@ Home in the World

Nothing I could say

...would make this any easier.

I was all set to use some of the holiday time to write a nice, newsy, post about fun little tidbits in my world. As I sat down and checked in with some of the blogs I read regularly, I discovered that my new friend Beanie's daughter died suddenly.

All my words have been washed away.

If you are the praying kind, please keep Kiersten in yours. Send Beanie your strength. She'll need it for a while.

GADS!

Toward the end of my bumpy career as an English Major, I remember sitting in a class listening to a professor describe the "action" in a poem - essentially how wonderful it was that the poet was sitting on the side of a mountain, contemplating the infinite. My first thought was "Great, how is that going to solve the problems of the world."  It was then, about four months before graduation, that I knew for sure I had chosen the wrong major.

It was also the first real inkling I had of my own personality.

I'm a pragmatic person; I want whatever works. I am action-oriented and answer-driven. I need to know the "why" of things because as much as I need to be doing something, I don't want that something to be a waste of time and effort. This can be good or bad. As an adult, I've accomplished just about every major goal I set for myself, but I've also spent a great deal of time paralyzed with indecision because I didn't have a goal or wasn't sure it was the right goal.

All of this is to say that it took me a long time to get the boys to a therapist. All sorts of people were pushing me in that direction, but none of them could really say what we were supposed to get out of it. I couldn't see the point of sitting around in a room with no articulated goal. I never experienced any kind of therapy growing up (big surprise) and I've known people who have been in and out of therapy their whole lives with no apparent progress. Not to get too Tony Soprano about this, but what's the freakin point?

Last winter, I started out with the intention of getting some answers about what was going on in Pumpkin's head. Two days of extensive Neuropsych testing, and a seventeen page report of the results, and $2000, and we were still no closer to any answers. All the report got us was a way to budget for a classroom aide at the school who could take Pumpkin out into the hall when he got overstimulated and had a silly fit. Seriously. That's what they are doing with him.

Really all we've done is obtain outside, and very expensive, validation of the behavior we've been seeing at home and in the classroom. I swear I have learned more from other bloggers than I have from the professionals. I even called the neuropsychologist before she wrote up a report for us and asked her point-blank about autism or Asperger's. Her answer was "Maybe, maybe not."

The actual report mentioned Asperger's, and then promptly walked away from it. It also mentioned Executive Function Disorder which, people at the school tell me, is rarely seen without ADD or ADHD, but neither of those was mentioned.

If this sounds like a complaint against the neuropsychologist, it's not. Her diagnosis of Tigger was spot-on. Pumpkin's just a lot more complex.

They tell me that seeing any results from therapy will take time, but I have questioned from the beginning how we can get any tools to help Pumpkin change his behavior, if we don't know what is causing it?

As the weeks since the beginning of school, Pumpkin's academic progress marches steadily onward, but his behavior appears to be going backward. It's probably not. As his communication skills get closer to is age, or at least his grade level, it makes his strange, sometimes autism-like behaviors all the more discordant.

So while the fumbling about with the therapist this summer didn't get us very far with Pumpkin, he wasthere to talk me off the ledge when Tigger's behavior exploded the very first days of school. He shepherded me through the process of getting T on meds, even if he couldn't prescribe them himself. Then as we switched to evening appointments, after school, evidence of Pumpkin's no-brakes silliness came out to play. Tigger's medication-induced great leap into age appropriate behavior also put Pumpkin's toddler-like personality into sharper focus.

So little by little we have made our way back to the Asperger's discussion. This time, the therapist has decided to delve into it further, sending me a host of ultra-depressing things to read. The last thing was an evaluation instrument titled GADS, which is exactly what I said as I skimmed the questions. I returned it to his office unmarked. I just didn't feel like I could go through the Likert Scale format objectively, without qualifying my every answer. Dr. G (as I guess I'll call him), kindly walked me through it, choosing a Always or Sometimes or Never based on how much whining I did about each the stories I told. Then he scored the damned thing and said:

"Well, according to this, he's on the spectrum, but all this is really telling us is that his behaviors are Asperger's-like. It could be something related to an attachment disorder. We'll have to do some further tests."

The possibilities, it seems, are infinite.

We are the mites who say "Meep"

I still have a few years before I'm due to forget what it's like to be a teenager. When I read stuff like this, it all comes flooding back.

The principal of a High School near here has banned the used of a made-up word, "Meep," on school grounds, claiming that it's disruptive. Apparently he was trying to head off a planned prank he read about on Facebook.  Is he doing his job keeping order and discipline, or is he overreaching? You get more information from the comments than the actual article, but the prank seems to have been targeted at a specific teacher whom the students have no respect for and some of the parents are a little afraid of.

Okay, that was a completely butchered sentence, but at least I can spell principal.

As an adult, and a presumed authority figure, I think I'm expected to side with the school. But I have never been a rules-driven person, and I find myself in sympathy with the kids. That's not to say that I thnk all rules are bad, but most don't apply to every situation, and some of them can be a arbitrary and 
ridiculous. On the surface, this looks like a guy misusing his authority because he doesn't have any real influence. An appropriate balance between authority and influence is probably what makes a good administrator, or teacher, or parent.

The consensus seems to be, that in banning a word, rather than addressing an action, the principal has made himself look like a foolish control freak.

Can you remember bonding with your peers over a really bad teacher or clueless administrator? I can remember a school-wide walk out (aided by a strategically pulled fire alarm) when we were all protesting.... Actually, I don't remember what we were protesting, the point is that we bonded, dammit! And when it seems like all the adults in your life are conspiring to keep life dull and uninspiring, you look to each other.

And say "Meep."

Grouch

One of the things that I am going to appreciate about going back to work is not having to deal with the morning crap around here every day.

I'm still not a morning person. That hasn't really changed since the initial shock of having a small child who frequently awoke well before 6:00 AM, raring to go. Pumpkin is not as much of a morning person as Tigger always has been, but they are often up and frequently screaming at each other long before I'm ready to deal with the day. It's really more accurate to say that Tigger is tormenting and Pumpkin is screaming, but really, at that hour, who cares? It's all noise.

I really dislike having to badger everyone at every turn to get things done. It's really not that hard. If you are the first one down in the morning, let the dog out. If there's an accident, clean it up. If it's a school day, get some breakfast or start packing your snack bag so the grown ups aren't rushing around trying to coordinate four meals before the bus comes. Don't get dressed before breakfast. Inevitably you wind up wearing your food and having to change - wasting time and creating more laundry.

Most mornings I come down between 7 and 7:30 and find none of this done. Instead the TV is on (bleah, Sponge Bob), and the dog is on the couch (he's not allowed and he's too old to jump up there by himself anymore). A good day is when they aren't fighting or throwing things at each other. Piper is either running or on the stationary bike and then in the shower, which means that I have to play the bad guy.

Hopefully starting next week, I'll be gone at 7. While I'm never thrilled to be up that early, driving to work means I don't have to talk much in the morning and that's the way I've always preferred to start the day. Piper can tell me all he wants about how smoothly mornings tend to run when I'm gone, I'll just be glad I don't have to deal with it at all.

Speaking of grouches, have you heard all this nonsense about right-wingers upset about Sesame Street, again?  From the "why didn't I think of that" files, some skit involving Oscar the Grouch made reference to "POX" News, calling it a trashy news show which, in Oscar's upside world, is supposed to be a compliment.

Now, most people would recognize that as the sort of double-level humor that good children's shows employ to afford parents some entertainment while they are doing the right thing and watching what their kids watch. But no, out come the right-wing extremists with charges of leftist indoctrination of children on a (barely) taxpayer funded show.

Just goes to show you who the real grouches are.

It must be hard to live your life in a constant state of high dudgeon.

Humor: we all need it.

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What is the Universe trying to tell me now?

They called me last night to offer me a 3-month contract. I accepted, although the logistics are far from ideal. Somehow the energy of the people who interviewed me was contagious, and then in my research, I found a former co-worker I spent hours and hours with, several jobs ago. Our cubes were across the aisle from each other, all those years ago. We did the three hour car trip to corporate headquarters more than once. We wore jeans one day in protest of a nasty-gram from the CEO. Now he will be my contact on one of the first projects I will do for this new company. We have both been in the industry so long that it is getting to be a very small world.

It occurs to me that every one of the men that went through my department during the years I was there are managers now at different companies. Very few of the women are. I know a lot of that has to do with family choices, but it is still depressing.

So as much as I thought I would be using this time to change direction, it seems that after nearly six months, I'm taking a great big U-turn. Of course as we look at the bills we are still holding for the house renovation and the national unemployment rate hitting an official 10 percent, I am also relieved.

Interestingly, directly after I accepted the offer, I had two calls from other organizations about my resume. One was from a university, and after I hung up with them, I wished I had had the presence of mind to go through the motions of the interview with them. What I have is a contract after all, not yet a permanent position. I have always wanted to do ID at a college.

So now, I have to figure out how to handle this position without letting it consume my life, as the last one did. By the time the job ended, I had pretty much run myself into the ground. I seriously needed the six-month vacation I just had.

I have next week to wrap up some things before I re-start commute and cube life. What's interesting is that I have the strongest urge to de-clutter and get the house more manageable than it has been. I went through my closet this morning and threw out at least ten pairs of pants that were either ill-fitting or outdated. I wish I could say that it made a dent.

Halloween is over, the candy is dwindling. Now that the job thing is settled for now, I find myself looking forward to the holidays.

Diner

 
There's nothing like the smell of bacon and coffee when you come inside from the cold just after sun up. Though it's early, it seems as if half the town is already there, tucking into their eggs and toast.

The waitress, and old Al behind the counter, know you by name and probably know what you'll have, though they may try to sell you on a different kind of omelet or a new muffin they're trying out this week.

You sit at the worn, Formica, counter, give your order and spread the newspaper out before you, grabbing a headline or two as the coffee is poured. When you leave, you'll drop the paper in the basket by the door, left there so the next guy will get the news for free. It's tradition.

You nod and exchange a few words with the others at the counter. You know them, they are loggers, or lobstermen, or they have shop in town. They're headed to work after breakfast, so the meal must be filling.

If it's later in the morning, the patrons coming in will be couples, and groups of older women catching up. You'll know most people in the room by sight and some may stop to greet you as they head over to their tables.

The food is coming, placed in front of you with a satisfying plunk, and a gentle warning about the temperature of the plate. The waitress tours the room, coffee pot in hand, looking for a mug in need.

The din is louder now. Silverware clatters as it's cleared and set. Seats emptied, table wiped, then filled again. The papers in the basket have been broken up into sections, and one article or another has started conversation; taxes, or the town manager, or someone's grandchild in the school play. There may be two or four at your table, but you are really a party of forty-five. It's hard not to overhear, turn around, check in, ask a question, share a joke or condolence.

In spite of the warmth of the room, women hunch, fingers curled around the heavy, white, stoneware, sweater sleeves pulled up to their thumbs, clutching their mugs as a reliable source of heat. The coffee keeps flowing.

Breakfast never takes long. Patrons come and go; in and out like a life force pumping through the heart of town. Check paid, tip left, you're out the door and ready to start the day.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I wrote this because the image of the diner mug popped into my head and wouldn't leave. The scene is an amalgam of two diners in New Hampshire (one has people arriving via snowmobile in the winter), and a breakfast place here in town. Going out to breakfast is one of my favorite simple pleasures. For breakfast, I find that small town diners are better than regular restaurants or pancake chains. They may be the happiest places on Earth.