Kindsay uses my phone to call her friend, Haylee, and text some of her old friends. Fine...I've gone over with her how to text (text once and if they do not respond, no more), how to call people (only call once and leave a message, do not call repeatedly if there's no answer), and how to answer calls while on the phone (which she neglected to do the other day and caused serious headaches for us.) Every once in a while I have to take the phone away to punish her for abusing the privilege or for racking up costs because she dialed *411 over and over and over (grrrrr...$2 per call!)...but she's gotten real sneaky. She figured out that to avoid getting busted for abusing the texting, she deletes her texts, then the only way I know about anything is if there is a return text. As soon as she texts...delete. How did I find this out? The charming text received the other morning which had to do with
"Really?? 170 texts in 5 minutes?" Something about me oughta bein' ashamed of myself for such behavior...I need my mouth washed out with soap for using such language...does my mother know I talk like that? Her 8-yr-old has better manners and common sense...and THIS is why kids shouldn't have cell phones. Also, since there is record of the literal 170 texts in 5 minutes, the police could very well be involved if there is another contact.
Oh crap.
And of course, her texts are erased from my phone, but someone out there thinks I, Yvette, am out of my mind. So I text the person back apologizing for my daughter's behavior...and by the way, what kind of language are we talking about?
I get a text back soon after...someone from Oklahoma thanking me for apologizing. The language? Well...it was all erased, but it was pretty bad. And wouldn't you know the woman's child was in the ER all night so she couldn't turn off her phone...she was forced to endure Kindsay's wrath. Over what? Now the puzzle pieces are fitting into place and creating the picture I am reluctant to look at.
"I make and sell dolls and your daughter was mad that I wouldn't give her one for free."
OK--How many times have I gone over this with her...a million---and one.
"I pay $100 for the material and sell them for $200."
a two hundred dollar doll....?????
uuuuuhhhhhh.....
OK...again, sorry about that. Won't happen again--and "whew" that Kindsay didn't swipe my credit card and doesn't know my Paypal account info...I'd probably own this stinking doll.
I get another text..."If you'd like I can give you a discount and sell you one for $150...I wish I could just give her one but I can't."
At that point I imagined the all the dolls that now line up in a row on Kindsay's floor, each birthday and Christmas when she gets a new one, how it goes through the same process of Kindsay love--stripped, Vasolined up the rear, diapered, and fed when it doesn't have a hole for food. They get strapped into car seats, strollers, into the back seat of my car...how many times have I jumped after glancing in my rear view and seeing Chucky eyes staring at me? They sit on her floor, loved but unloved, staring into space wondering "how" "why"....they look like something out of Sid's bedroom in Toy Story...am I going to pay $150 for something to go through that?
No thanks, I text her, she treats them like real babies so she isn't interested in a doll on a shelf.
Will she ever want a doll that sits on the shelf, having never been hazed like her Walmart collection of cheapies? At this point, it doesn't matter...the moment I approached Kindsay about her behavior she dropped her head in shame, knowing that she crossed the line. What on earth kind of words were you using? What did you say to this lady? "I called her a fat pig." OK...there had to be other choice words, but I didn't want to hear them...fat pig was rude enough. I would've washed her mouth out, but seeing as how she can probably throw me down, I left her with a severe scolding. She might've spent an evening offending a complete stranger across the country, but all the dolls across the world are in unison sighing relief that one was spared...this time.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
The Talk I've Most Dreaded
Kindsay is a part of my life like anyone else in my family, and we have adjusted to her ever-changing needs as she's grown. But there was always something we dreaded...the day when what made her different would become very clear and real to her. In October Kindsay will turn sixteen...an age she knows allows her to attempt to drive and also......date. Having watched her older sister live through her inevitable future of events, Kindsay is aware of the milestones. It was after school one day and she was having a very candid, frank talk with Greg. Normally she'll talk only when she's unmedicated and spiralling, and it's non-stop talking about nothing and everything and the listener eventually has to put a sympathetic end to the conversation, or his/her life. Not this time.
Kindsay hasn't shown an interest in driving. Obviously, being over fifteen and a half, she could've been asking for the permit already but hasn't. Maybe driving scares her the way riding a bike did. Although Kindsay does love those video games that involve driving, even Grand Theft Auto when Uncle Eric would come to town with his unsolicited collection of man-games. And she was ruthless like a thug, but with complete innocence, like it was her absolute right to yank that poor man from his car and drive over him because, well, she wanted that car for herself. What is one to do? It isn't driving that Kindsay wants so badly. It's a date.
"Dad, I already know who I want to ask for a date on my first date."
Greg asks who and she tells him it's a boy at church. "Does he know you?" No, he doesn't know Kindsay even exists let alone knows that he will be her first date.
Greg: "Kindsay, why are you going to ask him? You aren't supposed to be the one to ask for dates." Kindsay: "Well no one is going to ask me out, so I have to ask."
Kindsay is beautiful and exotic looking, long-legged and blonde hair, but her overall look tells of a disability that has her standing on the fence of what is normal and what is oblivion. That is when Greg had to tell her the heart-wrenching truth. Kindsay, he tells her, you have a disability and yes you will be able to have a boyfriend someday, but the boys you are looking at, well...they probably won't ask you out. You will have to look at boys in your class who are like you.
Kindsay wants to know why she is different, and not for the same reason she uses when she completely screws up and says, "my brain is not working right!" (using the little info we've given her in the past, although skewed, to explain her ride on the short bus every day.)
Greg had to go on and tell her the whole truth. That, despite her desperate desires, she will most likely never have a baby. She will always have to live with or near her parents, she will need help her whole life. On the bright and glorious side, Greg shared how special she was in the premortal life, how she was a brave, courageous, and righteous spirit that earned the right to be protected from the evils and ills of the world that would normally remove her innocence and thrust her into mortality to her own agency and defense. She will rise with the righteous and be exalted forever, and someday she will have all she's ever wanted, all she'll have to only watch her siblings enjoy and partake of, and she will have it for eternity.
This is no conversation any parent wants to have with a child, having to shoot down real dreams because of a disabling condition. Kindsay is so ready to have a baby: she's YouTubed how to insert G-tubes in case the baby needs to be fed through the stomach, she has researched birthing, the best carseats, scoured the Internet for a suitable home and wedding ring...it's all so close and within her grasp, and yet so far from ever happening. I have students with disabilities, and they really don't understand social conventions the way Kindsay does, and while it is more physically difficult to raise those children, it's also easier on the heart. Blissful unawareness can be such a blessing.
The next morning Greg shared the conversation with me and I cried all the way to work. She can be such a butt! So ridiculously annoying...eating all my food-- meant for specific meals I had planned that the week-- which I don't know about until I am at the stove, pot on, ready to use it! , getting into my stuff like a toddler, yelling at me after asking how her day was, refusing to clean the funk out of her room! But, she's my baby...and my dreams for her were the same I had for my other children. Those dreams must be saved for another day, another time...and someday they will all come true and more than she could ever have known. That is our hope.
Kindsay hasn't shown an interest in driving. Obviously, being over fifteen and a half, she could've been asking for the permit already but hasn't. Maybe driving scares her the way riding a bike did. Although Kindsay does love those video games that involve driving, even Grand Theft Auto when Uncle Eric would come to town with his unsolicited collection of man-games. And she was ruthless like a thug, but with complete innocence, like it was her absolute right to yank that poor man from his car and drive over him because, well, she wanted that car for herself. What is one to do? It isn't driving that Kindsay wants so badly. It's a date.
"Dad, I already know who I want to ask for a date on my first date."
Greg asks who and she tells him it's a boy at church. "Does he know you?" No, he doesn't know Kindsay even exists let alone knows that he will be her first date.
Greg: "Kindsay, why are you going to ask him? You aren't supposed to be the one to ask for dates." Kindsay: "Well no one is going to ask me out, so I have to ask."
Kindsay is beautiful and exotic looking, long-legged and blonde hair, but her overall look tells of a disability that has her standing on the fence of what is normal and what is oblivion. That is when Greg had to tell her the heart-wrenching truth. Kindsay, he tells her, you have a disability and yes you will be able to have a boyfriend someday, but the boys you are looking at, well...they probably won't ask you out. You will have to look at boys in your class who are like you.
Kindsay wants to know why she is different, and not for the same reason she uses when she completely screws up and says, "my brain is not working right!" (using the little info we've given her in the past, although skewed, to explain her ride on the short bus every day.)
Greg had to go on and tell her the whole truth. That, despite her desperate desires, she will most likely never have a baby. She will always have to live with or near her parents, she will need help her whole life. On the bright and glorious side, Greg shared how special she was in the premortal life, how she was a brave, courageous, and righteous spirit that earned the right to be protected from the evils and ills of the world that would normally remove her innocence and thrust her into mortality to her own agency and defense. She will rise with the righteous and be exalted forever, and someday she will have all she's ever wanted, all she'll have to only watch her siblings enjoy and partake of, and she will have it for eternity.
This is no conversation any parent wants to have with a child, having to shoot down real dreams because of a disabling condition. Kindsay is so ready to have a baby: she's YouTubed how to insert G-tubes in case the baby needs to be fed through the stomach, she has researched birthing, the best carseats, scoured the Internet for a suitable home and wedding ring...it's all so close and within her grasp, and yet so far from ever happening. I have students with disabilities, and they really don't understand social conventions the way Kindsay does, and while it is more physically difficult to raise those children, it's also easier on the heart. Blissful unawareness can be such a blessing.
The next morning Greg shared the conversation with me and I cried all the way to work. She can be such a butt! So ridiculously annoying...eating all my food-- meant for specific meals I had planned that the week-- which I don't know about until I am at the stove, pot on, ready to use it! , getting into my stuff like a toddler, yelling at me after asking how her day was, refusing to clean the funk out of her room! But, she's my baby...and my dreams for her were the same I had for my other children. Those dreams must be saved for another day, another time...and someday they will all come true and more than she could ever have known. That is our hope.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
What now?
Sorry...it's been too long. But it's the same stuff....put a teenager with raging hormones and mood swings that rival a Catholic church pendulum and mix with a 4-year-old's understanding of the world and you've got my life in a nutshell.
Dogs...why oh why did I get dogs? Bek moved out with the last dog and it was such a pleasure to empty my lint trap in my dryer to find only lint and not balls of dog hair. Here I am again creating new species with the amount of dog hair I'm cleaning. Our Shetland, Lily, has beautiful fur, but it's super fine and makes the Chihuahua's shedding seem null and void. Case in point: Kindsay has decided that Lily is her dog since the Chihuahua, Pee Wee, is a male and Lily is a female. The boys then claim Pee Wee, of course. So Lily has had the fun of sleeping in Kindsay's room with all the delightful smells and dirty clothes and trash strewn about (it gets cleaned regularly, but one whip through her room and it's a hoarder's palace)...Lily then has been shedding her fur all over Kindsay's room. Kindsay gets to destroy my home, suck my diet sodas down like a flushed toilet, and wipe out our food at 2 AM prompt daily, but heaven forbid a dog sheds in her room. And TRUST me, Lily is held there against her will. Kindsay cradles her like a baby and Lily always has this look on her face like "help me"...Kindsay likes to hold Lily down in the tub and wash her with waterless shampoo (OK that is annoying because she uses ALL my clean towels and I purposely bought WATERLESS shampoo to avoid to no avail.) After Lily's delightful bath Kindsay decides to groom her. Yeah...not good. Lily has beautiful fluffy white fur...you just want to roll in it it's so soft, and Kindsay took a pair of regular scissors and cut it. So poor Lily, as lovely as she was, had to walk around with a major hack job...it's barely growing out. Don't cross Kindsay, even unwittingly.
But Kindsay doesn't torture the dogs..she tortures me. Imagine waking in the morning..day dawn is breaking, birds singing, a good stretch feels good. I go to the bathroom to use the commode and jump back startled to find a mountainous blanket. Under is Kindsay going to the bathroom. Most of us just close the door. It takes a few angles to adjust to the picture, but it looks like Cousin It using my toilet. Freaky. On top of that when I inquired as to who, what, why...I got no response. She at least refrained from getting the down blanket in the toilet and did flush it, which she frequently neglects...gotta give her props for that. Nothing like an early morning scare.
But Kindsay doesn't torture the dogs..she tortures me. Imagine waking in the morning..day dawn is breaking, birds singing, a good stretch feels good. I go to the bathroom to use the commode and jump back startled to find a mountainous blanket. Under is Kindsay going to the bathroom. Most of us just close the door. It takes a few angles to adjust to the picture, but it looks like Cousin It using my toilet. Freaky. On top of that when I inquired as to who, what, why...I got no response. She at least refrained from getting the down blanket in the toilet and did flush it, which she frequently neglects...gotta give her props for that. Nothing like an early morning scare.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Just when I think the madness is normal, manageable, same-old...Kindsay pushes us to a new level. I sometimes feel despair imagining the rest of my life dealing with this. She's a teenager, yes, but there have been no improvements in her growth in the past few years, and that causes me a little anxiety seeing as how I'm always hoping she turns a corner of understanding. We've hit a plateau. How many times have we driven home the concepts: "don't touch the food in the fridge without asking" "don't walk around in your underwear" "don't eat in your bedroom" "don't make international calls on the cell" and so on...and yet on Sunday we had it ALL going on. I'm tired, people. Springing forward is NOT on my list of favorite times of the year; in fact, it is the title of my least favorite days of the year list. Add the nonsense and I'm ready to drive off an overpass.
So after $175 in calls to Jamaica have been paid to some unknown male that exhibited interest in my daughter until the harassment overwhelmed him to anonymity, I have had plenty more to pay for. You know how rare it is for me to plan a nice, balanced meal? It was Saturday and I took the meat out of the freezer. I bought all the ingredients to quadruple the recipe because my kids love love love this particular meal. Sunday afternoon and we come home from church to find the meat for the dinner on the center of the table in a bowl along with mashed potatoes and corn. The table was set for five with all the necessary utensils. My meat sat there, cold and uninviting. I look over at the sink to see the large pan that fried up my meat in vain. Defeated, I slumped my shoulders and sulked to the bedroom. No dinner tonight. Sure, there were other things...but you know when you have the perfect, comforting meal everyone looks forward to and it almost makes you feel accomplished all on its own? Well that feeling was fried to a crisp in a pan and chucked in the trash shortly after. I think Greg ate Hot Pockets and the kids had cereal. I shamefully ate three of the buttery rolls intended for the dinner along with the rest of the cheese danish coffee cake. Oh what I do to bring joy back again. I then see the dog run through the room, wet, shaking her fur intermittently as she runs through the house. Here comes Kindsay with a handful of formerly clean towels hollering to the dog. I look over to find diarrhea in the corner of the room thanks to the other dog. Neither dog was allowed in the house while we were out, and yet both were in with all their animal glory in their wakes. Greg and I dry heave while we scrub various droppings of feces out of the new carpet and I cringe when the wet dog stops to shake it off a bit. I threaten to rid our home of the dogs only to have my poor sons spend the rest of the day outside stroking their fur and lovingly tending to them. Kindsay then brings down more than a few dirty dishes from her bedroom with her underpants up her rear. She spilled a sticky substance on a comforter and had put it in the washer. She poured detergent generously in every portal in the washer...the bleach bin, the softener bin, the prewash bin, etc. and put the washer on super hot and for an hour. That was fun to find. She then proceeds to torment us with her over-the-top volume voicings through the home about this and that nonsense like hearing someone talking on their cell at the top of his lungs in Target while you are trying to shop. You have no place in the conversation and yet you are subject to it just the same and unable to get away fast enough despite the fact that you desperately need something from that aisle yet haven't selected the item. Greg and I are breathing the best we can during this very long Sunday. We eat without enthusiasm, wander through the house in labored movements, and bump into walls deliberately trying to knock ourselves out. I in no way do not appreciate our blessings and provisions provided by my Father in Heaven, but I sure would love to someday enjoy it without the exorbitant waste that fills my daily life. I can't decide if I prefer her telling me off or taking my cash and burning it in my face. Is one easier to deal with than the other? Only I would know the answer to that, and I seriously cannot decide. Lucky me...I'm sure I'll have plenty more opportunities to compare and contrast the two.
So after $175 in calls to Jamaica have been paid to some unknown male that exhibited interest in my daughter until the harassment overwhelmed him to anonymity, I have had plenty more to pay for. You know how rare it is for me to plan a nice, balanced meal? It was Saturday and I took the meat out of the freezer. I bought all the ingredients to quadruple the recipe because my kids love love love this particular meal. Sunday afternoon and we come home from church to find the meat for the dinner on the center of the table in a bowl along with mashed potatoes and corn. The table was set for five with all the necessary utensils. My meat sat there, cold and uninviting. I look over at the sink to see the large pan that fried up my meat in vain. Defeated, I slumped my shoulders and sulked to the bedroom. No dinner tonight. Sure, there were other things...but you know when you have the perfect, comforting meal everyone looks forward to and it almost makes you feel accomplished all on its own? Well that feeling was fried to a crisp in a pan and chucked in the trash shortly after. I think Greg ate Hot Pockets and the kids had cereal. I shamefully ate three of the buttery rolls intended for the dinner along with the rest of the cheese danish coffee cake. Oh what I do to bring joy back again. I then see the dog run through the room, wet, shaking her fur intermittently as she runs through the house. Here comes Kindsay with a handful of formerly clean towels hollering to the dog. I look over to find diarrhea in the corner of the room thanks to the other dog. Neither dog was allowed in the house while we were out, and yet both were in with all their animal glory in their wakes. Greg and I dry heave while we scrub various droppings of feces out of the new carpet and I cringe when the wet dog stops to shake it off a bit. I threaten to rid our home of the dogs only to have my poor sons spend the rest of the day outside stroking their fur and lovingly tending to them. Kindsay then brings down more than a few dirty dishes from her bedroom with her underpants up her rear. She spilled a sticky substance on a comforter and had put it in the washer. She poured detergent generously in every portal in the washer...the bleach bin, the softener bin, the prewash bin, etc. and put the washer on super hot and for an hour. That was fun to find. She then proceeds to torment us with her over-the-top volume voicings through the home about this and that nonsense like hearing someone talking on their cell at the top of his lungs in Target while you are trying to shop. You have no place in the conversation and yet you are subject to it just the same and unable to get away fast enough despite the fact that you desperately need something from that aisle yet haven't selected the item. Greg and I are breathing the best we can during this very long Sunday. We eat without enthusiasm, wander through the house in labored movements, and bump into walls deliberately trying to knock ourselves out. I in no way do not appreciate our blessings and provisions provided by my Father in Heaven, but I sure would love to someday enjoy it without the exorbitant waste that fills my daily life. I can't decide if I prefer her telling me off or taking my cash and burning it in my face. Is one easier to deal with than the other? Only I would know the answer to that, and I seriously cannot decide. Lucky me...I'm sure I'll have plenty more opportunities to compare and contrast the two.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)