Time Off/Mom's Off, Too. And where's Steve?

Friday was a 'teacher work day'. 
My district had no school.

After having two weeks off for Christmas etc, we worked a week, then a four day week, then we got a four day weekend, which will be followed by a four day week. I could get used to that!

It's been rrreallly windy out here in the mouth of the Columbia River Gorge. I've mentioned before that wind isn't my friend. 

I'm no scientist, but my theory, which makes sense to me, is that the static electricity generated by the relentless wind affects the electrical field in my body. We're really nothing but batteries, and it seems reasonable that the reason I hurt so much when it's windy is because of the whole electrical me problem.

I've been doing normal weekend things. Looking at Pinterest for still more ideas for my kids at work. Grocery shopping. Sleeping in. Freezing, because the wind makes it colder out there AND in here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So a little back story. About 15 years ago, my parents sent out their annual Christmas letter. There were several paragraphs about my brother Steve and his wife/their boys. Several more about Jim and his wife/kids.

Then she went on to talk about the things she and my dad did during the year and ended by wishing everyone a happy new year.

My family... husband, kids and all we'd done during the year just didn't happen, I guess.
Eric was pissed off. 
I honestly wasn't upset, I actually laughed about it.

I know it's awful. I do. But it struck me funny and I've never been able to muster the righteous anger my husband (and my biggest fan) has felt about it ever since.

It gets brought up on occasion, usually when there's been another slight from my mom. She really seems to care about me the most when she can show me to someone else, either verbally or in person. Like a possession. 

Showing me off was a way of life until I escaped. They had me up on the stage in church at age 3, singing.

They pointed out my musical talents, the prize I won for an essay in the 8th grade, assorted other things they could use to look like better parents, at least in their eyes. They weren't proud of me, they were proud of themselves for manufacturing me.

My parents were collectors of  what they perceived to be unusual people. 
For example it wasn't, "This is my friend Enid," it was, "This is Enid. She's my Mennonite friend!"

Another prideful 'look at the person I've collected!' moment...

"Sandra is our antique dealer. She's from Great Britain! She has the most delightful accent!" 

Sandra was the person who got the family heirloom wooden rocking chair that was brought to Oregon by my paternal great-grandfather's family over the Oregon Trail in a  covered wagon. It had been in the family for over a hundred years. Hand carved and beautiful. Dad sold it to the delightful accent person for twenty five bucks. Miss Delightful Accent probably made a lot of money on that deal. I told him that next time he felt the urge to sell a family heirloom, at least phone me for a competing bid. I told him I would have given him a hundred bucks for it. 

He did that 'heh heh' laugh he always did when minimizing my feelings and continued to sell things that had been in the family for generations. He reminded me that it was 'just a thing' and that it didn't really matter.

Guess he had gambling debts to pay off.

Not the original chair, that one was much more elaborate and old.

Okay so yeah, they were collectors, Mom more than Dad. She never told me about anyone she knew without telling me whatever was 'special' about them.

"Chris is the person who married Harry and they lived up Canyon Creek until the fire, they lost everything."

After her local chapter of Jesus Jumping Hens (aka Women's Aglow) had a guest speaker, "I met a new friend who lives in Portland! Her name is Bernice." Then she lowered her voice and said in a confidential tone, "Of course she's black as the ace of spades."

My parents were both racists, although I didn't realize it until I was out and on my own. 
By the time I recognized that the way they were talking was racism, it was an automatic thing for me to evaluate people based on who they were, not what they looked like, but of course I had escaped from religion, which tried to teach me that anyone different was wrong or bad. 

Mom was stunned when she saw some of my high school photos with several friends that were taken after I got away from her home. 
"That girl is a negro!" she said, pointing to my old friend Angie in a couple group photos.
"Um..."
"Well, couldn't you find white friends?"
Several of the kids in the pic were different colors.
I didn't think it was important.

I still didn't realize the word racist applied. 
I had a sheltered existence. 
At the time, there were NO people with brown skin in any shade in Grant County, Oregon.

I called my mom this afternoon.
Our current conversations are usually about 10 minutes during which she repeats the same three or four topics 10 times apiece. I don't mind, I understand she's having cognitive issues.

So her phone rang on the other end six times and went to voice mail. Since she's not mentally able to check her voice mail anymore, I just hung up, figuring I'd call later.

I went to the bathroom and came back to find that she had called me six times in those two minutes.

So I called her back.

"Oh hi," she said. "Did you just call me?" 
(Um, yeah, that's why MY NAME showed up on your phone??)

"Yes."

"Oh. I was hoping it was Steve."
(Great, you scrawny old bat. Thanks. I don't know why I bother. Really.)

Then she said she'd brought her lunch from the cafeteria and eaten in her room because, "Some of the people here are just crazy."

I asked her if she'd been going to any of the activities, and she said, "I need to go take my tray back to the kitchen. Talk to you tomorrow or the next day!"

And then she hung up.

Guess she really wanted to talk to Steve.

The Andre Report

My big guy, Andre, has done really well. I'm pleased that he's been able to more or less adjust to the program and that I've developed an understanding of him, at least a bit. 

His parents are rearranging their schedule so that one of them will be home directly after school, so at the end of January, the two boys are going to what we call drop in status, meaning care is still available if they need it but they're no longer on our regular schedule.

Andre is going to age out of the program at the end of our school year anyway, so it's good to get him into his new routine beforehand. He likes to know what's next.

I'm sorry they're going, even though it *is* stressful to have him there, but I have had a lot of kids over the years that were more difficult to have around and still feel like I need to do the best I can for them. I'm pleased that he's done so well.

He can't help his differences any more than I can help mine. I think that every child should be able to spend as much time with their parent(s) as possible, at least most of the time. 

I met with Andre's parents via Zoom when he first joined the program. We talked a lot about what he needed and what we could expect while dealing with him. I was amazed at how well his parents know him and the clear and reasonable way they advocated for him. I know it can't be easy to deal with the system when you have a kid with high needs. They're very nice people and he's a lucky kid. 

Andre has a kind heart and does his best to fit in. He has become more confident in asking me for things like the Zoobs or specific craft things. He really enjoys the crafts and arty things we do. He has favorite activities and the guidance I had to offer at first (Would you like to try this activity or that one?) isn't necessary anymore.

His emotional age is lower than his chronological age, it's been helpful to me to consider him to be a six year old even though he's a big guy. 

Yesterday, Kieran (his younger brother) and Ben ganged up on him verbally and teased him until he became angry. I did not notice the interaction, we were outdoors and I was busy with bandages, shoe tying, opening the door so kids could go to the restroom etc. 

William (my assistant) noticed the interaction and had a conversation with Ben about kindness and what had happened after Andre and Kieran were picked up.

He talked with Kieran this afternoon. 
I caught up with their dad and let him know what had happened as well, as he had been escalated when his dad arrived for pickup. 

It's unavoidable that siblings of special needs kids are both parentified (take care of your brother) and held to a bit higher standard, like not teasing their siblings the way neurotypical kids do. 

Easier to let it go or at least not have a big reaction when it's just regular kids. 
If that makes sense.

I have five sibling pairs in my program. It's not usually difficult to smooth things over between them. It's funny, they'll smack each other or yell over nothing. But let someone else bother their brother or sister and they'll run across the room to defend them. That's a little more difficult to defuse, in case you wanted to know.

Kieran and Andre don't spend a lot of time together, I think they both need some space away from one another sometimes. Kieran has to make allowances for his brother and I'm sure feels slighted on occasion.

So at the end of the month, I won't have them in the program regularly.
I feel glad that Andre has mostly had a good time and has found a place with the other kids. The smalls look up to him, and it's clear that he likes it.

Huh.

Well, the move has happened. 

My brother and his wife did almost all the actual work of getting Mom packed up and moved out of her house and into assisted living. Matt went last weekend and helped with the process, but most of the work had already been done. My other brother, the one who lives in the same town Mom has spent the last 52 years in, did some of the hauling trash to the dump, too.

So Mom's in assisted living now. She sounded more coherent when I talked to her this week than she has in some time. She has made a friend already, and is participating in some activities offered to the residents of her new place.

I hope she is happy and comfortable there. I don't wish her discomfort or unhappiness. I hope she has a peaceful existence until she passes away. I have a feeling that she isn't going to be around much longer, although I am not basing that on anything concrete, just a feeling.

I know that she would hate the idea of lingering in a confused state.
Her mother had dementia and lived in a care facility for SIXTEEN YEARS. Her body was fine. Her brain? Nope.

One of the things my brother and his wife have done is deal with all the bills and stuff for Mom. I don't believe they're stealing or doing anything they shouldn't, by the way. I'm not the least concerned. The parents never had a lot of money, and there's not a lot of money left at the end of Mom's life, either. Once her house sells (if it does) Steve says he's putting most of the money in a high-yield account of some sort and then using the rest for her care. After she dies, he plans to split whatever's left three ways between the three of us "kids". 

I told him he could keep mine, but he said that he feels strongly that it's the right thing to do. 

Watch. It will be something like 250 bucks 20 years from now. Haha.

But while they were figuring out all the expenses and what Dad owed here and there, they discovered that he'd been using his credit cards for cash advances and gambling the money away. He had over 50 thousand dollars in gambling debt, mostly online poker.

Mom had no idea. She still doesn't, Steve said he saw no reason to tell her. I agree, what purpose would it serve?

He consulted an attorney when the credit card companies suddenly were asking for money, and he told Steve that because they were outside the amount of time in which they could legally demand payment from the estate, they had to just write the debt off.

It was definitely a surprise to find this out.

Fifty grand.
Wow.

Oliver Does Something Fishy

This was our project for Tuesday. Draw some wavy lines with a pencil, 'mirror' them, but not exactly, and then turn your little bubble spaces into fish or fill them with small critters. Or add critters where you want them. It's open-ended. One of my favorite types of project. Sort of like 'choose your own adventure' only with art. I always explain there is no wrong way to do it, if you make something you like, then you did it right. It doesn't have to look like mine or anyone else's, take the supplies and the bright colors and enjoy making something.

The kids are honest, but they still work to be kind in their comments to other kids. 
They find specific things they like and say so.
"I love the way this fish looks, and the blue is perfect."

They ignore the red fish that looks like a splotch of gore from a horror movie. We have worked on diplomacy a bit, but they mostly already know it and are generally nice to each other about their art.

So the first step with this picture is to make some wavy lines across the page.

Wavy lines are our friends. LOL

I really dislike my phone camera, but you get the general idea. The colors are much brighter in person.

First,  make some wavy lines.
Color the lines and fish/critter outlines with Sharpie.
Color your critters with crayon.
Then paint over it with watercolor.

Here's a version that's a little more... busy.
Also this one isn't crayon resist, it's alchohol-based markers. 
You can't paint over the marker, it doesn't resist the paint. 
This one was fun, but I kind of liked the simple one better.

Our projects are always optional.

Oliver came to the project table and looked at the examples.
He grabbed the simple version. 
He said, "Can I have this one?"

I told him no, that it was an example, but that I would be happy to help him make one.
"If I make it, it's my work, Buddy."

"Well, can you do the wavy things?" 
I did, with a little guidance from him. 
 
"Do you want this loop bigger or smaller? Where should I start the next line, Oliver?"
We got the wavy lines done. He asked me to draw a fish, so I drew one. He pointed to one that was smaller than the others and asked me to do that one, too. So I did.

Then he said, "You can finish it, I have to go play with the magnatiles."

I reiterated that he wasn't required to make one, it was just for fun and if he didn't want to, that was fine.

"Oliver, if I finish it, then it's my project, not yours. You don't have to make one, but I'm not making it for you."

So he asked his brother to do the project. Ben replied that he was busy with his own, but if he had time maybe later?

"Well, can you at least draw a jellyfish?"

So his brother did a jellyfish. Then Oliver asked for 'one of those water dogs'. With raised eyebrows and a few questions, Ben drew what his brother wanted (I still don't know where Oliver got the idea, but it was just a dog with a fin) and went back to his own art.

Oliver then took his project to every kid around the table and asked for help. Most of the kids did at least one fish for him, some did more than one. 

Then he took it back to his spot and slapped watercolors in green and blue all over it. He put it in the drying area and went to play.

When his dad showed up about an hour later, he ran across the room and grabbed his paper and ran again back to his dad.

"Dad!! Dad!! Look! I did this all by myself!!!"

::snort:::

When he went to get his coat and backpack, I gave his dad an abbreviated form of the story. We both laughed a little bit and they left.

That kid is so dang funny.

And my goal is for the kids to derive joy from making art. Collaborative art counts.

I'm calling this a win. 

So. How are you doing?

I decided to vent a little.
You don't have to read it. :)

We don't celebrate the holidays anymore, we don't have small humans to spoil and hug and bake cookies with, we don't need more of anything around the house. 
Too much stuff as it is.

No Christmas tree. 
I mean, we *have* one, it's in the shed. 
I probably need to find it a home. 
We're done with it.

I did decorate the kitchen table. 
Put on a Christmas tablecloth on Thanksgiving 'cause that was the one that was clean and haven't removed it. 
The one that had been on the table is still in the laundry room, although it has been washed and folded. 

The other decorations on the table are some boxes containing my new bathroom rugs, a couple gift bags from people who appreciate the care I give their children, some (opened) Christmas cards, I figure if I walk past them ten times a day maybe they'll guilt me into sending a January letter to a few friends, a couple craft items that I brought home but still need to put away until next December... you know, clutter.

I keep looking at it while the mess isn't too bad, saying something like 'oh I'll get this tomorrow' and then not doing it. 

Part of the problem is that I'm once again not feeling great physically. I always have daily pain, which sucks but I usually manage to function. 

What's going on with me since it got cold out is pain that's a lot stronger and I'm having some trouble staying mobile. I went thrift store shopping with Eric yesterday and within about 30 minutes my left knee was full of water and I was limping. I had so much trouble getting my left leg into the car without smacking the car next to me with my door that Eric had to get back out of the car and walk around to my side and hold the door at its widest-without-smacking. Then I had to grab my leg and gently manage to get it into the car. Fun times.

Lots of people have it worse, truly. I know this.
I have medication. I get a lot of rest. 
I have a husband/partner who takes up the slack so I don't have so much to do around the house. 
But it's hard right now physically.

And mentally. 
Christmas is... not my favorite season.

I've been remembering how utterly shitty the holidays were while I was growing up. 
My parents were obsessed with how much money had been spent on our family the year before by various aunties and grandparents, they had these little mental accountants who sat in their grumpy heads and pointed out how cheap they'd look if they didn't reciprocate exactly.

Which no one expected. I had a lot of relatives who, if not wealthy, weren't doing too badly. They could afford to be what my folks saw as extravagant. 

My parents couldn't. 
So the children in the family were shorted so they could spend 50 bucks on Aunt Lorraine, Aunt Jeanne, Grandma Fern.
And no, Christmas shouldn't be all about the presents, and it's not, now. 

But when I was a kid? Yeah. It was. To make it worse, my birthday is exactly two weeks before Christmas. Mom would put on an astounded and cheery tone of voice and say, "Your birthday is so close to Christmas! Instead of a birthday present, we'll get you something really big for Christmas!"

Did they?
Guess.

We had a tyrannical father who escalated so much during the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas that I was just sick to my stomach every day. I was all tied up in knots during school, wanting to retreat and hide wherever I was, not having space anywhere to do so. I never felt safe.

I was scared to death of what crazy shit he'd say or do before we finally got past the holidaze. His mood was not improved by the deaths of his father who died the week before my 13th birthday and then his brother about two years later. He couldn't enjoy the season, he was sad and he was mean. Not a good combination, in case you wondered.

It may be the escalated pain levels and the forced sitting around stuff that causes all this old stuff to bubble up. It may also be that I'm just one of those people who refuses to let go until I've finished processing.

The real work, signified by that overused term, processing, didn't really begin until my dad died a couple years ago. 

I keep remembering things that I'd mostly forgotten. 
I can't say deliberately buried, the memories were there, I just rarely bothered with them.

And it was a long time ago. January 1978, a month after I turned 17, I left home.

Yes, thanks, I've heard all the platitudes.

It's not good for you to hold on to the past. 
Who decided that it's not good for me? Did they know me then? They sure as hell don't know me now or they would not suggest such a stupid thing. Do they have any idea of what happened?

You only have one (father/mother). 
Wow, you did that on remarkably few clues! 
Are you Sherlock Holmes?

They did the best they could. 
What are you basing this on? 
Your own experience? 
You can't base your opinion of their parenting on what you know or what you did with your own kids.

At a minimum, at least one parent who did not stand by and watch abuse might have been, I don't know... better? 

This one has always been a favorite (not really, that's sarcasm) Be the bigger person! 
Yeah, that's right. I should say only good things while I know exactly what was said by my parents to everyone in the small town after I issued an ultimatum and left. People still believe it today.

Reach out and mend your fences. 
Screw you. 
Mend your own. 
My fences are fine, although I call them BOUNDARIES now.

Which leaves Forgive and Forget.
No.
I'm not Jesus and I don't have Alzheimer's.

So you remember my mom has a caregiver named Sheila, right? Only during our texting marathons during a lot of evenings, Mom never spells it the the same way twice. Shayla, Sheela, Shiela, Shiliea... it's pretty creative. 

I didn't correct Mom, no point in it and it doesn't matter anyway. A person with dementia isn't concerned with how well they spell things. And I knew who she meant, even when she called her Shella. We rarely message now, she has lost a lot of her cognitive skills which were never very good in the first place.

But Lyssa and Matt and I have seen the humor in it and during our text/message conversations, we refer to Sheila with a lot of different two syllable words.

So this past week my mom told me that Sprocket doesn't approve of me.
Apparently the fact that I "haven't bothered" (exact words from Slappy, passed on by my mother) to come over and help pack things for Mom's upcoming move to assisted living makes me "look bad".

Scabby used to live in the area where I live now, and SHE managed to drive over to John Day and visit HER parents when they were still alive!! Why, it was at least once a month! That proves that I just don't care.

I know with certainty that the same person who did not defend her children against her husband didn't bother saying anything to Sheetrock in defense of her daughter. Me. The one who has a lot of physical shit going on and wouldn't be any goddamn use helping to pack anyway.

The one who still works full time outside the home despite the aforementioned physical issues. The one who actually needs the money she earns. Yes, I love my job, but it's to my benefit to help bring money in. 

It's not even any use to explain it to my mom. She probably won't believe it and wouldn't dare stand up and say something to her 'care' giver, either.

Speaking of care, I have heard the way this stupid cow speaks to the elderly dementia patient she's supposed to be helping. If she's there when I talk to Mom on the phone, she's constantly correcting what she says. "No Sally, you did that on TUESDAY, not today!!" 

She is loud and talks over Mom, she corrects her and disagrees with her in the same loud voice and she sounds sarcastic as hell. 
Think Roseanne Barr. 
I've never met Snoopy and I hate her. I may not like my mom much, but she has dementia and that's not how you deal with a person whose mind is slipping.

So I don't want to make the 10+ hour round trip, sleep in a motel that costs me a day's wages, eat shitty restaurant food, be too cold half the time and too warm the other half, get a headache and be exhausted and in even MORE pain when I get home to go hang out with some old woman I don't even like. 

It's even less likely that I'm going to visit her in her new location, which is all the way on the Oregon/Idaho border and more like a 9 hour trip ONE WAY.

Why don't I go see her?  

I just don't care to. 

We don't have anything to talk about, she has about four marbles left rolling around in her brain, she's confused and not sure about anything from one day to the next. The anesthesia from the surgery necessary after her fall last summer scrambled her head pretty well. Same thing started my dad's steep decline. General anesthesia is a really bad thing for old people, you'd think they'd come up with something better, unless of course killing them off is the idea, in which case it's pretty efficient.

So when Mom informed me that I have failed to impress Smacker, I told her, "I don't have any control over what Sheila thinks of me, but I can tell you I don't really give a shit. 
She doesn't know me and doesn't know my life. 
Tell her to fuck off." 

I don't think Mom has told her that, though. Ha. I'm 100% sure Mom didn't jump to my defense when Spooky started bad-mouthing me any more than she defended me from the ogre who was my father, though.

From the sound of it, Sheetrock has done a bit of cleaning out Mom's house on her own. A head start, so to speak.

Steve says a lot of stuff is missing. Mom's jewelry is mostly gone, for example. Obviously we have no way of proving it. Whatever. I don't want her shit.

The old Ford Explorer, complete with poop-stained seats, belongs to Sheila now. Mom breathlessly and excitedly informed me that it has ALL NEW seat covers and a new steering wheel cover and that it's very clean and looks so nice!!!

"She's taking such good care of it!" Mom says, in the same bright tone she uses when Sheila is there and she says, "She's taking such good care of me!"

Sheila is getting PAID to take care of Mom, in case you wondered. An hourly wage that's more than I earn, and no taxes or SS taken out. All in cash.

So anyway, I'm crabby.
I have spent a great deal of the break holed up in what we refer to as The Momcave, but you can call it office space, TV room, dressing room, craft room... pretty much all of those things happen in here. It's chilly, and I can put the space heater under my desk, bundle up and while I'm in here, not hurt as much.

Anyway.
I don't spend my whole life going 'aww gee, my life as a kid was shit' and while I don't like being in constant pain, like I said up there, a lot of people have it worse.

Hopefully I'll start feeling a little better and have some kid stories for you next week. I've been collecting ideas and supplies for a lot of fun things for the young humans and have added 'charge the camera' to my list of shit that needs to get done.

Funny story about that. I have a 15 year old SLR Canon camera. It's a nice camera, and takes wonderful photos.

Every time I bring it to a new program there are several kids who have no idea what it is.

Amusing.

They love having their photo taken, but then they want to see it right away. I don't show it to them, the screen isn't very big and they can wait for the photos to be printed just like I did when I was a kid.

Haha.

So, how are you doing?

 

Merry Christmas