In Which Kerrie Congratulates Herself

You know that feeling when suddenly you turn around one day and realize: your baby has a "schedule?" Not one you made up for her, but her own. You've got a good idea of what she's going to do when, and you know what everything she does probably means even though she can't tell you with words.

Ok, so maybe it's not quite so exciting when your baby is nine. Or maybe it is. And that it's only Day Four of summer vacation and I figured it out makes me think I'm pretty awesome.

So here it is:

1:00- Rage
6:00- Rage
Bedtime- Rage

The thing about this schedule that makes me all tingly is that I CAN DO SOMETHING TO CHANGE IT!!!!!

Ideally, this is what would happen:

12:30- Nap
6:00 On! The! Dot!- vegetables or dinner stuck in mouth
Bedtime- Tucked in before Imminent Rage signs start to show

Realistically, this is more what it looks like:

12:30- Nap, but I let Princess take a book because usually she doesn't like to read but she likes to pretend she likes to read so she falls asleep right away only this time it turned out she was m$*#&@&^^g interested in the book so she didn't sleep leading to new factor
4:00- Rage
5:00- Kerrie realizes that, despite the unscheduled rage that actually enjoying a book is new and therefore a very, very good thing
6:00- Dinner is not ready yet, so Kerrie sticks carrots in Princess's mouth and offers them to everyone else because it is 6:00 and Kerrie can't take one more "no fair" without Josh home
Bedtime- Crapshoot
9:30- Congratulate self with glass of wine

Next up: what on earth to do about that 4:00 rage.

The Long Walk

There's a quarter mile between my kids and their bus stop. Much to their chagrin, we walk. Anyone who wants to complain about it gets treated to my lecture series: "Why This Is Good For Your Brain."

It also gives us time to work things out.

The day didn't start so well. It was one of those mornings where Princess took all my suggestions and ground them up in the garbage disposal. It was not one of those days where I could say, "oh well. Let's hug." It took one-eighth mile for me to be the one to say, ok, that's enough. Sniping at each other is not working.

While waiting for the bus, I hung out with her and cuddled her and told her how much I loved her and gave her really obnoxious smoochies, all of which she forcefully rejected. Mostly by stomping on my foot and trying to trip me. And then something new happened.

A spider ran up my arm. Not an actual arachnid, one that would cause me to do a weird arm-shaky dance, but Princess's hand. And she said, "look Mom, there's a spider running up your arm."

Honestly, it took me a minute to catch on. My initial internal response was that she was trying to annoy me. And then I thought,

wait. Is she being silly?

She was.

I am still struggling to be silly with her, but I did keep holding her in a casual hug, and we were both smiling when we hugged good-bye at the bus's arrival.

And then I had a quarter-mile to smile to myself.

And Yes I'm Whining About Homework Again

because I realize this blog might as well have the catchy name: "A Whole Bunch of Homework Interactions." But you know what? I embrace that. I accept that I bore random people to death with How Homework Went Tonight, by Kerrie. It's ok with me.

The real reason is that I don't think anything that happens with Princess harrows my soul more than working on homework. Not the pee. Not the rages. Not the police being called to our RV while on vacation.* It's the homework. I used to start shaking at 3:00 every day. I thought it had gotten better over the past three months, but it turned out that was just that Princess wasn't actually bringing home any of her homework. I hope I never, ever have to be exposed to her locker. Anyway. The homework. After two years of enduring horror that no psychopathic thriller movie has ever explored, I trigger as soon as her voice starts getting the "things aren't going well" tone.

Can I hear an "amen" from those of you whom have endured third-grade multiplication? It is not what it used to be. Now there's a grid, and all this weird multiplication facts and adding stuff you're supposed to do in certain places designated by a variety of textures of line. Buddy made up some worksheets for me so I could learn how to do it. Once you figure it out, it totally makes sense and is tons easier than the "that's just the way it is so memorize it and deal with it" school of thought that taught us. But I groaned when I pulled it out of Princess's folder. There are a LOT of steps. And steps are not Princess's cup of tea. I worked her through the first three problems, and it wasn't that bad. But the fourth problem did not have the numbers written on top of and on the side of the grid. You had to write them there YOURSELF. And this made it just go all to crap.

As soon as the whine started, my stomach churned and my hair stood on end (does anyone else's do that? Seriously. I like being reassured that I am not an entirely different species), and I suddenly had to fight myself to not raise my voice. Mostly, I did ok. I said a lot of things like, "really?" and, "well that stinks," and, "boy I'd be super mad too if one minute 7x9 was 48 and the next it was 72." And then I cracked.

By this point her paper was ripped to shreds. Mostly because whenever she asks me to explain something, she thinks she knows the answer after I've said three words and starts writing. Then, of course, since I WASN'T DONE, what she wrote is wrong and has to be erased. Do that eight times in the same spot and, well, paper just wasn't made to put up with that. She kept harping at the paper about how stupid it was, which, bullet point #1, SHE WAS NOT BLAMING ME!!!!! HAPPY DANCE!!!! But since I wasn't mentally equipt at that moment to recognize this monumental achievement, I instead slammed my can of coconut milk on the counter and said in a low growl, "it is NOT the paper." Then I caught myself and softened my voice, "it is not the paper. It is that you are frustrated. It's ok to feel frustrated. I feel frustrated too. She put her hands over her eyes, and, bullet point #2, CRIED. Then she bullet point #3 TOOK DEEP BREATHS.

That would be without prompting. Oh yes it would.

And if that were not shocking enough, she then finished the problem. With help from me. On another piece of paper.

Last semester, never. Never never never ever never. No way that wouldn't have ended with her screaming in her room and me crying over my stir-fry. Uh uh.

So yes, I am a hot mess. Yes, my healthy children are fried out. Yes, the third-grade teacher has been driven to drink. But good things are on the move.





*Josh keeps bugging me. When are you going to write about our vacation? You should write about our vacation. Haven't you written about our vacation yet? Why don't you write about our vacation. I probably will. But I only accept suggestions from Josh if they backed by at least three other people (sometimes just one, if said person has a PhD). So for now I think I'll just mention random bizarre parts here and there, and then eventually compile them. When I feel good and ready.

It's Not Faster That Way

Josh wants Princess to clean her room every morning before school. I'm kind of meh on it, so I let him follow up and all that fun stuff. However, the other day I realized that she has been folding her sheet and placing it at the end of her bed. When I inquired, I received this response:

I don't know. It's just faster that way.

Except it's not. It's not faster to take your sheet off your bed and fold it up than it is to straighten it out and put your comforter on top. It just isn't. Plus, I'm not that hot on the idea of washing Princess's already too-worn-for-it's-time-on-this-earth comforter weekly, so I told her that the sheet is part of making her bed and does not involve it folded and placed at the end of her bed.

Although I thought the folding was a nice touch; I told her so.

Today. Sheet folded on the end of her bed. My instinct was to go all Walking Dead on her. But sometimes a mom just cannot follow her instincts. This was one of those times. So.

"Princess? I really appreciate that after breakfast you're going to make your bed with your sheet. Thanks so much! Hey! We haven't hugged today." *

I ran up before school to get something from her room. Yep. Sheet folded and placed on the end of the bed.

I took the earphones out of Princess's ears.
"WHAT?"
"Hey! Thanks a bunch for going upstairs right now and making your bed with the sheet."

Now, if I were really mature, I would have just let the whole sheet thing go. Cause she folded it and all. But I'm not really all that mature. I have a stash of marshmellow eggs, and sometimes I play W*bkins when the kids aren't around. So I didn't let it go.

"And hey! I haven't hugged you for like, five minutes. Come here!"

On the walk to the bus stop, Princess reached for my hand.
I think the changes are going to have to come from me first.






*Yes. Totally stolen from Christine Moers.

When the School Shows Up on Your Caller ID

Yesterday one of the more dreaded numbers showed up on my screen: the upper elementary.

Hello?
Mom?
Hi Princess. What's up?
I need some pants.
(Long involuntary silence) Ummmmm, there are some in your backpack.
No, I had to use them when I fell in the mud puddle.
(Deep inward sigh) Ok. I'll be right there.

So I took in the pants. However, now my entire insides were liquified, because I know something. I know that Princess has the world's most incredible kegel muscles. Which means that, although she rarely uses a toilet, she can hold it in like you would not believe. In fact, because she's so skilled at letting out teeny tiny amounts of what she needs to let out, the results are rarely visible.

Except.

Except when she's unusually distressed. Then there's puddles.
This has never happened at school.

After, I spent the last hour of the school day at home with my liquified insides trying to prepare myself for the horrific evening I was about to endure.

It never came.

I couldn't make a thing of it. My own nerves were completely jangled, and Princess usually reads them like a book and plays off them.

After the girls were in bed, Josh offered the insight. He said he pointed out to Princess that she seemed happy and asked her about it. She said, "I called mom and she came."

If only it were always that easy.

The Giant Pile of Grossness

Every time I've thought, hoped, and prayed that Princess would one day be healed, that's what I focused on: the "being healed" part. The end result. Abra-cadabra, voila, you are healed.

Sadly, that is not the way it is working out. Apparently.

I mean, I was right: there is Being Broken, and there is Being Healed. Unfortunately, I'm finding out there is also this giant pile of grossness in between called HealING. Emphases on ING. That being, clearly on the way, but not healed yet. Dr. Sl warned us about it; he said things would seem like they were getting worse while they were getting better. But I believe all I heard was lalalalalalalalala getting better.

I don't know what I was thinking, really. Maybe that she'd start to make baby steps toward being whole and we'd all rejoice and enjoy this newly-emerged part of her and then she'd plateau for a while and then make another step and we'd rejoice and

Not so much.

It's more like how you've got that one child (or husband) who just does not value neatness and organization all that much so every now and then you dig under their bed and pull away the blanket they used to try to hide it and find a pile of rotting mush and ground up dessication that haunts your nightmares for months afterward.

Yeah. Kind of like that.

So what's happened is that Princess has not really raged significantly in six weeks. Which has never happened before. Maybe once, when she was five. I think there was a good summer once. So YAY!!!! right?

Only.

Only there was something underneath that blanket.

She doesn't rage much anymore and YAY for that, really, but it has been replaced by Oscar the Grouch, only without the lovable gruffness. Your breath stinks! Don't breathe near me! I hate you! You hate me! You're always mean to me! It's mean to mention my butt crack is hanging out and I might want to fix it! It's mean to tell me you'd want me to tell you if your butt crack was hanging out! Laughing at me is mean! Get out of my room and go cook dinner or something! Stop laughing- it's mean to laugh! How could you laugh at your little daughter? I hate you Peanut; shut up! I hate you Cuddle Bear; shut up! I AM!!! I'm COMING!!! I DID!!! Eighty times two IS 79! You don't know cuz you're not me! You don't get this! You don't know how to do math! I don't want to! No! I'm going to kill you, Peanut!*

Typing this does not do it justice, because there is, as my husband tactfully puts it, no I'm Going To Rip Off Your Head and S___ Down Your Throat font.

Now add to this base line of grouchiness an event like, oh, I don't know, let's say....theoretically of course....Princess miscalculated how little homework she could turn in and still earn the class incentive for the quarter and landed two points short, so is not invited to watch a movie in the gym Thursday, and the Pile of Grossness gets more Giant.

Princess has this rubbermaid box to put her laundry in, with a lid that is supposed to stay CLOSED. CLOSED! I say. Ever since points were tallied (I now realize), she has not closed the box. Every time she comes downstairs after changing, I tell her to close the box. Every time she tells me she did. Every time she did not. One time, I brought the box to her. She yelled at me for being mean, closed it, picked it up, and grouched loudly all the way up the stairs about how I made her have more work. This morning she came down and I told her to close the box and she said she did and I said, "great! Now ACTUALLY go close it!" and she went. I went in her room later to deposit some laundry and THANK HEAVENS it was closed, because I had this moment where I understood those women that get on the news: "how could she! How could she actually get in her car, drive to school, excuse herself to the teacher for interrupting, and throw a Rubbermaid box at her daughter's head! A monster!

I had the rages down. I had them down cold. I could handle a rage like no one's business. Now I feel like I'm some slimy fish grabbed out of a polluted pond and thrown into another. The new pond's water isn't quite as foul and murky, but I was used to my old pond! I could do it, right? Maybe not for much longer, but I had it under control, right? This new cleaner pond sucks!

So now I need to go fish my Big Girl Panties out of the old pond and wear them again. Maybe I'll embroider something new on the butt.

How's that for a mixed metaphor for you?






*Taken from actual monologue, all within the last eighteen hours

Transition

We are in it.

And it's hard to put into words what's going on, so smart me thought, huh, it's a labor word. I'll look it up. The first site on the list was Amazing Pregnancy.com, so being lazy, that's what I clicked on. Here's what they had to say about it:

During transition, you may feel unable to relax or to get comfortable.  While you may have handled labor well up to this point, it is at this time you are most likely to feel like you have no idea what to do, and that nothing is comfortable anymore....

Sometimes taking a bath or shower or rocking in a rocking chair may help you cope....

Sometimes as the pressure increases...you will feel the need or desire to push...

Some things you can do to avoid pushing if you (are) not ready:
-  Lift your chin in the air
-  Pant loudly
-  Don't hold your breath
-  Imagine a balloon above your face and try to blow it away from your face.


Startlingly apropos.

About six months ago, one provider after another told me some version of, "I don't really know why she's not responding/ I don't really know what else to do/ huh?" and I started wondering if this was finally the end of the road and we really were on our own, outside in the dead of winter with the wolves. Then one said, "I had one family who swore by Dr. Sl. He's a behavioral pediatrician who specializes in trauma's effect on the brain. He's expensive, and you won't be able to get in for a long time, but he knows what he's doing.

I called Dr. Sl. He's expensive. Shockingly so, to me anyway, at least for the evaluation. The answering machine message warned me to not expect a call back for a full two weeks. Then I got an appointment-- with a three month wait. We had gotten so desperate that Josh's only question was, "are you sure he knows what he's doing?" Fortunately, I was. He ran the Children's Trauma Center in our area, and at the time our girls were placed with us our agency was requiring evaluations there for children three and older. Dr. Sl was the first person to really explain to me exactly what had happened to Princess's brain.

In September we finally sat down with him. For four hours. The more he talked, the straighter up I sat. For every thought that had ever flitted across my brain, he had already developed an actual Power Point presentation. And compared to what he had dealt with, with moderate success, Princess is a cake walk. He told us that, with the work we had already done, Princess was where he expected a patient to be around the third or fourth appointment. And I started to breathe. He spoke about the changes he'd make in her medication. Lot's of teeny tiny, low dose changes. He said, "we'll talk in a week, and then in two, because honestly, by then we could be looking at a different child." And I bent over and sobbed. Dr. Sl handed me tissues while Josh patted me. "Don't worry," Josh said, "she knew she was going to do this."

It was the hope. I know no one can promise me any type of result. But for someone to say, you're here now, and I have ideas you haven't tried," well, it was like coming out of a stale room. "See," said the Still Small Voice, "I told you. I told you you wouldn't be doing this by yourself. Now do you see?"

And he was right. By the second week, things were different. Just slightly. Just enough. She is more relaxed, more confident, more self-possessed. She laughs and giggles. She has raged twice in the past month, instead of twice in the past day, the past hour. In October, she began caring about her school work. She hasn't had a stamp in her notebook for not bringing home her homework for three weeks. She has only one concerning grade on her report card, with a note from her teacher saying it reflects more of September's work than October's. I truly see a chance for healing.

Except for the rest of us. I felt my anxiety take a hike the last two weeks of October. I figured it was because November is a traumaversary for me related to Princess, and that's probably most of it. But then, at about the same time, Peanut hit the skids. And Peanut on the skids is a far, far, FAR scarier than than anything Princess has ever dished out. And suddenly Buddy cannot stand Princess. Can't stand anything about her. And our feelings do not make sense: she's getting better! She's not screaming, she's pleasant more often, and she's only annoying in the ways all third-grade girls are annoying, yet this, mad, this anger, this junk that's been pent up in us for years is starting to move down the large intestine, and you know where that comes out....

So, basically, the three of us are moving into the therapist's office. It's nice there. She has a great dog. And a Keurig. What else do you need?

Ever. For Any Reason

Two years ago Josh and I were badly betrayed by someone the children knew as well. This person had been outwardly kind to them, and there was no way to hide the betrayal from them, so they've had a great need to process it. Over. And over. And over. Every few months one of them (usually the Cuddle Bear) randomly brings it up, and I have to relive it. Big Girl Panties- ON! So again, last night, in the Suburban, again, from the Cuddle Bear.

Is he bad, Mommy?
I'd call it "dishonest" and "untrustworthy."
Is he mean?
(deep sigh)  Everyone has some good and some bad in them. How much of each has a lot to do with the choices you make. It's really hard to know what's in someone's heart. And it's complicated. People who act mean usually have had big hurts, too.

Quiet reflection (I think. It could have been nose-picking). Then Princess.

Like me?
Oh, honey. I don't think you're a mean person. I think when you act mean, it's because your big feelings get too big. I love you so much.
Yeah. You won't ever stop.

No. I won't. Ever. For any reason.

Kerrie, Friend of the Reframe

Me last year: For Pete's sake! Can't I be outside for five minutes without someone making someone bleed?!
Me today: Come on, you guys! Can't I be outside for fifteen minutes without someone making someone bleed?!

And that's how I knew things have gotten better on the whole.

It's hard to tell, you know. Kids don't heal on a continuum. It's more like that hose you found in the barn that hasn't seen the light of day since the owners before the previous owners. Tangles. Straight parts. Kinks. Then suddenly you realize there are less knots than there were when you started.

This summer there have been several reunions and weddings and things, and at each one there have been several people who love me who pull me briefly aside and whisper,

so how are things going?

I know what they mean, of course. But the first time I had to stop and think. I didn't really know.

Last summer (which doesn't really count because it was SO hideous because we were moving) sounded like this:
Me: Princess, please (insert menial day-to-day task every member of society must preform to avoid being committed to an institution).
Princess: Primal scream, primal scream, primal scream, whack whack whack, object flies through air, primal scream, primal scream. Kick Mom's shin. Grab Mom in places Mom is unaccustomed to being grabbed. Primal scream. Bite Mom's arm. Don't open mouth back up. Open mouth. Primal scream.

This summer has been more like this:
Me: Princess, please---
Princess: You make me do everything around here! You never make Peanut do anything! This is all your fault! I hate you! You're ugly and mean! You can't tell me to stop shouting! You're making me shout at you and be mean! If you wouldn't make me do stuff I wouldn't shout at you! I'll stop shouting at you if you give me a cookie.

So see what I mean?

I finally decided that yes, I guess things have gotten better. They are not really any more pleasant, but let's face it. Constant shouting, sassing, back-talk, grouching, and refusal is, well, not exactly normal, but closer to the elusive Range.

Embrace the reframe. You never know.

Goodbye, My Love. Goodbye

Physicals. They giveth. And they taketh away.

Four-something years ago we were informed our daughters's first mother's rights to them were terminated, and their last name was magically now the same as ours.

My first reaction was, wow. I now almost officially have four children, ages 6, 5, 4, and 2.
My second was, wow. What if I had a baby, too.

I ran into my doctor's office the next day.

"I need birth control. I need it NOW. Oh, and I've been having anxiety attacks."

She had good news. There was a way to kill both birds with one Pill. Er, stone. Yay.

Three years later I walked into my annual physical. More like my eighteen-month physical, because I put it off until I start to panic about uterine cancer. And she said, "sorry. I have to give you something else." And I said, "no. Absolutely not. No way." And she said, "yes I am. Because otherwise you're going to have a stroke. New research. You'll have to start exercising instead."

Poo.

And so this week begins my new voyage with the new anti-stroke pro-anxiety anti-fifth-child prescription.
It's day two. So far, not so good.

Not helping the situation is Vacation. Anyone who's lived with RAD for more that two days just got heart palpitations from reading that word. And actually, it's not been bad. Princess has been doing surprisingly well this summer and is working with me more and more to calm herself, but Vacation is a test of all things. Although, honestly, it's turned out to be more about dread for me than anything Princess has shelled out. Even coming home has gone surprisingly well. In fact, it's the first time we've made that particular (6-hour) drive without a rage or tantrum. Granted, no one was sitting by her in the Suburban. Josh and Buddy were driving back another way from their Canadian Boys Beer and Belches fishing vacation. But that means I was driving ALONE, so they cancel each other out. There have been almost no issues since we've been home either. Which means it's me. Anticipation will do you in every time.

So it's day two. And I discovered Princess is out of underwear. It's both our faults. I emptied all the suitcases into the washing machine, but not the drier. But Princess is the proud owner of 20 pairs of underwear, and if ten of them weren't already in her laundry box from the three days before we left, some of them would be available for use. But do you think I handled this calmly, apologetically, with sillines and a dash of not my problem? Not so much. Nope.

So I popped some adrenal support, some niacin, some vitamin D, and prayed for some grace. I'll start training for a 5K (hahahahahahahaha!!!!) again, even though I'm pretty sure it's going to give me elderly, arthritic knees before my time.

What else can you do when your doctor insists against your will that you don't have a stroke?

Fireworks

Having a RADling means "family fun" is a conscious decision in which you know you're going to pay dearly on one end or the other, but you do it anyway. Because, gosh darn it, you deserve it. Such was Fourth of July Weekend. We partied had friends over. We barbecued. We lived outside. We stayed up reeeeeeeally late to see fireworks.

We got home at midnight.
Five hours past Princess's ideal bedtime.
Seven hours past the youcan'tmakemeIwon'thavefunbecauseIdon'twantto Rage of the Century.

And then we shot off the horde of illegal out-of-state fireworks we bought the weekend before.

So, needless to say, Princess was totally weirded out.

Also, Princess has a latent fear of the dark. She wanted to hold my hand, which was great, because she usually prefers to be either ten feet behind me or five feet in front. So I was enjoying it, but she was still clearly uncomfortable.

Then, her sisters, who have a sisterly radar for hot spots, began talking about robbers. And long spooky shadows. And bats. And coyotes.

I don't want to be out here anymore.
Ok honey. The lights are all on inside. You can go get on your pajamas and I'll tuck you in in a little bit.
Can you come too?
I want to see the fireworks, sweetie, but you can go in if you want.
I'm going to go in.
Ok.

She ran up to the house like she was being chased by coyotes and robbers and like bats might swoop down and get tangled in her hair. All the way to the lit front porch. And she stopped. For a long time.

Princess? You sure can watch from there if you feel better. You can sit on one of the chairs.
Silence.


I feel better with you.

She ran back to me, chased by coyotes and robbers, bats swooping, and held my hand.

Because It's Been Awhile Since I've Griped About Homework

I would do it again in a heartbeat.

The cruise. There is no fallout that would make it not worthwhile. None.

That said, the past four weeks have been....er....challenging? Difficult? Loud? A living nightmare that I can't seem to wake up from?

Yeah. That one.

There was spring break. And we likey institutional structure. Well. One of us does. And that Friday it was time to pick the homework back up. Mind you, there had been four weeks, FOUR WEEKS, where Princess completed her homework on time compliantly with a decent attitude. It didn't exactly lull me into complacency- it's not like the stomach aches or the twitch went away, but, you know. You start to like it.

And then it aaaaaaaaaaall hits the fan, it's all too much, and you get this:

and in response to the child reporting to the teacher that you "won't help her," and the child reporting back to you that the teacher said, "tell your mom that she has to help you because moms are supposed to help their children," and the resulting e-mail from the teacher saying that what she actually said was, "I know your mom helps you; moms are supposed to help," you make her this:

...which you find the next morning looking like this:

The next day a note came home requiring my signature to inform me that Princess had not turned in her required on book a week.

No kidding?

I slid aforesaid book across the counter to her, and she read it perfectly. With expression. I said, "I do NOT think your homework is too hard for you at all," and I slid the note in front of her. "I think you should read and sign this, too." The Oscar the Princess look shoved itself onto her face.


I KNOW what it says.
Then tell me.
Dear Parent, as you know
No, you said you know what it says. So tell me.
I forgot.
Then read it and tell me what it's telling you.

So she did. With the grouch face.

I don't know what compelled me. Maybe righteous anger that she can do her work, she just, you know, won't. Maybe getting-ahead-of-myself fear for her future. But I said, "do you remember that letter J wrote to you in the cover of her baby book?" (nods) "Do you remember what it says?" (shakes head). I went downstairs to get it. When I got there I stood in front of the door remembering that Josh locked it to keep the kids from using the toilet in there and not flushing and letting it sit and sit and sit until it becomes and actual part of the toilet, forgetting that it's a keyed lock and we don't have the key so now we have to wait for a slow weekend to break off the knob and replace it.

I kicked the door a few times chanting "frick" softly to my self.

I went back up.

"Ok. So I can't show it to you. But I remember it. She told you that she wants you to do all your work in school so you can finish and have choices for a job. J didn't do all her school, and that's part of why she is having so much trouble now. J couldn't take care of you, but she loves you and cares about you. She wants better for you that she had for herself. She wants you to do all the school you can."

Josh overheard and came in. He reminded Princess that just at dinner she was talking about what she wanted to do for a job as a grownup. What was it again?

Silence.

I said, "Princess, do you know that regular kids answer questions? It's called talking. You can do it, too. You can be brave and answer Daddy's question."

Storekeeper.

And the three of us went on to have an actual conversation. Once in which Princess actually spoke. Not that she was happy about it. I was not being sarcastic when I encouraged her to be brave: talking to us feels like a risk to her.

At the end, Princess still had her arms folded across her chest and a semi-crabby look on her face. Josh said, "so what do you think a regular kid would do now?"

Smile. And hug you.

"Why don't you try it out, honey? Practice being a regular kid. You can be brave. You can do it. Try it out. See how it feels."

And holy shnikers, she did.

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up

This came home in Princess's work folder today:

And that is, in a nutshell, what I hope for her.

The Important Thing

"Cuddle Bear! You forgot your un.derwear!"

Giggle giggle snort snort, the Cuddle Bear laughs at herself while she dresses after swim lessons. "I forgot my un.derwear, Mommy! That's so funny! You can't forget un.derwear!"

"Un.derwear is very important..."

Peanut suddenly stops waving her swim bag at people's heads, takes her face out from underneath the hand-dryer, and stares straight at me, hair sticking out in all directions 18 inches off her head.

"Mom. Underwear is NOT the most important thing. Having a FAMILY is the most important thing. Being with people who LOVE you is what's important. A MOM is the most important. Having a mom who takes care of you is the most important thing of all."

Well said, Peanut.



(Underwear is still important)

Playing With Fire. Or Bookshelves

I did a dangerous thing today.

I moved a piece of furniture into Princess's room.

It was the bookshelf that fits behind her bed. When I started desiring a house with another bedroom, it was because I suspected Princess would do better (and my life would be easier) with a stripped-down room. So for the past four months, her room has contained a bed, a stuffed animal, a doll, some (but not all of her) clothing, and carpet. It isn't un-pretty, but it's, well....let's say minimalistic.

And it has worked.

And now she hasn't thrown, kicked, hit, beat, clawed, bit, pinched, kicked, or even screamed in three weeks. But it was when she told her sisters, "I can't have toys in my room, so can we play in yours?" instead of tricking her sisters into playing in her room and then pretending she forgot that it occurred to me that maybe it is time. Maybe she is ready.

When she saw us lugging it from the basement to the second floor, she asked a bunch of questions about where it was going and who it was for (because, of course, she knows it's hers) to which we said, well, let's see.

I wanted to congratulate her for her appropriate behaviors and verbally equate them with the reinstatement of the bookshelf. And just as much, I wanted to remind her that furniture is a privilege and a responsibility and that one slam against the wall and swoosh! I will rip that thing back to the basement so fast her eyes will spin, but I said nothing. Nothing at all. I moved it in. I left the room.

Because saying anything would make it into too big of a deal, and big deals are hard for Princess to accept.

Oh, I did say one thing. Princess watched me put her bedding back together while she exclaimed over the shelf and she said, "so I get to have toys in my room now?" So I said,

"You get to have this in your room now."

Sloooooooowly. Very very slowly. I won't add anything else to her room for at least two weeks, just to make sure this isn't too much too soon as it is. And when I do add something, it'll be a clock. Mostly because it creeps me out that she's in and out of our room in the wee hours checking the time without me waking up. But it'll be a cute clock. But seriously, toys? Maybe a year from now.

I Don't Know Who You Are, But I Like You a Whole Lot

Huh.

That's what I've got.
Because of the whole Ice Cream Bingo deal.

I was all set for a boiling rage Monday morning. My stomach churned all Sunday, even. I was ready.

It never happened.

Princess's teacher said she asked Princess why she didn't make a bingo, and Princess shrugged and said, "I get tired." And still, nothing. She came home and said that she could work on her workbook while the other kids had ice cream, so it was ok.

Nothing.

But not only nothing. Princess has not raged since before Christmas. This length of time has only happened one other time, and it was two and a half years ago.

She's making great eye-contact. She's smiling. A lot. She is using the bathroom. She is giggling all. the. time. Constantly. A real giggle, not the obnoxious fake one. A real giggle. I cannot believe it.

She went to her first slumber party right after Christmas. This is the only connection I can come up with. I was expecting the worst when she came home, and she wasn't even grouchy. Maybe being around a group of girls modeled something? Did everything suddenly click into place? Is it going to end soon (oh please please no!!!)?

For now I'll take it. And now I'm going to was dishes and listen to Princess read without arguing or faking. And giggle.

Giggle.
Giggle.
And giggle.

All I Want for Christmas is for Hygene to be a Given

I arrived downstairs yesterday morning to a fully-dressed Princess with hair not pulled back- you know, so the uncombedness was obvious. I said, "Good morning! I still want you to take a shower this morning."
Oh! (bounds upstairs)
A couple of minutes later (seriously, no more than two), I turned around from the coffee-maker, and there was Princess.

Ummmmm. Princess? You could not possibly have washed yourself that fast. You could not have even gotten your clothing off that fast.
YEAH!!!!
Ummm, no.
YEAH!!!!!!!!
Ok, well, I'd really love to see which shampoo and soap you used. Come show me?

We truck up to the shower. Wet shower. No shampoo. No soap. No washcloth. No towel.

Princess, take a shower.
I DID!!!!!!

Again Princess appeared. Again in the vicinity of my coffee maker. But this time after roughly 45 seconds. With the top of her head wet.

Deep, morning, pre-coffee sigh.
Ok Princess. I'd really love for you to show me how you took a shower. Because I think you have a magical way of doing it super-fast without any cleaning products that I don't know about. Maybe it would save me some time in the morning if I showered your way, so I'd like to learn how.

I don't think I could possibly detail how the next ten minutes went. But a lot of things got thrown. A shower door got torn off. There was wrestling. And a song about how sad it was that Princess "can't do" so much stuff. And, somehow, Princess got soaped up with all her clothes on. And the bathroom floor became a pond. I think that one had something to do with the shower head being removable.

The rest of the day was just as RADly. Princess spent most of the day sitting right. smack. next to me, complaining about how boring everything was. I think I definitely got the short end of the stick on boring, personally, but I didn't think it would be a good idea to mention it.

Then I started to frost trays of cookies to decorate. And the dawn of Realization That One Cannot Decorate Cookies While Sitting on the Floor dawned over Princess.

Mom? Can I fix things now?
Why, sure honey. Just a minute.

And for a test of intentions, I set out the cookies for the other kids. I left another tray visable, so Princess would be able to see she wasn't going to get left out, but even still I was shocked when I led her away and she did not display any anxiety about the cookies.

So, ok. This wasn't a "trick" to get to participate in something. It was going to be real. On some level, anyway.

We sat down. Princess said, "I told you to shut-up. I'm sorry."
"I forgive you, sweetie. I love you."

And then we sat. And sat. And sat. And sat.

I have an idea, Princess. Let's start at the beginning. I told you to take a shower and you didn't feel like doing it. So you didn't obey me, instead you......
Turned on the shower and sat on the counter.

AAAAGH!!! She actually told me what she DID!!!! Did you SEE that? She NEVER admits what she actually did. EVER. On the pain of death. I about passed out, I tell you.

So I wish I could say the rest of the day was well-regulated and peaceful. But you know it wasn't, because Christmas is this week. At the same time, we had another break-though moment, and I am stunned, because how can this happen during a holiday week?

I was doing the dinner dishes, and Peanut asked if she had any homework. Why yes. Here you go. Then my RADette sensors popped out, because Princess giddily announced she had homework, too, and got out a math paper.

Princess doesn't have any homework over break. And she knows it.

Pretty soon, Princess was snarking about how easy Peanut's homework was. I dutifully did the "normal mom" thing and said, "Peanut's homework should be easy for you. It is first-grade homework. We are not going to tease Peanut about doing first-grade homework. Peanut is in first grade."

Yeah. Didn't work. Princess got more and more disruptive, and Buddy, who can't not bite on bait, was soon involved as well. I sent both of them out of the room, because the poor child wanted to do homework. Buddy and Princess continued fighting in the living room. I finally gave up, and Josh and I made them sit by us and have an intervention. Buddy was spoken to about his behavior and grounded from his Nerf dart gun. And his pop-ball gun. And Peanut's pop-ball gun (yeah. They were involved). And dismissed. Then it was Princess's turn.

But Buddy...
Yeah, I know. Except this didn't start with Buddy. You know when I saw a Big Feeling start?
No.
When Peanut got out her homework. You wanted to do homework too (no). You wanted to do it better (no). You wanted to make sure everyone knew homework is easy for you (homework is easy for me. I'm really good at math). You wanted to hide that homework is hard for you (silence).

We know school stuff is hard for you, Princess. You don't have to try to hide it. It's ok.
Princess's head got lower and lower.
Do you hear me, honey? It's ok. We will never be mad or embarrassed that school is hard for you. It's ok with us. We know. It's ok.

Josh is dislexic, and he told her about how had school was for him. And that he works longer and harder than other people. And that he found other things he's extra good at.

And she listened.

I can tell, becuase usually she'd sit and endure and tune out and leave the room and immediately go back to irratating somebody until they wronged her and she could have a rage, but instead, when I said, "what would make you feel good right now", she thought, and said,

"reading in bed."
And she did.

More Christmas Merriness. Or Something.

After a special family Christmas service (and hearing a history of the Christmas tree that I hope is true, anyway), each child received a tree-shaped lollipop. Three of my four children asked for help opening the stubborn, difficult, *!@# wrapper. One announced repeatedly she could do it herself, she could do it herself, look! she was doing it herself because she could do it herself and

CRACK!

The lollipop was in a thousand shards on the floor. We steeled ourselves for the torrent of anger and blame that was sure to follow.

Tears.
I dropped my sucker!
Tears.

After a stunned moment, I got her another lollipop. I held it out to her. She stared.

What will you do differently this time?
Will you please help me?

And right there was the first time she's broken something and not acted as if she didn't care or blamed someone else. She acted like a regular kid.

Stuck in I Don't Want To

Princess has been raw since her last therapy session. Because the good news is that Princess is having some predictable rages. But the bad news is that Princess is having some predictable rages. At therapy, we discussed one of them. And by "discussed," I mean that Dr. S. and I talked as if Princess was joining in while Princess played with a car looking decidedly uncomfortable.

The predictable situation is this: Sunday morning. We picked it apart down to the catalyst: the God Time Card. Every week, I'm given a paper for each kid that breaks a theme into four days of study, mainly one Bible verse to look up, a four-sentence devotional, and a little word game. They are meant for about a third-grade reading level, so Princess and Peanut can't do it independently. Princess, however, won't even try. Every time I encourage her to work on it there is a bloody battle, culminating in a war Sunday morning.

As Dr. S and I worked through the scenario, we figured out what is happening. Princess has a visual processing disorder. What she sees doesn't necessarily make sense to her. So she looks at the God Time card (or a page of math problems), and immediately tells herself, "I can't do this." Which is followed by, "I am stupid." The daily tantrum works nicely to deflect from the frustration: she's letting us know (CLEARLY!!!) that it's not, of course, that she can't do it,

it's that she won't. She doesn't care to.

She doesn't want to.

But this philosophy has a problem. And the problem is called: My Teacher Will Give Me a Prize If My Paper is Signed. And this problem has a co-problem called: My Mom Won't Sign My Card if I Didn't Do It. And not getting a prize causes Princess copious amounts of anxiety. And copious amounts of anxiety cause our family to have to listen to screaming trapped in a Suburban for 30 minutes every Sunday morning.

So good. Now I'm clear what's going on. Dr. S then talked with Princess, and I was slightly astounded at the conversation. In response to a question, Princess said that she was not good at tap. Strangely, out of all that is difficult for Princess, tap is not one of them. She is excellent at tap, and she's gotten a lot of praise and attention for being excellent at tap. So Dr. S asked her why she thought she wasn't good at tap, and listed some tap components. After a lot of shoulder shrugging, Princess said, "I'm good at all that stuff. I am good at tap." So Dr. S asked her what she was good at in school. Princess said, "I'm good at everything. Reading, math, writing." She listed all the parts of school that are a deep struggle for her. She did the denial thing for a while longer, and then looked down in her lap and mumbled that she gets confused and then frustrated and then angry.

Wait. You might not have noticed that. Let me say it again.

Princes SAID, "I get confused, and frustrated, and angry."

And Mom expels the breath she was holding.

Then, Dr. S talked with her (at her? for her?) about how she looks at a paper, gets confused, and doesn't want to try, but still wants the prize. Princess is seeing the "I don't want to" and the "prize," but is skipping over the "but I have to the get the" part. Dr. S said to her, "you are stuck in 'I don't want to.'"

She is stuck in "I don't want to."
And that is the raw nerve that is still sticking out.

Since, we've had a cycle of bad evenings that lead to bad mornings. We have those a lot, but something's different. I don't want to say it out loud, but it's almost like she's about to let something out.

For one, she's acting more hurt than angry. And she's letting me soothe her.

This morning she wouldn't go out to get the back pack she had left in the car. The back pack that held her lunch box. The lunch box she needed to carry her lunch. She kept putting her shoes on to walk though the house (which the kids are not allowed to do- with all their mud and filth and all) to get the coat that was not there (because it was in her back pack). And she insisted there was no other alternative. And that I was keeping her from getting it. So, by the time we needed to leave, she was irate and high anxiety. Her lunch was still sitting on the counter. Usually this means a bad, bad, bad car ride.

But when I went and got her, I said in mock excitement (but without sarcasm, which is a trick, especially for someone who loves sarcasm as much as I), "Guess what! I know a way to get your coat without wearing your shoes in the house! You won't even BELIEVE how magical it is! I bet you didn't even know you could do it that way!" The whole time, I kept making a big deal about how amazing it was. I sat her down and played baby games with her feet and shoes, having her name the parts, getting real excited whenever we got a shoe on.

Another child would be offended and furious. Princess would usually be irate and furious. But she quieted and softened. She played along. And a few minutes later, she made a plan. She said, "I will not talk in the car, so I don't end up with trouble.

And she did it.

Trick or Boo

Yes. Jorge is wearing a costume. One boy and three girls and it is the boy who is picky about what he wears. Every year he wants to go trick-or-treating, but every year it's an ordeal to select a costume he doesn't feel "silly" wearing. Last year we settled on Charlie and Lola (semi-obscure children's book) for he and the Cuddle Bear, and of course no one knew what they were. But I struck gold this year- I discovered that Buddy will dress up as anything if Jorge is part of the costume. Our first plan was Jorge as a lobster and Buddy as a chef (carrying Jorge around in a large blanketed pot), but T@rget was out of lobsters. Hence the sheriff and outlaw duo. Jorge's costume is far more hilarious in real life than in the picture. You'll have to trust me. And really, isn't he about the handsomest boy you've ever seen? I'm not supposed to say that, though. I get punched in the leg.

Anyway. The point. The point is Princess, there. Historically costume discussions have been pretty predictable. Every year she's been a princess, a fairy, a dance, a princess-fairy, a fairy-dancer or a princess-dancer. This year started out as no exception, and suddenly she cried out, "NO! I want to be PINKALICOUS!!!"

For those of you that have only boys and/or expose  your children only to high-quality literature, this is Pinkalicious:
















Obviously. What's not to like? Anyway. The point is that this is the first truly creative idea Princess has come up with. So Pinkalicious it was.

But there was an even bigger deal. Trick-or-treating seems to be challenging for a lot of families in our situation, although I don't know that anyone's pinned down exactly why. I've been finding myself lately more in tune to Princess's behavior linking to fear. At one point in our trek Princess, seemingly randomly, yelled at Peanut for "making her shoes come off," and stomped her feet around. However, me and my stealth eye had just noticed a particularly scary-masked, black-hooded figure pass, so I said, "some of those costumes look pretty scary, don't they? It makes a feeling inside you, kind of like "mad." That feeling is called "scared," and if you feel "scared," you can come hold my hand.

And she did.

I'm sure people wondered why my seven-year-old needed her mom to walk her up and could barely mutter "thank-you," before turning and bolting, but I don't care.

She needed her mom to walk her up.