Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Well, THAT wasn't what I expected!

Jack has always been scattered, absentminded, and disorganized, but it was considered more of a family joke until this school year when his grades took a dump. This year, much more so than in years past, has been a constant stream of tears, fighting, incomplete homework assignments, more tears, bad grades, teacher conferences, and to top it all off - more tears. We were especially concerned because he goes to Jr. High next year, and the chaos that we've been going through this year will seem like a guided pony ride if we don't get things under control.

However, throughout all this, we believed the issue with Jack was behavioral. Even after going through everything we went through with Sam (and in fact, probably BECAUSE of it), we didn't really believe that Jack had ADHD. But we had made an appointment for late next month with Sam's doctor in order for Jack to be assessed for ADHD or other learning disabilities. I was certain this appointment was going to rule out any type of disability, but that it would provide at least some sort of answer as to how to address Jack's issues.

I got a phone call today at 10 am letting me know about a cancellation at the doctor's office, and that they could see Jack at 1 pm this afternoon. The doctor's office is about 40 minutes away to the north, and Jack's school is about 20 minutes away to the south. I had none of the preliminary paperwork completed, and neither did his teacher, since we expected the appointment to take place in about 4 weeks. I had 3 hours to complete the paperwork, ask his teacher to complete hers, leave work, drive to the school, pick him up, and get him to the appointment on time. I literally walked in the door to his appointment at 1 pm on the dot.

Sam's (and now, Jack's) doctor met with us and did the same thorough evaluation of Jack that she did of Sam. She talked more with Jack about his experiences than she did with Sam, and he was extremely forthright and honest and got emotional when talking about how hard school has become for him, even though he knows he's smart.

And then she showed us his assessment results, and despite everything we've been through, everything I had heard, you still could have knocked me over with a feather when she said:

Jack has ADHD.

There's no good reason for me to be surprised by this news. Jack's brother is ADHD, as are my sister and Matt's brother. There's a genetic component and Jack's behavior is and was clearly indicative of it. Of the family history, Sam is the only one with the hyperactive/impulsive type. The rest are inattentive type.

Part of me is looking out the window of my vacation home on the River Denial, part of me is pissed off that I need to go learn all about inattentive-type ADHD now (because dammit, I studied the shit out of hyperactive/impulsive-type. Whatever parenting test that was, I aced it!), and part of me feels like shit that I've been dragging my feet on this because I was SOOOO sure the answer was that Jack was "just" a gifted child, acting out and we needed some behavioral therapies, and that was it.

Jack's giftedness did mask some of his ADHD traits, but what his gifted abilities couldn't make up for was his brain's inability to sort through information, process and organize it, then do something with it. But because our experience with ADHD up until now was with Sam, and Sam is SO different than Jack, we didn't see it.

Jack is over the moon with this diagnosis. It's sort of his "I told you so!", and he deserves one. We've been on his case for many years about school work, and his cries of "I'm trying!!" always sounded like excuses. Now, he has a medical diagnosis that says he WAS trying but trying wasn't enough to change his brain chemistry. I'll beat myself up over that tonight over a glass or three of wine.

We've decided, with Jack's input, and with the doctor's blessing, to start Jack on a course of meds as well. His will be different than his brother's (based on his age, his symptoms, and other medical history), but we'll be just as diligent about watching for any side effects. I'm actually more nervous about putting Jack on medication than I was with Sam, but I do believe it's the right thing to do.

It's crazy how much things have changed in the last 4 hours, and how much they're exactly the same. I don't see our day to day life changing much because of this, but like it did with Sam's diagnosis, maybe it will just become an improved version of the same ol', same ol'. At least, that's what I hope for.

Monday, March 25, 2013

The new babysitter

My kids' school district is on a modified year-round schedule, so that means extended fall and spring breaks, and a shortened summer break.  A two-week fall break is fantastic; I prefer to take family vacations in the fall, when fewer people travel. By the time we return from vacation, it's time for the boys to go back to school. And since we travel in the fall, a shorter summer break means less time and money (okay, mainly less money) spent putting kids in summer camps. But a two-week spring break is always iffy. There are intersession camps available for our kids, but our kids aren't usually super-excited about them, and I hate to pay good money for my kids to be bored at a day camp site, when they can be bored at home for free.

This year for spring break, we flew the boys to Oklahoma to spend time with my mom and my aunt and uncle on the family farm there. They spent ten days doing what my cousins and I did when we were their ages - roaming the pasture, skipping stones, taking target practice with the BB gun - and learning what it's like to be a kid in a small, rural town. This trip was the answer to our spring break quandary - my kids got to spend time with their grandmother, Matt and I got some alone time, and for those ten days we didn't have to worry about daycare accommodations. But when they returned we still had one more day off before they returned to school. What are two cheap-ass working parents to do?!

Answer: Resort to desperate measures.

Jack is twelve and has been begging for more responsibility. Sam is seven and has been begging for the opportunity to take advantage of his brother. With one fell swoop, we answered two prayers for the price of one. So today, Jack is home alone with Sam (God - just typing that is filling me with anxiety). We agreed to pay Jack $20 to watch his brother. We also agreed to pay Sam $15 to listen to his brother. (Sam seriously needs to go into sales. I realize that we were effectively blackmailed into paying that $15 to him, but he made me WANT to pay him. He's that good.)

My day looked like this:

7:37 AM - Matt leaves for work with a smile on his face. He is WAY too calm about this.

7:38 AM - Sam asks me for the third time since last night if Jack has to do anything he asks him. I tell him yes.

7:42 AM - Jack realizes what I said four minutes ago and wants clarification on what "anything" means. I tell him that as long as the police aren't called, I don't care what Sam asks - if Jack wants to get paid, he will do what Sam asks AND LIKE IT! And because I'm a good mother, I want to be fair, I ask Sam not to bound and gag his brother while playing cops and robbers.

7:54 AM - After going over all the rules for the gazillionth time - don't answer the door for strangers, no neighbor kids allowed in the house, no starting small fires just to watch them burn - and after warning my boys about the slow, painful torture I'd put them through if I called and no one answered the phone, I put on my brave face and walked out the door. Then came back in to make sure they knew where lunch was. THEN walked out the door.

8:12 AM - I call Matt to ask if we made a colossal mistake. Matt doesn't seem concerned, but I can't tell if it's because he trusts our kids, or because he needs to get off the phone. I'm going to assume Option A, because I really, really want to be able to do this again some day.

8:50 AM - I lasted a whole hour before I called the kids for the first time. Jack answered on the 5th ring and it almost goes to voicemail. I'm about to drive home just to make sure he's alive so that I can beat the bejeezus out of him. But he answers. They're alive. Playing Minecraft. I remind him to make sure they brush their teeth and get dressed for the day. Oh yeah, he says. I say a silent prayer that some day my child learns personal hygiene without having to be reminded.

9:32 AM - My phone, which I have been carrying around all morning, rings - it's Matt. I answer on the first ring. (THAT'S how you do it, Jack!) What's wrong!!?? What happened!!?? Nothing, he says. I just wanted to see how your morning was going. Gah!! Men!! Don't they know better than to be caring, thoughtful husbands when their kids are home alone!!??

10:10 AM - Phone call # 2. Jack answers on the 3rd ring. He's getting better. They haven't eaten their AM snack yet, but they're getting ready to. Still haven't brushed their teeth BUT they have gotten dressed. I decide to be happy with a small victory.

Approx. Noon - It's been a crazy busy morning at work so I haven't been able to call in almost two hours!!! My panic is full-steam ahead for phone call # 3. Fortunately, Jack answers halfway through the second ring. This overachieving will come back to bite him in the ass. He sounds annoyed when he answers. "Heeeeeey moooommmm." He sounds like a teenager, with his bored, insolent tone - they grow up so fast. Everyone's still breathing, still got all their limbs, not tied up, have eaten lunch, AND they brushed their teeth!

2:13 PM - I've backed off my diligence a little bit. So far, Jack's been a rockstar babysitter, so I allow myself another two hours before making phone call # 4. They're considering going to the park next to our house, but Sam wants to wait until the neighbor kids gone. I hear Sam in the background: "They're so CLINGY!"

4:18 PM - I call one last time before heading out. It takes Jack three rings to answer the phone, and I panic because the one-and-a-half rings rule has become my standard. I ask him what took so long to answer and he replies, "I was just letting the stranger in the house." Smart ass. I'm so proud.

4:32 PM - I call one last time - for real this time - to let Jack know I'm stopping at the grocery store before heading home.Jack says they may go to the park finally, and will leave a note if they do.

4:48 PM through 4:56 PM - I grocery shop faster than I have ever grocery shopped before.

5:17 PM - I arrive home and the garage door is wide open. I walk inside to an empty house. I panic and I'm pretty sure I hold my breath for the 40 seconds it takes me to find the note. "Mom. Went to the park. Go to the end of the street, turn right, and the park is on the right. That park." His growing grasp of sarcasm is about to make me cry tears of pride and makes me almost forget about the fact that he left the garage door wide open.

5:32 PM - Jack and Sam arrive home. There are no broken bones, they're smiling and joking with one another, and when quizzed separately, each says the other was great all day. And they seem to mean it. Could it really be this easy?

7:15 PM - Dinner has been eaten without complaint, showers have been taken without incident, and my announcement that school starts again tomorrow seems to actually excite them. I'm not entirely convinced that body snatchers didn't take my children, and I don't particularly care. I'll keep these versions. I pay the pod people their $20 and $15, and they ask when they can do this again. Worlds of possibility open up.

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I was on edge and nervous all day, and even though it turns out that I had no reason to be, I'm not sure when I'll do this again. But Jack is cheap labor and Sam is a cheap extortionist, so the potential upside to our monthly family budget is significant. I'll admit I feel irresponsible, entrusting my 12-year old son to take care of and protect his brother, but really I think I feel this way more because I just don't want to admit they're growing up so quickly. I don't want to acknowledge that they do just fine without me breathing down their necks all day long. They're supposed to NEED me, dammit!


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7:45 PM - It's time for bed, and Sammy, asks me to tuck him in. Before I do, I kiss him good night, thank him for being such a good boy today, and tell him I love him. He grabs my neck hard and squeezes. "I love you momma. I love you all the way up to God and back and back to God and back again."

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

What makes a Momma Bear?

Sugar, and spice, and everything nice - that's what little girls are made of. To be a Momma Bear, add a little piss and vinegar.

My mom and dad raised me to be a strong, independent, don't-stand-for-shit kind of woman. By most accounts, I didn't need much encouraging. I'm what I would consider a typical oldest child: ambitious, a perfectionist, stubborn (I prefer "strong-willed"), and bossy (so my sister Ann would say - If she would just listen to me, she'd understand that I have strong leadership qualities.). I come from a long line of Momma Bears - I think I was made for the job.

Momma Bears are not always moms. When we were kids, I appointed myself Protector of My Sister. The only fight I ever got in as a kid was because someone made fun of her. No one was going to make fun of or torture my little sister - except me. (And as a perfectionist, I was really, really good at it.)  I have friends and family without kids who wouldn't hesitate to take a stand for something they believe in.

Momma Bears stand up for themselves as much as they do for others. Once, a Warehouseman I used to work with was dumb enough to say some derogatory, sexual things about me to some of his buddies, and didn't know (or didn't care) that I overheard him. I'm pretty sure I blacked out from anger because the next thing I recall is that I was eye to chest with this asshole, who was about a foot taller than me and thrice as heavy, doing that "quiet yell" that Momma Bears seem to do so well. I let him know that I would not be disrespected that way, that I would not allow any other woman to be disrespected this way, and what kind of dumbass with a daughter thinks this behavior is okay and how 'bout I call his wife and tell her what he just said about another woman? I hissed and spit like a snake. I look back on that day and remember being so pissed off that I couldn't find any words, but according to those who were there (about 15 other men, all of whom knew better than to get in my way), I certainly wasn't speechless.  
  
We're a bit of paradox, because even though Momma Bears can throw a punch and aren't afraid to, we're also nurturers. We want to shield those we care about from hurt, anger and fear. Momma Bears appreciate others. Momma Bears care and love so deeply it often hurts. But we're not excuse-makers or blame-shifters and we expect the same of others.

My maternal Momma Bear-edness REALLY kicked in as soon as I had Jack and it went into overdrive when I had Sam. As the boys got older, there were more and more situations when I had to step up to the plate for my boys' sake - with teachers, coaches, friends, family - and in some of those cases, Mt. Momma Bear did erupt. In one instance, Matt still swears I was trying to get him killed because I chased down and chewed out two men whose reckless driving could have killed us while we drove down the freeway with the boys. It was stupid and he's right - I had no idea what those guys would or could do. But all I could think about was my babies possibly being hurt, and I was out for blood. In another situation, I think one of Jack's former coaches is still afraid of meeting me in a dark alley because I told him and anyone else within 100-yard radius what I thought after an epic display of poor sportsmanship (the coach, not the kids), and after he called my son a name.

 Special Needs Momma Bears are a different breed. (And Special Needs Momma Bears aren't always taking care of children - I know several who are taking care of their parents or other adults.) They take all the MB traits, and kick it up a notch. Your backbone has to be a bit stronger, your patience greater, your empathy higher, and your ability to bite your tongue - well, I wouldn't know how that goes since I've haven't figured that one out yet. 

I have learned the most about myself since embracing my role as a Special Needs Momma Bear. I didn't realize that I could be so passionate about something. I didn't know that I could be so patient. (And I'm not that patient, mind you. It's just that on a patience scale of 1-10, I used to be a -20. Being about a 3 now is amazing progress.) I didn't think I could ever take on something that scared me so much and turn around and conquer that fear. I didn't realize I was so awesome.

One more thing - Momma Bears LOVE to recognize the greatness in other Momma Bears. I prefer to do so with a generous house pour of a good wine. Cheers!

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Why I don't do PC

I got a feeling about political correctness. I hate it. It causes us to lie silently instead of saying what we think. - Hal Holbrook


In the not-so-distant past, I've fallen into the trap of not wanting to offend anyone by something I've said or done. How does that end up? Not so well. I usually end up inadvertently insulting twice as many people as I had initially hoped to please, and the one person I had hoped not to offend, never cared in the first place.

Being politically correct is exhausting, so I don't bust my ass at it anymore. I'm not saying I walk around like an ignorant Neanderthal (which, thanks to Geico commercials is now a politically incorrect thing to say). It just means I'm not going to go out of my way to say something that someone's mom's neighbor's brother's dogsitter won't find offensive. For example - I'm part Asian (that is, I'm a quarter Korean and some fraction of Chinese) and part Hawaiian. I don't particularly care if you call me Asian, Asian-Pacific Islander, Oriental (although that's more of a pet peeve), or hey you - as long as you're not using it a hurtful or disrespectful manner. I recognize Columbus Day, root for the Redskins, and have sons who have been known to point at an imaginary bad guy with their index fingers pointing out and thumbs sticking upward.

So when I refer to Sam and ADHD/ODD, I don't really take extra care to make sure I use the "right" phrase. And I'll let you off the hook - I don't care if you do or don't either, as long as you're not being mean or careless about it. Sometimes I'll say Sam has ADHD/ODD. Sometimes I'll say he is ADHD/ODD. Sometimes I'll refer to my ADHD/ODD son - I'm not using it as THE descriptor for my child, just one of many. I will equally refer to my strong/smart/stubborn/caring/insert-any-number-of-adjectives-here son. Saying that any one of those words is me "defining" or "labeling" my child overly simplistic to me. It says that of ALL the words I choose to describe my son as, that one phrase is the one that carries the most weight. I disagree. ADHD and ODD is a part of who he is, and it will be a part of his story for the rest of his life. But it won't be the WHOLE story.

If I'm defining my child, I hope I'm defining him by teaching him values like honesty, empathy, responsibility, and integrity. If I'm assigning labels to him, I hope the labels he grows up with are "leader" and "friend". He won't accomplish these things in spite of ADHD or ODD - if I do my job right he should accomplish these things regardless of his special needs or behavioral issues. I certainly have to apply different techniques to teaching these life skills to him because of his conditions, but if Sam were to fail in any of these areas (he won't) it would be a reflection of me, and not of him.

I don't avoid the term ADHD. We no longer tiptoe around saying "ODD" in our home. Jack and Sam know exactly what it stands for, and all 4 of us have conversations about what it means to our family. If it's not a bad word at home, it won't be a bad word out in the real world. If we teach our boys that it's nothing to be ashamed of, they won't be ashamed of it. Shame = bad. Awareness = good. If it's part of our everyday conversation, I hope that Sam's response if someone brings it up at school is, "Yeah. So?" (Hopefully in a very polite way. We'll work on that...)

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Your funny isn't my funny

I'm one of THOSE Facebook users. I'm the one who, if I don't post at least once a day, you likely need to call the authorities to do a wellness check on me. I'm always on it - I love keeping up with childhood friends, sharing inside jokes with college friends, looking at pictures, and posting my own pics. I've learned to stay away from conversations where I'm just going to piss someone off, and ignore the personal, political, and religious posts that I may disagree with. For me, life's too short to get all bent out of shape over Facebook posts.

But today, I saw this, courtesy of a friend of a friend of a friend who shared it on someone else's page and it ended up in my newsfeed:



I know better. I should have just hidden it or ignored it or shook my head at the inaccuracy of it. But nope - I allowed this one little share of a share of a share from someone I don't even know ruin my morning.

It was from one of those comedy-type pages, but I don't see what's funny about it. I don't know - maybe when I got dressed this morning, I forgot to put on my sense of humor. Maybe that's where this is coming from.

Or maybe I've just had enough of hearing, "Oh, you're overreacting. My kid gets hyperactive all the time!" or "Just because he doesn't pay attention doesn't mean he's ADHD!" or "ADHD isn't a real condition." or my personal favorite these days, "You're just medicating him because you're too lazy to parent your kid."

That last comment was an actual comment on the picture, in response to another parent who posted what I was feeling - that this meme minimizes what parents of ADHD kids go through and illustrates some of the stereotypes we live with. I would like to hunt down Mitch Thomas* and drop off an unmedicated Sam at his home for a week, and then have him tell me how lazy I am and how my son's condition is imagined and overblown. (*Not his real name. Or is it? If your name is Mitch Thomas, you're totally freaking out right now, aren't you?)

Please understand - I do not go around diagnosing my friends' kids as ADHD. Many, in fact most, times they are just kids being kids. I'm not a medical professional, and I don't like to project my situation onto others. I do believe that a lot of times, ADHD is a label that gets slapped on a child, through no fault of the child's or their parents. ADHD isn't just a kid who's really active, or a kid who daydreams, or a kid who doesn't pay attention. Those are factors in our child, but those alone do not indicate his ADHD. There's a difference between a kid who gets easily sidetracked, and a kid who gets out of his chair and starts doing somersaults and then grabs markers and writes all over books and then throws the markers in the trash and then digs through the trash and then wanders outside and then...(Side note: If reading that last sentence exhausted you, that's a glimpse into our lives. Sam is a walking, talking run-on sentence.)

I've seen a ton of memes that poke fun at ADHD that I actually think are funny, and have even posted some to my on own Facebook page. Isn't there some rule of comedy that says in order for something to be funny, it has to be true? But this stuck in my craw. I WISH this is what my son's ADHD looked like because at least he'd be quietly sitting on his ass as he daydreamed, instead of being sent home for bouncing off the walls.

In an effort to determine if I was getting all bent out of shape over nothing, I asked Matt how he felt about this post. Matt is not as hot-tempered as I am, and not super-expressive, but he pinpointed exactly what I was feeling. This minimizes our struggles, and make no mistake - it has been a supreme struggle. My marriage had became weakened and contentious partially because we didn't know how to work together to handle our son's ADHD. My older son has felt neglected because we've spent so much time, evergy, and money on his brother. Our ADHD son has walked around for several years feeling like a failure because he thinks he's not as good as all the other kids who listen. Most moms and dads calendar their weeks and months around playdates, sports, and school activities. Not us - we do it around doctors, therapists, and marriage counseling sessions. We're becoming a stronger family unit for it, but the hell we went through to get there - I wouldn't wish that on Mitch Thomas or any of his ignoramus buddies.

I hate not being able to see the humor in a situation. I hate feeling like a hypocrite because I can laugh at some jokes about ADHD, but not this. I hate not being able to live and let live. I hate complaining about this because I know it could be a lot, lot, LOT worse. But just because something could be worse, doesn't mean that what we went through (and still go through) isn't still plenty shitty.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Meet Sammy B.

You know, he's the reason I started blogging, and I just realized that I haven't introduced you all to Sam. In the immortal words of Stephanie Tanner, "How rude!"



Sam Robert is our much wished-for miracle child. When Jack was about 12 months old, we starting trying to get pregnant again. When we did get pregnant, it didn't stick. After 2 years of trying, we began consulting with a reproductive endocrinologist. I had the dreaded Unexplained Secondary Infertility - there was no reason why I wasn't getting and staying pregnant. We were forced to learn the alphabet of infertility: ART, AI, IUI, and finally settled on IVF. Finally, after 4 long, painful years of infertility, we became, and stayed, pregnant.

In vitro was my first experience with feeling judged for decisions that Matt and I made. It didn't happen often, but I would hear the criticisms of people who told me that infertility was nature's way of controlling the population; that my miscarriages were God's way of telling me that I should be happy with just one child; that I should accept whatever God gave me. Personally, I think Sam's birth was God's way of telling me to be patient, and telling everyone else to mind their own damned business. Well, maybe not so much that last part (that was actually me), but he was definitely on our side for the journey. One day right before I had to decide if we were going to go through with a very expensive IVF treatment, or if we were going to call it a day and throw in the towel, I was driving home from work. I had a long commute, and a lot of times I used that time to talk with God. (He and I chat a lot this way.) On this particular drive, I asked Him, "God, I wish I knew what to do. It's such a big decision. I don't know - should I just stop trying?" Not 60 seconds later, a minivan drove past me on the freeway, and I noticed its vanity plate: KIDSR4U. I shit you not. I still get chills thinking about that.

We had more help from Up There too. My father died when I was 5 months pregnant with Jack, but I firmly believe he's been keeping an eye on his grandsons ever since he passed. Two nights before I got the word from the doctor that I was, in fact, pregnant, my dad and his father - my Papa - came to me in a dream. In it, the three of us sat around my childhood kitchen table, and we talked about this and that. My dad and Papa told me that I was pregnant, that it was a boy, and that they would be honored if I would name the baby after them. (My dad was Robert Jr., and my Papa was Robert Sr.) I woke up, cried softly for a little while, then woke Matt up and told him about the dream (you'll never convince me it was "just" a dream).

This kid was Meant to Be.

But in true Sam fashion, he never made things easy. I had hyperemesis gravidarum before Kate made it cool (actually, there's nothing cool about it). I suffered from preeclampsia during my last trimester and as a result, Sam was delivered by emergency c-section 3 weeks early. His little lungs weren't fully developed, so he spent the first five days of life in the NICU, then was on supplemental oxygen for almost a month. I found out recently that a mother with preeclampsia, early delivery, and needing O2 while an infant have been proven links to ADHD. Check, check, and check. Awesome - something else for me to feel guilty about.

Sam is known as Sammy, Sam Bob (a joke with my family from Oklahoma), Sammy Blue Eyes (because every Italian kid needs a good mob name), and mostly, Sammy B. Sarcasm is his first language (it's in his DNA), and Matt and I still marvel at his extremely advanced grasp of it. I thought my mother-in-law was going to keel over when, at about 2 years old, Sam looked her in the eye and said dryly, "Nana. I's been sartastic."

He is FUN-NY. With a capital FUNNY. Most times, he means to be and he LOVES when people laugh at his jokes. He does NOT love it when people laugh at HIM. He's a sensitive soul and is very easily hurt. It's a strange balance because that kid is also a mean motherfucker who will say the most painful things a child can say, just because he wants to wound you as much as he feels wounded. Those moments break my heart because I know he can't possibly understand that I already DO hurt as much as he does, simply because he's mine.

He is loving. And smart. And naturally athletic. And did I say funny? And, yes, he has ADHD, ODD, and anxiety. Eh, no one's perfect. But he's our Sammy B, and as his very proud, but often exhausted, older brother would say - our family wouldn't be Us without him.

If Sammy were here for this introduction, I'm certain he would very politely say hello (because he's been raised well) and then ask you to pull his finger (because there's only so much I can do).