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?

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

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.