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.