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.

Another Installment of "Things You Probably Haven't Said"

Brought to you by Kerrie. Be jealous.



You know, I think it's really great you're excited about your new deodorant. It's ok to be excited about it: it's new, it smells good, and it's a clue that your body's changing into a grown-up's, which is pretty cool. The thing is...well, the thing is that it's not the kind of thing other people are going to get excited about. They'll get excited about their own deodorant, maybe, when it's time for them to use it, but they aren't likely to get excited about anyone else's deodorant. So if you want to tell people about your deodorant, that fine. Just be prepared that they're going to say, "oh," or something like that. Not do a dance of joy.

But the main thing to remember is, if you want to share the smell of your deodorant with someone, like maybe a sister, for instance, you really should ASK before you shove it under their nose. Because if you don't ask, it's fairly likely they'll snatch it out of your hands and throw it in the wastebasket. You know. Like just now. So it's ok to be excited about it.

Just ask first.

Rentry

Last night, Josh walk in from the kitchen with a piece of paper.

You got another check. For your blog.
 Mmmm? Oh. Yeah.
You're still making money? You're not even writing.
Mmm.
The check's still made out to our street. Maybe our whole street can take it to the bank and cash it.
Mmm. Yeah. I should really change that.
You should really write again.
Yeah.
No. You really should write again.


I know. I want to. But I can't even figure out what's going on for myself. How will I tell about it? And I'm afraid it will all up sounding the same. Like the same whiny baby. I'm afraid of being boring.

Maybe that's ok. "Same" is ok. Haven't you noticed for weeks we've been watching a bunch of guys pretend to be bikers, and they keep doing the same stupid crap every episode? And we're entertained! And now we're going to watch some zombies. I'm going to guess there will be some faces falling off. And a lot of growling and oozing. And maybe some sexual tension. So you should write.



And really, he had a point. Because if you have the kind of family where your husband can pull off supporting and encouraging you by comparing your work to that of zombies, then really, you should write.

The Bus Ride of Doom

So it finally happened. I'm impressed she made it two quarters- I had given her a month.
Princess is suspended from the bus Monday and Tuesday.

I'm not even remotely disturbed about the suspension, considering how she's been rolling lately. What I'm upset about is how it went down.

Ok. The part about being not disturbed was a lie.

Anyway. Her medications have been considered "balanced" since the end of December. What that seems to mean for Princess is that the noise has cleared away and she's left staring in the face of unimaginable fear about everything and horrifying shame.

I can feel it radiating from her whenever she's near. Which is a lot. Because bad things tend to happen when she is not in the same room as me. Things that are not her fault and she did nothing to trigger and she doesn't know why they happened.

Can you see the sarcasm font? I'm trying it out. No? Oh, well.

It's a step in her healing. I know it is. But it's so scary. 

So. Thursday the bus pulled up and it was driven by a different driver. Princess squealed, "yay! I LOVE this bus driver!" I squealed, "CRAP!!!!"

Thursday afternoon, Princess burst in the door (she always sprints the last bit of the walk. I imagine it's so she gets here before anyone can report on her) full of cheer and bubbles. The others followed. Buddy was last, purple with fury. There is nothing, NOTHING, I say, Buddy detests more than a rule-breaker. He loves social order. And Princess, well, she doesn't value it so much. She apparently did not value it at all Thursday afternoon.

The next two days passes, remarkably, with very little incident.

Friday the phone rang. Mr. Principal was on the other end. He said, "so, did Princess happen to mention anything about the bus ride Thursday."
No, but aaaaaaaaall my other children did.
Did anyone say anything about Princess being threatened?
I don't think so. Mostly that she seems to have broken every rule in the rule book, in order.
Hmm. I was just wondering what she'd say to you. Thursday she came in my office sort of crying, although they didn't seem like real tears. She told me that (we'll call her Sheila) was yelling at her and hit her and told her she was going to kill Princess.
Ok. Here's what I do know. I do know that Princess has an assigned seat and she knows she is to keep her bottom in it. I do know that Princess and Sheila are not to be near each other and that Princess know she is not to GO near Sheila. And I know that Princess was not in her seat, but was moving and jumping all over the bus. So my *guess* is that Princess went up to Sheila and began teasing or irritating her.
Well, you obviously know your daughter well.
Yeah. Great.

Then Mr. Principal told me that he has suspended Sheila from the bus for three days, but after hearing Sheila's side, he decided to dig up the tape from that day's bus ride.

That's right. The buses have a video feed. It was installed this year and all the children know about it. Princess, however, has never really believed it because there's not a big giant movie camera nailed to the top of the bus.

He said, "and I was horrified at the behavior I saw Princess display."

Yep. Horrified.

Princess had done just what I guessed. Princess sought out Sheila, stuck her face in the middle of Sheila's interactions with the people around her, sassed her, laughed obnoxiously in her face, then turned and talked to students near her. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Then walked into school, turned on the tears, and told Mr. Principal a death threat story.

Devious. Completely devious.

I have a plan and all. I warned her long ago that if she was not allowed to ride the bus she's be paying me for my time and gas or working off the dept, all privileges suspended. She knows that the principal called, and I imagine she knows it was about her, but since I said nothing she's not acting like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop. She doesn't know she's suspended and she doesn't know that irrefutable proof is available. She doesn't know that I'm going to have her tell me what "happened" then write it down and sign it. She doesn't know that I'm going into school Tuesday morning and will have her called to the office to watch the video feed with me. She doesn't know that I'm going to have her admit her wrongdoing to both Mr. Principal and Sheila. It's all set up nicely, and highly supported by Mr. Principal. I can deal with that part of it.

But the way she went about it. I don't know what to do with that. There is fear growing inside me that she is not only going to crash and burn, but she's going to take everyone she can with her.

Clearly, I've Done Something Right

and it's not often I can say that, so I think I'll say it again. Just to make myself feel good:

Clearly, I've done something right.

I find that major transitions, such as school beginning or ending, are excellent times to sneak stuff into the routine that you know the kids aren't going to be super crazy about. They're usually reeling from change and so bleary-eyed from either too little or too much sleep that they don't realize what you've done until it's too late.

This summer it was, "hey, guess what! Your new job is picking up and vacuuming the dining room/ living room/ family room/ kitchen!"
Them: "uh um uh um. Ok....."

Our typical pre-school routine in the past has been: 1. clothing and hygiene, 2. breakfast, 3. more hygiene, 4. play scream and jump on each other's heads, 5. listen to mom blow a gasket over getting our shoes on and tied.

This time, I decided to remove "play Scream and Jump on Each Other's Heads," and replace it with "Read Bible Quietly to Self."

This was not well-recieved.

Mainly by Buddy, who is very dedicated to his before-school hobby of covering the sofa in cornflake crumbs and watching PBS shows that he'd rather no one knew he liked. So I wasn't particularly surprised to hear the dulcet tones of his crabbing. I handed him a Bible below his reading level.

Fifteen minutes later I had to drag him out the door carrying his shoes.
After school I had to shut it on his hands to get him to get his cleats on for soccer.
Then he disappeared with it for several hours after dinner.

I tucked him in bed and reminded him lights-off was at 9:30.
At 9:31 he came tearing downstairs.

MOM! CAN I READ JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER? CAN I? JOSEPH IS ABOUT TO MEET HIS BROTHER AND THEY DON'T KNOW WHO HE IS!!!

Um. Ok. But then you CLOSE that Bible, Mister! One more chapter, and that's IT! No more God's Word for you tonight, do you hear me?

Um. So yeah.

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.

Are You Ready for School?

We are one of the last states in the nation to begin school. One of the ways we try to keep out of bankrupcy is by getting people to come here and pay for stuff, but you have to have employees to take the money, and the only people who want to be paid to take money for just the summer and no longer are...

students.

So, while the rest of the nation is happily buried in textbooks and icky school lunches and maternal bliss, we get an extra week to freak out.

This year, the freak out is compounded by a new school. Princess started hers six weeks ago, Peanut four, and Buddy freaked out six months ago when we broke the news, and is mostly fine now. The Cuddle Bear is just happy that she is finally old enough to do something the other kids do, she really doesn't care where.

I started mine this week.

This, of course caught me off guard.

About mid-August, people start asking, so are you ready for school to start? as a conversation opener to moms. Suddenly, I realized that every time someone asked me, they'd slowly start to back away and then find something important on their fancy-pants touch-screen phone. That's when I realized my mouth had disconnected from my brain: my brain though I was saying, oh, I don't know. I like having them with me, but the reality was

SCHOOL! GAH! SCHOOL IS STARTING? NEXT WEEK? GAH!
Will my teachers like me?
Will I get in trouble with the principal?
Will I make friends?

What if no one likes me?

No. I'm serious. What if no one likes me? I'm in this horrible phase were no one has as many kids as me, so everyone I suckered into liking me with a boy Buddy's age has had all their kids in school for a couple of years and have gone back to work full time. All the parents of kids the Cuddle Bear's age didn't have enough kids to get to the Eh it's Not Really Dirty You Can Still Eat It Was it You Who Put the Dog in the Pot on The Stove That's So Funny stage, so they're slightly horrified at my parenting. And everyone knows middle kids get lost in the shuffle, so I'm not even sure Princess's and Peanut's classmates have parents. Top that with the economy that has lost three of my friends' husbands their jobs so they moved out of state for new ones, and you find that I know roughly one person in my community.

I am bored and lonely.
And I'm concerned that my social skills have deteriorated.
Am I going to have to *shudder* join the PTO?

Tell me it's not as bad as all that.

Where's MY Calm-Down Card?

I have all these great ideas, and no one they work with.

Since spring, I've had to restrict Princess's world smaller and smaller, keeping her closer and closer to me. She's been going 0 to 120 in under a second and hitting or bludgeoning siblings with very little warning, in addition to the bus incident and shouting in the gym teacher's face. I now need her withing hearing distance so that I can catch things going south quickly, which means no girls' room, no basement, and no outside when I'm not there and other kids are. Josh or I are outside plenty every day, but this one is still a particular thorn in Princess's paw.

At the same time, I've been focusing on encouraging her to use her Calm-Down Card. So last night I though, huh; I could pair them together.

This morning I explained that YAY! I thought of a way she could earn some time outside with other kids and no me! Every time Daddy or I tell her to use her calm-down card, and she does, she can have 15 minutes of other-kid-outside-time. Isn't that GREAT?

Princess sure thought it was. She immediately grabbed her calm-down card off the fridge and started to run down the steps.

Um. Princess? So...who told you to use your calm-down card?
But you said if I use it I get time outside with the other kids.
I said if you use it when Daddy or I tells you to you earn time outside with the other kids.
Oh.

And she went back to running the steps on the card.

Princess. Who told you to use the card?
No one.
Ok. I think you should grab a paper and a pencil. I think you need some help remembering this.


She came back with lined paper and a marker. I recited the conditions. Twice. She wrote them in hot pink marker completely ignoring the lines on the page. When I had her read it back to me, she got as far as word three before she was stumped.

Hey Princess. What do you think the lines on the page are for?
To write on?
Right. So I bet it would be pretty helpful to write ON them, don't you think? Try that.

So she did. Twice.

Honey, do you think it's the marker that's the problem, or your handwriting?
My handwriting.
Ok, then you'll need to write it again, but neatly, because you'll need to be able to read this when if we have a disagreement about it later.

Again.

Get a new paper and a pen or pencil.


So it was written and read successfully.

So now can I go outside?
Uh....the Cuddle Bear is out there right now- how many minutes have you earned, honey?
None?
Yeeeeah.
So can I go outside?
Um, no.
REEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
Go use your calm-down card.

So she sat down on the steps. A few moments later the noise started up again.

I see you're not using your calm-down card, so you'll need to go finish that noise in your room.

The typical room-scream fest insued, followed by the quiet formal Time Out, and I released Princess to "do over."

So can I go outside?
???
You told me to do my calm-down card.
Yes, well, but the whole DOING of the calm-down card was missing, and that's kind of the whole thing behind earning Time Outside With Kids.
Oh. Ok.

And she began to run down the calm-down card steps.

Ok! I'm done! Can I go outside?

Seriously, I'll spare you, because this happened twice more with negative-forty calm-down card usage. By 9:30 a.m. I was banging my head on the table trying to hold back tears as to not upset Buddy who was verbalizing his desire to not have to listen to this crap all the time as Josh prepared to leave for work earlier than he had intended because listening to all of this was actually putting him backward in what he needed to accomplish.

Did I mention my Suburban is in the shop? Since Monday night until Friday afternoon? Yep, that's right- I cannot leave. Oh, and by some disgusting slap in the face of fate, Josh has extra stuff after work several nights this week and has to show our old house to several prospective tenants. Fabulous life timing. Plus the thing he's going to tonight has great food and great wine and great people and every year everyone says, "you should bring your wife," but his wife is not fit to be seen because she keeps breaking out in hives and is missing chunks of her hair.

On the bright side, I have plenty of time to pound the calm-down card. Excuse me while I go use it myself.

Peanut Ingenuity

My children are geniuses.
No. Seriously. They are.
Ok. So there hasn't been any testing to prove it. Who needs testing when there is cold hard evidence like this:

Summer (so far) hasn't been as bad as last year, but no miracles have ocured in the past year, either. As a result, the atmosphere of our house could be described as... well,

noisy.

The good news is: thanks to what they call "pharmaceutical intervention," we're down to one decent size rage per day, plus we're getting about four rage-free days for every 10 non-rage-free. This is a major step up from six to ten rages per day plus my hugely bruised shins, bite-marked arms, and concussed head of yester summer.

Still, it's... well,
noisy.

The above photos were taken during a particularly noisy moment. I had restricted Princess to smack dab inside my space, and she was making very sure I enjoyed it as little as humanly possible. Princess has patented a noise she reserves for such moments. It is truly indescribable, but if you did a mash-up of fingernails on a chalkboard, squeaking Styrofoam, a fork scratching into ice, and the mating cry of rhesus monkeys, you could probably use it as a springboard for your imagination.

As this hideous noise is taking place, in slither these two blanketed figures, at an incredibly slow pace. So slow that it take at least five minutes for me to realize they are slithering through the kitchen. As they near me, the larger blob raises an appendage and hands me a blanket.

"Here Mom. Here is your snail shell. If you put it on, you won't be able to hear the screaming. It'll just sound like, 'hey I REALLY love my family.'"

See. I told you. Geniuses.

(photo by Peanut. Which is why my hips look disproportionately wide. She's short)

What Goes Around

Our family's therapist suggested (strongly) that I get a "prickly mean" babysitter for Princess once a week for the summer, and take the other kids on a fun outing, or I am risking them hating her for the rest of her life.

Which I totally believe.

So, two sisters came to mind who are in their 20s, have good senses of humor, and grew up with foster and adopted children in their family. But they're 20, so they're not going to be free. I figure $20 for two hours to sit and read, or surf the internet, or knit, or anything just as long as it is not entertaining Princess was fairly reasonable. So then comes the question of how to obtain $240.

I could give up yarn.
I could stop buying hanging baskets.
I could quit feeding the kids. That would provide $100 a week, easy.

None of them sound very appealing. But nether does three children hating one child for life. So, you know.

Then I got a phone call. It was the foster parent I provided respite for last summer.

Last summer I watcher her two medically-fragile prematurely-born foster infant twins for 4-6 hours once a week. While packing for a move. And dealing with Princess's near-constant packingforamove rages. It wasn't fun, but when the girls were placed with me, someone I had never even met came for four hours once a week so I could get two my own appointments. Or Princess's appointments. Or breathe. It completely saved any sanity I had left. And she stuck with me for three years. Now we knit together.

It's important to me to pay that forward.

I didn't ask for, expect, or want money, but when she asked if I'd take payment if DHS would pay for it, I said, sure- why not?

That was a year ago, and I stopped providing respite last September.

So this week, she calls me. And she said,

"DHS paid me for you. Not all of it. I don't think I'll ever be able to get you all of it. But I got some, and I left it at Josh's work for him to give to you.

It's $250."



I am well cared for.

My Favorite Chore

I love Clean Sheet Day. It's when you learn all the good stuff. Like what their secret plans are:

Or what they're getting the next time they're allowed a treat:

If only doing the dishes were so interesting.

End of Spring Break Soapsud Reflections

I was wondering, while washing the dishes, why 3/4 of the children can lose their tempers and scream something unsavory at me, and it ruffles none of my feathers

while 1/4 of the children send me into a paralyzed depression.



I think it's because exactly 1/4 of the time I suspect the unsavory things might be true.

When Mother's Day Comes Early

"Let's make Mom a pwesent!!!" spoken in hushed tones by the two children who still cannot pronounce their "r"s.
Peanut and the Cuddle Bear disappear into the depths of the basement playroom.

"Hewe, Mom! Happy Mudder's Day!" shouts the Cuddle Bear. Peanut stands nearby with a grin.

I open the leftover birthday gift bag, peel back the left over birthday tissue and expose...

"What on earth..." Orange rolls of foam spill out. Thousands of them. Josh loves Amazon.
And I recognize them.

Peanut claps her hands.
"They're eaw plugs!" squeals the Cuddle Bear, "you can put them in your eaws when Pwincess sqweams!"

"Oh my. Thank-you, girls. That's so, um.... thoughtful."

Because, of course, it was.

All Because You're Eew

A conversation, on the way home from school:

Peanut: Mom? Did I ever get lost?
Me: No. Not when you were with me.
Peanut: I don't think I got lost with J., either.
Me: I don't know.
Peanut: I wish I was born with you instead of born with J. and you adopted me.
Me: You think it would have been easier to be born with me.
Peanut. Yeah. Mom? Did you want us?
Me: Very much.
Peanut: Because we were cute?
Me: No. Because you're you.
Peanut: We're eew?

Well. It was almost a poignant moment anyway.

My Life is Nothing if Not Ironic

I have often said, and I hold by it, that I would have been more than willing to go through another round of labor with each child (well, in the case of the girls, any labor at all), if what came out at the end was an individualized parenting manual. Would it be awkward? Certainly. Would the spiral binding be extremely uncomfortable? Without a doubt. But it would have been so useful in the quest to be four different sets of parents living under one roof.

Because that's what my children seem to need: four different sets of parents. That's how completely different each of them are.

Tuesday is dance and piano day. At least it was. I do not like dance and piano day. Every. Single dance and piano day, Princess has a tantrum to and from school, and Buddy has a whine fest at home as we pack up his piano book. Especially if he has not practiced that week. Learned that lesson the hard way. Anyway. In January I finally noticed that the after-school car rages defiantly had a pattern: every Tuesday. No other day. While it was a relief that they were down to one day a week, I felt it needed to be addressed, so I asked Princess what was bugging her about dance. She gave me a couple I don't knows and some shoulder shrugs and some nothings, and then came out with, "I don't like it that some people are better than me."

In reality, Princess is pretty on par with the girls in her class. But, you know, there's always The One. When you're an adult, The One usually has expensively highlighted hair, lots of time to spend on the treadmill, a handsome husband about whom you can find nothing to snipe, three kids, and two dogs. She has a bunco night, and all  her excellent desserts are from the new Ina Gar.ten  cookbook. There are kid The Ones, too though. The One in Princess's tap class is a charming little girl with tons of energy and charisma who always knows the answer and practices incessantly outside of class. And you just have to get used to The One, because not only is she always going to be there, but her hair is going to look exponentially better than yours as you age. Ahem. Not that I have issues.

So I tried to have a talk with Princess about finding joy in doing your personal best and improving through practice. I reminded her that car tantrums are not an acceptable way of venting one's anxiety, and I warned that we would need to make a decision about dance soon, as recital preparations were underway. She said she wanted to keep going to lessons and she would let me help her do breathing exercises on Tuesdays.

Only she didn't. She missed four lessons in a row because she either was unable to get dressed for lessons or unable to ride in the car safely (read: screaming, flailing, and throwing things). So this week I said, I'm sorry, but we're done. I'll keep helping you learn to manage your anxiety, and probably in another grade you'll be able to do it so well we can try dance again. She shook her head no several times, and a tear ran down her face. It was a struggle for me. I loved having her in dance. It was hard to say we're stopping.

AND, because life is like that, on the VERY SAME DAY I had this conversation with Buddy:

Me: You're going to piano.
Buddy: But I hate piano! Why do you keep making me do it? I hate it!
M: Because there are two things parents make their kids do no matter how much they hate it: school and   piano.
B: Why do you want to make me do something I haaaaaaaaaate?
M: Because everything is easy for you. It's good for you to practice working on something hard.
B: But whyyyyyyyyyyy?
M: I'll tell you why. Because adults who have had everything easy have big adult temper tantrums when they have to do something hard. And they are NOT pretty. And I don't want your wife to leave you. So get in the car.

Sometimes I get the sneaking suspicion I'm being laughed at on a cosmic level. But maybe I'm just paranoid.

Is Having No Self-Respect the Same as Clinical Depression?

So. When the summer class schedule came out for the school at which I was taking Zumba,* I noticed they were offering Old People Beginning From Dirt Ballet. Ok, so they called it "Adult Beginning Ballet," but we all know what they meant. And I was really excited, because somewhere I got it stuck in my head that I wanted to take ballet, but no one else offered it for People Who Suck.

I happily bought my first pair of adorable pink ballet slippers and showed up.

I was the only one.

Until another girl walked in, and it turned out she was a professional dancer (as in, "gets paid") for a company in Baltimore. And then I really wished I had been the only one who showed up.

But then she didn't come again, and I talked a friend into joining too, and it was all good and I learned how to plie without looking like a cow. And I took two more sessions and started to feel actually competent, even though whenever I demonstrate anything for Josh, he looks like he's in pain or has gas and says, "I'm really glad you're enjoying yourself."

So I was feeling pretty good about myself. And then class got canceled and I asked what my options were for make-up. The director said, "well. There's Beginning Adult Hip-Hop."

Heh heh. No.

"Well, then your best fit is probably Floor Barre."
Floor Barre?
"It's kind of like Pilates."

So Saturday morning I happily tripped off to Floor Barre.

And she was right. Floor Barre was like Pilates in the exact same way escargot is like potato chips.

The mean age of the class was 16, and the total weight in the room was roughly four pounds. The first thing we did, for a warm-up, was ten solid minutes of plank position, without a break, taking various body parts meant to hold you up off the ground. And it only got worse from there. There was even rolling.

I got home and slunk past Josh and laid on the floor on my face.

Josh found me out. "How was it?"
Mmmmmmmummmmmmph.
"Yeah. I thought so. I saw you limp past me."

It was ten years ago, but I'm not sure childbirth was that painful. And certainly not for as long. Buddy was born after two hours of labor. I still cried after every sneeze until this morning.

Josh said, "you know, the next time you're in a room of teenagers and 20-year-olds, you really shouldn't try to keep up."
What are you talking about? I'm only 28."
 "Um."
What!
"You're not 28."
Yes I am.
"No. You're not. You're 37. We've been married for 15 years. Buddy was born when you were 28."
WHAT???
"Yes."

Crap.

Now I guess I'm supposed to participate in the recital. With a costume. And tights. And I wonder, exactly when did my reaction to such things stop being, "no! I can't humiliate myself that way! What about my family! They need to be able to hold up their heads!" and start being, "heh. Heh. That would be really funny."






*because my doctor said I either had to exercise sometimes or take more anxiety medication. The anxiety medication makes me not sleep, and I really, REALLY like sleeping.

Insidious Voices

 

"Guess what? Weeeee ate all the cookies in our roooooom. Now you can't have them."

"So? Mom said you've eaten all your treats until next Thursday. So you can't have any of the do-nuts. Princess and I get the rest."

"Oh. Um. Buddy? I ate the donuts."

"All of them?"

"Um. Yeah."

"AGAIN? MoOOOOooooom!!! Why this time?"

"Haven't I told you how bad PMS feels?"

"MOM!"

"You asked."

"You have to stop that."

"Yeah, I know, but they have voices, Buddy. You don't understand. They won't leave me alone. They call out (donut voice), 'Keeeeeeerrieeeeeeee. Come eat us. We know we are 360 calories but we are sooooo good! Think about our coconutty crunchy goodness and come eat us. And when we're gone, we won't be able to bother you any more.' They're loud."

"You could just cover your ears, Mom."

"Buddy! It's not like they're people. They have donut voices. They can even seep into your pores. And you can't cover all those up. The only solution is to never go into the store so you don't see them."

"Fine. I'm going to buy Twinkies."

"Oh honey, you can't. The Twinkies have voices, too."

"Yeah, I know. But I'm going to pass them out to the kids and we'll eat them right away."

"Oh. Well then. Go for it."

Good Timing

The BEST thing ever happened in the waiting room before Princess's psychiatric appointment. The door opened, and into the waiting room came a police officer with

Dum dum dum DUM

a very young woman in county jumpsuit and tethered handcuffs.

The Cuddle Bear and I went about what we were doing, and so did Princess- to the naked eye. But I could feel her. Every time the woman moved, Princess stopped what she was doing and froze. I fully expected her to ask a question while the woman was in the room. I'm glad she waited, because I would have said what I did regardless of the audience. The woman was finally called in, and Princess turned to me and asked it:

"Mom, why was she wearing handcuffs?"

So I said it.

"Princess, I think she lives in jail. I wonder if she didn't practice obeying rules when she was a kid, so it was too hard to do it as a grown-up, too."

I love being inadvertently backed up by life.





(Disclaimer: please do not think I was not sensitive to this woman and her situation and all the variables in her life. I am. Although her snottiness to the officer gave one pause for thought.)

Letting Go

The Cuddle Bear, my last child if it's me you're talking to,* started pre-school this week. Here was the First Day's conversation:

TCB: "Mom? Are you going to take me to pre-school? And leave me there? And go away?"
Me: "Oh.....well.....yes. But you already know that Mommy always comes back."
TCB: "No! Are you going to LEAVE me there. And go AWAY."

Ah. I had misunderstood. The Cuddle Bear wasn't worried. She wasn't going to miss me. She had no concern regarding how to navigate a Mommy-less afternoon. She wanted to make sure I was going to LEAVE her there. And go AWAY.

Sigh.

There it is. The face of separation anxiety.







*If you talk to Josh, however, the answer you get might be different. Not that HE feels the need for a larger family. No. He is of the deranged opinion that once all the babies are at school all day I will want to accrue more. He is sadly mistaken.

Three Rings and a Chihuahua

Whoo. Three weeks and nary a deep breath. And this time I mean that literally, as allergens have reared their ugly heads. Since I still don't technically have time for this, here are some highlights:

• Moving with a RADling. Princess has made five other moves that I know about. The likelihood that they were good experiences is slim. You can imagine what this translated into. Needless to say, the last month has been loud and injury-producing.
• On that note, Princess has begun to take her rages public. First she had several in front of an extended family member. The next was a 40-minute kickingscreamingbitingscratchingfrothingatthemouth ordeal in the middle of Buddy's soccer field. Yep. Pleasant. And not at all embarrassing.
• I do believe Buddy is starting puberty. He's only nine, but Josh had a full beard and had stopped growing by the time he was 13, so it's not totally unpredictable. However, my sweet, loving, thoughtful, mature baby has become a morose, argumentative, paranoid "tween."
• Plus, while Princess has not actually begun puberty, I am absolutely certain she is cycling with me. I came by this information very scientifically. Here is the process I used: (month one) "wow. Princess is sure having a sucky week. I have PMS." (month two) "Wow. Princess is sure having a sucky week. I have PMS." (month three) "Wow..." Well. You get the idea.
• I have never bought a full-priced licensed-character Halloween costume. It goes against my moral code. Every year the children get hand-made costumes that are stunning and stress me out for a month. Or I get them at the consignment shop. But as I looked at the Spider Man costumes, I began to rationalize (wellllll, I think she's my last baby. She'd use it every day. That mask looks hilarious. Next year she'll be a serious, professional kindergartner). Then I forked out the cash. Worth every penny. I am not kidding, just watching her put the mask on had me rolling on the floor. She wore it to pick the kids up at school, and they all actually jumped back and screamed.
• The Cuddle Bear will no longer answer to her given name. 
• The Cuddle Bear's goodnight song now goes: "Go to sleep, Spiderman, Go to sleeeeeeep, Spiderman.."
• Peanut is livid that she has been in school for two and a half weeks and still does not read as well as Buddy or Princess. She firmly believes this is due to something lacking in her teacher.

 Josh and I are completely stressed out, two words can turn into a full-blown fight in nothing flat, two of my children are completely whacked out, one is bitter, and one is a superhero who causes evil instead of fights it.

But the house is amazing. I never dreamed I'd own something like this. A little bright spot for me in America's recession. Our original rental has a great family in it, and our former house has a family chomping at the bit to move in. I barely even hoped we'd have both places filled by October, and here we are.

My cup overfloweth.