Destruction

Sunday afternoon we went to the farm so my dad could put another starter on the van (the third one in three years – the last one he put on just before Christmas, so there is some issue that keeps burning out the starters) and check it over for inspection today. The children are allowed to run around and play pretty much anywhere they want, since there is plenty of space to spread out and no neighbors close enough to disturb. We had a nice afternoon and enjoyed dinner together, making our traditional s’mores as the sunset and the lightening bugs came out to play. It took my dad longer than he thought to fix the starter, but fortunately I brought along pajamas and towels to give the kids a bath, so there would be one less thing we needed to do when we got home.

 

This morning my mom called me practically in tears. She took her car to the car wash this morning and noticed huge scrape marks all along the passenger side of her car. Apparently, Chica Marie took a stone and carved doodles all over my mom’s car – the car she has had for less than a year, the car she adores and parks far away from other cars in parking lots so it wouldn’t get scratched, the car she agonized over purchasing for several months, test driving it multiple times before deciding. She told me she did cry when she saw it. I apologized and offered to pay the cost to fix the damages. My mom wanted to know why Chica Marie would do such a thing, why does she always break things when she is visiting? I felt horrible. I loathed whatever mental issue would cause Chica Marie to be destructive like she was and wished I had made her stay in my sight. I’m sure, if I had asked Chica Marie why she did what she did she would shrug and say, “I don’t know.” And she would only be sorry for the punishment she would receive (which, I don’t even know what that will be – nothing helps).

 

My mom reiterated her stance that I would regret adopting Chica Marie because she is more damaged than I realize and what will I do in another 10 years when she’s out vandalizing things or worse, grabbing a kitchen knife and stabbing me in my sleep. She worries that the behaviors will wear off on Love Bug, who, in her eyes, still had the ability to be a “good little boy.” She wanted to know what the therapists say, what things I can do to stop the destruction and other troubling behaviors. The conversation ended abruptly because my mom was at work and had to go. As I hung up the phone I realized any hopes I had of my mom baby-sitting Chica Marie were gone. And to think, on our drive up to the farm I was asking  Chica Marie what she would want to call my parents, since when she got adopted they would be her grandparents.  

That Mom

When I first became a foster mom I dreaded going out with my foster children for fear of being “that mom.” You know the one, you’ve seen her around. “That mom” is the one with a tantruming child screaming and disrupting your concentration as you quietly debate the ripeness of the tomatoes. She’s the one with the child howling in protest because she wouldn’t budge on the no ice cream for dinner stance while you are trying to enjoy your appetizers. Anywhere you go you will find examples of “that mom” with the unruly child causing other patrons to stare, either in hostile judgment or sympathetic smugness. As a society we push the blame for the child meltdown squarely on the shoulders of the obviously inadequate mother. “She can’t control her child,” sneer the naysayers. Or perhaps, “Their child is too bratty to be out in public!” Maybe, “If that were my child I would (insert suggestion the mother has probably already tried).” In addition to whatever has set off the child, “that mom” also has to contend with the disapproving stares of the people whose expectation for quiet has been disrupted. As a new mom to a child with trauma-related behavioral issues there was just no telling when something would set-off the child and heads would turn in scorn, disapproving our disruption. No thank you, I’ll just stay home. But, as a single parent, staying home or leaving the child at home just wasn’t always feasible. So, I had to venture out and risk becoming “that mom.” So many times my cheeks burned in frustrated embarrassment as a child couldn’t keep it together while we were running errands. I would try various techniques, often to no avail. So, I would rush to finish our task and quickly retreat to the car to contain the disruptive chaos as much as possible. Luckily, I have grown and I no longer blush with embarrassment. I continue holding a conversation while handing something to soothe a child or shushing them between sentences. Other people can look at us, but they don’t understand and I don’t owe them an explanation. I do work to calm the child, I do try to keep them from being disruptive, but kids can get loud and adults have to learn to deal with that, not the other way around. Besides, who says you have to be quiet in a grocery store?

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Conforming to Uniformity

At the beginning of the year I randomly decided to create a wreath for each month of the year to adorn our front door. I had so much fun that I decided to create a wreath to hang on the side of my large filing cabinet at work. We aren’t permitted to hang anything on the walls of the building and my old cubicle was really more metal and wall than the fabric dividers. But, when I was asked to move my desk and felt claustrophobic about my new, smaller space, I found relief in having more freedom to decorate the drab fabric walls surrounding me. I turned an old window into a beautiful (in my humble opinion) shabby chic decoration and proudly displayed it on the outside of my cubicle. I decided I wanted to be able to see it more frequently, so I moved it inside my cubicle but left the wreath on the outside. Until Monday, that is.

 

On Monday at work I was asked to move my patriotic July wreath from outside of my cubicle because the administrator decided she wanted a uniform look – you know, the dead, lifeless blue-gray of the cubicles, uninhibited by anything that smacks of individuality or I don’t know, joy? She also mentioned bumping into it and suggested if everyone were to hang such things outside their cubicles it would make the hallway between our desks impassable. I was permitted to move my wreath inside my cubicle, which I did. Consequently, others were asked to move some of their decorative items, such as pictures in frames removed from the top of their overhead compartment and a picture of two co-workers to be removed from the outside space between two cubicles. There was a slight uproar at the indignities and force to conformity. Since it started with me, I assumed my offending wreath kicked off the purging of exuberant decorating since prior to the move and loss of 11 employees things were permitted to be displayed just outside the cubicles with impunity. Uniform conformity has never been something I’m good at. While I consider myself a rule follower and not a rule breaker, I also don’t like being forced into some else’s idea of “normal.” I mean, does anyone?

 

I posted my plight on Facebook and Primero’s aunt had the best response: “I'm in an office setting and probably spend more time at work than I do at home and I'm sure I'm not alone. Do employers not realize you get more when you give more and I'm not talking about money but basic things that can make our day just a little better?  It's the little things that really make a difference!” On the one hand, I understand there are rules to keep our workplace safe and not make it a fire hazard, but on the other hand being happy in our space helps make the day pass by just a little better. Do employees have a right to personalize their workspace? I can see both sides to this issue and I can see how decorating could get out-of-hand, but pictures and wreaths seem like a silly thing to squabble about in the name of uniformity.

Pregnant Belly Kryptonite

I mentioned sometime back about moving my desk location at work, thus putting me closer to the young woman who is pregnant. It hasn’t been too terrible thus far, but now that the baby is moving around more, a fellow co-worker has been trying to feel him kick. This fellow co-worker is a friend of mine and we talked about how I dreaded moving next to the pregnant co-worker. My friend, who suffered a second trimester miscarriage roughly 3 years ago, has no qualms with touching the pregnant woman’s protruding belly. I simply cannot.

 

When my college roommate was expecting and I drove with another college friend all the way to Connecticut for her baby shower just as I was beginning my journey into trying to start a family, I was asked to rub her belly. One of her eager and well-meaning friends tried placing my hand on her abdomen and I nearly fought like a bear in a bear trap to wrench my hand away from her. My college roommate, understanding my hesitation, kindly said it was ok I didn’t have to rub her tummy and the awkward moment passed.  Last year, while attending the baby shower for Hermano’s girlfriend, he asked to have our pictures taken and wanted me to place my hand on her stomach. I quietly brushed it off, but he insisted until I got red in the face and nearly started crying. I’ve never seen the picture, but I’m sure my face must register the discomfort. I tried explaining, but it makes no sense to the fertile public and I know Hermano was offended.

 

I don’t know why pregnant belly’s are a personal kryptonite, but I just cannot bring myself to touch one. When my co-worker friend and I were discussing this we came to the conclusion it was different for each person struggling with infertility. She was gutted by the ultrasound picture, pulling the one and only picture of her baby out of hiding from her desk drawer. She explained she just couldn’t throw it away and yet couldn’t have it in her house. So, the ultrasound picture resides in a corner of her desk drawer at work. We each have different things we handle better than others. It makes me wonder how my aunt, childless not by choice, endured being a nurse in labor and delivery for over 30 years?

Skipping the Baby Shower

My cousin’s  baby shower is this weekend. I got the invitation a few weeks ago and promptly lost it. Even if I was flirting with the idea of putting myself through that torture, seeing how my mom doted over her on the 4^th of July cemented in my mind my decision to avoid the occasion. Apparently, according to my aunt, the mother-to-be’s family believes any occasion worth celebrating is worth over-celebrating and so the baby shower is set from noon to 8 pm (I am not kidding) and all are invited, yes even children. Nope. No thank you, I’m going to pass. It was hard enough ignoring the pregnant talk when they were at my parent’s place for the picnic, I don’t think I could endure an entire day of it.

 

I’m sure my mother is mourning not being able to share in a pregnancy with one of her daughters. She doesn’t get to mother the mother-to-be, to do her part to keep her healthy and dole out tips for each pregnancy milestone. My sister is not interested in becoming a parent and my body disappointed us both. So, I get why she got all motherly with my cousin’s wife. But, it was a stab to the heart hearing her admonishing my cousin for not getting her a drink and talking about how to discern which doctor might be on-call should she go into labor over the weekend. The gender mishap was rehashed with all the details and both my mom and my aunt shared memories of their combined 6 pregnancies. I busied myself with trying to convince Love Bug to go potty and trying to stave-off Chica Marie’s requests to start the campfire and cook the s’mores, but obviously I still heard everything and it still stung.

 

I haven’t talked to my mom to see if she is going, but I think she was planning on it. I already told her, even before the invitations came out, I wasn’t planning on attending. Even after all this time, baby showers still gut me. Would I attend one for a close friend? Yes, I probably would. But, I will probably avoid all other baby showers because what is the point in such self-flagellation?

We Are So Fertile!

“We are so fertile.” Giggle, giggle.

“I didn’t even track it. We said we would just figure it out.”

“I said ‘we’re Dominican, this won’t be a problem for us.’.”

“I just felt off and knew right away I was pregnant. I got so angry at the nurse because she wouldn’t test me, she said it was too early. But, now look, I have my baby.”

“I know, we are so fertile too. We got married last October and here we are!” rubbing her pregnant belly.

 

Snippets of a conversation I overheard from the cubicle behind me. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die or at least hide my face in shame. I wanted to scream at them for their hubris, remind them how they got lucky in the roulette of genetics. I wanted to run from the room or wish my ears to stop hearing. I wanted to do a lot of things not deemed appropriate for a workplace. Mostly, I wanted to disappear, to un-hear what I heard, to not feel that old familiar sting of tears behind my eyes, to stop holding my breath until the pain and the conversation subsided. F*ck you and your stupid fertile selves!

Adversaries Once Again

After a short period of calm with the new TSS worker and mobile therapist, Chica Marie’s behaviors are ratcheting up to out-of-control territory again. She was asked to leave camp yesterday for fighting. The TSS worker had been there in the morning, but not when the incident broke out. The TSS had been telling for a few weeks now that when she leaves (she doesn’t have enough hours to cover the full day with Chica Marie thanks to the insurance company) Chica Marie acts up. It is evident, based on the patterns of behavior, that Chica Marie does not choose to continue making good choices without the external force of the watchful eye of her TSS worker. To me, this means she decides to be unruly because she doesn’t have the constant supervision. She is capable, she just chooses differently when she can get away with it.

 

I knew things being better wouldn’t last for long. I have such a negative outlook when it comes to Chica Marie, if I’m going to be totally, brutally honest here. I find myself disgusted with her behaviors a large majority of the time. I’ve been told to ignore the irritating behaviors, to pay them no mind. I haven’t figured out how to do that and not have it bottle up into a screaming match of all the irritating things that bother me all in one shot. I am almost at the point where I am contemplating taking medication to keep me from feeling the irritation; if only I didn’t find the motive so deplorable. Our last meeting with her psychiatrist was discouraging. In listening to me talk about her behaviors he is leaning more towards an ODD diagnosis rather than an ADD or at least ODD being the larger driving force. As he unhelpfully pointed out, there is no medication that really helps with ODD. Her new county case worker wants her to be evaluated again for psychological issues and hopes she will now be old enough for trauma therapy. This would be in addition to the mobile therapist and TSS worker.

 

I’m right back where I was before, when we had no professional help before the new TSS and mobile therapist started working with Chica Marie. I feel hopeless about seeing any lasting changes for this child and I find myself trying to spend less and less time with her, which I’m sure is only exasperating the situation. I just don’t like being around her, she brings out the worst in me and that feeling might be mutual. Her punishment for needing to leave camp yesterday was being my shadow as I washed dishes, folded laundry, and made dinner; she had to follow me around while I did all the boring mom chores, so no TV, no toys and no playing with her brother. When she finished dinner before me she spent the time smooshing the leftover cauliflower into the table. This morning I made her write her name rather than watch cartoons with Love Bug. She was going to daycare instead of camp because on Tuesday’s they go to the mountain’s near my family’s farm for swimming and other outdoor activities. Last week, after the second week of disturbing behaviors on the bus ride and in the locker room, the TSS and I decided she couldn’t go with the group to the camp.

 

I’m failing Chica Marie, I know this. I tried the connected parent technique but I just couldn’t get it straight. I mucked it up and so here we are again. I feel like I need an MSW to be able to parent this child. I need to re-read the Beyond Consequences book, somehow I need to make it stick. I took a week off in August. It is the first time I will have more than a long weekend away from work since Love Bug moved in, and really the two weeks I spent with him as a newborn cannot be considered a vacation! I’m partially dreading this week because we will all be together, leaving a lot of room for friction for me and Chica Marie to foil our plans for fun. In the coming weeks I really need to get a handle on my reactions, get us connected so our adversarial relationship doesn’t derail our family staycation.

No Jedi Mind Tricks Necessary

Earlier this month I griped about the 4 days it took to get Love Bug to finally pee in the potty and not all over himself and the floor. It was a messy, grueling four days. But, once Love Bug got it, the boy GOT. IT. What I mean is, without prompting, cajoling or Jedi mind tricks, he pooped in the potty and has had only one poop-related accident while playing outside at daycare (so, he was distracted). He has had relatively few pee-related accidents and most of the them are because he doesn’t pull his pants and underwear down far enough when he sits down. Given his sister’s inclination to be a night-time bedwetter, I thought for sure I would still be diapering Love Bug at night for many more months, perhaps years (not kidding! Chica Marie was potty trained but still wetting the bed until right before she started kindergarten last fall – she was 5). But, Love Bug has been waking up with a dry diaper. One night he woke me up to take him to the potty in the middle of the night and one night I forgot to put his diaper on him and he didn’t have an accident, thank you Jesus. So, while those four days felt intense, it seems that was all it took for this little stinker to get the whole shebang, pooping and nighttime peeing all in one fell swoop! I cannot tell you how happy this makes me!! I’m only sorry I doubted Love Bug and sort of wish we had done this sooner (although, I don’t know that he would have been as successful, since he was adamantly opposed to potty training previously).

Great Expectations

Comparison is a thief; it robs the comparer of accepting their own joys because they are not the same as someone else’s. Human tendency is to compare our “worst” with someone else’s “best” and, of course, this equates dissatisfaction because your apples will simply never be those oranges you think you want. Coupled with comparison is it’s cousin, expectations which are simply assumptions for how you believe things will go. In the world of infertility, comparisons are so easy to come by. Whether it be the relative having a second or third child or the derelict addict losing her fourth child to the Child Welfare System – comparisons are a dime a dozen, with much more costly ramifications. These comparisons don’t add anything to our lives, they simply make us bitter, despising the lot we were cast into and compounding the suffering we feel in our empty arms. Toss in a healthy sense of worthy/unworthy and the depression only deepens. Of course this stems from unrequited expectations – you believed your life would follow a particular pattern, you thought you knew how things would go. But, this assumption was wrong and those expectations will be left achingly wanting. At the center of this vortex is desire, the strong pull of getting what you want. And, as we all know, sometimes in life you just don’t get what you want.

 

Sadly, unless mindfully nipped in the bud, these coupled emotions of comparison and expectations can still be instigating feelings of despair even once the desired outcome is achieved. Too often a woman pregnant after infertility complications feels she needs to downplay her pregnancy or is fearful of celebrating because the story line no longer follows the path she thought it would. Perhaps her pregnancy was achieved using donor eggs or sperm or both. A couple resolves their infertility through adoption but still laments the lack of biological connection and the bitter-sweet that is adoption. Couples who decide to live childless after battling infertility might still occasionally feel the ache of an unfulfilled yearning. Comparison, expectations – they rob us of so much!

 

My life did not go as I had planned. I didn’t think I would be where I am today. I am grateful and I know I am blessed but sometimes I am left breathless when I think of how wrong my expectations were or if I start comparing my life to that of someone else, someone fertile. When I mentally start tiptoeing down that path I tell myself the same thing I tell my teenage son about certain life choices – what good does it add to my life? In the context of my son, I ask him to think about what good trying pot would add to his life. For myself, I ask what good thinking about how I thought things would go will do for me. The answer is, none. Thinking about how I expected to follow the age-old path of marriage, house, babies and how I never envisioned myself being a single parent does not add substance or quality to my life, it only detracts. Looking around at people who have adorable, loving husbands and beautiful children and turning green with envy does not make my life better in any way.

 

I have been talking to my therapist about my expectations, mostly in terms of a potential partner, and I am only beginning to realize how often I had preconceived expectations that trip me up when they don’t come to fruition. Too often I allow myself too much time contemplating how things didn’t go as I expected rather than dealing with the present and how things are in reality. I struggle with letting go of expectations and embracing my reality; I fight so hard against what I didn’t want to happen that sometimes I end up fighting myself out of joy. I didn’t expect to be infertile, but I am. Holding on to the pain of infertility has only led me to miss out on the joys of parenting my children. I now actively avoid flirting with the thief comparison and too, I’m fighting the good fight with expectations not just in infertility but in all areas of my life. Living with expectations narrows my life to what my brain can compose; living a life with no expectations is much more expansive and I’d rather have wide open options than narrow choices. Life is a journey and I want to enjoy the ride, bumps and all!

Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.

Girls Trip

Last night I had a girl’s night out with my friend and some of her friends. It was a great event hosted by a local movie theatre. They offered a movie ticket, glass souvenir full of yummy sangria, a mini cupcake, and a small dish of ice cream for only $18. How can you pass that up? So, I met my friend there and we imbibed a bit before the movie started. The movie showing was “Girls Trip,” which I had not heard of prior to going to see it. There will probably be spoilers from here on out, so stop reading if you don’t want to know pieces of the movie.

 

First of all, the movie was on the raunchy side with plenty of drunken shenanigans and colorful language. So, there’s that. The gist of the movie is that 4 bff’s lost touch and were reuniting on a girls trip to New Orleans to celebrate one of the women’s successful self-help romance book about having it all. The author, Ryan, is married to a gorgeous man and supposedly they have the perfect life together. But, as the movie progresses it is clear their marriage is a sham and just a front to garner publicity and secure a lucrative deal loosely based on the theme of the book. At one point, early in the movie, Ryan and her husband Stewart are being interviewed and they are asked when they might start a family. Ryan laughed and said it might happen anytime, or something along those lines. Later, she is having a conversation with one of her friends, the only one of the four who had children, and she said she was more focused on her career. Her friend admonished her for waiting so long and begged her to stop waiting. It isn’t until the last quarter of the movie, when it is revealed the unfaithful husband had gotten his mistress pregnant, that Ryan reveals her battle with infertility. And, she admits, it was this struggle that caused her to lose touch with her friends. The infertility reveal scene was short but it at once made me see the previous scenes of the movie differently. I’m not sure of those nuances would be noticeable to anyone who hasn’t faced their own battle with infertility, but they were glaringly evident to me.

 

I felt the pain of the character when she lamented, “She gave him the one thing I cannot – a baby.” I felt the deep sense of guilt and unworthiness wash over me when she uttered those words. My unfaithful husband didn’t get anyone pregnant while we were still together (at least not that I know of) but he did recently become a father and that cut me deep. To make matters worse, the paparazzi released a photo of Ryan’s husband and his lover in a compromising pose just before she was slated to deliver the keynote speech at a big convention. I didn’t have to face a convention hall of people, but I distinctly remember a phone call from someone warning me of my husband’s infidelities. I had a burning sensation in my stomach and the heat of embarrassment washed over me leaving a cold sweat. Being cheated on is not a good feeling. I cannot fathom the pain it must feel to know not only the pain of the broken trust but also the soul-breaking feeling of worthlessness and shame of barrenness. It takes a strong person to find their footing after those double whammy’s.

 

I didn’t know anything about this movie before I saw it, but even if I had seen previews, I doubt this is the scene they would have shown. The movie is labeled a comedy, but I sensed this thread of sadness, I saw the unspoken pain. I was struck again by the prolific ways infertility affects our lives. Would Ryan have been so career-driven if she had been able to get pregnant? Would she have lost touch with her friends if she hadn’t been ashamed to share her burden of infertility? The movie ended without really addressing what Ryan might do regarding her infertility. She ended up with a new, nicer beau so there were possibilities for them to pursue, or not. I’m sure only my fellow infertile sisters were even questioning the characters future, I’m sure most assumed she would magically get pregnant with her new man, if they thought of it at all. I left the movie with a sense of sadness. I went home to my babies and infinitely glad I had them to cuddle before tucking them into bed. The ghost of infertility might still haunt me but I’m doing my best to stay in the present.  

 

I don’t know if I would recommend the movie. There is a nice women stick together theme and the friendships feel real because the actresses do a good job. The sexual jokes were not really my cup of tea and there were some scenes that were not for the faint of heart (full frontal of an old man, anyone?) not to mention the language. The realness of what Ryan endured with her husband, his persuasion, covering his infidelities and not changing, her desire for perfection – all of these things felt familiar to me, but not really in a good way. I think if you have never dealt with infertility and find dirty humor hilarious, it would be a good movie to see with some girlfriends.

Preconceived Opinion

Have you ever met someone after hearing a good deal about them from someone else and it colored your opinion of them? My friend has talked to me about one of her friends and how she has parented her child, now a recent high school graduate. The most recent incident involved the mom putting her young adult son’s business on Facebook in an attempt to “help” him. I agreed with my friend that this wasn’t the best way to deal with the situation but I didn’t realize just how much this and previous conversations about her would sway my opinion of this friend of a friend. We met up from some drinks after work because it was my friends birthday. Her other friend was there and when she started talking about her son I felt my dander rise. I listened and kept my mouth shut. That is, until she spoke to me directly. My friend made some mention about my kids and this other woman’s response was, “And how’s that working out for you?” in a tone that made it sound like I made the choice to bring a wild bear home with me. Clearly she feels like being a mother ruined her life. I don’t feel that way. In fact, at that point I would have much rather been at home snuggling my kiddos than sitting on a barstool being provoked to defend my choices. Fortunately, I didn’t take her bait. I mumbled something about things going well and engaged someone else in conversation. Would I have felt differently about her question if I didn’t know about her parenting blunders? Would I have laughed off her comment as joke if I wasn’t already irritated hearing her complain about her son? Maybe? I guess I won’t ever know. At least I don’t see her that often so it’s easy for me to forget all about her and what she said.

Someone is Listening

I finally met with the alternative medical professional regarding my women’s issues (don't you just hate this term?). She was shocked that none of the doctors I had met with during my short infertility stint or since being diagnosed with PCOS had checked my thyroid or hormone levels. She exclaimed, “Is it any wonder you’re having issues if your hormones and thyroid are a mess?” I’m not going to say I’m 100% sold on this yet, but just having someone acknowledge that birth control pills or an IUD are not the answer was HUGE. I’m getting all my levels tested and I do mean ALL; hormones, sugars, thyroid, cortisol, iron, adrenal – you name it, she’s testing it. I feel like finally someone wants to dig to the heart of the matter and get that fixed up rather than just whitewashing over it by controlling the unwanted side-effects. Sure, birth control might have helped with my heavy periods, but it wouldn’t do a thing for my messed up hormones. I go back again next month to talk about what the lab work indicates. At that point she will talk about potential treatment options to get my systems into working order. She mentioned something about bio-identical hormone treatment; non-synthetic hormones made from yams, supposedly. One other thing I will say is that she took the most extensive physical and psychological history anyone has ever done  - literally everything I could remember medically or emotionally from birth to present time. Here’s to hoping the expense (it’s all out-of-pocket) will be worth it and I will begin feeling better soon.

Not sure what #MicroblogMondays is? Read the inaugural post which explains the idea and how you can participate too.

Am I Raising a Brat?

Do I baby Love Bug too much? Do I cave into his tyrannical demands too regularly? Am I raising a spoiled brat? Or is Love Bug just a sensitive little guy who has a greater need for coddling and being reassured that he is safe? Does he make demands because he fears I will leave him, just as his first mommy did at the hospital (well, she didn’t leave, but he was taken from her)? Did I make him a momma’s boy? Primero, in all his 17 years of wisdom, thinks I baby Love Bug too much and that’s why he acts the way he does, wailing for things he wants or to be held. Spoiler, he wants to be held all. the. time. Lately at daycare Love Bug has been resisting letting go of me when I am dropping him off in the mornings. He clings to me, holding on to my neck with all the strength in his arms. If I manage to pry his arms off of me and set him down, he crumbles to the floor wailing dejectedly and will try to grab into my legs. He does ok if I can hand him off to one of the teachers, but this sudden regression when separating from me is peculiar. I don’t know what prompted it. He likes daycare, he likes his friends and his teachers. At night when I am tucking him into bed he wraps his arm around my neck and shoves his fist in my hair, pulling my face to his cheek. He won’t let me go until he is almost asleep, so I have to kneel beside his bed until he releases me. Love Bug makes demands, just like any toddler. When he gets angry because I don’t give him what he wants, he throws things. Usually, once he’s tossed a few things he screams and cries for a bit and then comes to be to be comforted.

 

Sometimes his attachment is endearing. Like when I leave briefly and Primero is watching him and Chica Marie. When I come home, Love Bug takes me by the hand and directs me to sit down on the couch so he can climb in my lap and snuggle. He babbles to me about random things, like having pizza for lunch and playing outside at daycare. If I happen to have my phone to check unimportant things, he tells me to “put” my phone off so he has my undivided attention. Intuitively, he knows when I am coming to get him at daycare, telling the staff his mommy is there for him. He delights seeing me and jumping into my arms to give me a hug and get a kiss on his cheek. He is most affectionate with me and then with Primero. But, he gives hugs to other people, like case workers and Sunday school teachers.

 

I sometimes think Primero expresses exasperation with me regarding Love Bug because he wishes he had someone to dote on him when he was little. He had his aunt, but that ended too soon and he became the child most likely to draw the ire of his mother. Still, I worry that I love Love Bug too much, I’m smothering or coddling him too much. I worry I’m spoiling him. He’s my baby and for that reason I have a soft spot in my heart for him, versus the older two. I don’t have those snuggly baby memories with Chica Marie and Primero that I have with Love Bug. I don’t think I love him more than the older two, just differently, maybe more comfortably. So many times I have wished to have the same baby experiences with Chica Marie, thinking those memories would help me through the trying times we’ve had. I don’t’ know. I probably over-think a lot of things.     

Sibling Picnic

Saturday was a big day for us, especially the little ones. We attended the first ever sibling picnic with the older brothers and sisters, some of who have never met their youngest brother. Not only were the siblings there, but also their families and Grandma and her two other daughters. I was nervous about the picnic. Well, really I was nervous about the reactions we might see from Chica Marie during and after the picnic. But, it was important that we be there. It is important that they have the connection to their older siblings, so they can form and develop relationships with one another, even with the hurdles of living in different towns, with different families and having such age gaps between them.

 

So, we packed up the van with the food I offered to bring and we drove the 40 minutes to the park Grandma chose. The picnic started at noon, but we were running a little late. Still, we were the first ones there arriving around 12:30. The park was nice and there wasn’t anyone else there. Right as we were parking the kids aunt showed up and they started playing with their younger cousin who is just a few months older than Love Bug. Slowly, the other family members began arriving. Grandma, her wife, and Mini Momma followed by the other aunt and her daughter, since her son was already there with the other aunt playing with her step-son. Their older brother came with the twin sisters and their family, which included multiple adult siblings and their children and significant others. There was food, there was music and there was lots of chatting, catching up and getting to know one another.

 

Chica Marie and Love Bug did great at the picnic. They played well with their cousins and older siblings and didn’t even fight much, which these days is a miracle. There was some awkwardness when I was talking to the twin’s adoptive mother simply because she was so negative regarding their mother. I sensed a lot of pent-up anger regarding the choices their mother had made and when I tried expressing sympathy towards her, the twin’s adoptive mom quickly shut me down, declaring their biological mother unworthy of any level of compassion. I was glad the little ones were running around and not within earshot of hearing what was said. It’s not that I agree with their bio mom’s decisions because I don’t. I just think her life must have been hard for her to be in such a mess and while she is responsible for her decisions as an adult, she is still a human being and she certainly hasn’t had it easy. I sort of stopped talking to the other adoptive mom after our brief conversation. I did give her my number and suggested she share it with the older sisters so they can stay in touch with their younger siblings. One of the older sisters suggested she would like to come and pick up her younger siblings and spend alone time with them, when she is older. I welcomed the idea, hoping she would make good on this idea because for so long I’ve felt the younger ones were left without a connection. Primero has always had his siblings around and I had always encouraged and gone out of my way to forge relationships with his siblings. Because I was in the system and I had ready access to the case workers, I took it upon myself to engage Hermano, to keep him connected to family, especially during the holidays. I always grieved the lack of connection the little ones had to their older siblings and tenaciously followed Mini Momma through her plethora of moves in hopes of arranging visits and keeping them in touch. Brothers and sisters are important. I would have been lost in my childhood without my two siblings. I could not imagine being split up and not growing up together. Grandma had hopes that all of the siblings would be in attendance, but sadly two were not permitted to attend. Perhaps they will be allowed to attend a different gathering.  

 

A rumor was spread at the picnic, started by one of the older brothers. Apparently he has been in contact with his mom recently and he reported she is expecting again. Yeah, ok we’ve heard that one before. With much chagrin, I passed along the gossip to CYS and CHOR, but even Grandma expressed doubt at this claim, although she did say anything is possible. I really hope this isn’t true. Standing in the middle of the pavilion, seeing the lives intertwined because of the choices of one woman, gave me pause to consider the connections webbing out from this one source. Nine lives were created and dispersed, the connection kept solely by one diligent grandmother. How easy it would have been for the nine children to lose one another as they landed in different homes, surrounded by different family members. Where would one more go? Thus far the siblings are paired up, all except Mini Momma. Would this one be alone? Would this one stay with his/her mother or father? Would that mean he/she would be cut off from the rest? I sincerely hope the rumor is unfounded and fizzles out as the last one.  

No Fireworks

The community just next to ours hosts a community days fair every year around the 4^th of July. It always ends with a wonderful fireworks display. Because it was a Saturday night I thought I would take the kids, since most fireworks are so late at night. Primero took the van to a friend’s house because it was her birthday. He had been invited to sleep-over but her mom said no boys. Our plan was for him to come home and go to the fireworks with us. I had the kids in their pajamas, so I figured we would just sit on the van tailgate and watch the fireworks. Primero came home with his friend because her mom changed her mind and said he could stay over. I was a little bummed, but drove them back to her house (she lives close by and on the way to the fireworks) and we drove around in the traffic trying to find a spot to park. We found a not-so-great spot and I opened up the back of the van and unstrapped the kids from their car seats. I sat down and Love Bug, who has been doing so great about telling me he needs to go potty, began crying saying he was scared. He plopped on my right knee and after he sat down I felt a warmth spreading over my leg. It took me a moment to realize Love Bug was peeing on me. I stood him up, but it was too late. I was soaked from my hip to my knee. I changed him into clean shorts that we had in the car and stuffed him back into his car seat. Chica Marie was crying because we weren’t going to see the fireworks but there was simply no way I could sit in Love Bug’s pee for the next 30 minutes or so. I drove him, tucked the kids into bed and after I peeled my soaked capris off my body I took a hot shower. I could hear the occasional boom of the fireworks, so I turned on Netflix to distract me. Primero text me he wasn’t having any fun at his friend’s sleep-over. He ended up walking home at 6:30 the next morning. Maybe next year the kids can see fireworks.  

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Potty Trained

I really thought potty training Love Bug might kill me. I had this grandiose scheme to get him trained this past weekend because I had four days off from work and that seemed ideal. I read how another mother, working with a child much younger than mine, had her daughter all but trained in one weekend, so I figured two extra days would seal the deal. I could not have been more wrong.

 

Saturday morning I took of Love Bug’s overnight diaper and stuck him in his big boy undies, making a big deal about him being a big boy and going pee pee on the potty. I sat him on the little potty I’ve had for over a year now and he popped right back up declaring he was done. I set an alarm on my phone and every 15 minutes I would plop him on the potty and tell him to pee, only to have him pop back up and insist he was done. Inevitably, he would have an accident and come find me to tell me he needed to pee. I lost count of how many puddles of pee I cleaned up off the floor or, inexplicably off the reading table in Chica Marie’s bedroom. The laundry began piling up as outfit after outfit was soiled and my frustration grew. I must be doing this wrong, I reasoned. I’m missing something in this whole toilet training ordeal and suffering the consequences of gallons of pee puddles to clean and clean and clean. Dear God, someone save me!

 

But, we didn’t give up. On the 4^th of July I packed the training potty to take to the farm. After four accidents at home I had little hope he was going to ever pee on the potty, let alone in 4 days. That evening, I knew he had to go. I kept sitting him on the potty. By now he thought was a game, so he would sit and chat with me while I begged him to pee. Finally, my mom caught him doing the pee pee dance and I quickly plopped him on his potty. Miraculously, he managed to pee in the toilet and not on the deck! I might have cried a little. I gave him a big hug and a high five and made everyone exclaim what a big boy he was and give him high fives or else suffer the wrath of a exhausted mommy.

 

I worried about losing momentum with him being in daycare but according to his teachers he went potty 3 times and didn’t have any accidents, although they had a diaper on him, so I wasn’t so sure. This morning I sent him in his big boy underwear. I worried he might have an accident enroute, but he did just fine. He did have a poop accident at home before we left and let’s just say thank God for bleach and leave it at that. So, Love Bug is semi-potty trained!

Milestones

This past weekend was a big weekend for us. Primero finally (!!!) got his driver's license on his fourth attempt. It was grueling, honestly, but now there are new worries with a new driver. I mean, I wanted him to get his license, but now I have to sit at home and worry about him, which I've done before, only this time he is independently mobile. Yikes bikes! My parents did this three times. I will be doing this three times, only with the little ones it will be different. With the little ones I will have our years of experience to help me know they will be ok. With Primero, I don't have the luxury of 17 years of parenting to rely on. I have to trust that what ideas and morals I've tried to instill in him these last three years will be enough. I'm fearful it isn't. And, coupled with that is my fear of him leaving the nest, already (he's not going anywhere in the foreseeable future, but eventually...). Sigh.

In addition to this big milestone, I've started trying to potty train Love Bug in earnest now that he's three. Saturday morning I took off his nighttime diaper and put big boy undies on him for the first time ever. I set the timer on my phone and diligently put him on his big boy potty every 15 minutes. Two days and 10 wardrobe changes later and he still has yet to pee on his potty. Not once, not even close. And my desire to continue cleaning up after the pee puddles and the wet clothes is nil. I don't want to use treats or bribery but good God I can't keep doing this! I don't think Love Bug is ready for this, in fact he seems totally opposed. I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle and after tomorrow he will be back in daycare and I don't think they will be consistent with him to help this process. Sigh.

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