Life in lovely Oregon

Walk down Memory Lane: October 16, 2021

2023-11-28T09:10:00.001-08:00

The following is an e-mail I sent to a few beloved people over two years ago, regarding my heaven-sent Standard Poodle, Toby, whom I had taken in three weeks after I had to put Lucy to sleep. When I wrote this, I had had Toby for less than three months.

October 16, 2021

GAH!! ::flailing::

At around 0415, I wake up to Toby scrambling in his crate, so I got him out to pee. Get outside, start toward the street--- Toby freezes, then starts barking his head off at poor Levi, my kind, long-suffering neighbor, who's just having a morning drag before work. I call an apology as I drag Toby in the other direction. Toby starts pulling me toward Brittany's, and finally pees there.

But Levi is returning to his apartment next door to Brittany, so I start Toby along the far edge of the playground, and Toby is happy to comply... because now he has to poop.

In the dark.

In front of the manager's.

And I don't have his bags with me.

And Toby is a wandering pooper.

So I patiently wait for him to finish dropping his multiple loads in a circle around me, thinking longingly of my own toilet, which I *should* have used before relieving the dawg.

And then Toby starts eating grass.

A LOT of grass.

And it becomes painfully obvious to me that Toby's tummy is finally reacting to the bacon grease (and probably several ancient pieces of bacon that had been tossed with it) which I'd found him devouring from the open trash bag I'd inadvertently left out from Thursday's kitchen purge.

And I won't be able to leave him loose in my home in order to empty my bladder or while I go pick up his poop.

So I drag him home, letting him eat as we go along, but having to pull him most of the way because I *really* need to go now, and I still need to pick up his droppings before the manager comes out to see it.

I finally get inside, grab some bags, then head back out to retrieve crap. I'm practically doing the pee-pee dance of my youth as I desperately search over a four-foot-diameter area for the excrement, which to my delight I discover is the same size and color of the fallen leaves. The last piece I discover by stepping on it. ::facepalm:: Fortunately, the grass is nice and wet (yay, rain!), so I can easily wipe my thongs clean.

By this time, Toby has figured out that I am NOT happy with him pulling at his leash, and is finally *not* trying to reach the grass furthest from my search area. In return, I allow him to eat a few more nibbles before we return inside. I tie a knot in the poop bag before depositing it in the trash barrel at the community center, then rush Toby home, permitting a little more grass-noshing before bringing hm inside.

I remove his leash, then start upstairs, softly calling him as I round the corner. He scrambles up the steps, pushing past me to reach the top first. I reach out and scritch his neck, then! grasp his collar and say, "Bed." Fortunately, he doesn't fight me and walks right into his crate. I latch it tightly, tell him, "Go sleep," then hurry to the bathroom next door.

Luckily, two things:

1) Toby doesn't bark in his kennel when he knows I'm in the bathroom.

2) Toby did not throw up in his crate as I half suspected he might.

Let's hope we don't have another night like this!

The saddest day...

2021-07-01T23:26:00.001-07:00

... is the day you have to say goodbye to your beloved dog, who stood by you through the worst life had to throw at you.

Lucy came into our lives on January 3, 2010.

Today, around 0945, she was eased into her journey across the Rainbow Bridge whilst I held her in my arms and stroked and talked to her, even though she couldn't hear me. Youngest was there, too, of his own insistence.

As difficult as it was to decide to have Lucy put to sleep, I'm reluctantly glad that I did so. Ironically, had we been able to wait just two more days, she would have been part of our family for *exactly* eleven years and six months to the very day she came home with us.

Lucy was the sole reason I kept sane when my sons were taken from me. She helped me keep a routine that kept me from absolutely falling apart. Because of her loyalty and love, I chose to become homeless rather than give her up, determined that she would NOT be forced to go to a fourth home.

Lucy B., I miss you so much! Thank you for saving me from myself.

Long time no see!

2018-03-27T11:22:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's been a very long time since I last blogged, hasn't it?! Sorry about that. Life has been BUSY!

A friend (former support worker) whom I've known for a few years suggested this morning that I should start a blog regarding my experiences with my sons, the youngest of whom is officially diagnosed autistic, the other having recently (July 2017) been determined NOT autistic... but mimicking autism due to multiple traumas in his life.

I think I may have to do that, because I know I have other friends who would like to know how we're doing... and perhaps more distant family members would like to know why we aren't better heard from.

So... I will endeavour to update my blog during my "official work time." (I am now a SAHM---Stay At Home Mom, for those who don't know popular internet acronyms--- and my therapist had me adopt a "work schedule" because I seemed to have fewer anxieties when I was actually employed.)

See y'all soon! Take care!

Theory...

2014-02-28T18:05:00.000-08:00

Wow... it's been a while since I've blogged, hasn't it?!?

A lot has happened since then, including the fact that I am officially divorced, as of July 3, 2013, and am now a gainfully-employed person! I've been working for 3+ months now for SecurAmerica as a security officer.

I love my job.

Anyway, I labeled this post "Theory" for a reason, and it has to do with my job.

When I'm at work, I do a lot of patrolling... as in, I walk anywhere from seven to twelve miles during a typical eight-hour shift. (I wear a pedometer, just to make sure how much I'm walking.)

During that walking, I'm keeping an eye out for things that aren't supposed to be happening, or things which are out of place, or people who aren't supposed to be on the property, etc. And while I'm doing that walking, I have a lot of time for thinking.

One night whilst patrolling, I somehow thought of the movie, "Night at the Museum," (which I have NOT seen, though I've read the book!), and I thought, "I wonder what's the difference between a security officer and a night watchman?"

And I came up with my theory, based loosely on a combination of the movie and my job.

I theorize that a security officer makes sure everything is secure, while a night watchman watches all hell break loose.

::cue rimshot::

Apologies...

2013-04-26T15:56:00.000-07:00

I need to be writing more often than I do. I know that. It's just that I don't think about it until I'm stuck somewhere and can't blog at that moment.
::facepalm::

I'm sorry I've been neglecting my blog. I'll try to get back into the habit, maybe even into the habit of writing daily... but I have to go now.

Two years ago today...

2013-03-25T23:54:00.000-07:00

... my children were taken from me by DHS because my house was below community standards.

They were right to do so--- it was a horrid mess, though not as bad as some I've seen (no feces anywhere, and both my kids and our clothes were clean)--- but they chose a terrible time to do it, as Youngest had just come home from surgery to reset his broken right arm, and his pain was tormenting to both of us because he refused to take the medication given us for his pain.

Two years ago.

We've come a long way since then.

I just hope we don't have that long again until my sons come home to me.

Better late than never, right?

2013-03-07T20:57:00.001-08:00

Sorry--- I’m a little late with this, but it's been a busy week!

I’m too freakin’ tired to go into all the details, so here’s the cliff notes:

Court was scheduled for 10:30am February 28th.

We got in around 11:15am (at least I think it was?).

STBX’s attorney was MIA.

My attorney suggested the following case go first while STBX’s attorney is found.

We all retreated to the gallery, except for my attorney, who had a client in the following case as well.

I knit 1.5 rows of my first shawl during this time, with my counselor Dan seated beside me. I quietly pointed out to him that my STBX was sitting behind us in the back row, in case he hadn't recognized my husband. Dan responded, "You knew you'd have to see him eventually," or something to that effect. I just nodded.

We resumed our seats in front of the judge, with my attorney between myself and STBX.

The attorney for DHS explained that DHS wants the plan to change from guardianship to adoption, and my STBX’s attorney stated that STBX supports this, and that he is willing to sign off his parental rights in order to do this.

DHS’s attorney asked Anastasia a number of questions after she was sworn in…

… and then the judge asked why the guardianship still is not in effect when it was requested a full year ago?!?

Neither Anastasia nor DHS’s attorney said a single thing while the judge reamed DHS for a full five minutes.

My attorney introduced evidence showing that I have improved since the last court hearing, pointing out that many of the examples of my failings used by the ‘prosecution’ occurred prior to the last court date, and got Anastasia to admit that I have not repeated any of those behaviors since then.

She got Anastasia to admit that even though it says in the court papers that I’m supposed to be involved in my sons’ treatment, I haven’t been allowed to be involved. Anastasia insisted multiple times that the service providers are the ones insisting that I not be involved since my sons aren’t living with me… but she had to state for the record that it has not been by my choice that I am not involved with my sons’ treatment.

She also got Anastasia to admit that my current home is now considered to be not just at community standards, but above community standards as far as cleanliness is concerned (thank you very much!), which was confirmed by Dan when he took the stand.

Dan testified that I have only missed one appointment with him in our roughly 1.5 years of my treatment with him, and that that was due to a transportation problem on my part.

He also testified that I have made significant improvement in dealing with my hoarding and collecting and with my anxieties.

All the attorneys questioned him, and oddly, many of their questions had to do with my parenting abilities, none of which he treats, and he patiently repeated that he could not answer that because he does not work with me and my sons together.

The kids’ attorney asked about my finances, which Dan explained that he does not deal with my finances, but that I have been working with Vocational Rehabilitation in an effort to go back to work so that I can keep stable and safe housing.

STBX’s attorney asked whether I have a storage unit, and how much money I spend keeping it. Dan stated that he does not deal with my finances, but that I have gotten rid of many of my things, including things I’d not before been able to let go, and that I’ve made significant progress in not collecting more items.

Dan explained that I have a problem with being rather literal/concrete in my thinking, and the opposing attorneys all wanted to know how I could be a good parent to my high-needs sons if I have such a high IQ but have to have things explained so concretely… or something to that effect. Dan explained once again that he cannot testify as to my parenting skills, since we don’t work on that, but that I tend to over-think things and miss what is actually meant by the things said to me.

Dan also explained that I do not intentionally defy rules or try to get around them, and that got all their knickers in a twist as well. ::giggles::

After Dan was excused, Anastasia brought up the letter which Older Son’s counselor wrote last October--- the one in which this counselor, who has never seen me work with my sons in a parenting capacity, recommended that Older Son be adopted by my SIL & BIL and have extremely limited and only supervised contact with me--- and the judge asked where to find it (in the six-inch-deep stack of case files).

Nobody could find it.

I waited a couple minutes while all the attorneys and the judges searched through their files, then nonchalantly opened my briefcase and slid out my copy of the letter--- me, the one who supposedly can't keep anything straight in order to parent my sons!--- quietly placing it in front of my attorney, who glanced at it but said nothing.

After a couple more minutes, I whispered to my attorney, “Should I bring that up to the judge so she can read it?” She looked at me and whispered back, “Stop helping them! You can help me, but don’t help them!” I grinned and responded, “That’s what I thought… that’s why I waited before asking you!”

Everyone else gave up searching for it after another couple minutes and moved on.

My attorney brought up that I want to be involved with my sons’ treatment, and that I want to repair the relationship with my sons' foster parents, so she’s requesting mediation for myself and the fosters, as well as more involvement with my sons’ treatment… or at least education about their issues so that I can better parent them.

The DHS attorney tried once more to insist that adoption is the better choice for my sons, and this set off the judge. She was definitely not happy with DHS!! She was very calm and articulate, but she made sure they understood in no uncertain terms that they had presented no evidence regarding my sons’ treatment over the past year, other than the letter written by Older Son’s counselor (which someone finally found a moment earlier!) and that she saw only improvement on my part, and that DHS is not doing their job, and she was not going to choose a different permanency plan when DHS hadn’t even completed the last one!

STBX’s attorney made it plain that STBX still supports the adoption plan, and he’ll support the guardianship plan, but he does NOT support a return-to-home for my sons. Surprise, surprise, surprise.

The judge’s final say was that my sons will stay where they are, in the same holding pattern, for 90 days, when we will reconvene in her court. There is to be mediation set up between myself and the fosters. And (I THINK--- I’ll have to clarify this with my attorney next week when she’s back from the East Coast) DHS is to arrange for me to start being educated about my sons' issues.

Again, I may have missed something. I apologize. I'm still waiting to get my copy of the court report, which probably remembers things I don't.

Also, I am exhausted, and I have to get up early for a meeting with my Youngest son's therapist... the first one in roughly a year!

The journey of a thousand miles...

2013-01-12T00:21:00.000-08:00

... begins with a single step.

I took that step this morning, when I filed for my divorce.

I was stressed, nervous, and flustered, certain that I hadn't all my paperwork filled out, but I figured I'd have someone official tell me what I'd missed.

They did, and sent me to the courtroom labeled "Ex Parte" to request that my filing fees be waived.

Traveling by bus, and having to restrict the items with me in order to make it through security, I didn't have my normal backpack... which made it awkward to carry everything. I had my briefcase (which is roughly twenty years old now--- yikes!) and a small basket with me, as well as my raincoat, which fortunately has a lot of large pockets. But I hadn't expected to need to remove my sweatshirt due to my overheating in the courtroom while I waited... and juggling all of these items as well as the papers I needed in-hand made for a difficult time on top of my stress. The sweatshirt landed on the floor more than once, remarkably remaining folded each time.

The judge spent several minutes reading the paperwork I presented him, his expression a cross between puzzlement and disbelief and becoming more pronouncedly so with each successive sentence. He asked me only one question: "Are you filing this today?"

I gulped and said, "Yes... if I can."

He waived my filing fee.

Next, along with a younger woman whom I vaguely knew from yesterday's visit to the Family Law Center, I was led downstairs by an even younger lady who I guess was a law student. As we walked down the stairs, she explained what was to happen next.

Naturally, I forgot every word she said.

We found ourselves in a line in front of the filing clerks' desks. I did some spindle-spinning, shuffling my basket and briefcase along the floor as the queue made its way forward, one person at a time. The girl who'd brought us down soon deposited two more people behind us, telling them the same thing she'd said to us. As she left, I said, "I'll bet you say that to everybody."

That brought a few chuckles from others in line.

Finally it was my turn at a window. The girl behind the counter looked at me expectantly.

"Um..." My faulty memory held nothing. "I'm not sure what I'm doing..."

She remained calm. "I don't know what you're doing here," she pointed out, not unkindly.

"Oh." Something clicked. "I'm getting a divorce. I just got the fees waived."

She got my name and retrieved the papers that the judge had signed, then stamped, stapled and wrote the case number on various papers. Then she asked if I had copies of any of them. I hadn't, nor did I know which ones I needed to have copied... and she couldn't tell me, because that's considered "giving legal advice."

I paid $5 to get copies of all twenty pages. *sigh* But that was the end of it.

I had finally filed my petition for a divorce from my husband of twelve years.

Then I went downstairs to the Family Law Office, to have the clerk there verify that I had everything else filled out.

While I was waiting, I overheard a young man talking with the clerk about his having mailed the papers to his wife, who was in jail in another state. He'd made the mistake of mailing them directly to her, instead of to a sheriff in that county, and thus he had no proof that she'd been served. So he needed to have her served again... and in the meantime, she'd been released from jail and had vanished.

I made a mental note to ask specifics for my own case.

When it was my turn, the clerk carefully explained that if I have the sheriff serve my spouse, I will get my proof of service. (Whew!) She made a number of copies for me, had me sign a few more places, made notes of what I needed to do next (like serving a second set of papers to the Child Support Department, or whatever it's called), and then as I gathered my papers, she asked me to read off the case number so that she could enter it in her computer. I did so... and we both stopped, frowning.

We both remembered the last number differently.

We double-checked all the papers.

More than half of them were labelled with the wrong last number, as compared to the court number written on the receipt of my fee waiver.

The Family Law clerk corrected them quickly, and agreed that I should go upstairs to make sure the clerk there had caught her mistake. I pointed out that I did not want to go through the whole routine all over again simply because one number was written incorrectly (!), and hurried upstairs after thanking her profusely.

I was just in time. The clerk who'd filed my papers was just leaving, and I ran to catch up with her. After I quickly blurted out the problem, she immediately turned back, indicating that I should return to her window. She found the papers quickly and corrected them, thanking me for letting her know. I wished her a good weekend, and she laughed softly, murmuring, "Oh, you have no idea!"

I didn't ask. I just thanked her again and left the building.

I called my BFF as I strode toward Pearl Street. I explained that I needed to serve the papers on the Child Support Division (or whatever), and then I was free for the day. We made tentative plans, and I told her I'd call her after I was done serving the papers. I started down Pearl Street toward 7th, according to the address I was given on a Post-It note.

Two blocks later, a scruffy-looking older man called to me, asking if I knew the local bus routes. I hesitated, admitting I didn't know them very well. Very seriously, he told me, "I missed the bus. Maybe you can help me find my way. Which bus will take me to Hawaii?"

I broke into a slight grin. "Oh... I think your best bet would be the Greyhound bus down the street here," I told him, shaking my head as I chuckled.

One of his companions agreed. "Yeah--- they have those floaters now..."

At this point, I suddenly realized that I'd been walking the wrong way--- I was nearly to 10th Street, not 7th. I reversed direction, wishing the men a good day as I went.

The building I needed was across the street from the courthouse, as it turned out, and I was done with my task within five minutes. I called BFF again, and we hammered out plans to meet at the Target on West 11th in an hour. I strode to the nearby bus station (the local bus, not Greyhound) and boarded the Number 43.

Seated on a bench in front of Target, I pulled out my spindle and started drafting out the merino batt I'd brought with me. The sun was warm on my face, and I was grateful I'd brought my sunglasses. A man crossed in front of me... and slowed.

"That's really neat!" he said, smiling. I smiled back.

He sat down next to me. "Do you know how to sew?"

That caught me off guard. "Um... a little?" I admitted.

"I need the pockets fixed on my work jacket."

Nonplussed at the apparent implication, I stopped spinning. "I don't have anything with me to be able to fix it," I finally managed.

"Oh, I don't have it with me anyway," he told me blithely. "How do you tie a knot?"

I considered that carefully, wound the working single around my spindle shaft and put it away. I pulled the cord closure of a small bag out of my basket and showed him how to tie a half-hitch. He asked if a square knot would work, and I allowed that it would, as would several half-hitches in a row. After he suggested that he would then use the needle up the side of the pocket, I recommended that he go up and down the pocket sides several times, stating that the more stitches he put into it, the more secure it would be in the end, and the longer it would last before he had to repair it again.

He looked at me with wide eyes. "That's good to know. I was just going to go up it once."

I'd suspected as much.

He got up then, and I pulled out my spindle again. He commented again about my spinning, and asked what I would do with it, so I gave him a wee spinning demonstration, finishing up with a brief example of plying. He bent close to look at the resulting yarn, smiled, and said, "That's cool. Thanks for helping me." And he continued into the store.

The rest of my day was rather tame after that. BFF brought me home, and I took Lucy for a walk, then started split pea soup in the crockpot. I called my first stepmom and broke the news, and she offered to go with me to talk to the sheriff in Marion County. I then called Dad, and he said he'd send me money to cover the service fee and gas funds to drive up to Salem early on Monday morning, to make sure the papers were received by the sheriff's office so that my soon-to-be-ex-husband can be served as soon as possible... or at least before Friday.

My split pea soup was a fitting reward for finally filing. I truly enjoyed it for my supper tonight.

It'll be even better tomorrow.

Out with the old, in with the new!

2012-12-31T22:05:00.002-08:00

2012, I am so done with you!
Here's to 2013.
Here's hoping this year's a good sight better than the old one, and may my sons be home before it's done!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Eighteen years ago today...

2012-12-17T01:46:00.004-08:00

... I was awakened by the start of labor, pain that was so strong that I couldn't walk when a contraction hit.

Fourteen hours later, at 4:45pm, my firstborn child slid into the world... and was whisked away without anyone telling me whether I'd had a boy or a girl! My sister ran after the retreating nurses, saying, "Wait! What is it??"

The need for speed was because the doctor was afraid the baby had breathed meconium into those wee lungs, so the special respiratory team needed to suction out every possible bit of foreign matter before the infant drew a breath. While they were doing so, my sister took a quick photograph, then hurried back to tell our mother and me that I'd had a baby girl.

Great blackmail photo, let me tell you--- all you can see is her swollen genitals, her legs, and the oxygen mask over her face!

We've had our ups and downs, to be sure. But I don't know if I'd change a moment of them, because my daughter is a force to be reckoned with, a strong, vibrant young woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to express her opinions.

Beans, Nana-berry, Hobbes, my little girl with the blonde brain (another long but excellent blackmail story!), I love you so much, and I am so proud of the woman you've become in spite of all the trials of your young life.

Keep up the great work, Beans!

Love always,

Mom

The REAL reason...

2012-11-30T22:08:00.002-08:00

Ever since my Youngest learned how to write his own name, he's insisted on leaving out the second letter... the letter A.

Before I go on, just know that I am fully aware that you're not supposed to publicly post your child's name on the internet, for fear some internet predator learns it and starts stalking. I'm always warning friends and family about that very danger, and normally I follow it to the T (in case you hadn't gathered by the names Youngest and Older Son). However, his is a fairly common name, and since I'm not sharing any information beyond his first name, and since his last name is not the same as mine, I think it's okay to impart this wee bit of information, just this once, for the sake of this post.

Besides, I have to have blackmail material for when he starts dating, right?

Danny is like many children--- inquisitive, compassionate, and independent. He loves life, loves his family, and loves trains and firetrucks.

But he does not like that second letter in his name. And so he insists on spelling his name "Dnny."

It's actually rather comical, and I like the way Dnny looks when it's written down. His foster mother said once, "I don't know what the letter A ever did to him, but he does not like it when we spell his name with it!"

I've asked him several times over the past few months, "So, Danny, how do you spell your name?" And his answer is always the same: "D-n-n-y."

But I know that he needs to be able to spell his name properly, so I finally decided to ask him about it. This ended up being asked during a visit when his older brother was sick, so it was just Danny and me, playing with Legos on the floor of the DHS office.

"So, Danny, how do you spell your name now?" I ventured while fitting a neon pink brick into the wee house I was building.

He grumbled, apparently disliking the question. "D-n-n-y."

I cocked my head to look at him. "Why don't you spell it D-a-n-n-y? That's the way it's supposed to be spelled, you know."

"I don't like the 'a.'" SNAP went another piece into place.

"What don't you like about the 'a?'" I prompted, struggling with another Lego that refused to go where I wanted it.

He continued building the rocket launcher in his hand. "I don't like the way it looks. Teacher won't let me write it the way I want to write it, so I don't use it at all." He reached for a piece, and I handed it to him.

A light bulb flashed into brilliant life in my head. "You like the big letter 'A,' but not the small letter 'a,' is that it?" I queried.

Danny nodded, not looking at me.

I put down my half-finished house and pointed out where I have his name tattooed on the inside of my left ankle, all in capital letters. "So you like it when it's written like this?"

He stopped what he was doing (which is a rarity for him!) and took a long look. "Yep. That's right." Then he resumed retrofitting his rocket launcher.

Now I'm wondering whether this has been explained to his teacher, or if I can talk to her about it. While I understand why it's important for him to know the difference between upper case and lower case letters, I do not think it's important that he spell his name with lower case letters if he can demonstrate that he knows how to write them when necessary.

Smart little rascal...

The face of agoraphobia...

2012-11-24T22:47:00.001-08:00

Tonight the true meaning of agoraphobia hit me like a ton of bricks as I stood in the pouring rain outside the nursing home where my beloved grandmother now resides... and could not bring myself to go to the door and ring the bell to be let in, simply because there were other residents who would see me.

No, they didn't pose a danger to me. Most of them were in wheelchairs. Most of them seemed to be in their late seventies or early eighties, though at least one man seemed to be around my age.

So why couldn't I go in?

Because they could SEE me.

My counselor mentioned during my session the other day that a phobia is an irrational fear (we were discussing spiders, and how I'd managed to overcome the worst of my fear of them), a fear without rational cause, and at the time I didn't really understand why he said that. I couldn't think of any sort of irrational fear I had, now that I've overcome my fear of spiders.

Obviously, I forgot my diagnosis of agoraphobia (cue heavy eye-roll here), and now it makes sense to me.

This is a good tool for me, knowing this, because I can (hopefully) use it to explain to my family why I can't just come to visit like I used to do, or pick up the phone and call.

I waged an internal battle all the way over to Grandma's nursing home. I knew that I love her, and that she loves me. I knew I wanted to see her, and that if I didn't, and she happened to die over the weekend, I'd never forgive myself. But at the same time, I was afraid to go see her because I didn't know what to say to her, other than, "I love you, Grandma." I didn't want to go to her room and say, "Hi, Grandma! I love you, but I can only stay for a few minutes because Lucy is waiting for me at home and needs to go out."

I finally convinced myself that Grandma would rather see me for a few minutes than to not see me at all. I told myself I can tell her about my new home in Veneta, near the community in which she used to live when my dad was in high school. It didn't matter that she won't really be able to talk to me--- it was enough to see her smile and to hug her.

But I couldn't get past that simple glass door because then the people in the entry room would see me.

Rainy days...

2012-11-08T12:50:00.002-08:00

I'm actually enjoying the rain today... it matches my mood.

I'm accomplishing a little bit each day--- some days more than others. But I'm okay with that, because it's still forward motion.

Today is an oatmeal day. It's a day for steadiness, for warmth and comfort and progress. I ate Scottish oatmeal for lunch, have laundry in the dryer, put away a few more books on the shelf, and will soon head off for counseling (rescheduled to accommodate Dan). After that, I'll stop by St. Vincent de Paul's and donate some more books--- more forward motion.

Just another day in Oregon.

Missing...

2012-10-23T22:39:00.000-07:00

Today I was scheduled for a visit with my sons.

That's right--- I no longer get to have them for four hours each in the wild.

Seems Older Son's counselor has decided that I am the cause of Older Son's misbehavior at school, and she says that Older Son has stated that I remind him of the sexual abuse his sperm donor inflicted upon him... so she recommends that I no longer have unsupervised visitation with him, and that such visitation should be extremely limited.

I won't go into the rest of what she said. But I do admit that I brought my sons to my new apartment to show it to them... and then we went to BFF's house so that they could play with her kids. Oh, yeah--- Youngest got upset one time, so I brought him to my apartment to play on my computer.

SO... because I was stupid and thought that it was okay to bring my sons to my empty apartment without DHS's approval ahead of time, I can't have unsupervised visits anymore.

I got it. I screwed up.

But I came to DHS's office for our visit today... and my boys never arrived. And the foster family didn't answer the phone when the supervisor called to find out what was going on. And Anastasia, our caseworker, is out of town this week... so nobody knows what to do.

I don't even think I can call SIL or MIL myself to ask... I'm afraid it will be held against me in court.

Court, by the way, is on December 3rd, 2012. DHS is pushing for making SIL guardian of my sons... and I'm afraid that if that happens, I'll never get my sons back, no matter how perfect my life becomes.

I miss my kids... especially my sons. DD is on Facebook, and I can text or call her whenever I like.

But my sons... I don't even know if I can call them on the phone anymore, or if they're allowed to call me. So the only time I get with them is during this one hour a week... and if the grownups in the house don't bring them, I don't get to see them. I don't even know if I will get a makeup visit this week.

All I have are photos and memories of my sons to tide me over 'til the next visit.

I miss them...

I am stranger than I think...

2012-08-11T21:45:00.002-07:00

My MIL told my BFF that I'm nuts.

I've gone off the deep end, big time, and I'm getting crazier every day.

Supposedly I never call her Mom anymore (when in fact, this morning's phone call is the first time I've not called her Mom to her face... er, I mean, ear!).

Supposedly they've had to start locking the door because I've become so insane-acting... and supposedly they've told me all I have to do is knock on the door and they'll answer (in fact, no one has told me that they've needed to start locking the door because of me, nor have they told me to knock... nor would they need to tell me!)

Supposedly I don't even try to knock on the door when I come to get my sons for my visits with them--- according to MIL, I just sit in my van and stare at the door until they bring the appropriate boy out to me... when in fact yesterday was the first time I've driven to pick up either son for a visit since I broke my glasses on July 3rd, 2012. I just got my replacement glasses two days ago.

I may be paranoid, but that doesn't mean someone's not gunning for me... or for my sons. I think something is fishy, and it's not just me who thinks it, thankfully. I'm so grateful for my allies, since it's obvious I can't trust the family nearest to me!

Changes...

2012-07-21T23:51:00.003-07:00

I'll be offline for a bit. Circumstances have changed, and I am unable to stay where I am. We'll just say I'm camping.

Ta for now!

Backstabber...

2012-06-05T22:43:00.000-07:00

I just learned tonight that my MIL is trying to get in contact with someone who owes my husband $10,000... and she doesn't want me to know about it.

She asked me roughly two weeks ago for my ex-landlord's phone number, but didn't tell me why.

Tonight, my BFF told me that my MIL came over last night and asked for my ex-landlord's number again, because he's not returning her phone calls.

Then MIL told BFF that before my husband was arrested for molesting my kids, he'd loaned a friend $10K... and that this friend had indicated that he was ready to pay it back. Somehow, Ex-landlord seems to be the go-between, but he's not easy to reach.

MIL confided that she and my husband really need that money. I don't know if she thought that might make my BFF more likely to help or not. Apparently she never considered our relationship, because she was taken aback when BFF said, "Jo really needs money, too, you know. She's almost out of the money she had in savings."

MIL just seemed to brush that off, repeating, "(Son) and I really need that money, so we need to get in touch with (Ex-landlord) as soon as possible."

I just gave this woman a lovely coral necklace, for which I carefully picked out just the right beads and painstakingly strung as securely as I could, which I knew she’d love, for Mother’s Day. She’s been wearing it almost every time I’ve seen her since I gave it to her. And this is how she repays me.

She (and her son) have always insisted that NOTHING comes before family, that you protect and defend family above all else.

Yet she doesn't care that I have no income, that her son has never supported me since going to prison, that my sons are her grandchildren. She doesn't care that I dedicated my life to taking care of her son, forsaking my own wishes for his, until the day I learned that he was sexually abusing my son (and my daughter, as I learned later). She doesn't care that I have always called her Mom, that I've honored her just as I did my own, that I considered her as close a family member as if she were my own flesh and blood.

She just wants money... and she stabbed me in the back in an attempt to get it.

I will never trust her again. I can’t. I’ve been married to her son for nearly 12 years now, and she still doesn’t think of me as family.

The mysterious green bridge...

2012-06-03T15:17:00.002-07:00

My sister wanted to go visit a friend in Florence, OR, but it seems she feels nervous traveling by herself outside of the Springfield/Eugene area, so she requested I accompany her. Since she so rarely spends time with me, I agreed.

En route, she was telling me about this green arched bridge which was supposedly near a good agate-hunting bed, and she said she understood it to be by Big Creek. I had done a Google search the night before, because I know I've seen a green bridge somewhere along Highway 101, and found a photo of the bridge at Big Creek... and it did indeed look green.

However, when we arrived at Big Creek, the bridge did not look green, nor did it have any real parking, so we continued on to Stonefield Beach.

From above, that bridge didn't look green, either, but we were running out of time to beachcomb, so we went down to the water anyway and sought agates, walking first to the north end of the accessible beach and noting how the sand erosion had covered much of the stones for which the beach was named.

Looking east from the creek, the supports under the bridge are a greenish tone, so we decided that maybe we were at the right place. I found six agates to her single find (I gave my fourth agate to her because I didn't want her to go home empty-handed, and promptly after that she spotted her own), and we had a lovely time looking at tidepools along the southern edge of the beach.

We're still stumped as to the location of that mysterious green bridge. Google isn't helping me so much today when I search, but I'm not giving up. I know I've seen a green arched bridge somewhere along 101.

Any ideas, anyone?

The heart of the matter...

2012-05-25T01:28:00.000-07:00

My Youngest was born with severe aortic valve stenosis.

What that means that his aortic valve was extremely constricted, as in, smaller than it should have been in comparison to the rest of his heart. As if that weren't enough, the valve is also deformed: instead of being tricuspid (having three "leaflets" which look somewhat like a peace sign), his is bicuspid (having only two). The valve is also much thicker than a normal cardiac valve (making it less flexible and thus more difficult for it to open and close), and it was fused on either end, resulting in barely a quarter of his aortic valve being open to allow blood to circulate through it.

This was discovered shortly after he was born. We'd no clue that his heart was anything but perfect. As a matter of fact, we'd been warned that one of his kidneys was longer than the other and possibly slightly malformed, and that was the only thing we were prepared to deal with upon his birth! The news that my son would likely need a heart valve transplant in his life was not easy to digest. It was a little easier for me to deal with the news that he likely could not play vigorous sports like football or basketball, although sports that weren't so strenuous would be a possibility.

We were warned not to let him get angry, for fear of triggering a cardiac arrest. I also had to bring him in for monthly injections of a special medication to keep up his immune system, and was warned to get my family's flu vaccinations so that he didn't catch the flu through us.

In January, after having three months of weekly checkups and EKG's to make sure he wasn't going to have a heart attack, the pediatric cardiologist, whom I'll call Dr. L, told us that he wanted to perform a balloon valvuloplasty on Youngest very soon, because the surgeon whom he wanted to have do the eventual valve transplant was leaving the country for a few months, and Dr. L wanted to do the valvuloplasty while the surgeon was still local, just in case the valve didn't work as well after the procedure.

January 19th, 2007--- Youngest and I checked into the hospital in Portland for the procedure. He was three months and 9 days old. I couldn't bear to be away from him except for during the actual valvuloplasty, so I slept with him in his crib.

To make a long story short (too many details for tonight's posting!), the procedure went much better than expected. The valve popped right open exactly the way they'd wanted, and there was only trace leakage through it. Dr. L told me (and has told me every time I've seen him since) that if he hadn't seen Youngest before the procedure and after, he'd never have believed it was the same child. I asked him, "Do you believe in God?" He looked me dead in the eye and said, "I do now!"

(I'd mentioned to him beforehand that I had many friends of all faiths praying for him: LDS, Baptists, Catholic nuns, Jewish friends of my aunt's, etc. The LDS missionaries had even come over and given him a blessing before we drove to Portland. I joked that because of that, his valve hadn't had a chance to misbehave!)

Fast-forward to yesterday.

I took Youngest in to see Dr. L for his yearly checkup. Although he somewhat remembers his wonderful cardiologist, this is the first time he's ever really been interested in what was going on inside his body. He lay still for the EKG, watching the ultrasound screen intently and listening to the sound of his heartbeat. He had no dread, no anxiety about being there, and he did everything he was told to do.

Afterward, Dr. L told me again that he was simply amazed that the valve opened so perfectly, and that the leakage was still only minimal (up from "trace" two years ago). He decided that we could wait two years this time before our next checkup!

Everyone has greeted the news with joy and celebration. Older Son, overhearing me talking to MIL about it, asked me, "So does this mean Youngest doesn't have heart disease anymore?" Eyes twinkling, I reassured him that his little brother's heart is doing fine.

I was a bit concerned before the checkup because SIL wasn't able to come along and see what was going on with Youngest's heart, because I wanted her to understand what exactly was wrong, and what should be done if necessary. Yes, I was preparing for the worst. Seems I needn't have worried.

Now I'm telling myself that my sons will be living with me again by the time we have to attend the next cardiologist appointment.

God is good. ^_^

Apologies are in order, methinks...

2012-05-14T17:44:00.000-07:00

I just realized that I started this blog with the intentions of writing about my lovely home state of Oregon... and I've done very little of that sort of writing.

*facepalm*

My apologies to anyone who is upset by this--- feel free to ream me in the comments section.

However, I don't think I'm going to bother changing the blog much. Just consider any actual Oregon posts to be a bonus.

Mother's Day 2012

2012-05-13T23:47:00.000-07:00

I think this is the first time I've ever not had to remind my daughter about Mother's Day... though I'm guessing her foster parents did. She texted me the day before to ask if I wanted to see a movie with her. We went to see "Pirates! Band of Misfits" It was quite delightful, actually, and DD not only bought the tickets, but also bought popcorn and a drink, both of which we shared (you have seen the price of snacks in the movie theaters, right?). She also brought me a handmade card and an iris in a "vase" (a water bottle). Very much my style, trust me!! I love them!

Inside the card:

I have to say it--- I really appreciate that she understands that I'm not perfect... and that she loves me anyway! She wasn't the only one who remembered, though--- Older Son came through as well, with a handmade card and a pair of pansies in a pot he painted himself:

Since Older Son was just recently diagnosed as being high-functioning autistic, I can now completely see his personality in his inscription. I love it, too! I don't seem to have a photo yet of the pansies--- I'll have to add it tomorrow. But the pot is painted with different colors, almost in wide vertical stripes, and the pansies are purple and yellow. Very lovely Mother's Day! I hope yours was, too! :D

I AM STRONGER THAN I THINK

2012-05-09T22:59:00.000-07:00

My BFF, whom I often call Jubee, and I runned away to the coast last Sunday. I'm not sure it was the brightest thing for me to do, since I was (and still am) suffering from a cold which sank into my lungs and still keeps me from talking longer than five or ten minutes without trying to hack up a lung.

But it was definitely worth it.

We left at 4am.

We went to the tidepools just north of the Devil's Punchbowl, where we walked around looking for agates and sea glass, and then we plopped ourselves down onto the rock-scattered sand and sought the translucent stones that were hiding there. We've been doing this for our solo beach trips, and this is our favorite spot to seek agates. We stayed there from our arrival at roughly 6:30am until nearly 11:30am, and are still delighted with our finds.

Then it was time for lunch. Jubee has decided to make eating at Mo's a tradition for our solo outings, and since she's funding the trips, I can't complain... as if I would! Oddly, fish and chips sounded perfect for me, which is unusual--- I usually save that for a treat when I'm at home. But it was nearly too much for me, especially with a cup of their famous chowder, a side of garlic mashed potatoes and a slice of their homemade bread. I had a Widmer Hefeweisen to drink, while Jubee had her usual diet Pepsi.

Afterward, we had roughly an hour to kill before our appointment, so--- *yawn*--- I voted we take a nap in Jubee's van. She agreed. I'm glad cat-naps work so well, since I barely got half an hour's sleep before the alarms went off!

Then it was time.

I'd been anticipating it, dreading it, determined all day. The appointment had been made during our last beach escape. We were sharing a bonding experience--- getting tattooes.

Most of my family still doesn't know--- I've only told my sister, her kids and mine. But I've been thinking about it for over 20 years, and knew for the last two years what I would get if I did, so this wasn't a rash decision. I wanted it, and knew I'd be okay with having it when I was 90 years old in a nursing home (as Mom used to warn me to consider--- I think she was trying to convince me not to get tattooed).

As much as some people might argue with me, I needed this tattoo. It's easy enough to say I can tell myself that I'm strong enough to get through whatever trial is hammering at me... but it's not so easy to remember to actually tell myself that when I'm so depressed I can't remember to get out of bed. I need to be able to see these words whenever I look at my wrist.

The ladybug I added to remind me of my kids, on the suggestion of one of my fellow Ravelers. My Youngest is always hunting for ladybugs whenever we're together, but I'll never forget March 12, 1995, when my daughter was just three months old and I found a ladybug crawling up her face between her eyes, which were crossing with the effort to see it! The artist, Justin, freehanded it, and I think he did a wonderful job, adding shading, a couple legs, and even the shine of its shell.

While he was working on me, I told him the significance of this statement to me, and that it signified my determination not to let my husband's actions control my life any more. He thought it was a great idea, and suggested it marked a turning point in my life as well.

After Jubee's tattoo was finished, we went to Stonefield Beach, south of Yachats, where we had lovely luck last time finding larger agates... but this trip was lacking. Oh, I found some, but not even a third of what I found previously. Fickle, shifting sands!

We stopped at Taco Bell for supper before leaving Florence, and I got home around 10:30pm. I walked Lucy, who'd stayed home all day, then made a quick stop at the store for unscented lotion for my new tattoo, and was able to sink into bed just after midnight.

Yes, it might not have been a good idea for me to go when I was coughing so, but I bundled up, drank lots of fluids, and felt pretty good other than my lungs. We both agreed it was one of our best ever mini-vacations, and we're looking forward to our next trip, on June 3rd.

Lovely day for a walk...

2012-04-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

Tonight Lucy and I took our first long walk, from our house to the nearby Willamette River. It took us roughly twenty minutes of hard walking to reach it, and we rewarded ourselves with jerky and water (well, I drank the water; Lucy only wanted the jerky). Then we walked back, again as hard as we could, and arrived home dog-tired (please pardon the pun!).

I want to do this daily.

Eventually, like within a couple weeks at the most, I'd like to be doing it at least twice daily, and eventually thrice. I want to get back into shape. I may not be able to get to the point where I was before I had my kids... but I know that I can do a lot more than I can currently!

Wish me luck!

Untangling my thoughts...

2012-04-09T17:26:00.000-07:00

I think it's no wonder I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything. My thoughts are chasing themselves around and around in my head until I'm not sure which thought I was actually entertaining when another one bashed into it and knocked it away.

Just what I need--- thought bumper cars.

(rolling my eyes)

Part of it is anticipation of Jubee's and my next trip to the coast. We actually have an appointment in Newport, down on the Bayfront. I mean, a real appointment, not just "the low tide is at such-and-such-a-time, so we need to be there an hour early" type of appointment we usually set (also known as "winging it").

I'm excited... and anxious... and skeered.

Sorry--- I'm not going to say what it is she's planned for us, just in case I chicken out. But after May 6th, if I've got the guts I'm telling myself I do, I'll post it here.

I'm stronger than I think. I know I am. I just keep forgetting.

Oh, the irony... (rolling my eyes again)

Ah, as I said--- my thoughts keep getting all jangled, almost as badly as the two socks I was knitting. I ended up first cutting them free of the wrist distaff with which they were entwined, then moving from knot to knot as I worked them loose. Finally liberated one sock, which I finished knitting the next day while visiting Jubee and her nestlings. Now I'm working on the other sock... and thinking of all the other things from which I can choose...

I have fibers to spin, singles to ply, yarns to wash, books to read, a bike lock and cable to find, people to call, laundry to fold, supper to decide upon and then cook, dishes to wash, a leash to repair, books to list online to sell, linens to change, a visit with Older Son to plan for tomorrow, phone numbers to track down (to contact the detective with whom I need to speak), a Lucy to walk... and I have to be in bed by 9pm tonight in order to be up tomorrow in time to go to counseling via bus (since I can't find the lock and cable to my bicycle).

*sigh* I don't even have a job... and I have too many things to do.

The one-year mark...

2012-03-27T21:01:00.000-07:00

March 25th marked one year since my sons were taken away from me by DHS.

Today was court, where all parties involved said, "Yes, we agree with the change in plans for the kids," and the judge makes a note of it for when we go to court to actually put the change into action. (At least, I think that's how my attorney explained it!)

I was stressing out about the day already, so I took an extra 25mg of my Zoloft to help keep me calmer. I was still shaking a bit, but not at all like the last time (I think it helped that there were very few people waiting to be in court today--- perhaps because of Spring Break?).

Things went smoothly, for the most part. Toward the end of the hearing, the kids' attorney asked me to tell the court how our visitation schedules are going where my daughter is concerned, and I had to admit that every time I've made plans to see her, she's canceled it, so I haven't seen her since before New Year's. (Everyone rushed to reassure me that it was "the age," and not to take it personally.) I also told the judge that we do text more frequently, and that DD had sent me a photograph, which the judge requested to see.

I hesitated, then said it was on my cellphone. The judge smiled and said, more or less, "Oh, I know how that is!" My attorney told me to go ahead and fetch the photo from my phone, and then took the phone up to the judge, who smiled at it. I told her, from where I still sat at the table, "She knit that hat herself!"

My attorney then told her that I also do some knitting (I'd shown her the shawl on which I was working that morning), and then the judge really surprised me by saying, "I know Ms. Frey does crafty things--- I see her every year at the Black Sheep Gathering!"

o.0

Wow.

Either I'm really weird, or I'm really memorable in another way. I'm amazed that I've been remembered from a once-yearly event in which I merely pass through as a spectator!