Garrett has been very closed about the night Matt fell. He's very closed about his emotions in general, very hard to draw out, though I try so hard. He'll be a tough study in junior high. He's stoic, he tends to get mad if he's pushed, he's frustrating and infuriating and, and...
Exactly like his damn father. Which is how I would know, even if he didn't let me peek through the chinks in his armor every now and then, that he has a huge, open, vulnerable heart.
He's only three. He doesn't like to go to the bathroom by himself. He wants me to sit - on the floor since the only other seat is occupied - and talk to him. He usually wants to discuss the finer points of the route the upcoming flush will take down to Nemo, but today he is serious and determined.
"When I get big," he tells me, "and I'm the boss, I can sleep with Mommy every night."
"You want to sleep in my bed? Like we did the night Daddy fell down."
"Yes. Every night."
Mmmmmm. That was a special night, bubs. We can't do that every night. We all need to sleep in our own beds so we aren't grumpy in the morning. Where would Daddy sleep if you slept in his spot? We slept together in Mommy's bed because Daddy hurt his head and we were both a little bit scared," I lean down so that I can see his face, studying the floor, "right?"
His eyes grow wide and animated. He has beautiful, light gray eyes. Eyes that are going to break someone's heart someday. They already break mine.
"Were you a little bit scared?" he asks me.
"Yeah, I was. I was a little bit scared. Were you?"
"No. I was a lot scared."
Cracks everywhere, a million tiny fissures. What can I do, there's no protection in the world for these lessons. No wall high enough. No gate safe enough. Daddies fall down. Mommies get scared. The planets have to align themselves. The world has to spin on its axis with no help from us.
He's only three.
"Well, that's okay. It's okay to be scared. It was okay, right? The firemen came and helped us and Daddy is okay and you got to sleep in Mommy's bed."
"I was a lot scared, Momma."
Me too, baby. Not so much for Daddy's hard head, though. Mostly for my heart.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Peace Out
Fifteen weeks to go. Only two more rounds of swimming lessons at the YMCA. Three book clubs. Four Sunday brunches with the girls.
It's enough time and not enough time. I'm trying to enjoy so many things at once, to immerse myself in this time with Saige and Garrett and Quinn before our lives revolve around a new tiny child, while still trying to take the time to breathe and sit a while, feel the tiny kicks, revel in the second-nature comfort my every movement provides.
Fifteen weeks is nothing. A blip. A semester. Half a life time for the little being growing away inside me.
Twenty-five weeks. Front and rear view.
This last pregnancy is more than half gone. I'll never sit again with the calendar, counting. The ultrasound last week showed a baby, small but active, all the parts in place, development in full swing.
The midwife called the next day to tell me that everything looked perfect, growth on track, just one small concern. The cord is wrapped once around the baby's neck, probably not a problem, a slightly higher risk, so small as to be almost unintelligible from the general risk, which is incredibly low at this point in a pregnancy.
Of what? I know, of course. There is always a risk. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is completely risk free. No joy this great can run along a track without the shadow track beside it of pain and loss and fear. From here, though, truly, the view is beautiful and the shadow is just that, a part of the landscape. An accepted presence. If anything, it highlights the sunshine pouring down.
Still, it made me think, as much as I want this time to last, as much as I try to slow down and hold on and remember, as much as I am an optimist, for the most part, and I trust and I worry only at odd moments, it will be a relief and a gift when this baby crosses over the divide into breath and presence and we can see, feel, check. Still breathing. Still moving.
I'm not a stranger to the shadow side of bearing children. I know a little of that pain and I have a healthy fear. I'm not particularly faithful, in the religious sense of that word. But, strangely, I have faith. Faith in good outcomes. Maybe it's blind, foolish faith, but it's there. Maybe it's the same blind, foolish faith that lets me buckle my kids into a minivan and drive them around town, when clearly, statistics show, it's a dangerous activity. It's the same blind faith that allows me to tuck them in at night, kiss them once and leave them until the morning.
Don't we all kind of have to have it? The only alternative is constant fear and that would be horribly not fun.
I just felt him kick me, hard, low in my pelvis, as if to say, quit dwelling, just find peace in this day and this night and these little kicks and go to sleep. Just like he (or she, no we really don't know) said at the ultrasound, flashing the peace sign at the technician and I. (Those are fingers, promise, she enlarged it for me because we thought it was cute.)
Peace, momma, peace. Just live it. Let the shadows lie.
And I will. Can you believe it? I will. I'll fall asleep tonight and I'll wake up and dive into our crazy day. Get dressed. Breakfast. Walks. Play with me. Can we dance? Will you help me? Can we color? Lunch. Quiet time, laundry and email and some reading. Play with friends. Watch a movie. No hitting. Do you need a break? I'm hungry. I'm making dinner, help me with the plates, put your cups on the table. Clean up. Pajamas. We can play one game. Stories. Songs. Bed. Breathe. The baby moves and I notice, for the first time all day, I notice, I smile, all okay then, I hadn't thought of it once. Is that awful? Wonderful?
I choose wonderful. Life is wonderful.
***************************************
Shhhhhh. I'm guest whining at Andrea's today while she endures jury duty. I'd love it if you said hi. Unless you never feel abysmally petty and then, hmmmmm, um, Carolyn is lovely and hardly ever whines.
It's enough time and not enough time. I'm trying to enjoy so many things at once, to immerse myself in this time with Saige and Garrett and Quinn before our lives revolve around a new tiny child, while still trying to take the time to breathe and sit a while, feel the tiny kicks, revel in the second-nature comfort my every movement provides.
Fifteen weeks is nothing. A blip. A semester. Half a life time for the little being growing away inside me.
Twenty-five weeks. Front and rear view.
This last pregnancy is more than half gone. I'll never sit again with the calendar, counting. The ultrasound last week showed a baby, small but active, all the parts in place, development in full swing.
The midwife called the next day to tell me that everything looked perfect, growth on track, just one small concern. The cord is wrapped once around the baby's neck, probably not a problem, a slightly higher risk, so small as to be almost unintelligible from the general risk, which is incredibly low at this point in a pregnancy.
Of what? I know, of course. There is always a risk. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is completely risk free. No joy this great can run along a track without the shadow track beside it of pain and loss and fear. From here, though, truly, the view is beautiful and the shadow is just that, a part of the landscape. An accepted presence. If anything, it highlights the sunshine pouring down.
Still, it made me think, as much as I want this time to last, as much as I try to slow down and hold on and remember, as much as I am an optimist, for the most part, and I trust and I worry only at odd moments, it will be a relief and a gift when this baby crosses over the divide into breath and presence and we can see, feel, check. Still breathing. Still moving.
I'm not a stranger to the shadow side of bearing children. I know a little of that pain and I have a healthy fear. I'm not particularly faithful, in the religious sense of that word. But, strangely, I have faith. Faith in good outcomes. Maybe it's blind, foolish faith, but it's there. Maybe it's the same blind, foolish faith that lets me buckle my kids into a minivan and drive them around town, when clearly, statistics show, it's a dangerous activity. It's the same blind faith that allows me to tuck them in at night, kiss them once and leave them until the morning.
Don't we all kind of have to have it? The only alternative is constant fear and that would be horribly not fun.
I just felt him kick me, hard, low in my pelvis, as if to say, quit dwelling, just find peace in this day and this night and these little kicks and go to sleep. Just like he (or she, no we really don't know) said at the ultrasound, flashing the peace sign at the technician and I. (Those are fingers, promise, she enlarged it for me because we thought it was cute.)
Peace, momma, peace. Just live it. Let the shadows lie.
And I will. Can you believe it? I will. I'll fall asleep tonight and I'll wake up and dive into our crazy day. Get dressed. Breakfast. Walks. Play with me. Can we dance? Will you help me? Can we color? Lunch. Quiet time, laundry and email and some reading. Play with friends. Watch a movie. No hitting. Do you need a break? I'm hungry. I'm making dinner, help me with the plates, put your cups on the table. Clean up. Pajamas. We can play one game. Stories. Songs. Bed. Breathe. The baby moves and I notice, for the first time all day, I notice, I smile, all okay then, I hadn't thought of it once. Is that awful? Wonderful?
I choose wonderful. Life is wonderful.
***************************************
Shhhhhh. I'm guest whining at Andrea's today while she endures jury duty. I'd love it if you said hi. Unless you never feel abysmally petty and then, hmmmmm, um, Carolyn is lovely and hardly ever whines.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Fickle Fate
I've learned a valuable lesson in the last few days and it is well-worn and often-repeated advice that I plan to heed with more care from now on: Do not tempt Fate. She is a fickle, vindictive little troublemaker and it's wise to stay on her good side.
Late Thursday afternoon, I twittered something frivolous about lost chap stick and that someone should call 911. Jessica (from the hilarious BERNTHIS.COM) and I joked for a while about cute firemen. I pointed out that sadly, my only experience with cute emergency personnel, outside of parades, involved some kind of severe gastrointestinal issue (appendicitis) or childbirth. Takes some of the fun out of it.
Mere hours later, I puked in the bathroom with no fewer than eight or nine firemen and EMTs in my living room. (It's all right now, baby, it's a-all right now - five points! - and we are all fine, no need to panic here if you haven't heard the story.)
I blame Fate, that bitch, because I like Jessica and it can't possibly be my fault, I didn't feel well.
Let's back up. Gee wouldn't eat dinner and spiked a high fever right before bed, because, of course he did, because we all felt absolutely fine all day and we went to both morning and afternoon coop and generally came into contact with as many people as possible. He woke me up crying around 1:00 a.m. and I didn't feel well, at all, so I headed for his room expecting a delightful mommy/son vomit session. I couldn't even make it in to check on him. I felt dizzy and nasty and generally like I needed to spend some quiet time with a toilet and a cold tile floor, so I detoured in that direction and called out to Matt.
Gee was fine. He had to pee. Sigh. Matt, apparently, had the same nastiness that I had because as I rinsed my mouth there was a horrific crash from the downstairs bathroom. It was the horrible sound of my 6'3'' husband passing out without so much as sitting down or putting out his hands. Pretty much like a tree. A tree that hits its head on the corner wall outside the bathroom and bleeds heavily.
He was conscious, but not very responsive. He is also extremely heavy. I called 911 and they came. Did they ever come. I am very, very grateful and they were all wonderful, but if you saw the lights and trucks and sheer numbers of large, helpful people in our living room, you would have thought that a large plane crashed into the back of our house.
We had probably the most bizarrely hilarious conversation of our twenty-year relationship in the five minutes that it took for them to arrive, you know, if conversations can be hilarious when there's a lot of blood involved. Matt had crawled to the toilet and was sitting on it, holding his head.
Matt: What are you doing.
Me: I'm cleaning up all this blood.
Matt: Blood from what?
Me: Your head.
Matt: My head?
Me: Yes, your head, where you're holding that towel? You're bleeding?
Matt: Why?
Me: Why what?
Matt: Why are you cleaning it up?
Me: It's bothering Gee.
Gee: Did you get a red owie, Daddy?
Me: He's okay, buddy. It's a cut on Daddy's head. Matt, the paramedics are coming, do you want to...
Matt: Why? Who called them?
Me: I did.
Matt: Why?
Me: Your head. You're bleeding?
Matt: Call them back and tell them not to come.
Me: It's too late. I can see the lights.
Matt: WELL, I WANT TO SIT ON THE COUCH!
Me: Okay? Please crawl.
He did, while Gee and I watched all the lights approach and park and seemingly endless big, uniformed men head up our sidewalk.
Matt: Tell them to go away!!
Me: No. You have no idea what you are even saying.
Matt: Tell them to go away!!
Me: If you don't stop yelling at me, they are going to think this is domestic violence.
Matt: As if they would believe that I lost.
Thankfully, they took over immediately because all further conversations with Matt and his shaken brain were similarly annoying and repetitive and Gee was frightened and obsessed with getting ice for Daddy's red owie.
My adrenaline rush faded about three minutes later and I crawled back into the bathroom with my small son and his ice pack and vomited repeatedly. That would be how I ended up puking with large numbers firemen in the living room who weren't even there for me. They kept checking on me from a safe distance and I kept apologizing for forcing them to enter our hot zone of stomach plague.
They did end up taking Matt in the ambulance to the ER for eight stitches and a brain scan, but by 3:30 a.m., when he called me to tell me that he was waiting for a cab to bring him home, he had a firm grasp on the situation and could remember his birthday, etc. I felt vaguely guilty sending him off to the ER alone while lying on our bed, holding Gee's sleeping hand and wallowing in my misery. It's tough when you have kids. I do have friends who would have come over in a heartbeat to stay with them, but honestly, it was selfishness. The thought of puking repeatedly in the waiting room of the ER was overwhelming.
Friday dawned and we were all relatively fine, plus a few stitches. My three energetic little balls of healthiness bounced off of walls and watched a lot of TV and I felt like death. I muddled through the day trying not to get bitter. I didn't begrudge Matt a day in bed with a pounding headache and a stomach bug. But it seemed outlandish that, after puking eight times overnight and pulling some weird muscle heaving around my over-sized uterus, I should LOSE on the question of who was capable of dealing with the children.
The small dramas of life, played out in our living room. Two days later, I am hopelessly behind on everything, email, thought, life, my god the laundry. Now that we all feel well, I have a strong compulsion to burn everything we touched, like in plague times, because anything, witchcraft, exorcism, moving house, pretty much anything not to have that virus ever, ever again.
Late Thursday afternoon, I twittered something frivolous about lost chap stick and that someone should call 911. Jessica (from the hilarious BERNTHIS.COM) and I joked for a while about cute firemen. I pointed out that sadly, my only experience with cute emergency personnel, outside of parades, involved some kind of severe gastrointestinal issue (appendicitis) or childbirth. Takes some of the fun out of it.
Mere hours later, I puked in the bathroom with no fewer than eight or nine firemen and EMTs in my living room. (It's all right now, baby, it's a-all right now - five points! - and we are all fine, no need to panic here if you haven't heard the story.)
I blame Fate, that bitch, because I like Jessica and it can't possibly be my fault, I didn't feel well.
Let's back up. Gee wouldn't eat dinner and spiked a high fever right before bed, because, of course he did, because we all felt absolutely fine all day and we went to both morning and afternoon coop and generally came into contact with as many people as possible. He woke me up crying around 1:00 a.m. and I didn't feel well, at all, so I headed for his room expecting a delightful mommy/son vomit session. I couldn't even make it in to check on him. I felt dizzy and nasty and generally like I needed to spend some quiet time with a toilet and a cold tile floor, so I detoured in that direction and called out to Matt.
Gee was fine. He had to pee. Sigh. Matt, apparently, had the same nastiness that I had because as I rinsed my mouth there was a horrific crash from the downstairs bathroom. It was the horrible sound of my 6'3'' husband passing out without so much as sitting down or putting out his hands. Pretty much like a tree. A tree that hits its head on the corner wall outside the bathroom and bleeds heavily.
He was conscious, but not very responsive. He is also extremely heavy. I called 911 and they came. Did they ever come. I am very, very grateful and they were all wonderful, but if you saw the lights and trucks and sheer numbers of large, helpful people in our living room, you would have thought that a large plane crashed into the back of our house.
We had probably the most bizarrely hilarious conversation of our twenty-year relationship in the five minutes that it took for them to arrive, you know, if conversations can be hilarious when there's a lot of blood involved. Matt had crawled to the toilet and was sitting on it, holding his head.
Matt: What are you doing.
Me: I'm cleaning up all this blood.
Matt: Blood from what?
Me: Your head.
Matt: My head?
Me: Yes, your head, where you're holding that towel? You're bleeding?
Matt: Why?
Me: Why what?
Matt: Why are you cleaning it up?
Me: It's bothering Gee.
Gee: Did you get a red owie, Daddy?
Me: He's okay, buddy. It's a cut on Daddy's head. Matt, the paramedics are coming, do you want to...
Matt: Why? Who called them?
Me: I did.
Matt: Why?
Me: Your head. You're bleeding?
Matt: Call them back and tell them not to come.
Me: It's too late. I can see the lights.
Matt: WELL, I WANT TO SIT ON THE COUCH!
Me: Okay? Please crawl.
He did, while Gee and I watched all the lights approach and park and seemingly endless big, uniformed men head up our sidewalk.
Matt: Tell them to go away!!
Me: No. You have no idea what you are even saying.
Matt: Tell them to go away!!
Me: If you don't stop yelling at me, they are going to think this is domestic violence.
Matt: As if they would believe that I lost.
Thankfully, they took over immediately because all further conversations with Matt and his shaken brain were similarly annoying and repetitive and Gee was frightened and obsessed with getting ice for Daddy's red owie.
My adrenaline rush faded about three minutes later and I crawled back into the bathroom with my small son and his ice pack and vomited repeatedly. That would be how I ended up puking with large numbers firemen in the living room who weren't even there for me. They kept checking on me from a safe distance and I kept apologizing for forcing them to enter our hot zone of stomach plague.
They did end up taking Matt in the ambulance to the ER for eight stitches and a brain scan, but by 3:30 a.m., when he called me to tell me that he was waiting for a cab to bring him home, he had a firm grasp on the situation and could remember his birthday, etc. I felt vaguely guilty sending him off to the ER alone while lying on our bed, holding Gee's sleeping hand and wallowing in my misery. It's tough when you have kids. I do have friends who would have come over in a heartbeat to stay with them, but honestly, it was selfishness. The thought of puking repeatedly in the waiting room of the ER was overwhelming.
Friday dawned and we were all relatively fine, plus a few stitches. My three energetic little balls of healthiness bounced off of walls and watched a lot of TV and I felt like death. I muddled through the day trying not to get bitter. I didn't begrudge Matt a day in bed with a pounding headache and a stomach bug. But it seemed outlandish that, after puking eight times overnight and pulling some weird muscle heaving around my over-sized uterus, I should LOSE on the question of who was capable of dealing with the children.
The small dramas of life, played out in our living room. Two days later, I am hopelessly behind on everything, email, thought, life, my god the laundry. Now that we all feel well, I have a strong compulsion to burn everything we touched, like in plague times, because anything, witchcraft, exorcism, moving house, pretty much anything not to have that virus ever, ever again.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
She Gets It! (Part III)
I wrote a book-like comment in response to all of your challenging, interesting, respectful and kind comments on the situation at Spanish school, in case you want to read it. I read all of those comments many, many times. I learned a lot from these experiences and from your thoughts.
**************************************
A week later, I visit the preschool at the coop we currently attend (in the toddler class) with several other parents. I've been looking at other options and avoiding this visitation. I guiltily admit that I am not hopeful. I don't know the preschool teacher well, but something about her bubbly, stereotypical preschool teacher personality triggers a negative response in me. The program is fine. I love our coop. I love that I'd be there one day a week and drop off one day.
Towards the end of our observation, Teacher M asks if we have any questions. There are few.
"I have some questions," I tell her, "but they are very specific to my daughter, maybe I could call you or we could chat another time."
"Oh, I think now is fine," she gushes in her over-the-top-I-love-little-people voice. The other parents drift away and we are left alone in the hall.
"Well, I think you know Saige."
"Oh, yes, she's just gorgeous."
Sigh.
"I think so. Um, I have some concerns. She has some small behaviors related to being institutionalized for her first year and to some lingering attachment and bonding issues. They can really be exaggerated at home if things are off in an outside environment. It's really hard to explain, you'll think I'm crazy."
Stop, Stacey, don't defend, you know your daughter, just the facts. (Sigh.)
"It's subtle. It's difficult to describe." She waits patiently, without trying to provide words. "One thing I'm concerned about is how you handle inappropriate time with you or inappropriate affection. For instance, how would you handle it if Saige always sat in your lap, whenever you sat down."
"Would that bother you?" she asks.
"Yes and no. She needs to be treated exactly like the other children, over-exaggeratedly so, sometimes. If a child sits in your lap during circle time every day, I have absolutely no problem with her getting a turn. But, if they get to pick, or ask, and it ended up being Saige every day, because, I can tell you, it would end up being Saige every single day, I would be concerned. I know it's subtle, but here's another example. If you allowed it, she would follow you around and be your special helper all the time. She would end up never doing the activity the other kids were doing, but instead, helping you. They all might be painting and she would be passing out the paint with you. That would be a red flag for me. But, if each child in the class got a day to wear a special hat and be your helper, I would not have a problem with her having her turn."
I carry on, feeling crazy. "I know it sounds subtle, but it is really, really important. If this were going on all the time, if she were looking to you for special attention and comfort, and you were, um, feeling the need or the desire to favor her in this way, I would want to know. I would change things. I might keep her home for a week, doing projects with me, or only bring her to school on my work day."
"Sure," she smiles, her voice is still shockingly perky, but her eyes are direct and intense, "that kind of special treatment and affection needs to come only from you."
I almost burst into tears. I am devastated by her understanding.
"That's it exactly." Okay, not all of it, carry on, momma. "Well that and that she really shouldn't be treated differently from the other children because she looks different, or has a different background."
I am so shocked that I babble on, almost unintelligible. "It's so difficult at times, if someone in authority doesn't understand. I can tell because often the person will just gush and gush about Saige, how helpful she is, how cooperative, how sweet, 'their little helper' and all I can think is how easily manipulated they are by a three-year-old child."
"Sure, I can see that. I think there is a natural inclination to compensate. People think, poor little thing, an orphanage, adopted, but that's not what she needs, is it?"
I might marry this woman. Did I say her voice was high and perky, because it's musical. Like a classic opera.
"No, it really isn't," I say, "and then, poor little Garrett."
"Oh my gosh yes," she breaks in, "I can only imagine how important it is for them to get equal attention. He probably acts out."
Am I dreaming this conversation?
"Not equal," I whisper, near tears, "just appropriate. Just praise when due. Just, nothing different from any other children. They both act out when things are off, they are very sensitive to this."
"Of course they are. It's not a problem. We'll keep communication open, but I can handle this, I completely understand your concerns."
I want to kiss her on her mouth, squeaky, kid-friendly voice and all. "Thank you," I manage.
Thank you, universe, for the occasional person that just gets it.
***************************************************
(I do see the irony of the ease of this conversation and my failure to give SB this chance or similar information. In my defense, I have had similar conversations that did not go nearly this well. But, I promise, I will assume that SB would have reacted exactly like this and that the failure was mine. End AnyPreschool drama. I swear.)
**************************************
A week later, I visit the preschool at the coop we currently attend (in the toddler class) with several other parents. I've been looking at other options and avoiding this visitation. I guiltily admit that I am not hopeful. I don't know the preschool teacher well, but something about her bubbly, stereotypical preschool teacher personality triggers a negative response in me. The program is fine. I love our coop. I love that I'd be there one day a week and drop off one day.
Towards the end of our observation, Teacher M asks if we have any questions. There are few.
"I have some questions," I tell her, "but they are very specific to my daughter, maybe I could call you or we could chat another time."
"Oh, I think now is fine," she gushes in her over-the-top-I-love-little-people voice. The other parents drift away and we are left alone in the hall.
"Well, I think you know Saige."
"Oh, yes, she's just gorgeous."
Sigh.
"I think so. Um, I have some concerns. She has some small behaviors related to being institutionalized for her first year and to some lingering attachment and bonding issues. They can really be exaggerated at home if things are off in an outside environment. It's really hard to explain, you'll think I'm crazy."
Stop, Stacey, don't defend, you know your daughter, just the facts. (Sigh.)
"It's subtle. It's difficult to describe." She waits patiently, without trying to provide words. "One thing I'm concerned about is how you handle inappropriate time with you or inappropriate affection. For instance, how would you handle it if Saige always sat in your lap, whenever you sat down."
"Would that bother you?" she asks.
"Yes and no. She needs to be treated exactly like the other children, over-exaggeratedly so, sometimes. If a child sits in your lap during circle time every day, I have absolutely no problem with her getting a turn. But, if they get to pick, or ask, and it ended up being Saige every day, because, I can tell you, it would end up being Saige every single day, I would be concerned. I know it's subtle, but here's another example. If you allowed it, she would follow you around and be your special helper all the time. She would end up never doing the activity the other kids were doing, but instead, helping you. They all might be painting and she would be passing out the paint with you. That would be a red flag for me. But, if each child in the class got a day to wear a special hat and be your helper, I would not have a problem with her having her turn."
I carry on, feeling crazy. "I know it sounds subtle, but it is really, really important. If this were going on all the time, if she were looking to you for special attention and comfort, and you were, um, feeling the need or the desire to favor her in this way, I would want to know. I would change things. I might keep her home for a week, doing projects with me, or only bring her to school on my work day."
"Sure," she smiles, her voice is still shockingly perky, but her eyes are direct and intense, "that kind of special treatment and affection needs to come only from you."
I almost burst into tears. I am devastated by her understanding.
"That's it exactly." Okay, not all of it, carry on, momma. "Well that and that she really shouldn't be treated differently from the other children because she looks different, or has a different background."
I am so shocked that I babble on, almost unintelligible. "It's so difficult at times, if someone in authority doesn't understand. I can tell because often the person will just gush and gush about Saige, how helpful she is, how cooperative, how sweet, 'their little helper' and all I can think is how easily manipulated they are by a three-year-old child."
"Sure, I can see that. I think there is a natural inclination to compensate. People think, poor little thing, an orphanage, adopted, but that's not what she needs, is it?"
I might marry this woman. Did I say her voice was high and perky, because it's musical. Like a classic opera.
"No, it really isn't," I say, "and then, poor little Garrett."
"Oh my gosh yes," she breaks in, "I can only imagine how important it is for them to get equal attention. He probably acts out."
Am I dreaming this conversation?
"Not equal," I whisper, near tears, "just appropriate. Just praise when due. Just, nothing different from any other children. They both act out when things are off, they are very sensitive to this."
"Of course they are. It's not a problem. We'll keep communication open, but I can handle this, I completely understand your concerns."
I want to kiss her on her mouth, squeaky, kid-friendly voice and all. "Thank you," I manage.
Thank you, universe, for the occasional person that just gets it.
***************************************************
(I do see the irony of the ease of this conversation and my failure to give SB this chance or similar information. In my defense, I have had similar conversations that did not go nearly this well. But, I promise, I will assume that SB would have reacted exactly like this and that the failure was mine. End AnyPreschool drama. I swear.)
Monday, March 16, 2009
Comprende? (Part II)
Originally, I wrote one long, introspective examination of why some relatively small issues about preschool were REALLY getting to me. Keeping me up at night and making me sweat, etc. Writing in my notebook, I realized that some of my angst was valid and some of it was rooted in unresolved anger over incidents that occurred during the disruption of our adoption. There are certain, sometimes awkward, concerns that are important to me as the mother of black and white, biological and adopted "forced twins." Other issues are mine to let go.
When I turned my thoughts into a post, the damn thing was so long (even for me, shocking, I know) that I broke it into three loosely related stories, organized chronologically. Posting the first part on its own really broke the flow of my thoughts. It is a painful memory, but I failed to see how sad and still mired in that time I would sound because I had the whole Rise and Fall of the AnyFamily Preschool Saga in my head.
Good lord, that's a long way of saying - wow - I just sometimes don't feel like I deserve the support I get from my friends who comment here. Your compassion and willingness to listen humbles me. If some of you were thinking, does she really need us to tell her that this is all okay again, well, I don't blame you.
Here's part two of three. Right? Good thing I broke the epic saga into parts.
***********************************************
I have begun to dread pick up at the in-home Spanish language preschool that Saige and Garrett attend. It is the same every Thursday. The knot ties itself in my chest as I approach. I wait in the car until the door opens and they spill out.
"MOMMA!" I get squeals and hugs from both children. My daughter is bonded to us, as we are to her, I have no doubts about that. But the next few minutes never fail to make me sweat. I am thrown backwards. I experience some kind of post-traumatic-anxiety-stress disorder.
Senora B beams at me. "Oh, I just enjoy Saige so much. She is so good in class, she loves to sing, she loves to answer questions."
"Uh huh," I stay noncommittal. This weekly refrain is overdone and I am beyond making excuses for it in my head. I am done pretending that this is a normal conversation to have about a three-year-old girl. "She can be very sweet."
Garrett is tugging at the teacher's sleeve. He senses the inequity, I know. He has started to drag his feet before class and cling to me. Maybe it's not connected, it could well be unconnected, but I hate it. I hate that he feels the need to beg for equal attention. I hate that she is oblivious to the obvious facts, they are siblings, they are competitive, her gushing, superfluous praise is helping no one, least of all my daughter. Unearned praise is cheap indeed.
"Oh, she is always sweet."
"No three-year-old is always sweet," I say.
I can't help it. She is an experienced preschool teacher. Why can't she see? Why can't she treat my daughter exactly as she treats the other children. The same as she treats my son. Saige is securely bonded to me. We have, I generally feel, very few remaining attachment issues, but she is, like another child I once knew and still, on some level, love, a masterful little manipulator. Oh and yes, yes Senora B, I have noticed that she is black and cute in a fairly non-diverse area. That does not make her poo-poo non-smellyishious. Let's move on, shall we.
"She can be a pill when she wants to be." I keep my voice light, I am trying to give her a gentle clue.
Her incredulous look dashes any hopes I had of easing the situation subtly. "Oh NO. I can't believe it. Not Saige."
I walk away. I have to walk away. Again, really? Really, you can't believe it? You work with three and four-year-olds for a living. You can't believe that this child, this toddler, has rough moments?
I expect this occasionally, from strangers. This dramatic attention. This gushing praise. It is an odd reaction that some people have to our transracial family and our beautiful brown-skinned girl. I can't help but assume, these days, that there is a certain level of discomfort hidden beneath the effusive reaction. The perverse trouble-maker inside of me longs to answer the undercurrent, instead of smile and accept the socially acceptable words at face value.
From a preschool teacher, though, I expect more. Maybe my standards are too high, but I feel that a person who teaches children for a living should operate above and beyond compensating for the perceived injustices of the world through one fairly privileged child. Also, it effects my family and pisses me off.
The next week, when I pick them up, Garrett is in tears. Strangely, he is clinging to Senora B's leg and doesn't run to me. I can see the conflict and devastation in his small face.
"He had a very hard day," she tells me. "He wouldn't listen at all. I gave several warnings, but I had to give him a time out. He's been very upset ever since."
My heart breaks right there. Possibly, it's a coincidence, but I don't believe it. I think he acted out to get her attention, to feel special. I think negative attention sufficed, in the end. I hug him in the car and hold him tight. He sits in my lap all afternoon, refusing to leave my side. His clever brain is both awed and horrified by the power of his negative behavior.
"We love you, baby," I tell him before bed, "no matter what, even when you need a time out at school, we always, always love you." His face crumples again, he's been unable to tell me about what happened all day.
I rage at Matt for a while after bedtime and he listens patiently. When I calm down, he's direct and on point. "They shouldn't stay there. We can finish the year, if you want to, but that's it. It's weird. She doesn't get it. It's not healthy for Saige, it devalues praise, and it's awful for Garrett."
I know. It's that simple and yet so unbelievably frustrating. It's so small, seemingly so easy to grasp, and so important. That is what I have to keep reminding myself, over and over, as we face even more time at school next year. It is important. It is not all in my head, I am not crazy and I am not making problems up. It might be subtle, but it is important.
When I turned my thoughts into a post, the damn thing was so long (even for me, shocking, I know) that I broke it into three loosely related stories, organized chronologically. Posting the first part on its own really broke the flow of my thoughts. It is a painful memory, but I failed to see how sad and still mired in that time I would sound because I had the whole Rise and Fall of the AnyFamily Preschool Saga in my head.
Good lord, that's a long way of saying - wow - I just sometimes don't feel like I deserve the support I get from my friends who comment here. Your compassion and willingness to listen humbles me. If some of you were thinking, does she really need us to tell her that this is all okay again, well, I don't blame you.
Here's part two of three. Right? Good thing I broke the epic saga into parts.
***********************************************
I have begun to dread pick up at the in-home Spanish language preschool that Saige and Garrett attend. It is the same every Thursday. The knot ties itself in my chest as I approach. I wait in the car until the door opens and they spill out.
"MOMMA!" I get squeals and hugs from both children. My daughter is bonded to us, as we are to her, I have no doubts about that. But the next few minutes never fail to make me sweat. I am thrown backwards. I experience some kind of post-traumatic-anxiety-stress disorder.
Senora B beams at me. "Oh, I just enjoy Saige so much. She is so good in class, she loves to sing, she loves to answer questions."
"Uh huh," I stay noncommittal. This weekly refrain is overdone and I am beyond making excuses for it in my head. I am done pretending that this is a normal conversation to have about a three-year-old girl. "She can be very sweet."
Garrett is tugging at the teacher's sleeve. He senses the inequity, I know. He has started to drag his feet before class and cling to me. Maybe it's not connected, it could well be unconnected, but I hate it. I hate that he feels the need to beg for equal attention. I hate that she is oblivious to the obvious facts, they are siblings, they are competitive, her gushing, superfluous praise is helping no one, least of all my daughter. Unearned praise is cheap indeed.
"Oh, she is always sweet."
"No three-year-old is always sweet," I say.
I can't help it. She is an experienced preschool teacher. Why can't she see? Why can't she treat my daughter exactly as she treats the other children. The same as she treats my son. Saige is securely bonded to me. We have, I generally feel, very few remaining attachment issues, but she is, like another child I once knew and still, on some level, love, a masterful little manipulator. Oh and yes, yes Senora B, I have noticed that she is black and cute in a fairly non-diverse area. That does not make her poo-poo non-smellyishious. Let's move on, shall we.
"She can be a pill when she wants to be." I keep my voice light, I am trying to give her a gentle clue.
Her incredulous look dashes any hopes I had of easing the situation subtly. "Oh NO. I can't believe it. Not Saige."
I walk away. I have to walk away. Again, really? Really, you can't believe it? You work with three and four-year-olds for a living. You can't believe that this child, this toddler, has rough moments?
I expect this occasionally, from strangers. This dramatic attention. This gushing praise. It is an odd reaction that some people have to our transracial family and our beautiful brown-skinned girl. I can't help but assume, these days, that there is a certain level of discomfort hidden beneath the effusive reaction. The perverse trouble-maker inside of me longs to answer the undercurrent, instead of smile and accept the socially acceptable words at face value.
From a preschool teacher, though, I expect more. Maybe my standards are too high, but I feel that a person who teaches children for a living should operate above and beyond compensating for the perceived injustices of the world through one fairly privileged child. Also, it effects my family and pisses me off.
The next week, when I pick them up, Garrett is in tears. Strangely, he is clinging to Senora B's leg and doesn't run to me. I can see the conflict and devastation in his small face.
"He had a very hard day," she tells me. "He wouldn't listen at all. I gave several warnings, but I had to give him a time out. He's been very upset ever since."
My heart breaks right there. Possibly, it's a coincidence, but I don't believe it. I think he acted out to get her attention, to feel special. I think negative attention sufficed, in the end. I hug him in the car and hold him tight. He sits in my lap all afternoon, refusing to leave my side. His clever brain is both awed and horrified by the power of his negative behavior.
"We love you, baby," I tell him before bed, "no matter what, even when you need a time out at school, we always, always love you." His face crumples again, he's been unable to tell me about what happened all day.
I rage at Matt for a while after bedtime and he listens patiently. When I calm down, he's direct and on point. "They shouldn't stay there. We can finish the year, if you want to, but that's it. It's weird. She doesn't get it. It's not healthy for Saige, it devalues praise, and it's awful for Garrett."
I know. It's that simple and yet so unbelievably frustrating. It's so small, seemingly so easy to grasp, and so important. That is what I have to keep reminding myself, over and over, as we face even more time at school next year. It is important. It is not all in my head, I am not crazy and I am not making problems up. It might be subtle, but it is important.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Get It? (Part I)
I still remember the way she looked at me at the preschool parent meeting. She'd been gushing for fifteen or twenty minutes, "he's so smart, he's so helpful, he just loves to sit with me." I listened, my battered heart shying from the blows. I nodded. It didn't surprise me, exactly. I'd been through this too much to be surprised, but I had hoped a little. I'd allowed myself to hope.
She paused and then gushed, "you must feel so lucky to be his mother."
Shattered bits of my heart hit the floor. I cleared my throat, shifted, I know my eyes were dead. I know I looked like the one with mental issues, but I didn't have the strength. I had no heart left to let this oblivious professional into my pain. I already knew, from the last fifteen minutes, that she wouldn't understand. She would become defensive, as if her inability to see through my son's masterful manipulations was an accusation on my part. A charge to be denied.
Maybe it was.
My face was stone, my words scripted. "We're having a lot of problems at home."
"No! " she gasped, "I don't believe it."
Anger flared within me, behind the blank mask. Really? Are you so naive? You've worked constantly with five-years-olds for twenty years, you claim so much expertise and knowledge. You can't believe it? You can't fathom a child who is clever enough to be cooperative at school, where you pass out M&Ms for good behavior, and difficult at home? You can't understand that bonding with a mother is the hardest relationship for an institutionalized child? Really? You feel the need, now, as I sit in this tiny chair, bleeding on your floor, to act incredulous. To drive in yet another blade.
You're right. It must be me. The mothering is off, clearly. He is flawless.
It was seconds only, but I hated her now, as I knew I would.
"It's quite common in institutionalized children," I intoned, "to function well in this type of environment. He's not bonding to you, he just understands the rules here. He feels in control. In a family situation, he's very threatened. Anyway, it doesn't matter, we are having a very hard time with his behavior. It's difficult for some people to understand how hard he is to handle at home."
Stop. Stop, Stacey. You're defending. Just facts.
"I don't think he's going to stay with us."
She looked at me like I was contagious and babbled fussily for long moments.
I could not keep the dislike off of my face now. "I'm going to need all his school work, his letter notebook, whatever you have."
She bustled away and I could breathe.
The other teacher, the quiet one, leaned forward and put her hand gently on my knee. "I know," she said simply. "My stepson. He went through a lot before I married his Dad. He's always targeted me for his anger. From age four. I know."
My gratefulness burned my throat. Cindi returned. She handed me a notebook. "He's one of the smartest children I've ever taught."
I nodded. "We'll probably need an evaluation from you in the next month, for the placement agency. Just his work level, his relationship with the other kids. That kind of thing."
"Of course," she pressed forward, "there's a great family I know right here. I think they might be interested. I could talk to them."
I stood, fleeing before I cried, or hit her. "Mmmmmm. No, thank you. We're working with a therapist and a placement agency."
Outside in the cold, I gasped for breath. She followed me out, the other woman, I don't remember her name. She stood there thoughtful and comfortable. "If you ever need to talk," she told me, "I've been through it."
"Thank you." It was all I could say and I hope she knew that. I thought she understood that if I spoke again, I would sob on her shoulder and never, ever stop.
*******************************************************
Of all the steps in the placement process, all the interviews, the professionals, the evaluations, her stupid preschool write up still cuts.
I think it was the tone, the professionalism mixed with obtuse failure to comprehend the situation. Smug expertise that completely missed the issues, the humanity of our entire family, the struggle, the bone-jarring pain. We faced worse judgment, from friends and family, more obstinate refusals to understand the situation as we gave up our son, but they were, at least, uninformed.
Her oblivious expertise still rankles.
"A delightful child," she wrote amid many other accolades. And he was, at times, he still is, I'm sure. "X is always a little distant and withdrawn when he arrives at our door, but after a while, he relaxes and enjoys our program. We had absolutely no problems with X."
She might as well have written what she meant: "Not us! He's just fine here! Must be the parents." No one was looking for a scapegoat, Matt and I had already accepted whatever blame there was to accept, but she was determined to avoid it anyway.
It takes determination to fail to get it so colossally.
She paused and then gushed, "you must feel so lucky to be his mother."
Shattered bits of my heart hit the floor. I cleared my throat, shifted, I know my eyes were dead. I know I looked like the one with mental issues, but I didn't have the strength. I had no heart left to let this oblivious professional into my pain. I already knew, from the last fifteen minutes, that she wouldn't understand. She would become defensive, as if her inability to see through my son's masterful manipulations was an accusation on my part. A charge to be denied.
Maybe it was.
My face was stone, my words scripted. "We're having a lot of problems at home."
"No! " she gasped, "I don't believe it."
Anger flared within me, behind the blank mask. Really? Are you so naive? You've worked constantly with five-years-olds for twenty years, you claim so much expertise and knowledge. You can't believe it? You can't fathom a child who is clever enough to be cooperative at school, where you pass out M&Ms for good behavior, and difficult at home? You can't understand that bonding with a mother is the hardest relationship for an institutionalized child? Really? You feel the need, now, as I sit in this tiny chair, bleeding on your floor, to act incredulous. To drive in yet another blade.
You're right. It must be me. The mothering is off, clearly. He is flawless.
It was seconds only, but I hated her now, as I knew I would.
"It's quite common in institutionalized children," I intoned, "to function well in this type of environment. He's not bonding to you, he just understands the rules here. He feels in control. In a family situation, he's very threatened. Anyway, it doesn't matter, we are having a very hard time with his behavior. It's difficult for some people to understand how hard he is to handle at home."
Stop. Stop, Stacey. You're defending. Just facts.
"I don't think he's going to stay with us."
She looked at me like I was contagious and babbled fussily for long moments.
I could not keep the dislike off of my face now. "I'm going to need all his school work, his letter notebook, whatever you have."
She bustled away and I could breathe.
The other teacher, the quiet one, leaned forward and put her hand gently on my knee. "I know," she said simply. "My stepson. He went through a lot before I married his Dad. He's always targeted me for his anger. From age four. I know."
My gratefulness burned my throat. Cindi returned. She handed me a notebook. "He's one of the smartest children I've ever taught."
I nodded. "We'll probably need an evaluation from you in the next month, for the placement agency. Just his work level, his relationship with the other kids. That kind of thing."
"Of course," she pressed forward, "there's a great family I know right here. I think they might be interested. I could talk to them."
I stood, fleeing before I cried, or hit her. "Mmmmmm. No, thank you. We're working with a therapist and a placement agency."
Outside in the cold, I gasped for breath. She followed me out, the other woman, I don't remember her name. She stood there thoughtful and comfortable. "If you ever need to talk," she told me, "I've been through it."
"Thank you." It was all I could say and I hope she knew that. I thought she understood that if I spoke again, I would sob on her shoulder and never, ever stop.
*******************************************************
Of all the steps in the placement process, all the interviews, the professionals, the evaluations, her stupid preschool write up still cuts.
I think it was the tone, the professionalism mixed with obtuse failure to comprehend the situation. Smug expertise that completely missed the issues, the humanity of our entire family, the struggle, the bone-jarring pain. We faced worse judgment, from friends and family, more obstinate refusals to understand the situation as we gave up our son, but they were, at least, uninformed.
Her oblivious expertise still rankles.
"A delightful child," she wrote amid many other accolades. And he was, at times, he still is, I'm sure. "X is always a little distant and withdrawn when he arrives at our door, but after a while, he relaxes and enjoys our program. We had absolutely no problems with X."
She might as well have written what she meant: "Not us! He's just fine here! Must be the parents." No one was looking for a scapegoat, Matt and I had already accepted whatever blame there was to accept, but she was determined to avoid it anyway.
It takes determination to fail to get it so colossally.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words
Picture minus thirty minutes.
Me: Okay, we're going to go for a walk. Let's all pee pee, please. Ess, you first.
Ess: (in a whine that could possibly cause my eardrums to explode or kill a large cat) I don't have to pee pee.
[[From here forward italics = a whine that could kill a large cat.]]
Me: Try.
Ess: I don't have to.
Me: Try. Come here Cue, let's check your diaper.
Begin game of keep away with Cue.
Ess: Mommmmmaaaa, I all done.
Me: I'm coming. Gotcha. Are you smelly? No? Good.
Ess: Mommmmmmaaaa, I all done.
Me: Okay!! Gee, let's go, it's your turn.
Gee: I don't have to pee peeeeeeeeee.
Me: Try.
Gee: NO! I don't have to peeeeeppppeeeeeeeee.
Me: Try.
Wipe and wash Ess. Put Gee in front of toilet.
Me: Okay, let's get our stuff on. Ski pants first, Ess.
Gee: Moommmmmmaaaaaa, no pee pee coming.
Me: (mid-baby-ski-pants wrangle) Okay, just a minute.
Ess: Is this the right foot, momma?
Me: No, other foot, boo.
Gee: MOOOOOMMMMMAAAAA!! NO PEE PEE COMING!!!
Me: Okay, pull up your pants and come out here.
Gee: Mooooommma, I want you.
Ess: It's not going on, my boot is stuck.
Me: Gee, just pull up your pants and come out here. Here, Ess, push down. Hard.
Gee: NO. I want you.
Me: Ess, sit on your bottom. I'll be right back.
Picture minus twenty minutes.
Gee runs around the kitchen island holding his ski pants. Ess cries about her boot. Cue has one boot on.
Me: Gee! Stop!! Now!!
Cue: Shu!! Shu!! Shu!! Shu!! (repeat, without pause)
Ess: I need help. My boot is stuck.
Me: Just let me get Cue's other boot on. Cue, hand me the shoe. GEE!! STOP!! IT!! NOW!!
Gee: I'm hungry, can we have a snack?
Me: When we get home.
Ess: I want a snack.
Me: When we get home. Okay push. Ouch, please don't lean on me like that, it hurts. There. Gee over here please, let's get your pants on. Put one foot in. Please don't lean on me like that, it hurts! Good. Zip. What is that smell? What? Cue! Did you?
Picture minus ten minutes.
Diaper change complete. Cue has pants, mittens, coat, boots. Ess stands in front of the door, down four steps, dressed to go. I am helping Gee put on his boots.
Me: (pulling at the boot) Cue, go backwards down the steps.
Cue: Big blank baby smile.
Me: You'll fall to the bottom, go backwards. Gee push, you have to push down with your foot.
Gee: I'm hungry.
Me: Me too. I'm also sweating. Put your boot on! Ess don't push passed him, you'll knock him down. Cue sit on your bottom. Go backwards! Wait!
THUNK.
Me: Shit.
Gee: I'm hungry.
Me: It's okay, baby, it's okay, did you bump your head? GEE! DO NOT RUN AROUND MY KITCHEN WITH YOUR BOOTS ON! Oh, it's okay. Let's get a tissue. Owie.
Gee: Momma, put my hat on.
Me: Okay, just a second.
Picture minus three minutes.
One handed hat installation. Cue stops crying, no visible damage.
Me: Let's go. Everyone outside. Climb in the stroller. Don't step on Cue's hand. Great job. I'm going to grab the camera.
Cram peanut butter bar into my mouth because, for the love of God, it's been forty freaking minutes. Grab three more peanut butter bars.
Ess: Momma, can we have a snack?
Me: Yes, if you smile for the picture and you sit nicely in the stroller all the way to Starbucks.
Gee: Do you need coffee, momma?
Me: No, I need vodka, but coffee will have to do. Okay, smile. Say CHEESE!!
Them: CHEESE!!!
Click. Click. Click.
Picture plus thirty seconds.
Gee: Momma, I have to pee pee.
That's not the thousand you were thinking of, is it?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Babble
That last post was heavy, both in subject and in the way that it weighs on your mind. If you haven't read the comments, I recommend them, they are amazing and thought-provoking on both sides of this difficult issue. I can't say that I changed my mind, but I did reevaluate the basis for my position a few times. I also have to say thank you. I don't know if you can call this kind of discussion fun, but I enjoy it when it stays measured.
I suspect we have to agree to disagree, for the most part, but there are two points on which I think we can all agree. Thanks to whatever higher power you believe in that none of us have had to deal with such catastrophic consequences (knock wood) for our carelessness and thank the great State of Washington that we are not asked to sit as judge or jury for this case.
Check your kids' buckles again. Every time. Okay?
((UPDATE. Sorry. One more thing. Read this article from today's Washington Post. I'm not comparing the situations in anyway. I'm just saying take the time to read it and be a witness. Read the whole thing, if you can bear it, especially if you blog and/or comment often. Because at the end there, those comments left about those people, are true evil, not because prosecuting them is wrong in every case, because lashing people when they are crushed to pulp is wrong, in every case. Thank you again for the comments on the last post. You are all amazing.))
****************************************
In the fourth and final AnyBaby saga, I finally got in to see my midwife yesterday. Hooray! Gee and Ess went with me to the appointment. Boo! We all got to hear his (or her) little heart beating away. Gee heard the ocean in my tummy and Ess now thinks the baby is a lion, like Symba, or Ryan on The Wild. Let's hope not, those suckers are born with claws.
I managed to answer her questions in between Sticker Book Gate 2009 and the Great Toddler Scale Incident. She was quiet for a while, reviewing her papers and flipping the pages of my file back and forth. She then leaned forward and pointed to two lines plotted, one above the other, on a graph. "That is your weight for Cue's pregnancy," she explained, "and this line is through today."
Oh, that line? The one that both starts and ends above the other line? I could have happily lived my whole life without that information. Also, is there a paper shortage? Because I have graph paper at home. I can bring some in so that we don't have to reuse like that. Finally, I totally changed my mind. I want some doctor that has never seen me before.
And that, as Maura so astutely noted yesterday, is why you should be careful what you wish/whine obsessively for.
*******************************************
It's my birthday today. I'm mid to high thirty something. This is my birthday present.
Aha, no. Not that. That's the before picture. This:
I love and cherish it with a passion generally reserved for other situations. I stroke it and stoke it and try to make it nice and hot and keep it happy because when it is really cooking my living room has reached temperatures in the high seventies. The ungrateful little bastard hates me. It will not light for me no matter what I do. I have sacrificed my three month stockpile of newspaper to the cause. I have begged and pleaded, yelled and screamed, stomped my feet. No matter what I do, it withholds fire from me.
For Matt, it turns over and shoots flames out of its...you get the picture. I'm starting to suspect that either I am not a good determiner of wood burning stove gender or my treasured stove plays for the other team. It's just not fair. I'm the one who's home all day. I'm the one that tends it and talks to it and disciplines it. I'm the one who sacrificed and asked for the damn thing as a birthday present. And this is how I'm treated. It's a cranky pain in the ass all day and then it purrs and puts out heat and is generally on it's best behavior the minute Matt walks in the door. Typical.
Yeah, well, watch it, stove boy, unlike the other small, messy, cold, ungrateful creatures in this household, you can be traded in for another model.
I suspect we have to agree to disagree, for the most part, but there are two points on which I think we can all agree. Thanks to whatever higher power you believe in that none of us have had to deal with such catastrophic consequences (knock wood) for our carelessness and thank the great State of Washington that we are not asked to sit as judge or jury for this case.
Check your kids' buckles again. Every time. Okay?
((UPDATE. Sorry. One more thing. Read this article from today's Washington Post. I'm not comparing the situations in anyway. I'm just saying take the time to read it and be a witness. Read the whole thing, if you can bear it, especially if you blog and/or comment often. Because at the end there, those comments left about those people, are true evil, not because prosecuting them is wrong in every case, because lashing people when they are crushed to pulp is wrong, in every case. Thank you again for the comments on the last post. You are all amazing.))
****************************************
In the fourth and final AnyBaby saga, I finally got in to see my midwife yesterday. Hooray! Gee and Ess went with me to the appointment. Boo! We all got to hear his (or her) little heart beating away. Gee heard the ocean in my tummy and Ess now thinks the baby is a lion, like Symba, or Ryan on The Wild. Let's hope not, those suckers are born with claws.
I managed to answer her questions in between Sticker Book Gate 2009 and the Great Toddler Scale Incident. She was quiet for a while, reviewing her papers and flipping the pages of my file back and forth. She then leaned forward and pointed to two lines plotted, one above the other, on a graph. "That is your weight for Cue's pregnancy," she explained, "and this line is through today."
Oh, that line? The one that both starts and ends above the other line? I could have happily lived my whole life without that information. Also, is there a paper shortage? Because I have graph paper at home. I can bring some in so that we don't have to reuse like that. Finally, I totally changed my mind. I want some doctor that has never seen me before.
And that, as Maura so astutely noted yesterday, is why you should be careful what you wish/whine obsessively for.
*******************************************
It's my birthday today. I'm mid to high thirty something. This is my birthday present.
Aha, no. Not that. That's the before picture. This:
I love and cherish it with a passion generally reserved for other situations. I stroke it and stoke it and try to make it nice and hot and keep it happy because when it is really cooking my living room has reached temperatures in the high seventies. The ungrateful little bastard hates me. It will not light for me no matter what I do. I have sacrificed my three month stockpile of newspaper to the cause. I have begged and pleaded, yelled and screamed, stomped my feet. No matter what I do, it withholds fire from me.
For Matt, it turns over and shoots flames out of its...you get the picture. I'm starting to suspect that either I am not a good determiner of wood burning stove gender or my treasured stove plays for the other team. It's just not fair. I'm the one who's home all day. I'm the one that tends it and talks to it and disciplines it. I'm the one who sacrificed and asked for the damn thing as a birthday present. And this is how I'm treated. It's a cranky pain in the ass all day and then it purrs and puts out heat and is generally on it's best behavior the minute Matt walks in the door. Typical.
Yeah, well, watch it, stove boy, unlike the other small, messy, cold, ungrateful creatures in this household, you can be traded in for another model.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Not That Different
I've been having trouble writing a post this week and I finally realized that it's because this has been on my mind a lot. I guess this is a break from my personal/life/mommy posts, but it hits me right in my heart.
It's big news here in our average city with a small town attitude. MOTHER CHARGED. Prosecutors announced that they will charge a local woman (EJ) with vehicular homicide. EJ's three-month-old daughter sustained traumatic brain injuries when the car EJ was driving hit another vehicle. The child was restrained in an improperly installed rear-facing infant car seat placed on the front seat of EJ's vehicle. The baby died ten months after the accident as a result of her injuries, caused when the front passenger seat air bag employed during impact.
This is the first case of this kind brought in Washington State. The Washington statute states that a driver commits vehicular homicide if he or she 1) drives under the influence of alcohol or drugs OR drives recklessly OR drives without regard for the safety of others; and 2) a person is killed or succumbs to their injuries within three years of a resulting accident.
The Deputy Spokane County Prosecutor says that the death of EJ's daughter "fits the criteria" for the charge under the statute.
If I phrase my reservations in lawyer-speak, trying to be objective, I'd say that homicide without an intent element bothers me on some level. The crime often referred to as murder one or first degree murder requires, as an element of the crime to be proved before conviction, that the accused intended their victim to die. Regardless of the actual facts of the case, for at least a second of time, there has to form in the mind of the accused the intent to kill the victim.
Negligent homicide is far murkier. The intent to kill is absent completely, even the intent to harm disappears. A driver hits and kills a child on a residential street while over the legal limit. That's classic vehicular homicide, the scenario most of us accept as chargeable under vehicular homicide statutes. The intent is to drive while impaired. In Washington, as in most states, that's specifically set forth in the statute as "reckless enough." Most of us accept these homicide charges as deserved.
What about hitting a child on a residential street while talking on a cell phone? The driver is going the legal speed limit, but is at fault. Talking on a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle is illegal in the jurisdiction. Vehicular homicide? Is this "recklessly driving" or "driving without regard for the safety of others?"
How about this one. A mother of three young children is in an accident on a major interstate. She's at fault for failure to keep a safe following distance. Her youngest child, a four-month-old boy, is killed when his head strikes the dashboard on impact. He was in a properly installed infant car seat, but she had neglected to buckle him into the restraints. It is illegal to transport an improperly restrained child in a motor vehicle in the jurisdiction. She and her two properly secured two-year-olds survived. Reckless enough? Vehicular homicide?
What if I told you that mother was me? What if I told you that it was a bright sunny morning and I took my toddlers and four-month-old Quinn to a Jump and Bounce party 45 minutes from our house. The baby sat, properly buckled into his infant seat throughout the activity, but I had to nurse him just before we left. Saige and Garrett got restless and hungry. They threw fits as we tried to leave. Matt called on my cell as I was getting everyone into the car. I properly secured the baby's seat back onto the base, buckled the other two into their seats and drove to Arby's. We ate on the interstate ride home. A truck in front of me slammed on its brakes and, scarfing my sandwich, I almost missed it, but I stopped in time.
When we got home and I unloaded the car, I realized that I had never strapped the baby back into his buckles under his blanket in the car seat. Then I cried, for like an hour.
If I had rear-ended the truck on I-90 and my precious baby boy had died, would I have committed vehicular homicide? Driving recklessly or without regard for the safety of others, resulting in a death within three years of the accident. It "fits the criteria" as the prosecutor stated in EJ's case. Doesn't it? When do carelessness, distractedness, the mistakes that we all make in life, cross over the line into criminal negligence? No one who knows me would ever, I truly believe, think for a second that I could intentionally hurt my son, or even recklessly endanger his life by intentionally leaving him unrestrained while driving. But, is failing to check the buckles reckless? Would a careful parent check every single time?
I'm a lawyer. Of course I can understand that there are levels of negligence and negligent intent. I can understand that at some point, negligence becomes criminal, even murder, but where? Where exactly? It's the job of the system to make the determination, and the people within it. Prosecutorial discretion. Juries. Judges. Appeals. There are protections built into the process. I know that.
If I were in the prosecutor's office, I could probably even make a solid argument for prosecuting this woman, distinguishing her case from mine on facts. The infant seat was improperly installed in the front seat. That might imply a pattern of carelessness rising to reckless if she allowed the child to ride like that for some time. Perhaps her actual driving that day was reckless. Perhaps she was often careless in restraining her children. She did, however, care. Her baby was in an infant seat. Her intent was clearly not to harm her child.
My brain can wrap itself around the possibility that to some, to this prosecutor, her actions feel incredibly reckless, reckless enough to constitute a crime called vehicular homicide.
But my heart. My heart sees the mother of a dead child. A child she killed. Through her own negligence. Not intent. Not murder. Carelessness. Grievous carelessness, perhaps even reckless carelessness. But how many of us can say we've never fallen below that red line? Ever. What accident in the history of the world wasn't the result of some level of carelessness by someone?
Are we are judging criminal intent here, or are we once again judging parenting, holding it up against some shiny example of perfection that doesn't allow for human error?
I'm not sure I understand the goal in charging this mother with homicide. Is it because she deserves to be punished and the child's life should be avenged? Certainly, that baby can't speak for herself, and the State has a role, but I can't imagine a worse punishment than the one this woman is already enduring. It's a life sentence. Is it deterrence? Do we want to make a point to other parents? To tell them that society is serious about the car seat laws and that failure to obey them is punishable in this way? Because, honestly, I'm deterred. You had me at "her baby died of traumatic head injuries."
I've heard many arguments on the other side of this case. Many people believe that putting such a small child in the front seat of a car without disengaging the airbag is outrageously reckless. That no parent could fail to know how dangerous this is. Unforgivable. Beyond sympathy or empathy. Criminal.
I see that. I still feel...sympathy and empathy.
In the end, my objection is simple and it's not objective or based on rational legal arguments. It's just this. I can see the difference between myself and someone with criminal intent. Intent to kill. Intent to rob. Intent to harm. Intent to drive while impaired. My finger pulling the trigger. My hand striking the blow. My drunk ass getting in a car.
All I really see between myself and this woman, this mother of a dead child charged with murder, is luck. And I have to wonder if that's enough.
******************************************
So what do you think? Truly. I'm open to both sides of the argument. Just remember, there are two sides. True discussion requires respect for that fact.
It's big news here in our average city with a small town attitude. MOTHER CHARGED. Prosecutors announced that they will charge a local woman (EJ) with vehicular homicide. EJ's three-month-old daughter sustained traumatic brain injuries when the car EJ was driving hit another vehicle. The child was restrained in an improperly installed rear-facing infant car seat placed on the front seat of EJ's vehicle. The baby died ten months after the accident as a result of her injuries, caused when the front passenger seat air bag employed during impact.
This is the first case of this kind brought in Washington State. The Washington statute states that a driver commits vehicular homicide if he or she 1) drives under the influence of alcohol or drugs OR drives recklessly OR drives without regard for the safety of others; and 2) a person is killed or succumbs to their injuries within three years of a resulting accident.
The Deputy Spokane County Prosecutor says that the death of EJ's daughter "fits the criteria" for the charge under the statute.
If I phrase my reservations in lawyer-speak, trying to be objective, I'd say that homicide without an intent element bothers me on some level. The crime often referred to as murder one or first degree murder requires, as an element of the crime to be proved before conviction, that the accused intended their victim to die. Regardless of the actual facts of the case, for at least a second of time, there has to form in the mind of the accused the intent to kill the victim.
Negligent homicide is far murkier. The intent to kill is absent completely, even the intent to harm disappears. A driver hits and kills a child on a residential street while over the legal limit. That's classic vehicular homicide, the scenario most of us accept as chargeable under vehicular homicide statutes. The intent is to drive while impaired. In Washington, as in most states, that's specifically set forth in the statute as "reckless enough." Most of us accept these homicide charges as deserved.
What about hitting a child on a residential street while talking on a cell phone? The driver is going the legal speed limit, but is at fault. Talking on a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle is illegal in the jurisdiction. Vehicular homicide? Is this "recklessly driving" or "driving without regard for the safety of others?"
How about this one. A mother of three young children is in an accident on a major interstate. She's at fault for failure to keep a safe following distance. Her youngest child, a four-month-old boy, is killed when his head strikes the dashboard on impact. He was in a properly installed infant car seat, but she had neglected to buckle him into the restraints. It is illegal to transport an improperly restrained child in a motor vehicle in the jurisdiction. She and her two properly secured two-year-olds survived. Reckless enough? Vehicular homicide?
What if I told you that mother was me? What if I told you that it was a bright sunny morning and I took my toddlers and four-month-old Quinn to a Jump and Bounce party 45 minutes from our house. The baby sat, properly buckled into his infant seat throughout the activity, but I had to nurse him just before we left. Saige and Garrett got restless and hungry. They threw fits as we tried to leave. Matt called on my cell as I was getting everyone into the car. I properly secured the baby's seat back onto the base, buckled the other two into their seats and drove to Arby's. We ate on the interstate ride home. A truck in front of me slammed on its brakes and, scarfing my sandwich, I almost missed it, but I stopped in time.
When we got home and I unloaded the car, I realized that I had never strapped the baby back into his buckles under his blanket in the car seat. Then I cried, for like an hour.
If I had rear-ended the truck on I-90 and my precious baby boy had died, would I have committed vehicular homicide? Driving recklessly or without regard for the safety of others, resulting in a death within three years of the accident. It "fits the criteria" as the prosecutor stated in EJ's case. Doesn't it? When do carelessness, distractedness, the mistakes that we all make in life, cross over the line into criminal negligence? No one who knows me would ever, I truly believe, think for a second that I could intentionally hurt my son, or even recklessly endanger his life by intentionally leaving him unrestrained while driving. But, is failing to check the buckles reckless? Would a careful parent check every single time?
I'm a lawyer. Of course I can understand that there are levels of negligence and negligent intent. I can understand that at some point, negligence becomes criminal, even murder, but where? Where exactly? It's the job of the system to make the determination, and the people within it. Prosecutorial discretion. Juries. Judges. Appeals. There are protections built into the process. I know that.
If I were in the prosecutor's office, I could probably even make a solid argument for prosecuting this woman, distinguishing her case from mine on facts. The infant seat was improperly installed in the front seat. That might imply a pattern of carelessness rising to reckless if she allowed the child to ride like that for some time. Perhaps her actual driving that day was reckless. Perhaps she was often careless in restraining her children. She did, however, care. Her baby was in an infant seat. Her intent was clearly not to harm her child.
My brain can wrap itself around the possibility that to some, to this prosecutor, her actions feel incredibly reckless, reckless enough to constitute a crime called vehicular homicide.
But my heart. My heart sees the mother of a dead child. A child she killed. Through her own negligence. Not intent. Not murder. Carelessness. Grievous carelessness, perhaps even reckless carelessness. But how many of us can say we've never fallen below that red line? Ever. What accident in the history of the world wasn't the result of some level of carelessness by someone?
Are we are judging criminal intent here, or are we once again judging parenting, holding it up against some shiny example of perfection that doesn't allow for human error?
I'm not sure I understand the goal in charging this mother with homicide. Is it because she deserves to be punished and the child's life should be avenged? Certainly, that baby can't speak for herself, and the State has a role, but I can't imagine a worse punishment than the one this woman is already enduring. It's a life sentence. Is it deterrence? Do we want to make a point to other parents? To tell them that society is serious about the car seat laws and that failure to obey them is punishable in this way? Because, honestly, I'm deterred. You had me at "her baby died of traumatic head injuries."
I've heard many arguments on the other side of this case. Many people believe that putting such a small child in the front seat of a car without disengaging the airbag is outrageously reckless. That no parent could fail to know how dangerous this is. Unforgivable. Beyond sympathy or empathy. Criminal.
I see that. I still feel...sympathy and empathy.
In the end, my objection is simple and it's not objective or based on rational legal arguments. It's just this. I can see the difference between myself and someone with criminal intent. Intent to kill. Intent to rob. Intent to harm. Intent to drive while impaired. My finger pulling the trigger. My hand striking the blow. My drunk ass getting in a car.
All I really see between myself and this woman, this mother of a dead child charged with murder, is luck. And I have to wonder if that's enough.
******************************************
So what do you think? Truly. I'm open to both sides of the argument. Just remember, there are two sides. True discussion requires respect for that fact.
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