missus" her dad, her home, her state of CA that has more than po-dunkiness to offer. No seriously, she's a lovely lovely young woman and a good friend now. I told her--no kids till your dog dies. Let's see how long that gives me.
Back to The Kinz...as we call her. I told the kids I was spending X dollars on each of them for Christmas. As they blow it with me, I subtract their dollars. The boys are scrambling to keep track of their hoodies, backpacks, etc., that would cost them out of their $, but The Kinz couldn't care less. Let's see....so she's learned how to make grilled cheese. Here's how:
Put one stick of butter in a bowl and nuke for a minute, allowing butter to splatter inside microwave for parent to clean later, slather bread and put on electric skillet that will sit out until parents put away. Use all the bread because making grilled cheese is so much fun and sit sandwiches out for the duration of the day to get old and nasty only to be tossed by parents later. Leave my sandwich on my bed for dog to get and run away with so I can chase her and throw her (literally) out the back door, only to feel bad and bring her back in a make MORE grilled cheese to feed the thieving dog.
OK--so I never have bread and butter, essentials, wouldn't you say? (and I buy REAL butter...NOT ANY MORE).
Hmmmm there's some muffin mixes in the cupboard. Mom wouldn't mind if I made those. To make muffins: put all ingredients of each box in separate bowls. Fill 2 muffin tins to the top with no liner and no spray, stick both in the oven and let bake until something is burning. Then open the oven to release smell even stronger and let brothers run through the house screaming that the house is on fire while parents nap on a Sunday afternoon. Leave cinnamon bread muffuns in cupboard so Mom can find it later and trash the whole thing, tin and all, and leave poppyseed in oven so it can continue to burn while Mom gets up and walks into kitchen with make-up smeared nap face and the look of death.
Enjoy!
Oh but we're not done. Chef Kinz continues....get up at 3 AM and empty can of Spaghettios into bowl. Nuke uncovered for 2 minutes and let tomato sauce splatter all over microwave so Mom can find it four hours later so it's good and caked on. Leave empty can on counter, spilled tomato sauce on grout, and put contents of bowl into tupperware and put in fridge. Go back to bed.
Voila!
Now for the surprise.
A note left on bathroom counter for my niece who lives with us to find:
Britney--I love you! Look in the bathtub! It's a surprise! You will laugh LOL LOL (heart heart)....this is written over and over on back and front of two pages with a "beautiful mind" motif, folded like a Hallmark card, and left on the counter at 5 AM. Brit, she doesn't watch enough horror movies to know that when something is awaiting you behind a curtain, you don't go alone. She moves to the commode/bath area and pulls back the curtain. The MONSTER TURD attacks!!! The size of a bear's log, she jumps back in a shriek, ewwwwwwwww....scoops it out with a toilet paper roll and it's so big she has to plunge it until it goes down. Since no one was awake yet and she had to get ready for work, she felt she had no choice...but for me? Oh no--that kid would've been yanked out of her Justin Beiber filled dreams with the fury of a spurned demon and ear-dragged into the bathtub. LOVE? what? Surprise? huh?? OK--she FINALLY gets a sense of humor and it involves her squatting in the tub and taking dump to leave as a surprise??
Greg was so disturbed by the whole incident, he made me take an oath of silence because to him it was a clear sign of her leaving to the dark side of insanity and embarking on a new kind of disabling condition. Let us not forget that Greg still says Number One and Number Two when talking about the bathroom, so yeah, for him this is like entering a Jewish woman in a spare rib eating contest.
No, I didn't think it was funny...it was twisted and freaky and weird, but honestly, I wasn't Surprise!'d.
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