I sat in Princess's therapists' office, depressed, exhausted, numb, defeated. She explains to me something to try against a reoccurring behavior that sets me off like a grease fire at a shrimp boil. I listen. Then I startle. Because what she is saying? I am a pro at. Or I was. A year ago, I would have done exactly what she was describing without even blinking an eye. I was great.
Was.
"I used to do that," I sobbed. "I wish you had known me before I was all burnt out. I was fabulous at this!"
"I have no doubt you still are," she said.
The girls were playing in our ugly blue pool, and it was clear Princess wasn't going to last long. She had thrown a blueberry at me (although not in malice- I've long accepted her motives are going to be mysterious), and was feeling ashamed, I suppose. I couldn't pin her ragged behavior on anything else, anyway. Sure enough, the complaints came closer and closer together, each time with swift denial and blame from Princess. The highly suspect kind. I gently reminded Princess that if she wanted to stay in the pool, she was required to find a way to get along with her sisters and follow the safety rules. Then warning one. Then two. Then three.
I gave Princess her new choices: the other part of the yard (which includes the swing set, trampoline, fish pond, sand and water tables, wading pool, deck, and me), or sit with me.
Guess which one she chose? By default, naturally.
And she actually voiced that the problem was that I didn't give her enough chances. That she would have made a different choice if I had given her a fourth chance.
I've been defaulting to the exact wrong thing: the time out. But even before the talk with the OT, I realized that no matter how Princess was behaving, three-quarters of the day in time-out probably meant it wasn't working all that well. For anyone. That, and the memory of her last time-out. The ten-minute one that took three hours (yes, THREE HOURS) because she kept trying to amuse herself by bizarre antics such as parading around (outside her room) with all her pairs of p@nties tucked into her waistband. Not. Working.
This time, I slowly and cheerfully chased Princess around the backyard, because I know she has almost no endurance and the last thing she really wants to do is run fast for an extended period of time. Then I led her to my lounge chair, sat in a way that made it difficult to get hit or kicked, and picked up my book.
Screaming ensued.
I asked her to please pinch me hard enough to make the bruise show up on the camera.
Which really, really freaked her out, enough that she stopped pinching.
And I held her. Swimsuit skin against shorts and tank top skin.
And held her.
And held her.
And held her.
She calmed.
She asked me to get her a bunch of stuff.
I reminded her she made a choice.
She said she didn't want this.
I said bummer.
And eventually she started talking to the ants.
And I feel much better.
Showing posts with label parental stinkage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parental stinkage. Show all posts
Monday, July 9, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
In Retrospect
I've lost my ability to see ahead for Princess.
I used to be so in tune with her. I could see a trigger a mile away. But it got to the point where everything was a trigger; it was too overwhelming, and I started trying not to see them, just so it wasn't constant. And the past six months have been so filled with hurt. Princess's new-ish doctor evened out her meds, which is an amazing thing, but what's left in the wake is Princess, fully aware of the pain and fear she feels. And since she can't process it yet, guess where it goes? All over the rest of us.
It's been a hard, hard six months. And it's harder now that it has ever been. Her doctor says he's seen a lot of families give up at this point, saying that they preferred the miserable they were before to the miserable they are now. I know in my heart (and her doctor agrees), that if we can just get though it alive, it will be better, livable on the other side.
But right now. It's just hard.
We had a family wedding to travel to this past weekend. One of us thought Princess should go, and the other thought she should stay with a sitter. Both of us were experiencing, er, "feelings" from our vacation traveling. The one who thought she should stay caved, and the trip to the wedding was without incident. The wedding activities were without incident.
We let down our guard.
Sunday was Father's Day, but it wasn't really on our minds. Buddy and Peanut had left Saturday night to spend the week with Gramma and Grampa, so we gave Daddy his five-pound gummy bear and his turkey made from compost pile gleanings (complements of the Cuddle Bear) Saturday morning. We were two hours into to four hour drive when we decided against fried chicken in the park and for Joe's Crab Shack.
What Were We Thinking #1.
The first thing I didn't see was that the restaurant was (duh!) full of men. At least half looked like the type of man Princess is frightened of. The wait was about 30 minutes, and about 20 minutes in, Princess insisted she saw a boy who frightened her two years ago by lifting her skirt while the class was in line for the computer lab, resulting in the first total meltdown the school had seen from her. It was obviously not the same boy, but she staunchly and unreasonably insisted it was.
Right then is when we should have gotten out of there like bats out of the seventh circle of hell.
But I've lost my ability to see ahead.
We sat down, and Josh and I consulted the menu to see what would be the best way to order. Princess promptly chose the most expensive dinner of the children's menu consisting of fried food with a side of fried food with some fat as a garnish, and began telling us emphatically and repeatedly what she wanted. Thinking about her food issues and not seeing what was really going on, we showed her the (gigantic, delicious) meal we were going to order and share.
Princess began to throw a tantrum that looked exactly like a three-year-old who is not getting her way.
Which really torked me off.
Even though I knew somewhere in my head that that wasn't really what it was.
While we waited for the food, she kept looking over her shoulder. It's "normal" for Princess to be hypervigilant, especially about food, but this was more like a tic. I actually started to worry she was going to hurt her neck. And usually the presence of food of any type would have snapped her out of a food-related funk, but when the meal came, even though it was all things she likes, even though I went without some things so that she would feel like she had more, she threw her food around complaining about how disgusting it was.
And she just kept escalating. She hid under the table. She flung herself into the seat behind her. She whacked the poor man whose back was to the other side a few times. And she kept insisting, loudly, that she wasn't.
And still I didn't see it for what it really was.
Eventually there was no choice but to remove her from the restaurant. I dragged her out of the booth while she ramped up the volume and walked her outside, where she slapped me and complained loudly about having done nothing wrong and how mean and selfish Daddy is.
Happy Father's Day.
I sat in her seat with her while Josh tried to concentrate on driving safely while she screamed, kicked, pinched, and bit. I am now the proud owner of an incredibly ugly bruise on my behind and a spasm in my back so painful I have to have Josh slide me out of bed this morning.
She just couldn't do it. And I should have seen it.
When she finally got tired enough to cooperate with some breathing exercises and a drink of water, she began to sob about how sorry she was. And I believe her. But now I am physically and emotionally sore, and Josh is really pretty depressed, and neither of us have the reserves to meet her.
And we just have to push through.
I used to be so in tune with her. I could see a trigger a mile away. But it got to the point where everything was a trigger; it was too overwhelming, and I started trying not to see them, just so it wasn't constant. And the past six months have been so filled with hurt. Princess's new-ish doctor evened out her meds, which is an amazing thing, but what's left in the wake is Princess, fully aware of the pain and fear she feels. And since she can't process it yet, guess where it goes? All over the rest of us.
It's been a hard, hard six months. And it's harder now that it has ever been. Her doctor says he's seen a lot of families give up at this point, saying that they preferred the miserable they were before to the miserable they are now. I know in my heart (and her doctor agrees), that if we can just get though it alive, it will be better, livable on the other side.
But right now. It's just hard.
We had a family wedding to travel to this past weekend. One of us thought Princess should go, and the other thought she should stay with a sitter. Both of us were experiencing, er, "feelings" from our vacation traveling. The one who thought she should stay caved, and the trip to the wedding was without incident. The wedding activities were without incident.
We let down our guard.
Sunday was Father's Day, but it wasn't really on our minds. Buddy and Peanut had left Saturday night to spend the week with Gramma and Grampa, so we gave Daddy his five-pound gummy bear and his turkey made from compost pile gleanings (complements of the Cuddle Bear) Saturday morning. We were two hours into to four hour drive when we decided against fried chicken in the park and for Joe's Crab Shack.
What Were We Thinking #1.
The first thing I didn't see was that the restaurant was (duh!) full of men. At least half looked like the type of man Princess is frightened of. The wait was about 30 minutes, and about 20 minutes in, Princess insisted she saw a boy who frightened her two years ago by lifting her skirt while the class was in line for the computer lab, resulting in the first total meltdown the school had seen from her. It was obviously not the same boy, but she staunchly and unreasonably insisted it was.
Right then is when we should have gotten out of there like bats out of the seventh circle of hell.
But I've lost my ability to see ahead.
We sat down, and Josh and I consulted the menu to see what would be the best way to order. Princess promptly chose the most expensive dinner of the children's menu consisting of fried food with a side of fried food with some fat as a garnish, and began telling us emphatically and repeatedly what she wanted. Thinking about her food issues and not seeing what was really going on, we showed her the (gigantic, delicious) meal we were going to order and share.
Princess began to throw a tantrum that looked exactly like a three-year-old who is not getting her way.
Which really torked me off.
Even though I knew somewhere in my head that that wasn't really what it was.
While we waited for the food, she kept looking over her shoulder. It's "normal" for Princess to be hypervigilant, especially about food, but this was more like a tic. I actually started to worry she was going to hurt her neck. And usually the presence of food of any type would have snapped her out of a food-related funk, but when the meal came, even though it was all things she likes, even though I went without some things so that she would feel like she had more, she threw her food around complaining about how disgusting it was.
And she just kept escalating. She hid under the table. She flung herself into the seat behind her. She whacked the poor man whose back was to the other side a few times. And she kept insisting, loudly, that she wasn't.
And still I didn't see it for what it really was.
Eventually there was no choice but to remove her from the restaurant. I dragged her out of the booth while she ramped up the volume and walked her outside, where she slapped me and complained loudly about having done nothing wrong and how mean and selfish Daddy is.
Happy Father's Day.
I sat in her seat with her while Josh tried to concentrate on driving safely while she screamed, kicked, pinched, and bit. I am now the proud owner of an incredibly ugly bruise on my behind and a spasm in my back so painful I have to have Josh slide me out of bed this morning.
She just couldn't do it. And I should have seen it.
When she finally got tired enough to cooperate with some breathing exercises and a drink of water, she began to sob about how sorry she was. And I believe her. But now I am physically and emotionally sore, and Josh is really pretty depressed, and neither of us have the reserves to meet her.
And we just have to push through.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Mani-Pedi Fail
Hmm. I wonder what that is?
There are those things that I can't really put two and two together on, and I know asking questions will not get me anything useful. Or even close to true. So I file the information away for later. Cachink!
I cleaned the kids' bathroom last week (have I ever mentioned how estatic I am that this house has a master bathroom that no one! can enter! without permission!? Because, eeeeeew), and noticed these weird pink smudges here and there on the counter- but mostly in front of Princess's space- that didn't come off when I rubbed them with the cleaner. It didn't look like anything I could place. Cachink!
Thursday, Peanut asked Princess why Princess's fingernails were red. Princess said, "marker!!!" and stuck her hands behind her back. I looked, and she had kind of a reddish stain around the edges of her fingernails. Suspicious, yes. But Princess has been admonished before for drawing on herself (mostly by Josh, because me, meh. I have bigger fish to fry most of the time), so I didn't think much more of it. Chachink!
Yesterday, I removed Princess's laundry from the dryer. And there were two socks covered in the same color as the counter and the fingernails. A color that did not come out in the wash. Chachink clunk!
Princess?
What?
Please go get me whatever it is that you have that made marks on the bathroom counter and is covering these socks.
She brought me a marker. A washable marker. From the main floor of the house.
Try again, babe. The thing I'm expecting is from upstairs. Probably hidden in your room.
She brought me a bottle of nail polish. Which no one is allowed to have because they always spill it. Yeeeeeeeah.
Ok! Let's go get the rest of my stuff out of your room, then.
I started to toss her room, and she sat next to me. I was about half-way through when I said, "you know, you'd have a lot less to clean up if you got out what you have hiding in here and give it to me BEFORE I tear up everything."
She swooped in and immediately pulled out a bottle of nail polish remover. The brand new one. That was now empty.
I said, "what else have you got?"
Nothing.
I'm pretty sure that's not the same color as what's on your socks.
It is! See!
And she stuck out her fingers and toes. Which I hadn't noticed. Which were pink. And also pretty much the entire length of her legs. And her carpet. And her closet door.
Evidently she had been repeatedly painting her entire self, and everything around her, with my nail polish, and then taking it all off with my nail polish remover, for a week. At least.
I immediately went bat-poo nutso. It was the stealing. The stuff that I'm supposed to remember isn't a moral issue but actually a response to extreme stress and a cry for help always trips me up. I have not exactly been "slow to anger," as of late. It got a little surreal, because AS I was freaking out on her, I could still hear the Still Small Voice in my ear- I was just apparently to scalp-prickled triggered to acknowlege it. It went kind of like this:
She only steals your stuff.
Shut up.
Because it's you she wants to be close to.
No, it's because she has no respect for me whatsoever.
It's because it's you she wants to be close to.
Shut up.
She tried to clean it up. Usually she just leaves her illicit messes for you to find. Or step in.
Shut up.
She wanted you to catch her so she could stop feeling bad. That's why they're still painted. She doesn't know how to fix it with you.
No, she just ran out of remover.
She feels bad and she doesn't know how to fix it.
Shut up!
And it did.
I made a conscious choice to stay angry. You can imagine how the rest of the day went. I stomped around yelling. Princess had such a huge meltdown she got a hanger stuck in her hair from tearing up her closet from the inside
(because she's been painting her nails and removing the polish during the time she was supposed to be brushing her hair and teeth for the past week. The rat's nest look was starting to go on)
my anger upset the other children and flowed over onto Josh, making him feel depressed and helpless. It was not good. Not good at all. Very sub-par. Fail.
Thankfully, every day I'm given is a day to try again. And the Still Small Voice is louder after a two-mile run with really loud music.
There are those things that I can't really put two and two together on, and I know asking questions will not get me anything useful. Or even close to true. So I file the information away for later. Cachink!
I cleaned the kids' bathroom last week (have I ever mentioned how estatic I am that this house has a master bathroom that no one! can enter! without permission!? Because, eeeeeew), and noticed these weird pink smudges here and there on the counter- but mostly in front of Princess's space- that didn't come off when I rubbed them with the cleaner. It didn't look like anything I could place. Cachink!
Thursday, Peanut asked Princess why Princess's fingernails were red. Princess said, "marker!!!" and stuck her hands behind her back. I looked, and she had kind of a reddish stain around the edges of her fingernails. Suspicious, yes. But Princess has been admonished before for drawing on herself (mostly by Josh, because me, meh. I have bigger fish to fry most of the time), so I didn't think much more of it. Chachink!
Yesterday, I removed Princess's laundry from the dryer. And there were two socks covered in the same color as the counter and the fingernails. A color that did not come out in the wash. Chachink clunk!
Princess?
What?
Please go get me whatever it is that you have that made marks on the bathroom counter and is covering these socks.
She brought me a marker. A washable marker. From the main floor of the house.
Try again, babe. The thing I'm expecting is from upstairs. Probably hidden in your room.
She brought me a bottle of nail polish. Which no one is allowed to have because they always spill it. Yeeeeeeeah.
Ok! Let's go get the rest of my stuff out of your room, then.
I started to toss her room, and she sat next to me. I was about half-way through when I said, "you know, you'd have a lot less to clean up if you got out what you have hiding in here and give it to me BEFORE I tear up everything."
She swooped in and immediately pulled out a bottle of nail polish remover. The brand new one. That was now empty.
I said, "what else have you got?"
Nothing.
I'm pretty sure that's not the same color as what's on your socks.
It is! See!
And she stuck out her fingers and toes. Which I hadn't noticed. Which were pink. And also pretty much the entire length of her legs. And her carpet. And her closet door.
Evidently she had been repeatedly painting her entire self, and everything around her, with my nail polish, and then taking it all off with my nail polish remover, for a week. At least.
I immediately went bat-poo nutso. It was the stealing. The stuff that I'm supposed to remember isn't a moral issue but actually a response to extreme stress and a cry for help always trips me up. I have not exactly been "slow to anger," as of late. It got a little surreal, because AS I was freaking out on her, I could still hear the Still Small Voice in my ear- I was just apparently to scalp-prickled triggered to acknowlege it. It went kind of like this:
She only steals your stuff.
Shut up.
Because it's you she wants to be close to.
No, it's because she has no respect for me whatsoever.
It's because it's you she wants to be close to.
Shut up.
She tried to clean it up. Usually she just leaves her illicit messes for you to find. Or step in.
Shut up.
She wanted you to catch her so she could stop feeling bad. That's why they're still painted. She doesn't know how to fix it with you.
No, she just ran out of remover.
She feels bad and she doesn't know how to fix it.
Shut up!
And it did.
I made a conscious choice to stay angry. You can imagine how the rest of the day went. I stomped around yelling. Princess had such a huge meltdown she got a hanger stuck in her hair from tearing up her closet from the inside
(because she's been painting her nails and removing the polish during the time she was supposed to be brushing her hair and teeth for the past week. The rat's nest look was starting to go on)
my anger upset the other children and flowed over onto Josh, making him feel depressed and helpless. It was not good. Not good at all. Very sub-par. Fail.
Thankfully, every day I'm given is a day to try again. And the Still Small Voice is louder after a two-mile run with really loud music.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Running Away from Big Girl Panties
I signed Princess up for Girls on the Run this year. Other activities I've tried with her have come to bad ends. With sports, she wants to do certain parts (being goalie, throwing in the ball, batting), but not the rest. She simply won't participate in 90% of said sport. She took tap. She was good. I mean good. But there was one girl who was better. So Princess quit. And by "quit," what I mean is, "started raging on the way home from school so she couldn't physically be forced into a leotard and transported to class."
But I saw her face when well-meaning people would ask all the kids what kinds of things they do and everyone would answer and Princess would say, "nothing."
This year she was old enough for Girls on the Run. It's a perfect program for her. It's as non-competitive as humanly possible with actual humans participating. It has all the girlie-girl stuff Princess loves. It would provide some level of physical activity for her. I would run the 5k with her: something we'd both enjoy! She would get a t-shirt and a medal. And, best if all, she wouldn't be able to use the same method of quitting, because she's bussed directly from one school to another.
Backing up to running the 5k.
I started noticing that whatever time I came to pick up Princess, she was standing around while other girls were running or walking the track. She wasn't the only girl standing around, but it was always. I spoke to her coach, and she said that Princess has very little endurance, but she's participating and doing fine. Ok.
This morning. This morning Josh discovered last minute that Princess had not done something she really, truly needed to do before leaving for school. Not a negotiable in any sense of the word. This event came on the tail of Princess being reminded to do several things she always needs to do, and having to stop something she wanted to do more to go fix it. Things were not pleasant as they were.
The other children and I had to leave to walk to the bus stop, so I asked Josh to make sure Princess ran to catch up with us. She ran until she was far enough from the house that she could pretend she didn't hear Josh anymore, and then she walked. She was closer to me than Josh by then, so I reminded her she needed to run, and if I got to her first, things weren't going to be pretty.
I got to her first.
It wasn't pretty.
I put my hand around her shoulders, grabbed a fistfull of sweatshirt, and started to jog. Slower than I actually run, which is very, extremely slow. Slower than I walk, in fact. We "ran" for 200 feet. The entire 200 feet, Princess screamed and wailed and gasped about how she couldn't breathe and how I was killing her.
Two hundred feet.
Divorce rates for regular people are through the roof. Divorce rates for parents of special needs kids, well, it could be interpreted as "why-even-bother percent." I read somewhere (to be honest, probably Reader's Digest- the foremost leader in bathroom information and bizarre jokes about dogs) that the best predictor of special-needs-parent-marriage-success is a very, very dark sense of humor.
Enter: why I think there's a darn good chance we'll beat the odds.
I came home from the bus stop, like I often do, disgusted and demoralized. I told Josh I was calling Princess's coach and pulling her from the 5k. That there was no point if she couldn't jog 200 feet without dying. He had a look.
What? You don't agree with me.
Maybe you should run it by her coach.
Why? She clearly can't do it. She hasn't even been training.
It can be walked.
Oh sure! Yeah. Three hours with Princess either moaning and complaining, yelling at me, or trying to get away from me. Yeah. That'll be fun.
It's three hours you'd be with her.
Great.
Put on your Big Girl Panties.
No! They're ugly!
I think they're beautiful.
Well you're wrong. They're hideous. They're the granny kind. The go up past my belly button, and they billow, and the elastic is overworn, and they're yellowed with weird stains.
That's only because you have to carry so much sh!t around in them.
Yeah. I think we might make it.
But I saw her face when well-meaning people would ask all the kids what kinds of things they do and everyone would answer and Princess would say, "nothing."
This year she was old enough for Girls on the Run. It's a perfect program for her. It's as non-competitive as humanly possible with actual humans participating. It has all the girlie-girl stuff Princess loves. It would provide some level of physical activity for her. I would run the 5k with her: something we'd both enjoy! She would get a t-shirt and a medal. And, best if all, she wouldn't be able to use the same method of quitting, because she's bussed directly from one school to another.
Backing up to running the 5k.
I started noticing that whatever time I came to pick up Princess, she was standing around while other girls were running or walking the track. She wasn't the only girl standing around, but it was always. I spoke to her coach, and she said that Princess has very little endurance, but she's participating and doing fine. Ok.
This morning. This morning Josh discovered last minute that Princess had not done something she really, truly needed to do before leaving for school. Not a negotiable in any sense of the word. This event came on the tail of Princess being reminded to do several things she always needs to do, and having to stop something she wanted to do more to go fix it. Things were not pleasant as they were.
The other children and I had to leave to walk to the bus stop, so I asked Josh to make sure Princess ran to catch up with us. She ran until she was far enough from the house that she could pretend she didn't hear Josh anymore, and then she walked. She was closer to me than Josh by then, so I reminded her she needed to run, and if I got to her first, things weren't going to be pretty.
I got to her first.
It wasn't pretty.
I put my hand around her shoulders, grabbed a fistfull of sweatshirt, and started to jog. Slower than I actually run, which is very, extremely slow. Slower than I walk, in fact. We "ran" for 200 feet. The entire 200 feet, Princess screamed and wailed and gasped about how she couldn't breathe and how I was killing her.
Two hundred feet.
Divorce rates for regular people are through the roof. Divorce rates for parents of special needs kids, well, it could be interpreted as "why-even-bother percent." I read somewhere (to be honest, probably Reader's Digest- the foremost leader in bathroom information and bizarre jokes about dogs) that the best predictor of special-needs-parent-marriage-success is a very, very dark sense of humor.
Enter: why I think there's a darn good chance we'll beat the odds.
I came home from the bus stop, like I often do, disgusted and demoralized. I told Josh I was calling Princess's coach and pulling her from the 5k. That there was no point if she couldn't jog 200 feet without dying. He had a look.
What? You don't agree with me.
Maybe you should run it by her coach.
Why? She clearly can't do it. She hasn't even been training.
It can be walked.
Oh sure! Yeah. Three hours with Princess either moaning and complaining, yelling at me, or trying to get away from me. Yeah. That'll be fun.
It's three hours you'd be with her.
Great.
Put on your Big Girl Panties.
No! They're ugly!
I think they're beautiful.
Well you're wrong. They're hideous. They're the granny kind. The go up past my belly button, and they billow, and the elastic is overworn, and they're yellowed with weird stains.
That's only because you have to carry so much sh!t around in them.
Yeah. I think we might make it.
Monday, April 30, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
I Thought Remorse Was a Rumor
"When Princess comes here, we're all about her. She gets all our attention, and she hasn't hurt any of us. So we end up seeing some different things than you're going to see at home. And one thing I'm seeing is a very, very, VERY remorseful girl. If she's done something big to you, she walks right in and tells me, 'I beed really mean to my Mom." After your vacation, she made a b-line to the crafts. I had other things planned, but she would have nothing to do with them. She couldn't think about anything else until she had made you something. You know. Like a three-year-old. They think if they give you a dandelion, it's going to be all better. She is all about YOU. And she knows she's hurting you and she doesn't know how to stop or make it better."
"But how can that be? How is it I never EVER see that? At home, everything's about how everything is everyone else's fault. She NEVER seems sorry. And all those things she makes me? She shoves them at me with a "here" like she's done with it now and doesn't know what else to do with it."
"Have YOU ever had to apologize to someone? You know how much anxiety that makes."
Oh no. Oh no oh no. Ohnohnohnohnohno. She can't be right. Because that changes everything. As Princess's medication balanced, she got meaner. It wasn't like it didn't know what was happening. I knew she was suddenly feeling everything without knowing how to deal with it. I knew it. But I got scared. She was never sorry; she never felt bad; she always acted the next day (or the next hour) like nothing had happened. She didn't care. Why should I? The implications were horrifying. It was easier to pull away. I told myself it was ok. I was giving myself space. I was taking care of myself. Right? Right?
Except that's not really what it was.
And then a little grain of anger formed. And that was ok, too. Wasn't I entitled to feel angry? I mean, who wouldn't? It was all so unfair and all. So I periodically took it out and stroked it and polished it, and pretty soon it was bigger and hard and shiny and I could carry it everywhere. And so the wall went up. Which was great, because things didn't hurt so much then. Because what did I care?
Only this. This changed everything. I knew what she said was true because I felt my insides whump as soon as she said it. Because if she cares, then all I'm doing is reinforcing her shame, reinforcing her perceived worthlessness, her unloveablity.
And that's not why I'm here. That is not what I set out to do.
The same day (of course, because that's how things work), Christine said something about being brave enough to trade anger for silliness. It was just enough to kick my butt back on the wagon.
"I know you're not listening. That's cool. Thanks for picking that up anyway."
"ISAIDIT'STHEWHOLESHOE,NOTJUSTTHELACES,YOURUINED
THEMBYWEARINGTHEMTHATWAYANDYOU'RENOTGOINGTO
WEARTHEMNOWYOUNGLADYTHEYAREGOINGINTHEGARBAGEDIDYOUHEARME?"
Rome wasn't rebuilt in a day.
"But how can that be? How is it I never EVER see that? At home, everything's about how everything is everyone else's fault. She NEVER seems sorry. And all those things she makes me? She shoves them at me with a "here" like she's done with it now and doesn't know what else to do with it."
"Have YOU ever had to apologize to someone? You know how much anxiety that makes."
Oh no. Oh no oh no. Ohnohnohnohnohno. She can't be right. Because that changes everything. As Princess's medication balanced, she got meaner. It wasn't like it didn't know what was happening. I knew she was suddenly feeling everything without knowing how to deal with it. I knew it. But I got scared. She was never sorry; she never felt bad; she always acted the next day (or the next hour) like nothing had happened. She didn't care. Why should I? The implications were horrifying. It was easier to pull away. I told myself it was ok. I was giving myself space. I was taking care of myself. Right? Right?
Except that's not really what it was.
And then a little grain of anger formed. And that was ok, too. Wasn't I entitled to feel angry? I mean, who wouldn't? It was all so unfair and all. So I periodically took it out and stroked it and polished it, and pretty soon it was bigger and hard and shiny and I could carry it everywhere. And so the wall went up. Which was great, because things didn't hurt so much then. Because what did I care?
Only this. This changed everything. I knew what she said was true because I felt my insides whump as soon as she said it. Because if she cares, then all I'm doing is reinforcing her shame, reinforcing her perceived worthlessness, her unloveablity.
And that's not why I'm here. That is not what I set out to do.
The same day (of course, because that's how things work), Christine said something about being brave enough to trade anger for silliness. It was just enough to kick my butt back on the wagon.
"I know you're not listening. That's cool. Thanks for picking that up anyway."
"ISAIDIT'STHEWHOLESHOE,NOTJUSTTHELACES,YOURUINED
THEMBYWEARINGTHEMTHATWAYANDYOU'RENOTGOINGTO
WEARTHEMNOWYOUNGLADYTHEYAREGOINGINTHEGARBAGEDIDYOUHEARME?"
Rome wasn't rebuilt in a day.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Addictions
Today I got the accusation every mom dreads:
"You don't go outside with me because you're always typing on the computer to your little friends. Nyah!"
This summer I've restricted Princess's play with others to within my hearing. She gets irritated so easily (like because someone's breathing too close to her), and when she's irritated, it's zero to sixty in under two seconds. She can earn 15 minutes of unsupervised play time each time she uses her Calm-Down Card, but it's kind of hit or miss whether she has enough control to stop and do it. This restriction doesn't bother her too much with her sisters, but the neighbor's grand-daughters spend every other weekend at her house, and Princess watches for them to be outside like a death vigil. Then she follows me around chatting and complementing me for awhile before she gets down to the nitty-gritty:
"Did I earn any time yesterday?"
This question is only asked when she knows she did not.
The day before yesterday was hideous, requiring quite a bit of restraint and copious amount of spit dripping down my legs and face.
Yesterday, she played in a pool and ate popsicles.
So she figured she had "had a better day," and therefore, "earned time."
When she found out that she was, indeed, mistaken, she figured the next best thing was to inform me that I had to sit outside and supervise her.
When she found out that she was, again, indeed, mistaken, Princess yelled choice insults at me for several minutes. They included:
"YOU WON'T EVER SIT OUTSIDE AND WATCH ME BECAUSE YOU'RE ALWAYS TYPING ON THE COMPUTER TO YOUR (insert head waggle and finger quote-marks, which impressed me because I didn't know she knew how to use those) LITTLE FRIENDS!"
I was a little taken aback by this. Am I on the computer too much? I use F@cebook and read a couple blogs and check e-mail a few times. I'm part of a support group, and if the day is particularly bad I read what people are saying. So maybe I do? Is my parenting suffering? Are my children neglected? I started to worry. But then Princess continued:
"AND YOU'RE ALWAYS DOING LAUNDRY AND TAKING SHOWERS!!!!!"
Thank goodness! That cleared it all up for me. If my computer time pales in comparison to the time I spend on laundry and hygiene, I figure my F@cebooking future is safe for the time being.
"You don't go outside with me because you're always typing on the computer to your little friends. Nyah!"
This summer I've restricted Princess's play with others to within my hearing. She gets irritated so easily (like because someone's breathing too close to her), and when she's irritated, it's zero to sixty in under two seconds. She can earn 15 minutes of unsupervised play time each time she uses her Calm-Down Card, but it's kind of hit or miss whether she has enough control to stop and do it. This restriction doesn't bother her too much with her sisters, but the neighbor's grand-daughters spend every other weekend at her house, and Princess watches for them to be outside like a death vigil. Then she follows me around chatting and complementing me for awhile before she gets down to the nitty-gritty:
"Did I earn any time yesterday?"
This question is only asked when she knows she did not.
The day before yesterday was hideous, requiring quite a bit of restraint and copious amount of spit dripping down my legs and face.
Yesterday, she played in a pool and ate popsicles.
So she figured she had "had a better day," and therefore, "earned time."
When she found out that she was, indeed, mistaken, she figured the next best thing was to inform me that I had to sit outside and supervise her.
When she found out that she was, again, indeed, mistaken, Princess yelled choice insults at me for several minutes. They included:
"YOU WON'T EVER SIT OUTSIDE AND WATCH ME BECAUSE YOU'RE ALWAYS TYPING ON THE COMPUTER TO YOUR (insert head waggle and finger quote-marks, which impressed me because I didn't know she knew how to use those) LITTLE FRIENDS!"
I was a little taken aback by this. Am I on the computer too much? I use F@cebook and read a couple blogs and check e-mail a few times. I'm part of a support group, and if the day is particularly bad I read what people are saying. So maybe I do? Is my parenting suffering? Are my children neglected? I started to worry. But then Princess continued:
"AND YOU'RE ALWAYS DOING LAUNDRY AND TAKING SHOWERS!!!!!"
Thank goodness! That cleared it all up for me. If my computer time pales in comparison to the time I spend on laundry and hygiene, I figure my F@cebooking future is safe for the time being.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
So. Mother's Day.
Somewhere along the line, Josh developed the theory that I was sabotaging Mother's Day as much as Princess. It could have been that I could not stop crying in public long enough to eat a taco last year. But I don't know. So he decided to spring it on both of us by going out to brunch after church the Sunday before. Which would have worked really well. If I wasn't already freaking out about Mother's Day. And if we hadn't had a rip roaring fight in the car on the way to (and from church). We didn't fight at the actual church. Mostly because I ditched him when he went into the bathroom.
Not my most mature moment.
So it didn't work and later in the day, after hand-scrubbing the floor- which I only do when I'm really upset. Or really motivated. Mostly really upset- I begged and begged and BEGGED, on my hands and knees, even, not to have a Mother's Day. Unfortunately, Josh insisted because, and he wouldn't stop, that I deserve a Mother's Day. And this was a big problem for me because I realized
I don't actually believe that.
And I've been trying to resolve this in my head, because, really, I know I'm a good mother. I have three children who are above average in everything they do. One of them has come from almost where Princess was and amazes me every day. But Princess. Every day Princess pounds into my head, whether she means to or not:
And I haven't been. I've been agreeing.
Friday came, and the school-aged kids pranced up to the car and shoved all their gifts in my lap and insisted I open them while I tried to navigate the car-rider line without committing an unwritten car-rider line felony that would cause another mom to get out of her car and unload her angst upon me. Because it has happened before. And their things were super-sweet.
(that would be Buddy. I especially like the last sentence)
(and there is Princess. I suspect heavy prompting, but still a pretty big deal. It's all true to at least a degree, and she didn't say anything like, "My mom is close to my heart because she washes my socks." So it's all good)
(Peanut. What I love love love about this is that the big red hear is ME! I am the biggest! And that is a big, BIG deal)
Somewhere around Sunday afternoon, I lost it. I don't know how they did it, but the kids managed to be more awful than usual. Buddy was the worst, and since I can usually count on him to think past himself, it really hurt my feelings. And then my hurt feelings hurt his feelings. Since we are essentially the same person, that let to a cry-fest stand-off in the bathroom.
We eventually resolved it, though, and ended up sitting on the front porch together watching the stars come out, and it turned out to be the best part of the day.
Now we do it every evening.
In retrospect, I should have done it differently. I should have told them what I wanted. Point-blank. I should have sat them down and made them paint those birdhouses I bought. And then I should have left while Josh hung my bedroom curtains and cooked me dinner.
So don't be surprised if you call next weekend and I'm out getting a pedicure. I really need one, anyway.
Not my most mature moment.
So it didn't work and later in the day, after hand-scrubbing the floor- which I only do when I'm really upset. Or really motivated. Mostly really upset- I begged and begged and BEGGED, on my hands and knees, even, not to have a Mother's Day. Unfortunately, Josh insisted because, and he wouldn't stop, that I deserve a Mother's Day. And this was a big problem for me because I realized
I don't actually believe that.
And I've been trying to resolve this in my head, because, really, I know I'm a good mother. I have three children who are above average in everything they do. One of them has come from almost where Princess was and amazes me every day. But Princess. Every day Princess pounds into my head, whether she means to or not:
- you suck
- you'll never make a difference
- what you do doesn't matter
- you're letting the rest of your family down
- there's something wrong with you
- you just might be crazy
And I haven't been. I've been agreeing.
Friday came, and the school-aged kids pranced up to the car and shoved all their gifts in my lap and insisted I open them while I tried to navigate the car-rider line without committing an unwritten car-rider line felony that would cause another mom to get out of her car and unload her angst upon me. Because it has happened before. And their things were super-sweet.
Somewhere around Sunday afternoon, I lost it. I don't know how they did it, but the kids managed to be more awful than usual. Buddy was the worst, and since I can usually count on him to think past himself, it really hurt my feelings. And then my hurt feelings hurt his feelings. Since we are essentially the same person, that let to a cry-fest stand-off in the bathroom.
We eventually resolved it, though, and ended up sitting on the front porch together watching the stars come out, and it turned out to be the best part of the day.
Now we do it every evening.
In retrospect, I should have done it differently. I should have told them what I wanted. Point-blank. I should have sat them down and made them paint those birdhouses I bought. And then I should have left while Josh hung my bedroom curtains and cooked me dinner.
So don't be surprised if you call next weekend and I'm out getting a pedicure. I really need one, anyway.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Who Made Spring Break an Annual Event?
It is three hours into spring break, and I have already officially lost it.
Princess is super-nice while Josh is here. Or when anyone is here. Or when she's somewhere else, but as soon as that door shuts...
Well. Not so much.
So the door shut this morning, and immediately Princess began yelling at her sisters about cleaning up their room. Then, when they started yelling at her, she wanted me to "tell them to stop yelling at her."
When I went up to check on said supposedly cleaned-up room (and whatever was making to sound of hyenas in heat fighting each other to the death), Princess was in their room threatening to hit them with a doll chair held over her head.
I sent her to her room. Mostly to calm down my now-triggered self. And was told to shut up.
She calmed quickly because there was a pile of laundry to put away on her bed. Who doesn't love a good pile of laundry? I wasn't angry anymore, but my cow, this stuff HURTS! and I wasn't quite done hurting. So going in was certainly a mistake, but I did anyway. I mentioned that I really did not appreciate that she could be plenty nice while Daddy was here, but turns mean to me as soon as he leave. And I suggested that she reflect on the fact that she spends faaaaaaaaaar more time with me, and perhaps said time would be more pleasant for both of us if she used some of that niceness on me. Except I may have actually said, "fake niceness," which of course was another mistake. Then I went downstairs.
Probably as a direct result of the fake niceness barb, Princess went a whole fifteen seconds before whining about how she couldn't finish her laundry because she didn't have enough hangers. Because there is no way in the world you can do anything with laundry if you don't have a hanger. Putting things in dressers is unthinkable. I told her that if she felt she had too much clothing (which she does. I'm a sucker), she could feel free to bring some to me for storage for someone younger. To which she complied.
By throwing them at me.
And in the course of the dialouge that came next, I broke out the sarcasm. A lot of sarcasm.
Is that mistake #3? I lost count.
She said don't talk to me anymore. I said gladly.
It was all very therapeutic and conference-speaker worthy, let me tell you.
The part I'm thrown by, is what she's been doing since then. She has been walking back and forth, around and around. Pacing is not unusual for her, but it's not pacing. She's trying to get my attention. Probably for resolution.
And I don't know what to do.
I guess I'll go give her a hug.
Only 108 more hours to go.
Princess is super-nice while Josh is here. Or when anyone is here. Or when she's somewhere else, but as soon as that door shuts...
Well. Not so much.
So the door shut this morning, and immediately Princess began yelling at her sisters about cleaning up their room. Then, when they started yelling at her, she wanted me to "tell them to stop yelling at her."
When I went up to check on said supposedly cleaned-up room (and whatever was making to sound of hyenas in heat fighting each other to the death), Princess was in their room threatening to hit them with a doll chair held over her head.
I sent her to her room. Mostly to calm down my now-triggered self. And was told to shut up.
She calmed quickly because there was a pile of laundry to put away on her bed. Who doesn't love a good pile of laundry? I wasn't angry anymore, but my cow, this stuff HURTS! and I wasn't quite done hurting. So going in was certainly a mistake, but I did anyway. I mentioned that I really did not appreciate that she could be plenty nice while Daddy was here, but turns mean to me as soon as he leave. And I suggested that she reflect on the fact that she spends faaaaaaaaaar more time with me, and perhaps said time would be more pleasant for both of us if she used some of that niceness on me. Except I may have actually said, "fake niceness," which of course was another mistake. Then I went downstairs.
Probably as a direct result of the fake niceness barb, Princess went a whole fifteen seconds before whining about how she couldn't finish her laundry because she didn't have enough hangers. Because there is no way in the world you can do anything with laundry if you don't have a hanger. Putting things in dressers is unthinkable. I told her that if she felt she had too much clothing (which she does. I'm a sucker), she could feel free to bring some to me for storage for someone younger. To which she complied.
By throwing them at me.
And in the course of the dialouge that came next, I broke out the sarcasm. A lot of sarcasm.
Is that mistake #3? I lost count.
She said don't talk to me anymore. I said gladly.
It was all very therapeutic and conference-speaker worthy, let me tell you.
The part I'm thrown by, is what she's been doing since then. She has been walking back and forth, around and around. Pacing is not unusual for her, but it's not pacing. She's trying to get my attention. Probably for resolution.
And I don't know what to do.
I guess I'll go give her a hug.
Only 108 more hours to go.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
I Hate My Big Girl Pan.ties
Oh someone please, please help me. Preferably, someone would find a way to get me out of the state by Saturday.
Princess has enough money for a cupcake mix.
This commercial is a LIE!!! Those smiles? Maybe. But obviously the "mom" in that commercial is not an actual mom, because if she were, there would be no smiling. She would be hiding in the corner on the floor on the other side of the counter between the stools twitching while the dad tries to talk her out by holding a martini just out of her reach.
And, all the girls eyes widen when they take a bite and they say, "mmmmmmm!!!" as if eating that cupcake is the most amazing and delightful experience they've every had. If it was realistic, the commercial would show the girl's brother walking in and saying, "what smells like pe.e?"
Because that's the way it happens here.
Princess has enough money for a cupcake mix.
And the WORST part is, she shouldn't.
Last week Princess overheard Peanut asking me to pick up a "BOX OF 96 CRAYONS BECAUSE THEY COST SIX DOLLARS AND SHE HAS SIX DOLLARS AND NOW SHE'LL BE NUMBER FOUR TO HAVE A BOX OF 96 CRAYONS BECAUSE JOE HAS ONE AND KALA HAS ONE AND BOB HAS ONE AND NOW SHE'LL HAVE ONE YOU GET THEM AT THE STORE TO THE RIGHT OF PENNEY'S AND THEY COST SIX DOLLARS AND SHE HAS SIX DOLLARS AND NOW SHE'LL BE NUMBER FOUR SO PLEASE MOM WILL YOU IT'S AT THE STORE TO THE RIGHT OF PENNEY'S AND I HAVE SIX DOLLARS," and Princess asked me to get her a cupcake mix because they cost five dollars.
Princess, are you sure? I think they cost more than that.
No. They're five dollars.
So, of course they were six dollars.
At our house, you get allowance because you're part of the family and you do what you're asked without arguing because you're part of the family. However, one particular family member has a hard time with the "doing what you're asked without arguing" part, and that family member did not get her allowance last week because she was unable to put away Peanut's laundry as retribution for pounding her in the car. Unfortunately, said family member cannot be convinced that she is NOT PAID to put her laundry away, and did not understand why she did not get her allowance, as she left her laundry on her bed and used it until there were two shirts left, and then put away the two shirts, which resulted in more money-docking arguing and consequence-ensuing insults.
And then she &*%&$ found a %(*&&#& dollar at swim lessons.
And now she has enough.
So Saturday, after six (so far) days of not being able to say ANYTHING to Princess without having something rude and hurtful spat back at me, I have to suck it up and use a toy I hate more than anything every created. Besides speculums. And eat something that smells like pee.
Get me out of here NOW!!!
Princess has enough money for a cupcake mix.
This commercial is a LIE!!! Those smiles? Maybe. But obviously the "mom" in that commercial is not an actual mom, because if she were, there would be no smiling. She would be hiding in the corner on the floor on the other side of the counter between the stools twitching while the dad tries to talk her out by holding a martini just out of her reach.
And, all the girls eyes widen when they take a bite and they say, "mmmmmmm!!!" as if eating that cupcake is the most amazing and delightful experience they've every had. If it was realistic, the commercial would show the girl's brother walking in and saying, "what smells like pe.e?"
Because that's the way it happens here.
Princess has enough money for a cupcake mix.
And the WORST part is, she shouldn't.
Last week Princess overheard Peanut asking me to pick up a "BOX OF 96 CRAYONS BECAUSE THEY COST SIX DOLLARS AND SHE HAS SIX DOLLARS AND NOW SHE'LL BE NUMBER FOUR TO HAVE A BOX OF 96 CRAYONS BECAUSE JOE HAS ONE AND KALA HAS ONE AND BOB HAS ONE AND NOW SHE'LL HAVE ONE YOU GET THEM AT THE STORE TO THE RIGHT OF PENNEY'S AND THEY COST SIX DOLLARS AND SHE HAS SIX DOLLARS AND NOW SHE'LL BE NUMBER FOUR SO PLEASE MOM WILL YOU IT'S AT THE STORE TO THE RIGHT OF PENNEY'S AND I HAVE SIX DOLLARS," and Princess asked me to get her a cupcake mix because they cost five dollars.
Princess, are you sure? I think they cost more than that.
No. They're five dollars.
So, of course they were six dollars.
At our house, you get allowance because you're part of the family and you do what you're asked without arguing because you're part of the family. However, one particular family member has a hard time with the "doing what you're asked without arguing" part, and that family member did not get her allowance last week because she was unable to put away Peanut's laundry as retribution for pounding her in the car. Unfortunately, said family member cannot be convinced that she is NOT PAID to put her laundry away, and did not understand why she did not get her allowance, as she left her laundry on her bed and used it until there were two shirts left, and then put away the two shirts, which resulted in more money-docking arguing and consequence-ensuing insults.
And then she &*%&$ found a %(*&&#& dollar at swim lessons.
And now she has enough.
So Saturday, after six (so far) days of not being able to say ANYTHING to Princess without having something rude and hurtful spat back at me, I have to suck it up and use a toy I hate more than anything every created. Besides speculums. And eat something that smells like pee.
Get me out of here NOW!!!
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Annual Post-Fight Photo
Here is our Christmas picture:
You might have noticed some important things. Like the distinct lack of attention to detail. Princess's pa.nties, for instance. Or that everyone's knees are in their chins. Or that everyone but Princess looks distressed. Or like that there are apparently no adults in this family. These details should only lead you to one conclusion:
at the taking of this photograph, I was furious.
In fact, if memory serves me, I had locked myself in the basement and was crying while trying to scream, "what's the use of pretending we're a normal family? How about we send out a picture of three kids fighting and one kid screaming and punching everyone?"
By this point, Princess had capped off the past four hideous days with such gems as, "I did talk nice to you. One time last night at the party," "I did say sorry. To that little girl," and my favorite, "yeah, well, you slammed me into the wall." For that particular beauty, I think she's referencing a time earlier that day when she flung herself into a wall. But she hadn't meant to, so by default it turns into me doing it.
For the entire weekend, I was not able to say even one thing to her that didn't provoke an onslaught of Mean. Before Princess, I was pretty sure I'd just laugh when my kids did the "I hate you" thing. But I was thinking of regular kids. This child has so much anger and hurt trapped inside her that she refuses to acknowledge or let out, that it's really hard to not take the seepage personally. Most of the time, I think I do ok. But when someone works THAT HARD to the sole goal of Making You Not Like Her, well, it's really tempting to give in. And my armor cracked.
Josh gave me a big "you're the reasonably mentally-healthy grown-up, so act like it," pep talk, but it HURTS! I'm stumbling on better today (thankfully, since it's a snow day, oh horror of horrors), but I did lose it a bit when Princess told the Cuddle Bear she should say she was sorry for something she did to Buddy. Oh really? She should say what? That she's sorry? For making someone feel bad? Princess, I don't think you're ready to teach that one yet. I think you'd better learn it yourself, first.
Of course, I should talk. I am not exactly practicing forgiveness, here. I'm trying to remind my self how horribly frightening it must be to not trust anyone enough to say even, "Someone said there's no Santa. I'm upset. Please help."
Horribly frightening.
You might have noticed some important things. Like the distinct lack of attention to detail. Princess's pa.nties, for instance. Or that everyone's knees are in their chins. Or that everyone but Princess looks distressed. Or like that there are apparently no adults in this family. These details should only lead you to one conclusion:
at the taking of this photograph, I was furious.
In fact, if memory serves me, I had locked myself in the basement and was crying while trying to scream, "what's the use of pretending we're a normal family? How about we send out a picture of three kids fighting and one kid screaming and punching everyone?"
By this point, Princess had capped off the past four hideous days with such gems as, "I did talk nice to you. One time last night at the party," "I did say sorry. To that little girl," and my favorite, "yeah, well, you slammed me into the wall." For that particular beauty, I think she's referencing a time earlier that day when she flung herself into a wall. But she hadn't meant to, so by default it turns into me doing it.
For the entire weekend, I was not able to say even one thing to her that didn't provoke an onslaught of Mean. Before Princess, I was pretty sure I'd just laugh when my kids did the "I hate you" thing. But I was thinking of regular kids. This child has so much anger and hurt trapped inside her that she refuses to acknowledge or let out, that it's really hard to not take the seepage personally. Most of the time, I think I do ok. But when someone works THAT HARD to the sole goal of Making You Not Like Her, well, it's really tempting to give in. And my armor cracked.
Josh gave me a big "you're the reasonably mentally-healthy grown-up, so act like it," pep talk, but it HURTS! I'm stumbling on better today (thankfully, since it's a snow day, oh horror of horrors), but I did lose it a bit when Princess told the Cuddle Bear she should say she was sorry for something she did to Buddy. Oh really? She should say what? That she's sorry? For making someone feel bad? Princess, I don't think you're ready to teach that one yet. I think you'd better learn it yourself, first.
Of course, I should talk. I am not exactly practicing forgiveness, here. I'm trying to remind my self how horribly frightening it must be to not trust anyone enough to say even, "Someone said there's no Santa. I'm upset. Please help."
Horribly frightening.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Santa: Myth or Legend?
I am not super-big on Santa. Friendly stranger breaks into your house via the chimney while his reindeer poop on your roof, leaves his stuff in your living room and eats your cookies. Creeps me out. So when Buddy was little, we just didn't really talk about Santa. When he was two-ish, he started to get a confused look when people would ask if Santa had come to his house and to be uncomfortable with their confused looks when he said no. So he asked what this whole Santa deal was about, and I told him.
But then the girls came, pre-packaged with Santa lore. Especially fun was comforting a teary 3-year-old who spent two weeks excited beyond her brain capacity to "give Santa a hug when he comes to J's house," only to find that Santa had come and gone and left presents and she had missed it.
And things have gotten a little blurry.
Last year Princess wrote Santa a long and involved letter asking for a boot ornament. That was all. A boot ornament. And I, in my deluded short-sightedness thought, oh, how cute. A boot ornament. And I spent two weeks scouring the internet and the stores for a boot ornament. They are not as easily found as one might think. But find one I did.
Only she hadn't wanted a boot. She had wanted a boat. Which should have been obvious to me, since Buddy's favorite ornament is a boat, and Princess is never confident that what she has and likes is good enough.
Santa, as it turns out, cannot read first-grade spelling.
So it is now post-Thanksgiving, and Princess has in the last two days killed a small forest of trees to write letters for Santa. And Buddy is dropping several hints that maybe it's about time for her to drop this Santa thing already. And I am dropping Buddy not-so-subtle hints that this is not his area to meddle in and I will drop-kick him off Santa's sleigh if he continues.
And I don't really know what to do.
I do know Santa is not going to attempt to decipher second-grade writing this year. But I don't feel it's my place to burst the bubble, either. I'm adopting a, "well, I guess we'll see what happens I don't know," attitude.
But I can't shake the feeling that I've painted myself into a corner.
But then the girls came, pre-packaged with Santa lore. Especially fun was comforting a teary 3-year-old who spent two weeks excited beyond her brain capacity to "give Santa a hug when he comes to J's house," only to find that Santa had come and gone and left presents and she had missed it.
And things have gotten a little blurry.
Last year Princess wrote Santa a long and involved letter asking for a boot ornament. That was all. A boot ornament. And I, in my deluded short-sightedness thought, oh, how cute. A boot ornament. And I spent two weeks scouring the internet and the stores for a boot ornament. They are not as easily found as one might think. But find one I did.
Only she hadn't wanted a boot. She had wanted a boat. Which should have been obvious to me, since Buddy's favorite ornament is a boat, and Princess is never confident that what she has and likes is good enough.
Santa, as it turns out, cannot read first-grade spelling.
So it is now post-Thanksgiving, and Princess has in the last two days killed a small forest of trees to write letters for Santa. And Buddy is dropping several hints that maybe it's about time for her to drop this Santa thing already. And I am dropping Buddy not-so-subtle hints that this is not his area to meddle in and I will drop-kick him off Santa's sleigh if he continues.
And I don't really know what to do.
I do know Santa is not going to attempt to decipher second-grade writing this year. But I don't feel it's my place to burst the bubble, either. I'm adopting a, "well, I guess we'll see what happens I don't know," attitude.
But I can't shake the feeling that I've painted myself into a corner.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
And Then...
...there was Wednesday.
I knew it would happen. I really did. Josh and I had a garden party to attend (doesn't that sound so much more sophisticated than I really am?) Tuesday evening, and the friend who took the children felt it would be easier for her to keep them all night. Because this is a good friend I know well who knows my children (and their issues) well and whose children are friends with mine, I agreed. Knowing.
I picked the kids up, and a fight broke out in the back of the Suburban about Princess's thermos, whether or not it was leaking, and whether or not it was Peanut's fault. When we got home, Princess got out and threw her (expensive for me) thermos down on the driveway. I did not have a therapeutic moment. I went nutso.
"Non-Therapeutic Interaction"
-by Kerrie
K: Oh that's nice! I hope you enjoy drinking water for lunch in second grade. Fine! If you don't care about your things, neither do I! (K proceeds to throw Princess's overnight equipment out of the car onto the driveway)
P: You're making it dirty! You're mean!
K: Yeah, well, if you don't care about your things, why should I?
(by this point, we are both stomping and yelling and pointing fingers and throwing things and being very mature)
A: Yeah, well, you're supposed to treat others the way you want to be treated!
K: What!!!! What did you just say to me!!!!
A: (spits giant wad of Hubba Bubba at K)
K: (waits til P isn't looking and puts giant wad of Hubba Bubba inside P's shoe)
A: (pe.es pant out of spite and throws them down the stairs)
(The writer of this blog is in no way insinuating that anyone has this type of conversation with their child. The writer of this blog also fully realizes how immature she was)
"What I Should Have Said"
-by Kerrie
Yep. That would be nothing. NOTHING. I should have said nothing. I should have bit my cheeks until they bleed, gone up to my room, locked the door, and pounded all the poky feathers out of my pillow until the urge passed.
And now this is where I sigh heavily and acknowledge that I stunk.
And move on.
I knew it would happen. I really did. Josh and I had a garden party to attend (doesn't that sound so much more sophisticated than I really am?) Tuesday evening, and the friend who took the children felt it would be easier for her to keep them all night. Because this is a good friend I know well who knows my children (and their issues) well and whose children are friends with mine, I agreed. Knowing.
I picked the kids up, and a fight broke out in the back of the Suburban about Princess's thermos, whether or not it was leaking, and whether or not it was Peanut's fault. When we got home, Princess got out and threw her (expensive for me) thermos down on the driveway. I did not have a therapeutic moment. I went nutso.
"Non-Therapeutic Interaction"
-by Kerrie
K: Oh that's nice! I hope you enjoy drinking water for lunch in second grade. Fine! If you don't care about your things, neither do I! (K proceeds to throw Princess's overnight equipment out of the car onto the driveway)
P: You're making it dirty! You're mean!
K: Yeah, well, if you don't care about your things, why should I?
(by this point, we are both stomping and yelling and pointing fingers and throwing things and being very mature)
A: Yeah, well, you're supposed to treat others the way you want to be treated!
K: What!!!! What did you just say to me!!!!
A: (spits giant wad of Hubba Bubba at K)
K: (waits til P isn't looking and puts giant wad of Hubba Bubba inside P's shoe)
A: (pe.es pant out of spite and throws them down the stairs)
(The writer of this blog is in no way insinuating that anyone has this type of conversation with their child. The writer of this blog also fully realizes how immature she was)
"What I Should Have Said"
-by Kerrie
Yep. That would be nothing. NOTHING. I should have said nothing. I should have bit my cheeks until they bleed, gone up to my room, locked the door, and pounded all the poky feathers out of my pillow until the urge passed.
And now this is where I sigh heavily and acknowledge that I stunk.
And move on.
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