@ Home in the World

How it's going

So I think we are on week four of Tigger-on-meds. Long enough anyway, for me to lose track.

He has come home with a few notes in the first couple of weeks praising his behavior. The principal wrote him a note and sent it to our home so that he could get it in the mail. I am assuming that he would do this for any kid who has pulled off this kind of turnaround, and not just because he knew how utterly conflicted I was about the whole thing.*

Someone, I forget who, asked me a question that has been rattling around in my brain, but that I almost can't afford to worry about right now. The question went something like this "Is he proud of himself, or does he feel that this is the medication and not really him."  The short answer is that he is proud of himself, and is not self-conscious about the medication, or about the fact that he is taking it. I do know families with children who fight taking their medication. We do not have that issue. I guess that we are lucky.

The more existential question, if that's the right word, I just can't deal with right now. It helps that he is not a zombie, and that his personality has essentially not changed. Riding up to New Hampshire last weekend, with both boys picking at/feeding off each other for the entire 3-hour ride up and the 3 hours back (omigodmakeitstop!), Piper asked me if I really could see a difference with and without the medication, because he sure as hell couldn't.

With first hand experience of trying to get through homework with Tigger, pre- and post-meds, I have to say that I do see a difference. I also see more instances where Tigger's behavior is more age-appropriate than inappropriate. Yesterday, instead of finding him upstairs in front of the television, where he always goes when he sneaks off away from us, I found him in his room building something with blocks, something he has never done on his own.

At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, it's as if we have been living in the prison of our children's behavior. You know the old saying "I can't take you anywhere?" For us it was literally true. But it also meant that we really couldn't go anywhere, either. Everything had to be carefully planned, talked through with the boys, over and over, and even then, the excursions we took were risks. We risked spending the entire outing breaking up squabbles, we risked disturbing everyone around us, we risked losing Pumpkin in a crowd, because he would not stay with us or threw a tantrum if we insisted he hold the hand of an adult. Any successful outings were worthy of celebration, and totally, utterly, unpredictable. More often than not, we did not take those risks. We stayed home.

With the advent of Tigger-on-meds, it feels as if someone has cracked a window of that prison, and a little bit of sunshine is peeking in. Some weight has been lifted off my shoulders, but that sunlight has also served to illuminate that we have multiple issues to tackle here; Tigger's issues, Pumpkin's issues, and the Tigger-Pumpkin dynamic, which can be overwhelming. It's a reminder, as if we needed one, that Pumpkin's issues are far, far more complex.

And as of now, they are still eluding diagnosis. I may have mentioned that the neuropsych evaluation raised the issue of the autism spectrum, and then backed away from it. It mentioned Executive Function Disorder, which often goes along with ADD, but ADD has not been indicated in this case so far. We have a seven-year old, who has caught up or surpassed his age cohort academically, but is continuing to behave like a three- or four-year old.

Some days are great, and I still marvel over Pumpkin's huge leap in language over the past year. We can have a conversation, he asks amazing questions, he takes in all the information that his grandfather gives him, processes it and applies it to other learning. He has this interest in the natural world that's only really surfaced in the past few months.

Other days, it's like living in a zoo, where, at least the monkey isn't throwing feces, but he can not stop talking about it. He has the worst table manners, and family dinners are a constant litany of "use your fork, stay in your seat, use your fork, don't shovel your food." You look at him, and you expect to see a toddler, wearing a bib. I think it must be some kind of sensory thing, because nothing else makes sense.

I find myself making mental lists of the things we still need to get to the bottom of. On the really tough days, I wonder if there is no bottom.

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* Somewhere in the process of looking into ADHD meds for Tigger, some healthcare provider asked me if they had been recommended by his teacher. Sensitive as I am to the over-diagnosis of ADD/ADHD, and the potential use of these meds as crowd control in schools, I have to admit, the suggestion got my back up. But I shortly realized that the answer to this question was NO. Not ever, not even once.

I mentioned this to the principal some time later who told me that it was policy. Teachers, in his view, should not be pushing medication. I not only agree, I'm extremely grateful that I was allowed to come to this decision on my own, even if it took longer than it might have. Julie has a really interesting discussion of the issues surrounding boys in schools. So much of it has to do with culture changes alluded to in her post, which can be unbelievably frustrating, but I find myself here with an example of how a public school got it right.

You can keep my things, they've come to take me home!

You probably recgonize it, but if you don't, it's the last line from Peter Gabriel's Solisbury Hill; a song he supposedly wrote about his decision to leave Genesis.

My take on it is that it's a fairly positive tune about knowing something isn't a good fit for a long time and then finally making a change that's expected to work out better than what you had been doing. In Gabriel's case, he went on to have a very successful solo career, and the band he left also changed direction and had quite a bit of success as well. A good outcome all around!

The song was released when I was a child, but it was still very widely played in the mid 80s, when I was in high school and college. It grew to have real meaning for me when I was about to return to Boston after taking a semester off and living back in Guilford for six months. I learned a lot about myself, but Boston was, at least at the time, where I really belonged.

I've had that song in my head for a while now, and not just because it remains one of my favorite. I've always hated it when bloggers got all cryptic and mysterious about changes that were happening behind the scenes, and now I have to do that as well. At least for now.

Let's put it this way: I'm 42 years old, the older I get, the more I find myself in these "now or never" situations. Increasingly, I'm learning to say "now."

What does this mean?

I don't typically remember my dreams most of the time. This morning I woke up with a tension headache which I've had on and off for most of the day and which I am convinced is related to the dream I had.

I either broke in or wandered in to a complete stranger's house in a neighborhood I was unfamiliar with. I was a caught by the rather extended family who lived there (really, there were so many people I didn't know that they were either having a party or had a multigenerational living arrangment). Somehow I was able to say my mea culpas to the attending throng and escape. Once I got out to the street, I discovered that my car had either been stolen, or had been towed. In other words, I wasn't going to get away with what I had just done without explaining what I was doing there to my own family.

Oddly, the car I was missing was not the one I currently drive, but either the white Subaru I was driving last year, or the white Dodge Shadow that was my first car nearly 20 years ago. Hard to tell.

Then I woke up. With a headache.

And because I don't typically remember my dreams, but I remember this one, the thought of it and what it might mean have been bugging me all day.

That's probably also why I can't get rid of this headache.

Revels and Meditations 2

Continued from Part 1

The thing about my Guilford friends is that, now that I don't live down there anymore, I tend to see them only for the big events and, oddly, around times of transition in my life. I've long said that they made me who I am today, but I see now that's not entirely accurate. Rather, they accepted who I was then, and it was with them that I developed and honed my quirky sense of humor, my tendency to want to do things outside the mainstream. They encouraged a sense of adventure that I may have had before, but had never been properly channeled.

We didn't manage to get everyone together this time around, but I met up with two of the original group for dinner. It had been a good five years since I had seen one of them and almost as long for the other. Out with them, with no children, I felt almost young again, with the added benefit of years of hindsight and wisdom.

Dinner and dessert complete, we were not ready to part ways, for three of us, the evening without kids was a rare treat. Where to go in Connecticut at 10:00 at night? Mohegan Sun! (See! A sense of adventure.)

Um, yeah. I'm not much the gambling type. Foxwoods had not been built when I lived in CT and I didn't much like the sound of the project, but living in Massachusetts, I had no vote. Mohegan Sun came after Foxwoods and was reputed to be a bit higher in quality.

Perhaps I've been watching a bit too much Danny Ocean, I always thought that casinos were a place you dressed up to go to. I was disabused of that notion within the first few minutes of walking in the place. It's like entering an airport, when you first drive in. On this particular evening, completely packed, there was not a suit in the place save those on the employees. The lasting image is one I will always associate with gambling. A 300 pound person of indeterminable gender garbed in sweatpants and oxygen tubing plugging away at a slot machine in a smoke filled room. I did not see if s/he was smoking, but a wheelchair waited next to the slots. You had to know the player was on disability, probably gambling away a government check.

Beyond that, the place was interesting. Faux Native American decor that fluctuated between beautiful and tacky; a performance space in the middle of the gaming halls that on this evening featured Starship - or what was left of it; a shopping area featuring everything from Tiffany's to Yankee Candle; and a real concert hall that was letting out about the same time we showed up and was, on that evening, featuring someone named Chris Brown, of whom I've never heard but who is apparently a favorite among teenyboppers. Oh, and mechanical wolves, who pricked up their ears and stared at you as you walked by.

The bar was fun, the walls were modeled after crystal formations and the ceiling featured a starry sky. I had a Tiramisu martini, which was very good and at $12, should have been. If it were not for the smoke, I could have gotten quite a bit of exercise just walking around people watching, though frankly, many of them gave me the creeps.

I haven't stayed out until 2 AM in many, many, years. When we got back to my mother's (she was still up - I was afraid she was waiting up for me like the old days, but she swears she got sucked in to the original Sabrina on TV). My hair smelled so badly of smoke that I had to take a shower and really didn't make it to bed until about 3 AM. Yikes!

Sunday's entertainment was an afternoon at the Peabody Museum at Yale. Small, but interesting. Had the boys been a bit older, and Pumpkin more in control of himself,  I think I would have enjoyed it more. That's a story for another day.

I'm back home now and feeling more energized and less stressed than I have in a long time, maybe a few months.  I'm sure that part of it is that Christmas is over. Much of it, actually. I'm equally certain that some of it can be attributed to seeing my friends, and being regrounded (if that's a word) in some of our mutual outlooks and experiences. Both of my friends seemed less edgy than they normally do, maybe because we are all in our 40s and they are fairly comfortable with their paths.

I wish I could say the same for myself, but I'm trying. I like where I am, but not how I'm handling it. The only year I can think of that was more stressful was the first year I had both boys. I've been so stressed out at times that I've lain awake obsessing over how the stress was going to shorten my life. That's helpful. When I get this anxious, things don't stay in my head, and I forget crucial tasks and things that would normally be no problem to remember. I go into OCD mode, and constantly second guess whether I've turned off the toaster, or the stove. I leave my phone at home or my wallet in a shopping cart (someone, elf or angel, turned it in, cash and credit cards intact - thank you and Merry Christmas).

All of this, and the 10 pounds I have gained from stress eating and a lack of time to exercise, is scaring me and making me uncomfortable. I don't want my life to constantly be a race to get there, a rush to just get things done, with no time to enjoy either the process or the product. I'm worried about my health.

I don't, generally, make resolutions, but I often set goals or themes for the year. For 2009, I know I must reduce my stress level. I must have a better functioning work and home life; I need to somehow be less overwhelmed. I need to get more sleep.

I'll have to work on that.

Life, the Universe, and Everything

There's a certain age group and audience who might recognize that reference to the late Douglas Adams and a certain number will immediately come to mind.

42.

I turned 42 on Saturday.

It really snuck up on me this time. I only realized how close it was when the radio mentioned the 9/11 anniversary memorials.  After that I started taking stock. Where am I at 42? Where I thought I would be? No, not exactly. For the most part, that's okay. There are still a few things I want to do, but they're not going happen right now; they may not happen ever. That bothers me less than it used to, possibly because I'm too busy to think about it much.

What followed, until I deleted it, was a long, meandering, self-absorbed, essay about how having kids changes your plans. I decided I'm not going to go there. It's all too easy to focus on the frustrations and the roadblocks because I was feeling unexpectedly blue when I started to write this. Okay sure, I'm not where I thought I'd be ten years ago, but in the last five years we have doubled the size of our family and our house. That accounts for something. Quite a lot, actually.

When I started this post, I had just read a post from IzzyMom about wanting the chance to go out at night and have fun without worrying about responsibility. I can appreciate the idea, although I've never been much the partying type. I would love the chance to go out to dinner with other couples and sit around talking about "important things" for hours; but what I really want for my birthday is peace and quiet.  A retreat, maybe -- to get back into my own head and reorient myself.

Peace.

Looking for the words

My kids watch too much TV.

It is one of the few things that Piper and I do not agree on when it comes to child rearing. He grew up with the TV always on in the background, I did not.  We have found a way to deal with it; I let them watch more than I want and he doesn't argue with me when I finally do shut it off.

I didn't think it was possible, but I have found something even more irritating about the television than the incessant noise of Sponge Bob (that show gives me a headache) - the commercials. Or, more accurately my kids reactions to the commercials.

Oh sure, they do the obligatory "I want that" to the latest transformer type toy or junk cereal. They know that just about the only things I will ever say "yes" to are lego kits and sports stuff, but they do it anyway for fun. The thing that really bothers me though, is the reaction to Bratz or Barbie, or cheesy makeup kits, always pink and sparkly and puke-inducing. At least once a day I hear one of them say:

"That stuff's for girls...." 

You heard the sneer in that, right?

I don't know exactly where this attitude is coming from, but I don't like it. I don't like the toys either but the segregation of children's playthings is a whole other rant I don't have time for today.

So my question is this:  How do I approach this topic without going all militant on their asses in a calm and thoughtful manner? They are 6 & 7, are they even able to think critically about what's coming out of their mouths?

I wonder too, if this is a real problem or if it's just that this whole Sarah Palin debacle has me more sensitive about the view and standing of women and girls in our society. I just find the whole thing very unsettling.

I need a day...

The major project I have been working on pretty much since I started my new job is coming to completion at the end of this month. I have been pretty much heads down on it for weeks. When it is done I feel like I need a serious day off to do as much of the following as possible.

Get a haircut - I'm getting to the point where I need a serious change.

Go to the eye doctor/replace my eyeglasses - My current glasses are five years old and are so scratched that it's like they have a film over the lenses.

Go to the chiropractor - What does it say that I can't find the time for what is essentially a 10 minute appointment?

Find a new massage therapist.

Make some changes to my blog and The Soccer Mom Vote.

But who am I kidding? I can't take a whole day off, any vacation time has to be spent with my kids. As it is, while my neighbors are heading off to Hawaii, I'm begging the boys' grandparents to spend part of the week with them next week so I don't have to take off their school vacation week while I finish this project. This kills me. I have three weeks to ration throughout the year. I'm trying to reserve some for the summer and the week between Christmas and New Year's. It's enough to make me consider supporting a longer school year. God knows we Americans won't be getting any more vacation time in my lifetime.

On a slightly more less serious note: I never thought I'd say this, but I'm considering a makeover. I had to be videotaped for a project I'm involved in around town and when I saw the playback, well.... Man, I'm old!

The last time I saw myself on camera I was 35, and all I can say is that motherhood has the intervening years have taken their toll. I've never been the most put-together looking soul, but now I look even more tired, pale, and puffy.

I'm sure the pale, pink, shirt I was wearing didn't help. I may have an affinity for that color, but it does not have one for me. Must. Resist. Pale. Pink.  Of course, it jumps out at me every time it's in style. Every spring I get sucked in by some variation of it.

The Fairy Blogtherapist speculates that my attraction to prim, ladylike, colors and styles is a subconscious attempt to camouflage the loud, forthright, and decidely tomboyish aspects of my personality. The bolder, deeper, colors are more representative of the true me and I should stop trying to pretend otherwise. 

Anyway, I'm thinking that when this project is done, I need to find a spa or a salon and get a full workup. A colleague of mine is recommending the Aveda salon she goes to in Harvard Square, which means I'd have to do this on a long lunch.

Hmmm. Am I going to have time for this?