You Get What You Get

Roller Coasters

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 07:51:00 +0000

So, remember when I was going to be less "Oh, woe is me" HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Yeah, I'm sure NONE of you saw that coming.

OK, so the kids started school, and after the initial craziness where we fought to get D. placed where they had told us he would be placed, he was placed there, and Mr. WG and I went there the first day to see how things were. I stood and observed the class and I said to Mr. WG, "Um… I'm not so sure about this placement."

Maybe I should back up a little.

When Mr. WG arrived in Israel, he called me one day. "So, I went to see this school," he said. "I thought it was in Karnei Shomron, but it turns out it's in Shavei Shomron."

"Ok," I said, because he could have told me he thought it was in Sweden and it was actually in Denmark for all it meant to me.

"So, like, it's not going to be Israel, eventually," he said. "You have to go through a machsom (checkpost) to get there. So, when I found out where it was, I didn't even want to go, but then I went, and I really didn't like the drive there, but… I really liked the school. It's a great school for D. But the location… it's not for us."

Instead, Mr. WG liked the school in Rosh HaAyin. They had a "small class," he told me, which he explained was the equivalent of a special education class. Except that what he *meant* was that it's the equivalent of a class for kids with learning disabilities, and when you take D's delays and add in the whole "Hey, here's a new language WITH ALL DIFFERENT LETTERS," we need a class that's -- well, not the class in Rosh HaAyin. And that was clear to me from the moment I saw the class.

On Friday, we went to a meeting at the school, a meeting we asked for. The teacher and the counselor tried very hard not to say it, but what they meant was, "Please, please take your son out of this school." I left the meeting -- what's the word? Oh, devastated. Yeah. That.

We made some phone calls and prepped for Shabbat. We went through Shabbat, and in the late afternoon, at our friends' home, there may or may not have been an incident involving me shouting at my husband that I don't have time to waste, that we need a KICK-ASS PLACEMENT for my kid, and WHAT THE HELL WAS HE THINKING putting him in the class in Rosh HaAyin. It may have happened. I'm just saying.

This morning, we went to see the school in Shavei Shomron. You go through a little Arab village on the way. "This is what bothered you?" I asked my husband.

"Yes," he said.

"Um, you do know that your parents live in UPPER NAZARETH and we used to drive through LOWER NAZARETH on the way there, right?

"But that's different."

"Why, because you've done it since you were a kid?"

"Well, yeah, and this is, like, 40 minutes from our house."

This is true -- the school is a bit of a schlep. If I had to get there weekly, say, to serve hot lunch, it would be annoying. But D. will have a ride there and back.

We got to the school. The secretary knew exactly who we were -- and we hadn't called ahead. The assistant principal showed us around and talked to us. We saw the different classrooms, saw the kids race over to hug the assistant principal when they saw her. We met with the psychologist, the principal, and the counselor. They saw a video of D., and all of them had the same maternal reaction to it.

They get that D. needs one on one. They can do that. They get that he needs first grade -- even though he's as large as some of the 6th graders. They get that even though he's as large as some of the 6th graders, he's only SEVEN.

I'm taking D. there tomorrow to meet them in person. Mr. WG will be off to Holland for work, but the school and D. can check each other out, and a decision may be made as soon as, you know, tomorrow. So. There we are. And here we go.

People Suck.

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 12:20:00 +0000

My husband just emailed me with the name and cell phone number of a woman with the note "Call me." He's off in London again for work. I called him.

"I just spoke to the principal at D's new school," he said. "She said we need to email D's translated developmental evaluation to this woman."

"Okay. You sent me her phone number."

"I know. Can you call her and get her email address and send her the report?"

Okay, so let's start with the fact that my husband thought it would be easier to email me, ask me to call him, explain the situation, and have me call this woman rather than just call her himself and request her email address. Fine. Fine.

I call her.

"Why are you calling my cell phone?" she demanded.

"This is the number I have, I'm sorry," I said.

"I don't understand why you're talking to me at all," she continued. "You should be talking to Office A, and THEY should talk to me. You should never talk to me. Why are you calling me?"

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "All I know is that my husband called me from London and told me to call you and get your email address so I can send you a copy of our translated report."

"But YOU SHOULDN'T BE TALKING TO ME," she said.

"There are A LOT OF THINGS I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO DO FOR MY SON," I tossed back, and I guess she heard that she had already made me cry, so she allowed me to take down her email address and send the damn report.

Really, is it any wonder I hate people?

Hello Again.

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 08:54:00 +0000

Oh, my poor, neglected blog. This is what happens when you let life get in the way of the Internet.

So...with the exception of my little Amy Chua post, I've been kind of absent for a while. There are many reasons for this. In no particular order:

1. My eldest child had a bat mitzvah. It was awesome, but it also took a lot of my time.

2. We planned this whole "move to Israel" thing, sold our house, packed our stuff, and, uh, moved to Israel.

3. I haven't quite known what to say.

Let's expand on 3 a bit, shall we? I started this blog the day we met with the neurologist who gave us D's preliminary diagnosis, which turned out to be spot on. That was the beginning of The Dark Time. And my God, was it dark. For a long time. I blogged a lot, and that helped so much. And I read a lot of special needs blogs, and that helped, too.

Lately, the sun seems to have broken through. Now, I don't want to exaggerate. My son is still disabled -- and just typing those words makes me start to cry -- but on the whole, on the whole, I am far more okay with that reality than I ever thought I could be. I know there are so many things my beautiful boy will never do. And even though there is a piece of me that will never fully accept any kind of limitations placed on him -- because what the hell kind of mother would? -- I am beginning to be able to envision a future for my D. that is hopeful. It is different from the dreams I thought I would have for my children, but I am getting better at realizing that there is more than one version of success.

Basically, the last 3 minutes to the contrary, I don't sit around sobbing all the time anymore. This is good. But for a while I thought that it meant I should stop blogging, because, well, the point of this blog, in a nutshell was, "OH MY GOD, MY LIFE IS TRAGIC BECAUSE MY SON HAS SPECIAL NEEDS AND I HATE EVERYBODY."

So. I thought about stopping, about starting something new, about just closing the computer and quietly walking away forever. But then I thought about ~~the children.~~ ~~my constant and unrelenting need for attention.~~ one of the things I wanted to know back at the start of this journey: "Will I be OK?" And the answer is, YES. And so I think it's important to keep writing this blog -- even though the focus may ultimately shift, even though there may be less WOE IS ME (although I can assure you that there will still be PLENTY of I HATE EVERYONE AND I AM BETTER THAN EVERYONE ANYWAY), even though I may not hyper-focus on the details of my son's progress or his failures. I think it's important for parents at other stages of this journey to know that I survived The Dark Times. I pushed through. I came out into the light, and sporting Chanel sunglasses, no less. And you will, too.

An Open (Love) Letter to Amy Chua

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 08:44:00 +0000

I’m so late to the party it’s frightening, but I JUST read The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua yesterday. I could not put it down -- and I was reading it on my phone. It was SO GOOD.

So, first of all, after the poor woman has been excoriated and vilified in the press, its really important to start where she started. She started writing this book at the moment she thought that everything she had done -- the very fiber of who she was as a parent -- had backfired on her in the worst way possible. She had, if you will, hit rock bottom. Her younger daughter had rejected her wholly and completely (it will probably not surprise you to learn that her daughter was 13 at the time) and Amy was devastated.

From that place of devastation, of questioning herself, of pain, frustration, and probably anger, Amy began writing. And the beginning of the book is laugh-out-loud funny. She makes fun of herself. She admits that she may not have chosen the best path for parenting, but like all of us, she started with what she knew. Who you are as a parent is shaped so much by your own experiences as a child. Maybe you swing completely the opposite way, maybe you follow your parents’ lead exactly, and maybe you take what worked and change what didn’t.

I think that my parenting style is very different from my own parents -- and because I am a genius and the best at everything in the world, my way is better. If you ask my parents, it is entirely possible that they will tell you that my children are feral animals over whom my husband and I have no control. This, in stark contrast to the docile “seen and not heard” children my siblings and I were (although I seem to remember my fair share of terrible behavior as a child). And there have been perhaps a handful of times that I questioned the wisdom of my parenting and wondered if I should maybe knock some respect into my kids. Metaphorically, of course.

Anyway, Amy started with what she knew, and it worked. Beautifully! Her older daughter followed the rules and excelled and sparkled. And then her second daughter came along. And everything Amy thought she knew turned out to be wrong.

Amy’s book is about her flaws as a mother. Anyone who reads it and comes away thinking that Amy is telling every parent everywhere to follow her methods with every child has a serious reading disorder. There are several moments in the book where Amy tells you what she was thinking -- and what she said out loud. Because -- and perhaps this has never happened to you, because I am sure that YOU are perfect, because you read my blog and I AM PERFECT -- sometimes we are stubborn. And sometimes admitting a mistake is really, really hard.

The crux of Amy’s argument, as I read it, is that good parenting is HARD. Guess what? IT IS. It is damn hard to parent effectively.

My youngest is two years old. If I worked a little harder, he could be toilet trained. But that would require a lot of effort on my part. Right now, we have a system where, when I remove his diaper and free his baby manhood, Baby A. grabs himself and shouts “Peepee! Peepee!” and then runs around the house screaming maniacally and laughing.

I follow him around for a few minutes, regularly scooping him up and taking him to the toilet, where he does not pee. Then, I either put a diaper on him, or go do something else -- whereupon he pees on the floor.

I am lazy.

Amy would never do that.

My daughters took music lessons. And like most Western parents, I settled for MAYBE half an hour of practice daily. Currently, neither of my daughters takes lessons. Amy’s daughters are concert-level musicians, and they are grateful. Yes, both of them.

Anyway, all of this is to say, if your only exposure to Amy Chua is what you’ve read ABOUT her, you should read her book. And Amy, we should really have coffee.

P.S. I JUST read Amy's web site now, and it made me laugh a lot because she basically says exactly the same thing about her book that I just said.

If you were trying to get me to post, you win.

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 16:09:00 +0000

You may recall that Aetna makes me insane, and I had the audacity to write about my annoyance at their sudden decision to not cover therapies they had covered in the past.

Well, an anonymous commenter has chosen to take me to task. There is NOTHING I love more than dissecting anonymous comments. Here it is:

I wanted a new 2011 Lexus but they wouldn't give it to me for $1,000. The nerve of those car dealers!

Why does everyone think that Insurance covers everything for everybody? The limits of you specific policy are the limits you live with (or not). Pay more and get a better policy (or car). Unfortunate situation but stop whinning...

OK, Anon, I will totally spot you the misspelling, because I'm feeling generous, and because I am well aware that I have typos in my posts. The random capitalization of Insurance? OK, I can let that go. Let's attack the substance of your comment, not the style.

Maybe you're not aware of how insurance works for most of us in this country. That is, we don't have the luxury of shopping around for the best possible policy. Rather, we're limited to the paltry offerings our employers make available. And not cheaply, I might add.

Anyway, Anon, if you actually read my post, and the other posts on the topic, you discover that yes, I do find it reprehensible that Aetna does not feel the need to cover my son's therapies, but I am even more disturbed by the fact that they DID cover him and then abruptly decided that they were just kidding. Essentially, they sent me a letter saying, "Hey, we want a do-over!" To which I respond, "NO BACKSIES."

Your analogy sucks, Anon. When I go car shopping, I can decide how much I want to spend, and what I want to get for that money, and then it is up to me to find the seller who offers what I want at that price. In fact, I am going through that process right now. And do you know what? If you are patient and careful, there is an excellent chance that you can get a 2009 Sienna with under 50,000 miles and dual power sliding doors for under $17,000.

If Aetna offered me a policy that would cover my son's speech, OT, and PT for $X/month, I would most likely buy it. If I could shop around for an individual policy that would cover those things, even better. But that's not possible these days in this great country. Health care reform? Yeah, not really very helpful when it doesn't REQUIRE INSURERS TO COVER TREATMENT.

And that is all for today. Internet, I still have to tell you The Great Saga of Selling Our Honda Odyssey, but I have to save it for after my work is done.

Shamelessly Asking for Your Help

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 20:32:00 +0000

Dear Friends,

Every time my son asks for a playdate, my heart breaks a little. Adi is seven years old. Although he is sometime invited to the birthday parties of my friends’ children, he is usually overlooked. Although my five year old son is often invited to someone’s house to play, Adi is always left behind. We try to arrange occasional interactions for Adi with his peers, but it’s asking a lot of a first grader to play with a child with special needs whose speech isn’t always intelligible, who can’t play the way other children do, who is clearly, visibly different.

The first time I heard about the Friendship Circle, I was skeptical. Teens were going to come to my house and play with my son for an hour? My son could go to activities and someone else would interact with him while I had a cup of coffee and chatted with other parents? Maybe it sounds cynical, but I’ve learned not to get my hopes up.

If I say that Friendship Circle has changed my life – and my family – you will think I’m exaggerating, but I assure you that I am not. For three years now, Monday afternoons are filled with anticipation in my home. From the moment Adi returns from school, he announces, “Dean’s coming!” And when Dean arrives – the jubilation is tangible.

Dean is happy to do whatever Adi wants to do – watch videos of garbage trucks on YouTube, play in the park, act out episodes of Blue’s Clues – whatever Adi wants, he gets, for that hour. Most exciting, of course, is that he gets a friend. He gets a playdate. And it is amazing.

When we go to Friendship Circle activities throughout the year, Dean meets us there and whisks Adi away to have fun. At first, I was nervous, but I’ve learned to let them go -- not that Adi gives me a choice. “That’s my Dean,” he tells me. “Not your Dean.”

People who don’t know me know Adi from Friendship Circle and greet him warmly when we are out and about. Sometimes I feel like wherever I go in Houston, Friendship Circle is there, a small but shining presence that lightens my step, that makes my days easier.

I was surprised to learn recently that just to break even with their current programming, Friendship Circle of Houston needs $80,000 annually. And they have plans for expansion – but those plans take money, of course. When you donate to the Friendship Circle, you help support the programs that already exist, and you help build the vision that is slowly coming to life. You give Adi, and other children like him, playdates. You give respite to parents, support to siblings, and you give the world a chance to see my son’s smile.

Our family is participating in this year's Houston Friendship Walk. We need your support to reach our goal! Please make a secure online donation today.

You will automatically receive an acknowledgment and I will be notified by email of your support. Together we are truly making a difference for those in need!

OMGOMGOMG

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 00:54:00 +0000

This is my kid with Sotos. Riding a bike. Without training wheels. Because he is awesome.

I Still Love Anonymous Comments

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 15:11:00 +0000

I feel like I’ve really made it as a blogger. I woke up this morning to find an anonymous comment on an old post.

You have such a bad attitude!!! I have a six year old son who has SOTOS and I've been through hell and back with him, family members, therapists, medical doctors, and specialists but my attitude is completely different than what you have portrayed through your free lance writing. Your attitude sucks. I know it's not easy being a mom to a child with SOTOS but you need to change your outlook and look for the positive things your son does, verses the annoying things and things you hate! It really upset me reading your blog....

Yep, that’s me – only looking at the annoying things my son does and things I hate. Let’s go ahead and do the line-by-line, shall we?

“You have such a bad attitude!!!” Anon, you have to trust that your writing is strong enough to imply the multiple exclamation points. At most, you need one exclamation point at the end of a sentence. At best, you should only use them when using an interjection (Oh!), or when starting a statement with an interrogatory word (What a crazy idea!). If you have to use three exclamation points to get your point across, you really haven’t done a good job with your writing.

“I have a six year old son who has SOTOS and I've been through hell and back with him, family members, therapists, medical doctors, and specialists but my attitude is completely different than what you have portrayed through your free lance writing.”

OK, Anon, if you do, in fact, have a six-year-old son with Sotos syndrome, you need to learn that the syndrome is named for the researcher who originally identified it, Juan Sotos. It is spelled with a capital S and lowercase otos. Props for not adding an unnecessary apostrophe, though. We’ll ignore your run-on sentence and splitting freelance into two words. So, your attitude is completely different from mine. I’m sure you never have bad days when you call a friend and cry. I’m sure that when you spend an hour working with your child on sounding out a six word story and he still doesn’t get it, you smile and say, “Oh, well. You sure are cute.” That sounds totally healthy to me.

“Your attitude sucks.” Repetitive, anon, but don’t you agree that it’s much better without the unnecessary exclamation points?

“I know it's not easy being a mom to a child with SOTOS but you need to change your outlook and look for the positive things your son does, verses the annoying things and things you hate!” Yep, that’s me, always looking for a way to criticize my son. Never looking for the positive. Not here or here, that’s for sure.

I started this blog so that I would have a place to share my fears and frustrations. When things are going well, I don’t need to vent. I am busy hanging out with my kids and my husband and enjoying life. When things are bad, then yes, yes I do complain about it. I come here and I get all the complaints out so that I can go back to my real life and be a good mom, a good wife, a good friend.

Yes, I have complained a lot over the years. In particular, when I was at rock bottom. This blog, during those times, probably saved my sanity, if not my life.

“It really upset me reading your blog....” Here’s a wacky idea, anon. DON’T READ IT if it upsets you so much. This blog is my lifeline. My life is not all sunshine and roses. Raising a child with special needs is not like a Chicken Soup for the Soul story. It is hard work down here in the trenches, and I show up for work EVERY DAY. If I need to bitch to my coworkers a little around the water cooler, so be it.

To quote Julie at A Little Pregnant, "The Internet is full. Go home."

P.S. If you actually go through and read my whole blog, you'll see that I LOVE to do this to anonymous commenters.

Emails my daughter sends

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 20:45:00 +0000

From: Z

Date: Tue, Jan 25, 2011 at 4:12 PM

Subject: Crash

To: EVERY SINGLE PERON WHOSE EMAIL ADDRESS SHE HAS

Yesterday, I got in a car crash.

That is all.

From: Z's friend

Date: Tue, Jan 25, 2011 at 4:13 PM

Subject: Re: Crash

Where were you? How did it happen? Who were you with?

Hope you are O.K.!

I'll miss you when you leave for Israel!

From: Z

Date: Tue, Jan 25, 2011 at 4:16 PM

Subject: Crash

To: Z's friend

1. Where were you?

1. In a car, smarty.

2. How did it happen?

2. What do you mean how did it happen? A guy smashed into us!

3. Who were you with?

3. well, wouldn't you like to know.

4. Hope you are O.K.!

4. I am not- I broke every bone in my body- yet I still have the power to type this e-mail.

5. I'll miss you when you leave for Israel!

5. I'll miss you too, honey.

EDITOR'S NOTE: The "crash" was a sideswipe from a traffic cop while the car she was in was STOPPED.

Aiming for Average

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 16:29:00 +0000

I'm one of the featured columnists at Care.com, and my most recent post there is about why I hate first grade. Feel free to check it out -- and comment!

The Language of Special Needs...in Another Language

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 16:48:00 +0000

Years ago, I was quite impressed with myself when I realized that, thanks to TeaPacks, I knew how to say "existential philosophy" in Hebrew. This seemed to me to be a fairly good indicator of my fluency with the language.

Yesterday, Mr. WG and I spoke about IEPs, inclusion classrooms, resource rooms, and so on... in Hebrew. Many of the terms used in Hebrew are based on the concepts in English, so it's fairly obvious what they are immediately. Others, I could figure out quickly enough, because I understand how the Israeli mind works.

That understanding, as it turns out, is going to be pretty important, because it looks like we are moving to Israel. In July. OF THIS YEAR.

For a long time, Mr. WG has talked of moving back, and I have ignored him. But lately, the talk doesn't stop. And even though he admits that logically, rationally, there is no reason to go, this is what he desperately wants, for himself, and for our family.

It turns out that I can be bought somewhat cheaply. Promise me an iPhone, and I come around. Kidding. I am going along with the plan because I love my husband, and because I don't think this will be bad for our family. I think it will be very, very hard, but it has the potential to be very, very good. Also, I will get an iPhone.

Nothing about this move will be easy or simple. I may have mentioned once or twice that I have a son with special needs? Yes? So, yeah, that will be an issue, in that HE HAS TO LEARN A WHOLE NEW ALPHABET and we have to go to IEP meetings in Israel WITH ISRAELIS, where the meetings will be conducted IN HEBREW, and we have to find a school and a community and go to developmental assessments IN HEBREW and OH MY GOD.

So, just when I thought I was starting to master the language of special needs, I realize that I have a lot of language to learn.

Epistle: To J. on the Occasion of His Fifth Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 18:39:00 +0000

Dear J.,

Five. Wow. How did that happen? I swear, just yesterday, you were this little bit of a thing, and now you are just -- well, you're still a little bit of a thing, but you're a BIG little bit of a thing.

You are obsessed with dinosaurs. OBSESSED. You know all about them, you talk about them, you play with them, you never stop with them. You love dinosaurs, J. A LOT.

You also like ravioli -- it is one of the few foods you eat consistently. That's great, because kosher ravioli is NOT AT ALL OVERPRICED. Ahem.

You love school. You love the kids in your class, your teacher, the school itself -- you are thriving and happy. You are amazing, even if you are going to KILL ME with your poop issues. But let's not dwell on that right now. Let's talk about how you, your sister S., and Baby A all have EXACTLY THE SAME FACE and it's, like, a little scary to look at pictures of you from before your third birthday, because I would swear they are actually pictures of Baby A, save for the fact that YOU HAVE TWO EARS.

Let's talk about how smart you are, and how you come up with these incredible, profound thoughts, or how you love to watch the Super Mario Brothers Super Show, or how you will check out who is at the park and then decide, much to the disappointment of the children CHANTING YOUR NAME, that you do not actually want to play outside.

You are awesome, J. You really are. Even when you tell me that you're going to kill me, or when you announce that you're not going to sleep in my bed anymore because I won't let you do whatever it is you're hoping to do that moment, or when you make it known to all that YOU DO NOT LIKE WHAT IS HAPPENING, you are still awesome. And delicious.

I love you! Happy Birthday!

Love,
Mommy

168 Hours

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 06 Jan 2011 14:25:00 +0000

Over the weekend, I read 168 Hours, by Laura Vanderkam. You should read it, too.

Laura's thesis is that we all have more time than we think. If you start with the premise that there are 168 hours in a week (there are), and that you sleep for 56 of them (you should) and you work for another 40, you still have a whole bunch of hours left for other things.

It's an innovating and exciting way of looking at your week. And in particular, when you start thinking about blocks of time, you realize where you are being inefficient and how you could, perhaps, tweak your schedule to get more from your time. It's not necessarily about working faster -- although that can happen -- so much as it is about making sure that the time you commit to working isn't spent, say, on Facebook. Or sweeping the floor.

My own days have been severely fragmented lately. I've been homeschooling the girls for their secular subjects. A month ago, my day looked like this:

6am: up and shower
6:30: coffee, email, work
8am: tell girls to start working. spend next 90 minutes alternating between "work" and helping girls, invariably becoming frustrated and tense.
9:40: drive girls to school for Judaic studies.
10am: return home, work.
11:50: pick up girls from school.
12:15: home, eat lunch
1pm: attempt to work, but constantly stop what I am doing to help the girls. OR ignore my work and sit down and teach girls. OR ignore girls and do my work and yell at them to leave me alone.
2:15: J. arrives home, yell at him to leave girls alone while they study.
3:30: D. arrives home, attempt homework, yell at other children.

You can see that this was, perhaps, not the best schedule. I would allow that there might be some room for improvement.

On Sunday night, I sat down and wrote up a schedule for Monday. On Monday morning, after I started my own work at 6:30 and crossed several important items off my list by 8, I sat down with the girls to talk to them. I explained that I need blocks of time for me and blocks of time for them. That it's not fair to them or to me to try to do everything at once. They understood immediately. We looked at their schedules for the week and figured out which courses they would need my help to complete, and which they could do on their own. Then I blocked time for the classes I needed to teach them. It was awesome.

I like figuring out what I want to spend my time on this week, and then slotting it in. Yes, it requires follow-through. But if the result is that I get to blog -- and not feel guilty about it -- then that's a good thing.

Here's a look at how my day went yesterday:

6am: Up and shower
6:30: coffee and status report for client
7am: email questions to sources for article
7:30: email
8am: schoolwork with S.
9:40: NANNY takes girls to school (this is HUGE. Giving myself this block of time back is such a no-brainer, but it took me forever to think of it.)
9:40: Work on pieces for client
11:50: submit pieces to client and pick up girls
12:15: lunch
1pm: schoolwork with S.
2pm: prep for client status call
2:30: downtime -- blogs/email
3pm: status call with client

See the difference? Small, but measurable. And sanity-saving.

I am still working on how to handle J and D in the afternoon, but one step at a time. Being able to focus on my own work at set times makes me much less tense in the later afternoon, and I can more easily shut the laptop and walk away from it.

Since Monday morning, I've crossed items off my list that have been there for MONTHS. It's a nice feeling. I like being in control of my time and my life. I'll let you know how it works out in the coming weeks and months.

This is his brain on drugs.

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 16:05:00 +0000

Nearly five years ago, after D. was diagnosed and J. was born and I was hanging on to life and sanity by a very small thread, I went on medication. It was a really hard thing to do, for many reasons.

Asking for help is hard, in general. Admitting that we need help, that we are human, is something that many of us have trouble doing. I suppose we like to perpetuate the myth of our own infallibility. Perhaps we enjoy suffering, in some perverse way. But I think that asking for help when I really, really needed it was the only responsible thing for me to do.

I was particularly worried that taking medication for anxiety/depression would make me less creative. That it would dull me, somehow, and leave me with a shell of my former self. This, it turns out, has not been a problem. When I take my medication, I feel normal. The way I used to feel all the time. I don't spend hours imagining the funerals of my family members. I don't constantly think that my car will careen off the road into water, and how will I unbuckle multiple carseats and swim to safety while keeping two or three children above water. I don't burst into tears with no provocation.

All this to say, that while medication may not be right for everyone, it has made a significant, positive difference in my life and the lives of my children and husband.

Some months ago, we began wondering, Mr. WG and I, if we should explore ADD medication for D. We noticed, again and again, that he seems on the cusp of learning so many things, but he is so easily distracted. He cannot focus on the work for more than a few minutes before something else catches his attention, and he is off and running, figuratively and literally, depending on the situation.

I debated medication with anyone who would listen to me. Sometimes, this was appropriate, as when I told a friend of ours who is a child psychologist, that I didn't want to rush to medicate my child. He gently explained that I had, in fact, tried many other things for several years, so this would hardly be rushing into medication.

Other times, my ramblings could only be classified as inappropriate oversharing, as when I found myself explaining my thinking to the woman behind me in line at Target. I only wish I were exaggerating for comic effect.

At any rate, at D's annual developmental assessment, the pediatrician had us try Focalin XR. As the name indicates, Focalin works on the focusing receptors of the brain. We are still tweaking the dose, and we're not sure if this is the right drug/dose combination. I am seeing absolutely batshit crazy (that's a technical term) behavior in the late afternoon when it wears off. Am I seeing increased focusing during the day? I'm not sure. Decreased appetite? Maybe. Maybe. I am definitely NOT seeing any change in his obsessions -- he still asks to take out the trash cans approximately once every .453 seconds. But I don't know if I should expect to see a change in that. It's been hard to get in touch with the developmental pediatrician with the holidays, but I'm hoping to speak with her this week.

In the meantime, I'm reminding myself that it would be unfair to deny my son the medical help he may need because of my own insecurity with medication.

5-2=0

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 16:46:00 +0000

I'm sure there are at least a few readers who looked at that headline and thought, "Dude, this woman HOMESCHOOLS HER KIDS."

Allow me to explain. Yesterday, I had to drive to the airport. Mr. WG has been all cranky lately about missing his mommy, and he has been, frankly, a pain in the tushie about it. Israel is wonderful, he tells me. We should go live there. And when ask practical things, like "Where will we live?" and "Where will D. go to school?" and "What will we do for money?" he gets all huffy.

"Why do women have to have opinions?" he retorts. "Why can't you just do what I say?"

That line might carry a little more weight if:

1. Mr. WG were not a full 2.5 inches SHORTER than I am
2. He actually meant it

Anyway, he went on and on about going to Israel, and I finally told him, BUY A FREAKING TICKET AND GO. And he says, "I'll take Baby A., and that will help you." And I said, "It's lovely that you want to take the baby, but don't kid yourself that you're helping me. He is NOT the difficult child. If you ACTUALLY want to help me, take D."

And so... yesterday, I drove Mr. WG, D., and Baby A to the airport so that they could go to Israel. For 18 days. Which leaves me at home with Z., S., and J. And, as any parent of a lot of kids knows, when you are used to five, and you suddenly get rid of two, including the one who is the most work, it's like having NO children.

I miss them all like crazy, of course, but it's also kind of amazing to see how much I can accomplish in a day when D. is not here.

Worst. Blogger. Ever.

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 00:10:00 +0000

Sorry, sorry. I don't even have a good excuse like Sara -- and let's all send over a big mazel tov, shall we? Even if we weren't invited. Ahem.

Anyway. Let me go ahead and fill you in on the events of the last few weeks. It all started in early November when a client of mine asked me to come to New York for a week to work on a project. I had to think about for a few seconds. A week ON MY OWN in New York City? With no laundry, no fighting, no cooking or cleaning? Um, yes, yes, I think this is a go. So, off I went. In a town car they paid for, on a flight they paid for, to the hotel they paid for. And while I was there, I ate kosher Chinese that they paid for, as part of my $80 per diem, which ROCKED THE HOUSE.

I also worked an insane amount of hours, but I totally didn't even mind. Because I was stuffed on Chinese food. Plus, I was experiencing this totally bizarre phenomenon: I would put down items (my glasses, a book, my laptop), and they would remain exactly where I put them. Those of you who are mothers of small children may not believe that this is possible, but I assure you that it is. I lived it, for those 8 days. It was awesome.

Oh, and that laptop? That would be this little beauty, purchased when I landed the contract for the trip. It is SO FREAKING COOL that it almost makes up for the fact that I was the ONLY PERSON IN MANHATTAN WITHOUT AN IPHONE.

Of course, you can't go to New York and not hang out with Persephone, so I did that. Yep, that's right peeps, I got to hang out with the adorable Aleph and Bet, Lance, AND Persephone herself, live, in the flesh, and supercool. She even cooked me dinner. It was awesome.

I also spent my first ever Shabbat in Brooklyn, with my friend's parents. That, too, was great -- I had the basement to myself, plenty of time to sleep, and I actually sat for the whole meal on Friday night AND Shabbat lunch, and NO ONE PUT THEIR HANDS IN MY FOOD. I'm telling you, it's living the dream.

Now, prior to leaving for this trip, I had still been nursing Baby A. I figured that at 16 months, he wasn't nursing all that much, so no big deal, right? HA. And in case I was unclear, let me clarify: HA HA HA. By the end of my first 24 hours in NYC, my breasts had swelled to the size of a small country, and I was in the kind of pain one might associate with, say, an amputation or a beheading.

Also, I had purchased two button-down shirts to wear to the office (because I felt that it might be inappropriate to show up in my normal attire: t-shirts that say things like, "Be nice to me. I might talk about you on my blog.") But the shirts were purchased when I was still the size of a human being, and when my chest expanded threefold, well, let's just say that my meetings on Thursday were ALL ABOUT MY BOOBS.

Anyway, the adventures eventually ended, and I returned home to Houston. And then, a few days later, the mailman delivered a package... from my friend's parents in Brooklyn. Immediately, I was certain that I had forgotten some... unmentionables... and I was about to be mortified. I opened the envelope to find... another envelope. On which my friend's father had written, "This turned up when we washed the linens from your room. Best wishes." Fingers trembling, I opened the envelope to find... underwear. BUT HERE'S THE KICKER: IT WASN'T MINE!

Yes, friends, these people sent me SOMEONE ELSE'S UNDERWEAR.

Well, that just about catches us up. There's just one other little story having to do with a certain famous blogger visiting for Thanksgiving, but let's save a little something for next time, 'kay?

The Book Order

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 00:00:00 +0000

When Z. was in first grade, she brought home a book order. I was overjoyed. I must have ordered $40 worth of books, because that's what I got when I was a kid. I was allowed to order as many books as I wanted, every time. Well, by the time the third or fourth book order came home, I was a little less enthusiastic, and I instituted many, many rules to keep from having to order books. Only books that cost $2 or less. Only books that are not about fairies. Only books with at least 150 pages. Whatever.

Then S. started bringing home book orders, and it was more of the same. Every month, she would want the book that came with the free bracelet for your doll or the water dish for your dog or whatever, and it would be a whole thing.

D. brought home a book order the other day. My other kids know what they have in their backpacks. But someone else puts D's things in his folder for him, so he has no clue. And even if he put the book order in there, he has no idea what it is. I can leave it out on the table, and he doesn't even glance at it as he shoves it out of the way to make space for his garbage truck.

I never thought I would so desperately want my child to ask me to buy something.

On Anger

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 02:56:00 +0000

So, I have a friend who has a sister with Down syndrome, and I am constantly in awe of my friend and her entire family and their approach to life in general. And my friend just had a baby, so her family was in town, and a different sister of hers slept at my house, and we had the opportunity to talk.

Some months back, my friend's mother was telling me that when her D.S. daughter was born, she was afraid to look at her. "They had to tell me, 'It's okay, she's not a monster,'" she told me. This was such a powerful thing for me to hear, because this woman is, like, the mother I want to be. What she has done for her daughter is astounding to me, and she is so amazing. Her faith is strong. She is patient -- but tough as nails. But kind. But strong. Amazing. I am constantly amazed by her, and it was so, so good for me to hear that these qualities did not just come from nowhere, but rather were cultivated over many years. It gives me hope that I can do these things for D. one day.

Anyway, I was talking to my friend's sister, who was all of a year old when their D.S. sister was born. I told her what her mother had said, and she was so touched to hear how it had affected me. We talked about the different approaches her parents have to life, to her sister.

"When people would tell my father that my sister was a bracha (a blessing)," she said, "he would say to them, 'You think this is a bracha? You want my bracha? I'll give you my bracha.'" She told me that she was always horrified by this comment, and he basically told her, "When it's your child, you can tell me how to feel." Recently, someone said to him how amazing his daughter is, how much she has accomplished. "And he said, 'Really? You think it's amazing? I think it's disgusting,'" my friend's sister told me.

This is one of those statements that pretty clearly divides the people who have children with special needs from those who don't. If you don't, you hear that this man thinks his daughter is disgusting, or that he doesn't love her. But if you do, you hear it very differently. He's not saying that his daughter is disgusting. Not at all. He's certainly not saying that he doesn't love her. He's saying something else entirely. That this reality is disgusting. That it is disgusting that God would do this to his child, this daughter he loves so powerfully. That he rages against the forces that have dared to inflict this on his child.

I know where that anger comes from. I know exactly what he means, and why he says it. Because it is incredibly frustrating to hear again and again how lucky my child is to have such strong parents. It is insulting and demeaning to hear that you couldn't handle my child, that what we do is so hard, so amazing, so wonderful.

It is disgusting that people are constantly astounded that we would do these things, as if they are out of the ordinary.

She said she's tried to tell him that if he would let go of the anger, he would have a better life. And I hear her argument, but I also know how hard it is to let go.

I guess we all have our hot-button issues.

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 12:42:00 +0000

In case you missed what's going on in the comments on my last post about D. hugging other kids and squeezing their hands, here's a quick recap:

Bob said, "There must be found a way to prevent any child from repeatedly being on the receiving end of unwelcome touches - and in the short term."

I asked him what he'd suggest, and if he felt that my kid shouldn't be around the "normal" kids. And I wasn't trying to be snarky (well, maybe just a little) -- I really wanted to get in the other parents' heads. And Bob said:

I suppose that yes, I think that a child who cannot be prevented from repeatedly subjecting others to unwanted touch should not be in the classroom. But I find it hard to believe that this prevention cannot be accomplished. Couldn't a reasonably energetic para prevent such touches? Isn't that precisely what we would expect if a student was a physical danger to others, or to themselves? Why is this any different?

I'm curious to be in your head, too. If another child were handling your child against her will, repeatedly, and she were upset and bewildered and anxious and not wanting to go to school - would you think that an "ongoing process" was good enough, and, meanwhile, that it wasn't the touching child's parents' problem because those parent "aren't there to do anything about it"?

So, here's the thing: the first time I heard about this issue was that first note. I wrote a response. The next day came the second note. Now, it is entirely possible that the hugging/squeezing has been going on since the first day of school and no one bothered to mention it to me until that first note last week. And if that's the case, then it was probably NOT an issue for the child involved. But then a parent saw it and decided that it was Not Okay and complained, and then a note came home. Or, the hugging and squeezing started more recently and again was not enough of a problem to warrant a note home until a parent complained about it.

It's also possible that it started whenever it started and was immediately a real issue for the kids involved, but the teacher thought she could handle it until she thought she couldn't handle it and then she wrote a note home. But I think that Bob's assessment of the issue is wrong. I really have trouble believing that D. was handling another child "against her will, repeatedly, and she [was] upset and bewildered and anxious and not wanting to go to school." If that was truly the case, then it deserves more than a scrawled note on a daily conduct sheet.

There was another incident at school. A parent dropped a child off in the classroom and then went to the assistant principal and told him that D. had shoved her out of the class. The AP came to the teacher to find out what happened. The teacher -- and this is the strict teacher, the one who told D., "You don't say no to me," -- said, "What? No! The parent dropped off the child, and D. said, 'Ok, you go to work now, bye!, and closed the classroom door." Yes, he did put a hand on the parent, but the teacher insists that it was not a shove, and certainly not with violence or malice.

I have frequently seen D. interact with kids. He is often physical, because that's an easier way for him to communicate than verbally. He often hugs kids, he often squeezes their hands, and he sometimes lifts them up. This is generally accompanied by a lot of laughter -- from both children. If the other child seems taken aback, shy, or frightened, I intervene. But if they are having fun, I usually stand to the side, watching closely, but smiling.

I have seen other parents watching, also cautiously, but smiling, unless or until there is a problem. I have seen other parents glance over, assess the situation, and determine quickly that there is nothing to worry about.

And I have seen parents immediately jump in to admonish D. or quickly pull their children away from him as if he is a contagious leper.

It is always interesting to me to note that the leper parents generally have children who think NOTHING of walking up to my kid, shoving him, and walking away laughing. Or telling him, "No, D., you can't sit with us."

Many times, I've thought that if D. has a more distinctive look -- say, the features of Down syndrome, or the tight limbs of cerebral palsy -- people would cut him more slack. They would see, and they would immediately know. But he blends. Unless you know what you're looking for, you might see a typical 12-year-old. (And let's remember that my son is 6.) So no one thinks there's a reason to be kind or understanding.

I guess I don't really have good answers. But I wanted to at least tell you my side.

Like a Kick in the Stomach

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 20:46:00 +0000

Note from teacher: D. kept picking up the other students and squeezing them hard.

Note from WG: I talked to him about the squeezing. He does it when he's excited or frustrated. Try giving him words, like, "I know you're excited to see John, but we don't squeeze. You can say, 'I'm so happy to see you!'" Or, "You're angry because it's time to sit and work. We don't squeeze. You can say, 'I'm feeling angry!'"

Note from teacher: We give D. constant reminders and refer to words that you've stated. It's just that we are getting complaints from parents who are tired of seeing him hug and squeeze their child in that manner.

OMG

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 22:55:00 +0000

D got more shana tova calls than I did. Popular kid.

My husband did ALL the Rosh HaShana shopping last night and put everything away. Where was I? Asleep in bed.

I am sick -- which is totally fine, because it's not like there's ANYTHING GOING ON AT THIS TIME OF YEAR.

So, Mr. WG made a last minute run to Target this afternoon. As he left, he said that D. was taking a bath. A few minutes later, I happened to go upstairs and found... D. in the tub WITH BABY A. The two of them were laughing and covered in bubbles and having a grand old time. Neither of them was happy when I broke up the party.

Shana tova, y'all. Catch you on the flip side.

Untitled.

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 15:58:00 +0000

So, I mentioned that D's school was working on getting him a bus. On Monday, they called us to tell us that the bus would start on Wednesday. Pick up time, of course, is 6:20 in the morning. God love them.

But fine. Fine. D. is up early anyway, and we can handle that. So, Wednesday, the bus came, and D. went off to school, and all was well. Later in the morning, I called the school to schedule our follow-up conference. I spoke to the assistant principal, and we set the conference for Tuesday (We both tried to set it for Monday, marveling at our empty calendars, until we realized that, duh, Monday is a holiday.), with both of D's regular teachers, either the principal or the assistant principal, and possibly the resource teacher as well.

Towards the end of the conversation, I thanked him for the bus and said, "Could you please let D's teacher's know that he will not come home on the bus? My housekeeper picks him up every day because her son goes to school there also, and there's no need for the hour-plus bus ride in the afternoon -- he's just as happy in her car."

"I will let his teachers know," said the AP.

Can you see where this is going?

At 3 yesterday, my housekeeper left to get D. and her son. I was working with S. at the dining room table when I heard a horn honk. I ignored it -- there's all this construction next door, and I figured it was related to that. The honk came again, and I guess my mom instinct kicked in, because I went to the front door... and there was the bus. I ran out, retrieved D., told the driver that he wasn't supposed to come home on the bus in the afternoons, and she said that a teacher had put him on the bus, so....

D. and I came back in the house, and of course my cell phone was ringing. My housekeeper was beside herself with worry, because NO ONE KNEW WHERE D. WAS. "He's here, he's here, I told her. He came on the bus, it's okay." She hung up, relieved, and I went to tell Mr. WG. The phone rang, and I thought it would be the school, but it was my client. I took the call, but 30 seconds in, my cellphone beeped to tell me someone had left a voicemail on the home line, and the cell phone rang a nanosecond later. I told my client I'd call her back and took the call from the panic-stricken assistant principal.

"He's here," I said. "He took the bus home."

"Well," said the AP, "I am so sorry. That should not have happened, and we are taking steps to ensure it never happens again." They're assigning an aide to D. at dismissal, among other things. We talked for another few minutes, then hung up.

Here's the thing: yes, it should never have happened. I should probably be really upset, but the truth? I'm not. Obviously, because D. was fine, but also because of the school's immediate willingness to take responsibility for the mistake and to apologize for it. I'd be MUCH more upset if D. were supposed to come home on the bus and they instead sent him with someone in a car. Yes, it was a little bit scary, if you think about the fact that I might not have been at home, no one would have answered the door, and they would have... taken him to CPS? I think that's their policy. I don't know. He still would have been safe, if perhaps traumatized. But, as I have always counseled clients, organizations I'm involved in, and anyone else who is interested in my opinion, people are generally willing to forgive mistakes IF YOU OWN UP TO THEM AND APOLOGIZE.

So. That is all.

First Impressions

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 19:47:00 +0000

So, it's day three of school for D., and I have to say that as wary as I am of this placement, I am incredibly impressed with the effort being made by the school.

They told us that D. didn't qualify for the bus this year, because he's attending the school to which he's zoned, and it's less than 2 miles from our house. This is a problem because D. doesn't enjoy separating from Mr. WG in the morning.

Let me rephrase: D. becomes an absolutely hysterical basket case when separating from Mr. WG each morning.

Yesterday, the principal told Mr. WG that they would look into getting D's bus back, if that would ease his morning transition. Today. the principal called and left a message for me. I called her back, and we spoke for 10 minutes about the various supports she has put in place. She updated me on the bus situation, told me about the aide they've assigned to D. for the first hour of the day to support him, the information she's given his teachers, and so on.

They seem truly committed to making D. successful. I am grateful.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Programming...

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 14:59:00 +0000

...to talk about, well, programming. Specifically television programming. I read this NYT article with something bordering on disbelief. Look, I get that TV is awesome. I LOVE TV. I really do. And I used to be completely addicted to my TiVo and my channels and my everything. Until I looked at the bill one day and decided that I was done.

It took a bit of time to get Mr. WG on board, but we got there eventually. We have a Mac Mini hooked up to our television, so we can watch shows on Hulu.com. We also have a Roku and a Netflix subscription. The Roku is hooked up in our bedroom; we can watch Netflix on demand via the Mac Mini on the big screen in the family room. And for those "premium" shows the guy in the article is whining about -- has he never heard of ordering DVDs from Netflix? Visiting the library? Or hanging out with a friend?

You know what? CBS doesn't make any of their content available on Hulu. Guess what? I no longer watch anything on CBS. Sure, if they come up with the next Lost, that means I won't see it. But eventually, it'll be on DVD, if it's any good, and I'll get it then.

In the last year, I watched all available seasons of Weeds and Entourage on DVD. Same with Monk, and I've just started Brothers and Sisters. I also watch current shows, like Covert Affairs, Persons Unknown, The Gates (OMG, I LOVE THE GATES), pretty much anything USA airs, and lots more. LOTS more. But I will never go back to paying for cable.

That is all. You may go on with your lives now. Thank you.

Epistle: To D., on the Occasion of His First Day of First Grade

noreply@blogger.com (WriterGrrl) — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 21:05:00 +0000

Dear D.,

When Daddy and I first started dating, The X-Files was popular. (Yes, we are THAT old.) And Mulder had a poster in his office, a poster that said, "I want to believe." D., I want to believe. I want to work towards the future I want for you SO BADLY.

Daddy thinks that your new school is full of people with the best, the very best, intentions. But, he says, and I have to agree, they have NO IDEA who you are. They want you to succeed. They are committed to your success. I get that. I do. But I'm not sure that I see, with the clarity that they seem to have, how we get you from where you are to where we all want you to be.

Daddy took you to school today. You were crying when he left, and Daddy was pretty sure we'd get a phone call telling us to come get you. Somehow, that didn't happen. I came to school early to check in before I picked you up. In the office, the Assistant Principal and Principal both came to tell me what a great day you'd had. The resource teacher didn't pull you out today because of some scheduling thing that I didn't quite follow, so you were in the regular classroom all day. And although you did tell everyone you saw that you were leaving at 3:20, at 3:20 Daddy would be there, you made it.

The Principal and AP were very proud of you. I asked them if you had any idea what was going on in the classroom, though, and they reminded me that it was the first day, and it wouldn't be until the resource teacher pulled you out that we'd see if you were getting anything from the classroom.

I went down the hallway to peek in at you. I saw you sitting on the floor with all the other students, listening to a story. And then you all got up and went to your desks. And you saw me, and you told the teacher, "My mom! It's time for me to go now." And she said, "No, it's not, sit down." And you must have said no, although I didn't hear it, because then she said, "You don't say no to me. Don't say no to me. You don't say no to me. Do you understand me?" And then you probably said no again, because she repeated herself, and I really hated her in those moments.

Maybe you need someone to be tough with you and just expect you to function. Lord knows, I lose my temper with you.

You were so happy to see me, but you didn't burst into tears and run in terror from the school. You told the teacher you'd see her tomorrow. And I was feeling okay until we came home and I saw the homework you had, which is so far above your level that it's frightening, and I don't even know what to do with it. You attempted it. You did. But you're just not there yet, and it scares me so much.

Here's what I know, D.: I know that I love you more than I can adequately express. And for know, that's all I feel like I know.

Love,
Mommy