Because it really is personal…

Does it make me a terrible mother, if I eat all the candy my kid offers me? He came home with a whole sackful of all the good stuff- caramels and slo-pokes and soft vanilla toffee, strawberry Nerds and green apple Now n Laters and an eyeball jawbreaker. Laffy Taffy and suckers and a couple of pouches of Capri-Sun. I love caramels and Slo-pokes and anything green apple flavored. He offered, after extracting a promise that I’d brush my teeth thoroughly soon..

Now he wandering around, groaning and bumping into the furniture, whining that his eyeball fell out and he’s having to hold it in his hand “see, Mom, my eyeball fell out!” I wonder how many kids are doing that very thing today, with those goofy eyeball jawbreakers.

I’m doing him a favor by eating these caramels. If he ate all this he’d be sick to his stomach and probably throw up at Moes and we’d have to leave before finishing our Homewreckers and Joey Bag o Donuts. Besides, what kind of good mother lets their kid eat so much junk this late in the day? Really!

Hide my private stash of Dove chocolates so I can’t find them.

Ok, today being Halloween, and us being the type of people we are, we don’t really DO the Halloween thing. It has everything to do with many violent and unpleasant memories from my childhood, all revolving around the concept of “Halloween pranks”. I know, I am forcing my own neurosis on my children. They’ll deal with it. We’ll do something fun tonight during normal trick or treat time, like go to El Sombrero for supper, or maybe see Wallace and Gromit at the theater.

Anyway, There was a letter from the school #4 attends, inviting the kids to dress up as a storybook character for the day, and participate and a school-wide Trick or Treat party. Ok, storybook characters I can do. So #4 says he wants to be an army guy. I’m looking frantically for a 1st grade level book in our house that features army guys. There aren’t any. There’s #3′s ‘Sergeant Slaughter’ comic book, but I doubt Mrs. Dawson intent included impossibly muscled bald guys wasting terrorists. So I suggested “Morris is a Cowboy” seeing how #4 has a cowboy hat and a vest. “No,” he said, “I want to be an army guy.” Hm…I wonder if “The Armoured Fist” would count. It has alot of pictures. Maybe “No Time For Sergeants”, only no pictures. So last night, at the very last minute before bedtime, I told him Time Was Up. He Had To Choose. I showed him “The Sheep of Lal Bagh” and said I could make a turban. No. No turban. How about “The Cat in the HAt”? He has one of those tall striped hats, and I could make him a tail out of a sock. No. “Ok, Mom, I’ll be Morris. But you have to make me some moose antlers.” “No, son. Your antlers will have to hide under the hat.” “Ok, Mom.” Good boy. Always choose a character for which you have the clothes. There are probably going to be a hundred cinderellas there.

That’s as close to Halloween dress up as we’ve ever gotten in this household. I’d like to lighten up about it, let #4 trick or treat and all, but the elder 3 have had no truck with Halloween and I worry that they’ll resent the hell out of me for letting #4 participate. Since being teenagers, they’ve found their own ways around my difficulties, by spending the evening with friends “playing video games” and “carefully ignoring the doorbell”. I think they have been hinding behind bushes and jumping out at people, but that’s ok.

Understand, I am not one of these people who doesn’t do halloween because “it’s the Devils birthday” or such nonsense. I have no condemnation for people who do it. I just have really awful associations with it from my past. I fully expect my kids will go clear overboard with it when they get out on their own, turning their backyard into a haunted graveyard and dressing as the headless horseman to answer the door. I say go for it. I wish I could have as much fun, but without lengthy and expensive therapy, it ain’t gonna happen.

The kids have been remarkably relaxed about it, not throwing temper tantrums and relishing the chance to go eat out. They don’t whine about not getting to dress up, instead coming up with their own inventive ways of getting around my edicts. They probably enjoy it that much more, thinking I disapprove. It’s ok. It’s one day a year with absolutely no redeeming qualities that people get to cut up and get away with dressing in a socially unacceptable manner. And when you don’t think your mother approves, it’s that much more delicious.

So, yesterday afternoon I am doing something mindless inside and #2 comes inside and asks ‘permission’ to get out the leaf blower (a small, electric one, not terribly powerful) and ‘blow the pine straw off the driveway so it will look nice and clean.’ My goodness, thinks I, what a responsible and upstanding young man. I hear the leaf blower, and seconds later screams of laughter. My goodness, thinks I, I never found leaf blowing so amusing. More seconds later, #2 explodes into the house, face red and tears flowing, incoherent words of excitement and hilarity rolling out of his mouth.

Ok…so what’s so fun about leaf blowing?

“MOM” he shouts, “CAN I BORROW YOUR CAMERA??!”

Um…ok…

Witness what passes for Fun in the Rootietoot Household:

#2

#3

#4

Make a fresh pot of coffee, nice and strong. Instead of adding sugar and milk to the cup, add 3 heaping spoonfuls of hot chocolate mix.

Eat 1/3 a bag of crunchy cheetoes.

Wear something soft and warm- too-big blue jeans, a supple linen shirt, and an easy sweater. Pull the hair back with a band and forgo makeup.

Put on music that you listen to regularly, something familiar and calm. Hum along to it as you go through the house and scoop up all the palmetto bugs that find their way in out of the cold.

Watch some TV, shows where someone gets a wonderful surprise and they’re all happy and grateful and stuff.

Go out in the yard and pick up a sackful of lovely new pinecones. Ponder the possibilities.

Survey the backyard for potential greenery. Notice the camellias loaded with buds and the bay laurel full of silvery blue berries. Hm. With some cedar I could make kick-ass wreaths. Coiled wisteria vines would make a nice base, then greens, berries, and a couple of lovely pinecones to fill in. nice.

More comfort food for supper. Chicken soup, Thai style. It’s called Tom Yum Gai, and has lemongrass, coconut milk, and a splash of fish sauce (nasty stuff by itself but amazing in things). I’ll throw some fresh chopped cilantro on top, and maybe some peanuts.

Spend a little time with some old friends online. I guess when you live in a new town and don’t know anyone but need someone who knows what you’re going through, you go where you can. For me, it’s an online community of manic-depressives. They make me laugh and keep me from taking anything too seriously.

When feeling too serious, take inventory of the items on the coffee table:
Towel strings
Bandana do-rag
Big glass jar with a handful of pennies in the bottom
‘Morris Is A Cowboy’ with a winecork as a bookmark
tube of high-powered steroid ointment
2 ‘Highlights’ magazines
1 ‘Boys Life’ magazine
1 necktie, black with an all-over pattern of life-sized eyeballs
Underneath are 2 baskets of folded clothes, a scattering of crushed pine needles and the remnants of a masticated rawhide chip and an assortment of remote controls.

Every day, count your blessings. Big ones and little ones, and maybe things you might not think of as blessings but are anyway.
Little ones:
I remember how to make gravy
I can scratch the middle of my back without help
My children still hug me
I can’t remember books I’ve read so I can read them again and it’s like they’re new
I have a large assortment of cutting boards
If I look hard enough, I can see the muscles in my stomach
There are berries on the hollybush
The ugly floors in this house don’t show dirt so I don’t have to mop as often
That’s not all of them but it’s enough for now.

“In children with Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD), there is an ongoing pattern of uncooperative, defiant, and hostile behavior toward authority figures that seriously interferes with the youngster’s day to day functioning. Symptoms of ODD may include:

frequent temper tantrums
excessive arguing with adults
active defiance and refusal to comply with adult requests and rules
deliberate attempts to annoy or upset people
blaming others for his or her mistakes or misbehavior
often being touchy or easily annoyed by others
frequent anger and resentment
mean and hateful talking when upset
seeking revenge “

This sounds familiar. It’s scary, especially when you read about the treatment: long term individual and family therapy. No magic pills. No group or bulk discounts, either.

I’ve heard of ODD before. I always thought it was a result of incompetant parenting. Maybe it is. It could also be, rather than an individual diagnosis, piggybacked onto something more…hm…medical. That’s what I hope. At least with a medical diagnosis there is a handle to hold on to. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want anyone to be sick in any way, but when I found out I was manic-depressive, and the doctor said “take these you’ll feel better in 6 weeks” I felt a tremendous sense of relief. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t a gaping flaw in my character, it was a legitimate disorder with a quantifiable shortage of something in my brain that would actually show up on a PET scan as different from all the members of the Baptist Housewives League.

Can’t do that with straight up ODD. No. Apparently it’s such a new thing there is no research on why some kids have it and others don’t. There are lots of theories. One is that the parents were inconsistant, or too consistant, or to lax, or too firm with their discipline. So why would one kid have it and 3 others not, even tho discipline was pretty much equivalent throughout? They don’t know. Maybe it’s a simple case of “Bad Seed”. There’s this movie from the ’40′s or ’50′s by that title. The main character is this horrible little blonde girl who looks and acts perfect, comes from a wonderful family, and still mutilates the dog and makes the gardener think he’s going nuts.

See, we-all went to the doctor earlier this week. Not a medical doctor, but a therapist guy with a scruffy beard and a tweed jacket. He spent oh…nearly 3 hours interviewing us (Sweet Daddio, me, and Child). He told us “maybe bipolar disorder, rapid cycling, and maybe ODD tho that might be part of the BP, I’m going to refer you to a psychiatrist to be sure.” Well, I wanted to go to a psychiatrist to start with, but that’s ok. This guy, once we figure out exactly whats going on, will be handling therapy at least until the insurance runs out. 9 sessions is all that’s covered. Not enough. Maybe the house in Old Town will sell soon and free up some money for more.

Right now I feel like my world is sitting about 3 feet outside itself, wrapped in crackly cellophane and the amplifiers are distorting the sound a little./Off kilter. I want to call God up in a fight, and tell him He can’t mess with my kid like that and expect me to roll over and take it. I also know I don’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. I’m not going to roll over, but I will take it and deal with it as best I can.

There is so much a diagnosis like this means, especially to a young person. I was 27 and had 3 kids when I was diagnosed, going to bed at 4 am wasn’t an option for me. When one is young and single and supposed to be on top of the world, the lifestyle changes required might make treatment…well…not worth it, to a young person. For ODD and BP there are similar requirements: rigidly regular schedule, 8-10 hours sleep EVERY night, no exceptions, proper diet and exercise, regular therapy. Not exactly the sort of thing a 20 yr old in the City would want to do.

You know what my goal with all my kids is? Really? It’s to get them out of the nest. I want them self sufficient, happy, in a career they love, with friends and a pet and a comfortable place to live. Suddenly, it seems, that goal has become exponentially more difficult for one of them.

Having to change ones train of thought, especially when one thought it for 17 years, is difficult. It’s not impossible, and by the grace of God we’ll hoe this tough row and he’ll grow into something resilient and wonderful. By the grace of God.

I guess things are startng to sink in. Reality is hitting me square in the chest and I don’t like it. Consequently, I am going to manufacture my own reality for a bit. I’ll have a maid to do all the cleaning and laundry. I’ll do the cooking because I like to. I will suddenly become sensible and predictable and my thighs will shrink. My children will be normal little nits who like SpongeBob and Nintendo. They will pass all their classes and become middle managers somewhere in Ohio. They will not be defiant and confrontational. Nor will they smoke.

Ok. Here’s what’s real. There is a lovely pot of beef stew simmering on the stove. The meat is meltingly tender because it has been cooking since 2pm. It is fragrant with garlic, caramelized onions, and chopped fresh herbs. I thickened it with a nice roux, and will add a splash of burgundy around 6 pm. There is also a ball of yeast dough rising in the oven, soon to be fashioned into crunchy sesame crusted breadsticks. All this culinary activity is the result of stress and a desire to do (at least this one thing) right.

Have you ever been presented with irrefutable evidence that you’re a total screwup? I figure if I can’t get other aspects of my life in order, at least I can cook a tasty meal for the family.

I can also wallow most spectacularly in self pity, if I want to.

It’s probably hormonal. I did, after all, purchase a bag of Loaded Baked Potato Ruffles this morning, and a jug of white cranberry and peach juice. They weren’t as good as they looked on the outside of the bag. I was trying to branch out from my usual Lunar Junque Food Indulgence. I should have stuck with Cheetoes. I mean, they were ok,those Ruffles, but a little complex in the flavor department. Cheetoes have a certain elemental quality to them, a simplicity of sorts.

What I really want to do is lose myself in something. I went to the library this morning and got a book by a woman with 90-something personalities. Ok, I thought, this woman’s mental disorder is far worse than mine. If I read this book I can feel smug and grateful. Instead I found myself amazed at the minds ability to protect itself from awful things. I found myself wondering at my own ability to ‘protect’ myself through self delusion or simply withdrawing from all things unpleasant. I wonder how much of it is protection and how much is cowardice or distaste.

I’ve decided to drop out of my Bible study. I only went 3 times, but everytime there was conversation about how difficult children just needed to be spanked more or grounded or somehow taught in a nebulous manner What’s Right. As if making them pray 3 times a day would fix them. I got the distinct impression that it was widely believed that my own issues regarding my kids would never have come about if I had only read James Dobson more, or taken them to Youth Group more, or prayed louder…or whatever. I don’t need that kind of encouragement or support. So I am going to stay home and make pinecone Christmas wreaths and do my own variety of praying for my kids. Baptists can just go take a hike. So can Methodists and about anyone else except Episcopalians who understand the importance of a good glass of wine when you’re tense.

I actually convinced myself I was an accomplished musician this afternoon, and sat down at the piano and made up a song. It was pretty, I thought, and an unusual use of tones and intervals. Music soothes the savage beast, and the Housewife with Her Monthly. Same difference, eh.

Now it’s 5 and I need to go stir the stew and fashion the breadsticks. Sweet Daddio will be home and I fully expect that he had a Bad Day, so I want to look sort of put together and smiley and stuff. He deserves that much.

http://wienerdogbliss.blogspot.com/2005/10/weinerdog-bliss-take-2.html

This time maybe I’ll remember how to get here to add stuff.

Well, Fall finally decided to show up in the Deep South. We got up this morning and it was 43! with a predicted high of 60! Frostbite! Heaters! Miserable weinerdogs! I actually put on a pair of dark brown cordoroy pants and a camel colored sweater and my loafers and looked all put together and Autumnal and stuff. I had Potato Soup for lunch! Fall is great, I can light the exhorbitantly priced chestnut scented candle from Illuminations and make the house smell toasty and warm, I can put a wreath on the door without looking odd, and I can wear my fuzzy red socks. I love Fall.

We got a box from The Brown Box Man today, a styrofoam cooler thing containing a collection of steaks and a big ol’ hunk of dry ice. See, Sweet Daddio is the person for his company who decides from whom to buy dyes and chemicals. Since these purchases can run into the millions of $$, the people and companies who sell these products like to compete for SD’s attention. Now, SD cannot be bought. However, there is one compnay that, due to their superior products, has recently received several zillions in business, thanks to SD. Consequently, last week SD got a package in the mail containing a handful of Very Fine Cigars: the $10 a piece variety. Lovely smelling things, they are. Believe me, you get what you pay for with cigars. Today the same company sent us these steaks. SD’s policy on graft and corruption is that he won’t accept anything that is Permanent, or costs more than, say, $100 or so. So, no vacation trips, no table saws or Viking stoves, only things like food, cigars, and maybe tickets to the Auburn-Georgia game. I like this about him. I think people who can be bought are seedy and a little…I don’t know… Icky. We knew this guy who wouldn’t let a salesman into the plant for less than $1000. This is the same guy who went on an active search for the guy he wanted to take his daughter’s virginity. Is that gross or what? No, SD is a Paladin. Why he married a Chaotic is unknown to me, but I’m glad he did.

There are things afoot in the Life of Rootietoot. Things that involve children and possible lifestyle changes and breathing a temporary sigh of relief.

Good news! We have a contract on our house in the Old Town! Someone actually wants to buy it! So, they have to sell the house they’re in first, because they aren’t in the unhappy position of being able to make 2 housepayments at a time (who is, really?), but the contract is there, and we know the neighborhood they live in now and it’s new, so their house ought to be able to sell in fairly short order (Lord Willing and the creek don’t rise). Hopefully (Lord Willing) we’ll have the place sold by Christmas. That would be a grand Christmas present.

Ok…this post had no particular topic. Tough. I’m not Heather Armstrong, nor am I Sally Flynn with a clever and witty essay every week. I’m Rootietoot, Housewife of the Masses and Wearer of Clothes from JC Penney. I don’t ever use the “F” word either, tho I do cut loose with a “shit” every now and then. There is a huge topic I am dying to write about, but since involved parties haven’t given permission, I’m not going to. Just don’t ever think that my mind is so understimulated that all I can write about is dry ice and rising creeks, it’s just that I am trying valiantly to honor the confidentiality of involved persons. Until I have permission, I’m going to mentally troll around, snagging whatever philosophical detritus my cognitive hooks bump up against. After all, it’s personal, doncha know.

I know this for a fact. Sure, little kids are easy, relatively speaking. All you really have to do is play a million games of candyland and keep them from sticking their fingers in an electrical outlet. Feed them several times a day, buy them the clothes you want them to wear and they’re thrilled with them. Get them the toys you want them to have and they’re over the moon. Easy as pie.

Then they turn 13.

Suddenly, the child who thought you could do no wrong, who believed you were the final authority on Life, the Universe, and Everything, that child turns on you. The soft innocence in his eyes is replaced with fire and piss. Your IQ drops 50 points whenever he walks into the room. Your Rules Don’t Matter. So now, instead of looking forward to 3:30 or 4 or whatever his usual time of arrival might be, you become anxious, wondering if he is actually going to show up, or today the day when he cracked and he’s somewhere 3 states over with no phone, no money, and no life experience to tell him how to fix things.

You start to wonder if the patient and logical discussion you had with him earlier, the one where he nodded and made the right noises and agreed with what you said, you wonder if he was acting, if his mind was coming up with a fresh sort of hell to put you through, or if he really did mean it.

I’ve never had teenagers before. I don’t really know what I am supposed to expect. I am pretty sure this sort of thing doesn’t go on with every family, and I am equally sure there are plenty of them out there who are into worse sorts of misdeeds.

Whatever it is, I’m tired. I am weary of expecting one brand of behavior and getting another. Maybe soon, we can get stuff resolved. I’ve tried not caring about it, being unconcerned when he drags in at 5 am on a school day, because getting worked up doesn’t change anything except my blood pressure.. The best I can do right now is pray- for his safety and protection, and for my own peace of mind.

One day…one day he’ll be a happy and productive person, doing what he loves and doing it well. All this is just as hard on him as it is on us. I remember being a teenager and hating it.
One day…