Raising Us Both

When Eight ISN'T Enough

2009-02-08T12:24:00.003-06:00

People are asking: Is the mother of octuplets – on top of (literally!) her other 6 kids – a “Motherholic”?

Instead, I would say this is "Birth-aholisism" if anything. To mother is to raise, protect, care for, educate, cherish. This woman hasn't shown that desire as far as I can see. She's into having -- owning -- making babies. Giving birth and creating many babies. It does seem like an addiction.

What concerns me more is our comparisons to the old days and in poorer countries where large amounts of children were/are common. In rural areas, the more hands to work the land the better.

This is not her case! In fact, it is not the case anymore in many countries like the US because our means of production have changed. Because America is fully capitalist.

We don't give birth anymore to "potential workers for our household."

We give birth to wage slaves. We give birth to future consumers who'll cry out for more gadgets, more take-out, more cable channels. We give birth to more Americans who will need to PURCHASE their food, their health, their education, their clothes. No amount of children will assist a household in creating, producing that stuff anymore.

"More kids" does not result in "More food harvested" anymore. "More kids" no longer means your family creates more product. In America 2009 it means higher and higher demand for more energy consumption, more electronic toys, more food to eat, more land taken from endangered species, more imbalance. And more demand for others to help you.

Is this the kind of economy where people should be asked or expected to assist such extreme need? Born of total self-obsessed disregard for the struggles of most Americans already?? Which is still a drop in the bucket considering the enormity of the WORLD food crisis? Rioting around the world last year over the lack of FOOD?

A few years after Hurricane Katrina/Bush, we still haven't been able to get all those devastated families back on their feet. THEIR situations, loss, suffering are due to a catastrophe brought on NOT by their own making but government policy. Why should anyone feel compelled to assist someone in raising 14 children that were PURPOSELY produced for one adult alone? Is it considered a true "need" if you can't care for kids you brought here on purpose, knowing your lack of resources?

And would it have been any better if this were a wealthy family? Tough question for some. I'd say it still doesn't solve the issue of creating more humans needing resources that could be put elsewhere -- for humans ALREADY in need, due to no fault or choice of their own.

I propose these names for the Miracle 8:

GameBoy
Pampers
DayCare
McDonald's ("Mac" for short)
SoccerUniform ("Su" for short)
PhysicalTherapy ("PT," for theyears of special services many of these babies will need)
DesignerJeans ("DJ")
Papparotzi ("Papi."

Since they'll all grow up in a fishbowl, they may as well get used to cameras and Insider Edition reporters. They can thank their self-absorbed mom for that later. Maybe when one grows up and sues her for the cost of decades of therapy. Paris Hilton, move over...)

Octuplets, Oh My!

2009-02-05T00:47:00.001-06:00

Fine print first: I'm a single mom with no family nearby except my ex husband, and our son has special needs. Thus I am always going to be quick to say, "It can be much harder than you imagine to raise a child." I hoped for two, had one that was challenging, then separated and said, "Wow, this is really all i can handle if I wish to do justice to this child that I CHOSE to bring to Earth." So he's an Only.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, some folks think about "having babies" and their right to do so -- without ever considering they are actually "raising children towards adulthood" and taking on huge responsibilities. Thirteen-year old girls in record numbers want to have a baby -- some are even MORE short-sighted and say they want a "baby BUMP" like Jamie Lynn Spears. They never say they want to "bring another human onto the Earth" or "raise a child for 18 years to become a great world citizen." I have heard people say they plan to have 4 or 5 "because i can." WTF kinda attitude is that?!

One of my biggest complaints about mainstream American culture and ideology is that we are taught to scream for our "rights" -- while ignoring the responsibilities that logically are married to those rights. "My right to freedom of speech" to many Americans means they can spout off mindlessly or insult anyone. What about their responsibility to use their voice for the good of humanity in ways small and large? To speak truth? To spread kindness and honesty with that voice? Is that what motivates our most vocal "free speech advocates" like Larry Flynt or "Mancow"?

Similarly the debates about things like family planning seem to focus on EITHER rights OR responsibilities. And of course that very American concept of "It's none of your business!" If someone wishes to collect dozens of Care Bears I say go nuts. You don't need to justify that, as the Bears are not dependent upon you to provide their human needs and protect their human rights. Seeing as they are not human...

However, having a baby on THIS planet means you don't just GET something. You become the primary agent through which the child's rights must be protected and needs must be met. And simply by being born, those little humans HAVE RIGHTS. So if you cannot protect those rights, including meeting basic human needs, in my opinion you do NOT have the right to bring them here as dependents of yours.

Call me a communist, but why should such a big decision that involves adding citizens to our human community become suddenly a completely private matter? Why SHOULDN'T people counsel and critique this decision? It is, in fact, OUR planet that has just gotten a tiny bit heavier. And hungrier.

Making Plans (and homeschooling)

2009-01-01T10:26:00.002-06:00

I wasn't even out of bed yet. It's easy to be depressed waking up alone on New Year's Day, for the 6th year in a row. But J. had a plan about how to enjoy my rudimentary schedule of get dressed / go feed friends' cats / go to the cat shelter for an hour to feed THEM / then get Pop-eye's and go home. He remembered there's a Wendy's by the shelter.

So he brought this page to me -- off his SchoolWork area in the kitchen. He drew a french fry (the square thingy) and beside it, the number 12. He explained that means we should buy 12 french fries. Beside it is a chicken nugget and he drew a number 4, saying we should buy 4 nuggets. Then he made a line between the nugget and the 4. "I'm making my fraction.

He asked if I knew how to get to Wendy's and I said yes. Then he said the cow was our house and Wendy's was at the bottom, and he drew the "map" to show me. Just in case.

Words can't share how happy this makes me. He's catching up academically, and in the best way possible -- through meaningful experiences and then repeted opportunities to practice those skills.

It's enough to make a mama actually smile and get out of bed. Ready to stare a New Year dead in the eye, and say, "Bring it on!"

Umoja! (First day of Kwanzaa)

2008-12-26T21:56:00.003-06:00

To celebrate Unity on this first night of Kwanzaa, usually we light the first candle, I sing my little song of the Nguzo Saba, Darius tries to pay attention and J either keeps talking about something else or he squirms to get down to business and eat.

This year hasn't been so "banner," especially since my job decided that a way to make their business ends meet when their revenue dried up in November was to stop paying the workers. So I haven't been paid for the last month. Thus I'm exhausted from the extra work it takes to make gifts for almost everyone instead of just buying stuff -- plus several events going out to sell my African skin care products and clothing.

But I am very excited about our growth since last Kwanzaa. Our living room has only 3 out of a billion gifts opened: the rest sit patiently, still wrapped, left for another day's greedy fingers. Because suddenly my child has become more excited about people and interactions, about building and problem-solving, then just having a bunch of stuff. I'm so proud I'm in shock. Or that could be the sleep deprivation..?

So we built our first marble run tonight, together. Sure, the tv was on. And there was no elaborate prayer or song at mealtime. But I honor Umoja (Unity) tonight. J and I seem to be cooperating more as a team lately -- real give and take, real problem-solving together.

Of course I still sometimes have to drag him off the computer for dinner etc. But our creation tonight, of wood and grooves and a marble, is about our finding the balance in this team. I can be responsible and in charge, yet he has the freedom to input and to challenge anything that feels really wrong to him. This safety seems to be increasing his creativity. Motor-planning, schmotor schmanning! For once, he took on an open-ended toy and saw possibilities instead of its lack of steps. And I let him try and fail and try again, while being there with him enjoying his company. In Unity.

Let's Redefine "Brave"

2008-11-09T14:16:00.006-06:00

Chicago Parent magazine ran an article in August that I've been meaning to read -- yup, sitting with the headline face up on the "Read Me, Dammit!" section of the kitchen counter all this time. The article, in the 'In my shoes' section, was called "Three On The Spectrum" and written by a local single mother of three young boys, all on the autism spectrum. Of course I wanted to hear what this kindred soul had to share, since I am single-parenting myself (AND single-parenting a son with what our therapists call "spectrumy behavior." LOL.)

I quickly realized I was more angry than comforted by the perspective. In the interest of sowing unity through valid, respectful critique (because my blog ain't no Jerry Springer show!) I'll target the part that most bothered me, and I'll reset the terms as I see them myself.

Her article begins and ends with the concept of being Brave. I'd like to talk about what Brave means to me, as another single-parent with a special needs young child.

I'm brave because I chose to stop at having one child -- despite pressure from all sides, well-intentioned to be sure. I felt that when I became comfortable knowing what my child needed, knowing basically how to go about getting it, and having the resources to make it happen (including seeing my young marriage beginning to turn around towards strength and growth) -- when I had all these things within reach, I'd be ready to receive Child Number Two from the Universe. But this marriage was too unstable, and this child too unique in needs to plan for. I never reached the point of feeling I had it in hand enough to add another life to my responsibilities. So I stopped after my first child. No apoligies, no regrets.

I'm brave because, like Jennifer W., I have raised this new love most of his life -- as a single parent. His father and I split up (into 2 homes, finally) when baby was 9 months. I had returned to work at 3 months, and have struggled to work to support a home for the two of us ever since. When Daddy has been blessed with steady work, he pays for one of J's two schools and we get some child support. I am enormously grateful to not have to chase him for it. It roughly covers groceries and puts gas in the car. Rent, the other school, and the rest of Life are on me.

I'm brave because when people invite us to "typical childhood experiences" I'm able to evaluate it solely on it's benefit or harm to MY son. I'm brave enough to turn down Trick Or Treating. And Chuck E. Cheese's. And Great America. I'm strong enough to risk being unpopular with my ex by saying why I don't want HIM taking our child to Chuck E. Cheese's EITHER.

I'm brave enough to accept that if they DO go against my wishes, J. will recover from any melt-downs. And the subsequent week of disregulation. I'm blessed enough to have married a man who usually does take these urgings seriously, often agreeing in the end.

I'm brave because before I take my son anywhere alone, I try to imagine the safety challenges we'll face, and if my own two hands and one strong voice aren't enough to keep him safe, WE WON'T GO.

I leave groceries in the car, even if they may melt, rather than take my hand off him if he's close to losing it.

If I'm out and he slips out of sight, I don't hope someone will appear and help. I TELL somebody to help. And most other mothers WILL, often without being asked (depending on the culture/community you are in. At a mainly African-American gathering, 99% of adults will tell you if your child is getting into trouble.)

I was once performing at a favorite venue where no one stepped up to help me when J. wandered off. I don't perform there anymore without a firm commitment of EXACTLY WHO will watch my son while I'm onstage. I'm brave like that, too.

I sit on the curb with him strapped in his carseat, even if he needs me close -- rather than risk D.W.C. (Driving While Crying) because he just punched me in the face and smashed a toy at the car window hard enough to break it.

I'm brave because I understand this isn't about ME surviving the rocks in this road. It's about giving my son what he needs to the best of my ability. I'm not leaving it up to chance that he doesn't get kidnapped or hit by a car.

I'm brave enough to put my artist career on hold instead of bounce J. around with babysitters while I gig. I'm brave enough to take a menial, unhealthy, filty, smelly job with sporadic bouts of insinuations from my boss that I am stupid -- in order to keep my son in a part-time (EXTREMELY parttime!) therapeutic program with shifting schedules and a million meetings. I'm brave enough to keep my head up without girls nights out, red wine, or clothes shopping.

I don't really even care if I seem brave to anyone or not. I just want to be the Mars I was born to be, and help my boy be the one HE was born to be. Yeah, the world doesn't always see either of us for the gifts we bring. We will bring them anyway. That's why we're here.

Tag Me. I Want You To.

2008-10-22T08:54:00.002-05:00

Like Christina, it seems to rarely be about me around here.

October = J's school closed 2 out of 5 days each week. And I of course still have to work.

November = open houses for first grade school candidates.

December = family expectations, J's birthday, Darius' birthday, and more days off school to figure out so i can still work....

Oddly enough, this week seems to be a LOT about me. I'm debating a job offer AND a 'response offer' from my CURRENT boss to keep me from leaving. I wish they could do a Candidates Debate, and I could let the audience decide for me. I'm too tired to figure it out -- and I've only got two more days to decide.)

Maybe I'll set up a poll and let my readers choose!

Yeah, both of 'em. That'll work. Probably have a tie.

Tuesday Oct 7, 2008.

2008-10-13T00:27:00.002-05:00

12:00 am: Continue kneading playdough batches in 3 colors for the Tuesday afternoon special needs class

12:45 am. Stop being a perfectionist and let the dang red batch just be pink already. Gender stereotypes, go away!

1:00 am. Email Stagecoach principal and NSSRA contact with report on last week’s class, and my progress in finding an assistant (miraculous since it pays $10/class.) Hide anger that neither of them were there at all last week to support or observe, despite it being in a remote location with several safety issues. Also hide anger that I was never given a curriculum for the classes so I’ve spent weeks over days over hours researching “performing arts for special needs” plus lesson planning plus material collecting (and cooking. See “12:00 entry.)

1:26 am. Write parent of my son’s classmate with details about her coming to the NSSRA class as my regular assistant.

1:34 am. Write Tracy with details of our pick-up arrangement for Jelani Tues evening.

2:30ish am. Give up on reading all the evil there is to know about Sarah Palin and turn in.

7:30 am. Get up. The usual morning routine – dressing, feeding cats, cleaning litter boxes, a sudoku while on the toilet, preparing breakfasts and lunches to go for both J. and myself. Plus packing all the materials for the NSSRA class with a change of clothes (can’t teach class in filthy cat hair smeared scrubs.) Change plans several times of what else is needed since it is raining, and J. will be walking outside quite a bit mid-day.

9:30 am. Carry a most reluctant J. (whom I dressed manually) and both our backpacks plus 4 bags of materials for class down 3 flights of stairs, along with the garbage to go out. Eventually stuff everything/body in (except the garbage) into the Clown Car, I mean Celica, and drive him to school. Arrive late as usual.

11:00ish am. Arrive at work to begin just under 4 hours (Blessed Be! A short day!) of cage cleaning, floor sweeping and mopping (“did you move all the furniture?”,) supply hauling (love those 20 and 40 pound bags of cat food and litter,) cleaning vomit and feces off couches, trying to avoid cross-contamination between various cat rooms and cages, pick up somebody else’s lunch and pay for it with my money, hoping to get reimbursed. Two different work sites is becoming the norm – with not enough time at the first to complete tasks before going to the other. The usual fun. For $10/hr. Don’t think I got directly yelled at, name-called or condescended to today. My two reminders about getting reimbursed for lunch go unanswered.

2:00 pm. Get a call from my assistant that she cannot start today due to car breakdown.

3:00 pm. Leave work to head up to Lake Forest/Highland Park border area for my class, cursing part of the way because I never got back the $20 I spent on the boss's (and her husband's) lunch. Downpour is causing crazy sluggishness, but I still arrive at 3:45pm for my 4:00 class. Sit in the car 10 minutes waiting for the administrator with keys to arrive, then realize the public bathroom is open so I can change my clothes in there while I wait. “Reinforcements arrive” at…

3:57 pm. I go inside to begin setting up the room – challenges include blocking an outside door to keep one child who likes to escape from succeeding; keeping my activity materials close at hand for quick transitions from one activity to the next (but without making things visible before ready to be used, since I have to wrestle my items out of one child’s hands over and over. End up wearing one of my backpacks DURING the class in order to keep some materials out of their reach until needed.)

5:00 pm. Start wrap-up activities with students. Despite playdough up someone’s nose, no assistant, and pouring rain, class went well this week. Most of the students can even name something they enjoyed today.

5:15 pm. Start packing up my 5 or 6 bags (of drums+ scarves + playdough + bingo + lions, tigers…) as students are picked up. Close up the room with the last child, and wait outside with him on the picnic benches a few moments till parent arrives. Traffic is horrid, she warns me.

5:25 pm. Just getting a taste of that horrid rain traffic. Wanting to call J’s afterschool program to see if he’s been picked up by Tracy, but force myself to wait a bit since 5:30 is busy there – last minute pick-ups etc.

5:30 pm. Highway sign on the Edens, north of the Botanic Gardens, says an hour and 20 minutes to the Kennedy. Not all the way downtown – just to the Kennedy…

5:35 pm. Call and speak with a staff who says J was signed out at 5:25. Tell myself I don’t need to call back to make sure the signature is Tracy’s. Wish that Darius was following up on it, since he’s getting out of work too but a lot closer to the afterschool program than Lake Forest!

5:45 pm. Begin the Off Road Adventure of taking the streets through Winnetka, Wilmette, Skokie, Evanston, and finally my neighborhood, all in heavy rain, after dark, and being kept awake mainly by listening to an old SugarCubes CD.

6:35 pm. Call Tracy to tell her I’m in Albany Park and should get to her in about 20 minutes. Was aiming for 6:30 pick-up of J. at her house. Oh well. Find out neither she nor the afterschool teacher realized J’s rain boots were in his see-through plastic backpack. So he soaked his shoes and pants into sponges.

6:55 pm. Get to Tracy’s to find a totally peaceful J. dressed in Tracy’s oversized sweater clipped with a barrette to keep it on him, and her beautiful striped knee socks. He looks adorable and is playing with her roommate’s web cam on her laptop. I feel like just staying put, but had not thought to change our usual Tuesday night plan with Darius, who calls at 7 from my house to see if j and I are on our way. We venture back into the rain to go home.

7:10 pm. I’m taking J’s soaked clothes and shoes out of his bag to dry them over chair backs, while starting dinner for the 3 of us. I’m fantasizing about having walked in to find Darius brought take-out over. It does not instantaneously appear no matter how hard I imagine. Apparently I should have tried asking directly. Foolish as always, I kept thinking it’d be obvious that my day was too long to be expected to also cook dinner for 3 (since Tuesday is one of Darius’ nights to visit.) I steam slightly. Not because I’m a vegetable, but because while I’m at the stove, J and his daddy are in my room on my computer playing online kids’ games and having a blast.

9:30 pm. Start getting J. ready for bed. Wash something, brush something, unpack my numerous bags of supplies. Do some more remote control stuff after he goes to sleep, like cleaning up dinner dishes and feeding cats. Sudoku.

More Sudoku. I don't know why -- maybe I ran out of chocolate.

Somewhere around 11 or 12 I go to sleep. I think so, anyway.

Speaking of Cooking...

2008-10-04T00:10:00.003-05:00

Back in 2006, I actually photographed several of the dinners that my son wholeheartedly rejected. Refused to touch. This was back in the Diagnostic Nebula Era: we knew something was off (well I sure did, despite people telling me it was "just" the divorce or "just" my being a teacher reading too much into his behaviors etc)

Anyway, he did love chicken and rice. I tried nice presentations like this ALL THE TIME. Meaning more than half the time. Everything laid out pretty, and items more or less not touching each other, and picking a plate color each time that worked well. I took this photo before serving it because, just like it did turn out, I suspected he still would refuse to eat this. Who refuses to eat (forget "eat" - how about just TRY?) a cute little meal like this?

My son.

Michael Moore's Slacker Uprising -- Trailer

2008-09-16T23:47:00.001-05:00

This man is one of my heroes, and I'm excited about this film of his tour targeting young people regarding their vote and their role in major social change.

Brutality Is Not One Of MY Family's Values!

2008-09-16T02:22:00.001-05:00

Monkey-See-Monkey-Do-Like-Daddy...

2008-09-09T21:21:00.002-05:00

Note to Daddies everywhere:

Your sons don't just copy the great things you do.

They also (and probably INSTEAD, sometimes) copy the ANNOYING things you do.

A few weeks ago I asked my ex if there was something bothering him, because he'd started leaving the toilet seat up when he came over. For a couple of weeks. Every time. And when we were married in the same house, when he was mad at me or troubled by something, he usually made messes all around the house. He denies it. But I saw it over and over. Anyway, since this time it is MY house, when he said nothing was wrong, I said, "Okay, then please stop leaving the seat up over here." He of course said he would.

He left it up again his next visit. When I called him to say what the f*ck, he asked if I knew how "trivial" this issue was, and that he was not going to take time to discuss something so unimportant. He came short of using the N-word ("nag.")

So, guess who last week has also started to refuse to put the toilet seat down???

Men: Divorced or separated, your fingerprints always remain all over your ex-wives, their houses, and your sons.

Children Construct Their Own Knowledge

2008-09-08T22:25:00.002-05:00

Rain decides to see if she can fly from the 4th floor back porch. Pretty good try, but a broken foot is her souvenir.

J. announces a few days later he has a broken foot too. I make a cast out of my ankle wrap (sprained my ankle Monday morning, and Rain breaks her foot that EVENING...) and some toys. We discuss bones, x-rays, healing and taking care of ourselves. He gets in character, showing sadness for a minute, learning about emotions. A relevant book here, a Curious George episode (when he breaks his leg) there. Some folks are calling this "Unschooling." It's less about the teaching as it is about the LEARNING.

Children construct their own knowledge of the world with the building blocks they have at hand. Provide more blocks. Teach them where to look for more blocks. And you support their natural love of learning. Especially if you haven't lost your OWN.

Small Things

2008-09-07T23:14:00.004-05:00

With little J, it's the smallest things that cause so much excitement.

When, sitting in the car seat, he suddenly shouts out “air-pwane!” When I looked around and saw how high up it was, I realized he couldn’t have seen it from the back seat. He had to have heard it. Through traffic and the car radio – he heard and recognized an almost imperceptible sound of an airplane. He was about 12 months old.

The first times that he didn't echo me when asked questions. Example:

"Do you want pizza or chicken?"
"Pizza or chicken."

"Do you want pizza? Yes or no.”
“Yes or no.”

The first time he told me something that had happened when I wasn’t there – which came with no prompting whatsoever.

The first time, just last month, that he let himself be comforted by a stuffed animal toy (Curious George.)

The first time he drew a recognizable form -- Curious George’s face, as shown in detail in the DVD extras. (Being well-versed in children’s art, it had freaked me out more and more that he wasn’t meeting his age benchmarks in drawing. I didn’t need any other experts to screen him on that. Four years old and never has named a drawing, never has made an “early man”? He’s delayed somewhere. Later we find out that what looked like a lack of creativity and emotional awareness of others was mainly about difficulties in Motor Planning. That he so easily mastered drawing a monkey’s face in detail, when shown exactly step-by-step, really deciphered that for us.)

And today’s:

He shows me the book, “Curious George Goes To An Ice-Cream Shop” and says, pointing at the word “George,” something like he “saw George the steamroll.” Finally after trying 10 times, he says, “I’ll show you.” This in itself is a great advance: he knew he had it right and that it was Mama who didn’t understand something, not him. And he wasn’t giving up. He points to his new Thomas The Tank Engine video and says he saw “George the steamroll” on there. I acknowledge that he saw another gorge somewhere and that it is great he saw another George like Curious George. He shouts, “There he is! I saw him!” I saw nothing so I backed it up saying I wanted to see him too.

With only music playing, the video is flashing pictures of various engines etc on the Island of Sodor, each with their name in a box below their face. Under one machine that looks like a steamroller is the name plate “George.”

We’d never seen this machine in any story, never heard of a George in the Thomas stories, and no one ever said the name George to my knowledge in any of the shows. J. had recognized the word itself – G E O R G E.

Now, I’m not one of these parents bragging at the end of every mommy/toddler class about how this week he did calculus and reorganized the tool shed. But I still hold certain milestones as proof that he is growing, maturing, learning at his own pace and in his own directions. Today was one of those. After his first week in Kindergarten – which we decided, barely winning out over other options, to keep him in his therapeutic school one more year instead of a public school K – it was an extremely reassuring sign that he’ll be able to jump into a “regular” first grade class next year without being light years behind his age peers in academic skills.

And I wish that didn’t matter to me. But like most African-Americans, my family includes males of both success and failure. Uncles who taught college sociology, and cousins in jail as career criminals. Black women are more likely to bend and become twisted in the gale force winds of race, economics, and America. Black men are a coin toss: between becoming strong like oil turning to diamonds, or simply cracking like ancient trees eaten away inside by insects and time only to shatter like glass at hurricane force rains.

This Black male child will not be broken. It is my prayer. It is my dream. And if my heart dares to be honest, I’ll say it is the reason he came into my life: so that he and I may redeem our broken fathers, our broken brothers, uncles and cousins. To tip the scale back towards Success. Which I’ll define like Chris Gardner, author of The Pursuit Of Happyness, described the brokers he saw one day in a defining moment about setting his new goal in life:

“They all just looked so damn happy.”

Shiny, happy people. Seems like such a small thing, doesn't it?

I Miss "It."

2008-09-04T08:57:00.000-05:00

Since 5 year old J. had Scarlet Fever in April (basically that means a strep infection that comes with a feverish rash all over the body,) he’s been sleeping in my bed.

Not that I’ve felt great about it now that he’s been better, for months, but still here, but today I now grieve the loss that parents of young children face when the kids claim not just their room but their mom’s bed too.

Today I admit out loud: I miss “it.”

Not him – he’s over there being the little bedhog as always. I miss what I cannot have since he has moved into my bed. Gone are my delicious fantasies that used to put me to sleep smiling. No more Ronan Dex. No more Louis the 17th century vampire from New Orleans. Gone are the troops of valiant men and women who have graced my imagination’s skin over the years since the advent of the world’s longest marital separation ever.

This summer marked 6 years since my marriage had its first step towards living apart, the ending of it as a romantic relationship. It became permanent a year later, when J. was only 9 months old, and we all moved out of our home. Two of us went this-a-way and one of us went that-a-way. Most of those first years were no picnic over here: I was depressed and financially struggling; J. was struggling with something I couldn’t put my finger on; and I was continuously sleep-deprived from nursing through the night with a child who didn’t sleep well, and in a neighborhood that had more gunfire at night than I cared to admit.

When I finally cut off nursing after almost 3 ½ years, it didn’t so much feel like a “break” or something to celebrate – I just sort of breathed, finally, and started to sleep. It was a cruel joke when I found myself having trouble staying asleep after he finally learned how to sleep through the night. I was saved by trials of herbal teas, anxiety treatment techniques, and having my beautiful Rageful-by-day, lover-by-night imaginary boyfriend to curl up with.

Now all I have is chocolate, to the tune of several gained pounds of ugly belly and thigh fat. And sudoku. Books with pages and pages of logic puzzles, crossed off with the dates completed, some with my “time” next to them with pride – they are the brag books that no one ever sees.

I miss the Happy Place where I was loved, nurtured, wanted, and beautiful. Where I had something just for me, where it didn’t have to be in the service of social/emotional growth or feeding skills or fine motor maturity. Where I didn’t have to always do my best, didn’t have to perform Super Human Feats of single mothering like carrying a sleeping J. plus groceries and both our backpacks up to our forth floor apartment. Sometimes in a downpour (read: Thursday) to find a lake under the front leaky windows that needed attending to. Now I feel ashamed to even think about “it” when I’m falling asleep, as if J. is telepathic (for all I know…) and could be exposed to inappropriate things that way.

I miss Ronan.
I miss Zack.
I miss Mars.

Exhaustion and Repair

2008-09-01T00:38:00.002-05:00

No matter how much you love someone, some people are EXHAUSTING to be around. Multiply that by a hundred if you are not allowed to walk away from them due to their being your child (or your boss.)

Maybe we all shouldn’t worry about trying to always stay calm, or to SEEM calm to others.

Calm is a multi-layered thing. And you may feel mentally calm but your body can be stressed due to the need to restrain the child. Or you may be furious inside but manage to stay calm, steady, gentle on the outside. (I'm famous for that one, although it seems to actually provoke certain people into trying to make me "crack." Ah, the male half of humanity...)

It's hard to control what chemicals your body is sending through the veins! J's meltdowns are certainly not as severe as some other children with issues, but they still exhaust me, and shake me at the core.

I think my greatest tool for this isn't staying calm, but rather being able to heal and regroup quickly once it's over. Which is good to let our children witness, too. Early childhood professionals often say, "It's all about the REPAIR work."

Here's to unsinkable resiliency!!!

Yes, I'M The One Who Is Ridiculous.

2008-08-25T20:28:00.004-05:00

Couples argue. Some fight well and resolve the matter at hand. Others fight ineffectively and create more problems with every attempt to deal with their conflicts.

Then there's my ex and I.

I must indeed be the one that is unreasonable. After all, I cannot have a disagreement without pointing it out when Darius' argument doesn't make sense. He always responds that, "It makes sense to ME." And I rarely feel that's enough said.

Reason Number One why Mars and Darius will never be effective as a team trying to resolve disagreements: I expect him to make sense all the time. Even on the small stuff. And I have the crazy notion that if an argument makes sense, then we should both understand it.

So of course we have a blow out when he wants to know where Blue Man Group is on my videotapes. I put in the Yellow Submarine tape and say "I think it's about 2 hours in." When he still can't find it, he pulls the tape out, looks at it, and puts it back in to rewind and fast forward and back and forth some more. When I pass by and see a familiar point on the tape playing, I suggest trying 10 minutes ahead of that spot, and that's where Blue Man Group is found, to which I reply, "Yeah, 1:59 on the tape, that's where I thought it was." He says the counter isn't accurate because he popped the tape out to look and it reset. So I ask what he thought he'd find out by taking out the tape, and he says he wanted to actually SEE if the tape was near the end. I said that the counter set itself to zero when I put the tape in, which is common knowledge, and that since it was at the start of the tape, he could have seen if it was getting near to the end of the tape simply by looking at the display numbers. "I don't trust those, sometimes they're wrong" he says. Which to me begs the question of why I'd have told him to go by the counter in the first place if it wasn't accurate. And then it goes in circles until I finally say it just doesn't make any sense to take it out to look at the tape for its nearness-to-the-end status when that information was displayed right in front of him by the counter. And we get the "it makes perfect sense to ME" thing and I have no good way to explain that sense and logic are not purely subjective things that can exist for one person and not another; that something either is logical or it is not. That's when we get to...

Reason Number Two why disagreements between Mars and Darius never end amicably: because after I pull out what he considers to be dirty words -- Logic and Sense -- he pulls out his "I'll shut you up by hurting your feelings" words. Tonight it was this gem: "Do you know how many of my friends I've told about these arguments and they all think you're crazy?"

So, please, Friends of Darius, feel free to let me know exactly where I've been unreasonable. Maybe missing yet another weekend of time with J. by leaving town to visit a friend -- wait, that was Darius, not me. Well, I do raise a stink about having to miss a couple hours of work once every 3 months to meet with J's therapists -- wait, Darius again, because I lose 2 hours or more per WEEK for meetings with them, not including the jobs I can't take because they don't fit into the small and shifting hours of J's therapy program.

Really, it takes someone crazy to have days like mine, so they must be right. Drop J off to school, go to work, sprain ankle and manage to still get through the day, (had to because I took off half of last week to care for J with his eye infection,) do a phone meeting with therapist, take off early to pick J. up early to bring him to meet new after-school teacher, go BACK to work for 30 minutes with him, grocery shop, get home with all groceries up 3 flights of stairs (on previously mentioned ankle,) water back porch garden for one minute till cat sneaks out and falls off back porch and hurts HER ankle (yes, this is all true,) spend the rest of the evening monitoring her WHILE cooking dinner for J and Darius and myself, deciding to eat in my room to get an hour free before Darius goes home but fail at that because (1) they can't find Blue Man Group on a tape without me, and (2) Darius spots a wasp in the living room and insists it would be better if I take care of it.

At least the past hour has gone with few surprises, and kitty will be brought to vet tomorrow since she's resting and avoiding the paw (though she has managed to walk across the apartment on it when I had J. in the tub.)

So, please, let me know if being less ridiculous and crazy might make my life a little easier and less dramatic. Maybe it will help find the other secret rituals that can help my son live a normal, successful life; maybe it can help me finish my solo CD (which my fellow artists and fellow activists are continually reminding me is way past schedule, as if I needed reminding to finish the most important artistic project of my lifetime!) Maybe being less crazy can help me more easily read all the reports on police brutality escalating in Chicago, and then I'll have time to write the song about it that will change everyone's thinking, causing mass action that will be the final straw to end it once and for all.

And being less crazy would help me be like other poor people with special needs kids: I'll learn to say "I can't afford that program! I need full day care for him so I can work! We were under the poverty level ALL OF LAST YEAR. I'm the only adult in our home -- how can I pay our bills if I don't work fulltime? What kind of drudgery can I do for work when I can't start till 10:30 am or later, and have to pick him up by 5:30 at the latest?!! Certainly not the kind of work I'm highly skilled in with 20+ years of experience in. What, I'm just supposed to go from consulting at $60 - 100 an hour to $10/hour cleaning cat shelters and being talked to like I'm untrustworthy scum, just one of The Help?"

See? I AM crazy. Cause no sane person would make THAT choice, gambling on their child's success in one school when the daily stakes of economic survival are so high. Yes, I am ridiculous, guys. I look forward to my next life, when I'll be a reasonable person and take trips when I feel like it, develop a taste for sushi and martinis, buy expensive shoes, carry a Treo, be inconsistent visiting my son but always flaunt the latest photos of him with me to everyone around. And I'll be sure to call anyone who criticizes me "ridiculous."

Anatomy of an SPD Meltdown

2008-08-23T23:56:00.002-05:00

well, there was this party last night, although it was fairly appropriate for J, and he was fine DURING it, but then today one of the cats scratched his hand -- but he kept screaming about finding SpongeBob on the TV at work -- but when he was kicking at my seat in the car it was about refusing to nap when we got home, so he was overtired, but --

Oh, nevermind.

Super Heros and Special Families

2008-08-18T22:28:00.000-05:00

It’s good for parents to have their own Super Hero, one who is there just at the stroke of, “I can’t possibly do all of this myself! I need help!” Mine, for example, cooks and cleans when I get home from work late and still am supposed to make dinner for J, his dad and myself. And after being a little behind on my Deep Spring Cleaning (approx. 4 years behind) she pitched in yesterday to make the stovetop NOT look like a shot from the nightly news segment on “Children Being Raised In Squalor.”

All day while I was watching J. and his eye, swollen and purple underneath, with a white bean-sized pocket of pus just under the skin with his Second Annual August Periorbital Infection, my Super Hero eased my mind by disinfecting the kitchen. Boy, is she good. Baking soda and old toothbrushes (she ain’t sceared to git down like dat!) to bleach water and rags, scraping layers off the stovetop with the end of a metal spoon (4 YEARS…) and getting stuff out of the cracks behind the sink that I can’t even see – she was at it from 9:30am till almost 4pm. Meanwhile I was putting warm compresses on J’s eye every 2 hours to encourage the white bean to loosen up and leave my son alone.

It didn’t. I was great at staying calm yet steadfast that we do those compresses and take those prescription meds. Last year the offending germ causing it was MRSA. Not to be taken lightly. We were at the stage where most people would have been in the ER; but my doctor worked overtime, giving him highly potent antibiotics in her office, every day, as injections. Heavy duty, and hard on J, but it kept him out of the hospital.

This time she wasn’t playing around: she said if it didn’t respond to the proper antibiotics quickly, or if it appeared to be making his whole body sick ie a fever or just looking sick, it’d be time to go straight to the ER. Today I woke up disappointed to see the pocket under the eye had not opened to drain during the night, and I started thinking if it doesn’t pop today, then tomorrow we go to Children’s Memorial. I’d told the doctor that if it was under MY eye, I’d have poked it with a clean needle by now to drain it. But with J the only way is the warm compresses, maybe 5 times a day she said. By noon today I’d gone to Hourly’s. And at 2pm we got some oozing. And a little more each hour. Relief. I wanted a more dramatic moment with the whole big white bean-like blob appearing at once on the compress, maybe from a little pressing on my part. But J. isn’t me. He’s like his dad, who almost fainted when I had my amniocentesis in 2002. J. doesn’t complain of pain a lot, but he sure does not like being poked or “worked on.” So it’s taking longer than I wanted to clean this thing out.

Meanwhile, the kitchen sparkles and we experienced a minimum of toxic fumes. It, unlike the rest of us over here, is clean and renewed and sanitized. Perfect. When I cooked Chinese eggplant and bean pods in brown sauce over noodles tonight, I must have wiped that stove every two minutes.

Not that it is hard to summon my Super Hero, it isn’t really. It’s just that she has a pit bull perseverance that makes it hard for me to relax and be tranquil in the moment. So I’m trying to practice letting her come out to play Oya, my favorite Creator/Destroyer goddess, only when needed. So that the rest of the time, I can feel tender and strong, vulnerable but competent and raise my son without one adventure after another.

I am putting him into his bath now, sprinkling bentonite clay in the water, wondering how it will be to return to work tomorrow, and if I’ll feel nervous that Darius so generously offered to take off a day to care for J, since I’ve had no other life since I picked J. up from his house at 3:15pm Saturday. Wondering tonight about how this illness (with the scary monster face J. didn’t ever want to have, but has today for the second time) will effect the separation/attachment issues he struggles with already. It’s so much to handle already. Paying 75% of my income just for rent. Negotiating visitation with my ex. Trying to do more than just what is expected of us “special parents.” Trying to help his daddy grow up even half as fast as J. Making sure I see how J. is raising ME as much as I’m raising HIM.

If I say it’s too much, though, SHE’LL show up, kick some kitchen butt and save the day. Which usually works out just fine. But in my dreams I don’t need Super Heros. I fly, I eat, I get scared and run, then find a high perch to sit on and watch the rest of the world spin for a change.

2008-08-11T23:32:00.000-05:00

[print version]

Visit www.dailysudoku.com for more puzzles, solutions, hints, books and other resources.

2008-08-07T20:20:00.000-05:00

Can’t sleep, eh?

A brother told me once that every black man he knows has to fall asleep in front of the TV. I haven’t exactly polled all my uncles and male cousins to look into that, but it’s definitely a widespread habit for a lot of folks. I know it has worked for me in the past, but I fought it off like the Plague. It feels like putting out fire with gasoline: too much inner noise? Try drowning it out with, yup, more noise!

I know, I know, we can’t all be crystalline vessels of cool calm waters all the time (although the staff at Healing Earth Resources always did a pretty good job imitating that.) But I do think this sleeping with the TV/radio/iPod on is setting people up for worse insomnia than they began with. So here are some of the things that I’ve tried, in no particular order, that work with few negative side effects.

1. Progressive Muscle Relaxation (P.M.R.) It’s an easy step-by-step physical way to feel the body pulling itself into more relaxed positions. It’s easy to learn, and it WORKS. Actually I learned it during a “course” on managing chronic anxiety. A friend can walk you right through it, either a 2 minute version or up to 10 or so.

2. T’ai Chi or Yoga. I’m returning to one of my t’ai chi routines at bedtime, and hope to integrate it back into daily practice. My goal is for it to become a family thing, especially on weekends before naptime together. Yoga is likely even more relaxing due to the stretching aspect (though I wouldn’t recommend Kundalini or Hot Box Bakhram (sic?) at bedtime…)

3. Simple meditation. I have the absolute minimal experience with this, but even the old, “Your thoughts are all leaves landing on a gentle stream of water: They land, you notice them and they continue floating away downstream and are gone” method has helped me if I’m tossing and turning. If that is too “cold turkey” at times, i.e. impossible to go fairly blank of thought, how about just focusing on one thing alone – your breath? Let your concentration on your breathing, the sound, the feeling of the whole body being part of the motion, the sensation of it changing tempo (hopefully getting SLOWER!) is good at squashing those racing thoughts, and puts your body’s needs up front and center.

4. Sex. With a real or imaginary friend, doesn’t matter. Nuff said. It works.

5. Ritual of any sort that works for you. Warm milk or putting certain things away at bedtime, saying goodnight to everything in the room, or singing a lullaby… We mothers and fathers have to parent ourselves as deeply as we parent our children, and often (the really GOOD parents, anyway) we learn great skills to nurture our children while we feel the hurt of not having been so nurtured ourselves, at one point or another in life. So why SHOULDN’T we nurture and cuddle and sing a sweet song to ourselves? And every night! If all else fails, for me it’s addiction time. Please choose yours wisely. My main falling asleep tactic is --

6. Sudoku. Yup. Problem is, it is so hard to put down, I have to really watch myself from the outside to know when I’m trying to keep myself awake just to finish the doggone thing, versus falling asleep mid-puzzle due to it working. But every addiction has it’s challenge, right? At least this one is relatively cheap and completely reversible. No scars, no bodily harm, no debt: tame addictions are okay in my book as long as it helps your life more than hurts it.

Anyway, good luck and good night!

8:22 PM

2008-08-07T01:02:00.001-05:00

Years ago when I lived in Boston, I wasn’t the only one shaken up by Gloria’s expected arrival in town. We planned rooftop parties and bought all the candles and beer in the city. And masking tape. No, Gloria wasn’t kinky. She was a hurricane.

Being young and definitely not a parent, my friends and I were more likely to wait out the excitement with cameras and curiosity than preparations and protectiveness. We weren’t the only idiots on the roof as trees began swaying below on Commonwealth Ave. But as it turned out, Gloria wasn’t much of a party girl and so she did a quick tour of town and left without breaking any hearts or windows.

Chicago is so different, and so am I. Monday morning I’m lamenting that the rain will steal my baby’s playground time at school. Afternoon I’m glad he likes his new hand-me-down rain boots, and thankful that his dad’s Mondays-in-July gigs are through so we’ll see him tonight.

Seven thirty or so at night, storm warnings pop up to disrupt Antique Road Show and my paella, only catching our attention because of two things. One, they say a tornado WARNING, not Watch, so at least one has been spotted in this storm. Two, I hear them say Logan Square.

WHAT?! This I have got to see! Ignoring the TV voice, I go to look out the window and imagine I’ll see it coming like in a Judy Garland movie. We’re on the fourth floor, and I start feeling a little vulnerable. And of course, after Katrina in 2005, who will ever take the National Weather Center warnings lightly??

Then I notice J. He’s starting to pick up on something going on. When the third or fourth ticker runs across the screen, his dad tells him to shush and stop playing so he can hear it. He sounds nervous, and suddenly out of the Daddy Zone he’d been in.

That’s when I realize I’m the one who’s got to keep us safe, because I’m the one able to make good, clear decisions while keeping the anxiety level it to a minimum.

What did the “experts” say after 9/11? That we can best help children handle disaster by focusing on The Helpers. So I tell Daddy and J. that I’ll watch the weatherpeople in the other room, since that is who is helping us know if the storm is safe or dangerous. And without J noticing, I also start packing for the worst.

Ten minutes later, in the building staircase I’ve put shoes for all 3 of us (since we’re barefoot inside,) flashlight, seven-day candle LIT already, one coat per person and a sleeping bag. And I tell Darius that if they say one is spotted in the city limits, we’ll head straight out the door and go to the first floor and camp out in the stairwell.

They’re saying 8:22pm is expected time for the storm center to cross the north side. We can no longer see out our windows due to the rain being slammed against the glass, sounding like hail. It’s 8:18 and I’m deciding I’d rather be the weird woman who took supplies and family into the stairwell for a rainstorm than one of the families that got injured by glass shattering in their living room, or worse, anything at all harming J. I watch the Doppler one more time in my room, expecting to be convinced to leave now. Instead they’re talking about it being over 130th and Cicero. Then they’re talking about the lakefront and Indiana. I don’t blink until I realize it’s almost 8:30 and they’re going to commercial. They’re far too afraid of lawsuits and FCC hearings to go to commercial if they have urgent news that, if withheld, could cause harm or damage to the public. I decide we have been pretty much missed.

This time the party boy zig-zagged through town and caused floods and tore massive trees up by their roots but left my porch planters untouched. Didn’t even scatter the memorials-in-a-milkcrate in my area that mark where people have recently been shot. All this preparation and the party boy didn’t even tell us his name. I felt stood up. But glad I didn’t have to play games with J. about the storm danger and being in a stairwell, possibly as our home gets destroyed.

A couple hours later, Daddy has gone home and J’s asleep. I’m looking outside and mopping up the rivers running down from my leaking front windows, and I watch the lights go out one block at a time. Some will stay off for 2 days, but ours only blink several times.

I wake up at 3 am, and can’t stop feeling a rush of thought and fear and action impulses. I’ve always had a hard time coming off an adrenaline situation. This one was so anti-climatic. I didn’t get to save anyone. I didn’t even get to be certain my plan was right. I eventually will fall back asleep, knowing that protecting a child or anyone else isn’t about the moments that earn interviews on the Today Show. It’s about being the parent who is ready to do the safe thing at the drop of a hat, and who pushes aside their worries of looking silly, or of failing, and who just does what needs to be done.

The next morning I bring J to daycare and we merrily point out all the trees along Humboldt blvd that have been toppled. It’s sobering. He’s handled all of this well. I give myself a mental pat on the back, put in his VF music CD, and keep driving.

Raising J.

2008-07-29T23:42:00.000-05:00

072908 I can’t think of one good reason to start blogging about raising my son, J. I could just as easily keep notes and questions and stories of his growing up and challenges and issues that influence my parenting choices, all could be put in a journal, or a file on my computer. Of course any sharing and dialogue from others would not be possible if I don’t blog it, but I’ve been keeping another blog for over a year, with the link in my email signature, and frankly the only comments I’ve gotten are from pro-death-penalty police officers angry when I post Mumia Abu-Jamal’s commentaries. Nobody reads my stuff, so why bother?

Except that my questions deserve answers, even if I don’t get them. Asking is still the right thing to do.

And because I’m not the first divorced mother of a child with some unclear special needs, having a hard time working enough to support us while being active in her son’s therapies, afterschool care, and “extras” (LOL!) like playground time.

And certainly I’m not the first woman who brings a child into the world believing strongly that humans are 99% a product of their environment – and then smacked soundly in the face with the hollow echos of voices saying no one knows why some children have this and that area of weakness. Despite my feeling like I put in 10 times the effort and forethought in raising J. than most parents I see during my day.

And this isn’t the first night this week – and it’s only Tuesday! – that I’ve fallen asleep in the computer chair during a moment when I sat back to wonder where this is going, and find myself thinking about winged monkeys and green fields and unfriendly playground kids and an ice-cream float.

Where’s Nici? “TAKE off your blindfolds and OPEN your eyes!!” Thanks, Sis. Tell me to press SAVE, and head to bed. Tell me that I’m no good to J. if chronically under-rested. Tell me to take better care of myself and to stop thinking the future of the world depends on my finding out how exactly to free my son from these percentile numbers and sad vignettes shared by teachers and testers.

Tell me that it’s honorable that I’ve sworn on blood oath to parent drastically different, for the better, than I was parented. If I WAS actually parented. Maybe calling what my first 18 years were like “parented” is a mistake. It was more like I arrived – they usually fed me (someday I’ll write about that part) – punishments were dispensed when rules were broken (although I never seemed to realize I was breaking any rules, and most of my classmates who considered me a Goody-Two-Shoes / Teacher’s Pet would concur) – and somehow I made it out. How can I call that way of tolerating an unplanned child, and punishing her for the depressions and rages of the parents, “Parenting”?

And yet, just knowing that I have already broken a chain of generations of abuse and depression and addictions in my family isn’t enough. It was what I prayed was possible – to parent unlike anything I’d ever seen before. But now it isn’t enough for me. Selfish Mama Mars – on top of that, she now also wants a healthy, intelligent, well-adjusted, successful son. One who beats the odds on the dice rolled by Black male youth. I want sooooo much. But if it is so selfish, and elusive, then why do so many mothers get these things? Often without trying a tenth as hard as I am? There’s that selfishness again – compare and contrast, then want the top 5th percentile. Damn math-head…