If Mama Ain't Happy...

Why I want to work for Ree

Don't get me wrong, my boss is pretty awesome.  But the following list of work commandments from the Hotfessional solidified that she is someone whose work attitude is one that meshes so very nicely with mine.

1. Thou shall not have speakerphone conversations with thy door open and thy volume turned to high.
2. Thou shall not make for yourself smelly lunches and leave the trash in thy trashcan to stink all afternoon.
3. Thou shall not take the name of thy boss or coworkers in vain unless thou are willing to dish all of the details.
4. Remember the quitting time, to keep it holy.
5. Honor thy administrative assistant and mail clerk.
6. Thou shall not leave the copy machine empty of paper.
7. Thou shall not take the last cup from the coffee pot at 9 a.m.without making new.
8. Thou shall not steal your co-worker’s very favorite pen.
9. Thou shall not erase the whiteboard that clearly states “Do not Erase” - asshole.
10. Thou shall not take credit for something thou did not do; thou shall not sabotage another’s efforts, nor refuse to give information, nor refuse to suggest another time for a meeting thou cannot make, nor covet thy neighbor’s office, nor her administrative assistant, nor her chair, nor her coat hangers, nor anything that is thy neighbor’s.

Who am I to argue with that? 

It was twenty years ago today...

I don't know why I actually know the specific date for this, but it just occurred to me that it's been exactly twenty years since I graduated from high school.  I was skinnier and blonder then, but my outfit today is much more flattering than the heinous goldenrod colored graduation gowns the girls in my class had to wear in 1989.

Jinx! Who owes me a Coke?

I started the day yesterday with the outline of a post in my head.  I was going to write about how I was two months removed from having to check my son into a mental health facility for an inpatient stay, and how I had finally learned to say things like "He's being treated for bipolar disorder," without the words getting caught up in my throat and making me short of breath.  How Hoss has come to accept twice-a-day doses of an anti-psychotic as routine (he doesn't know what the risperidone is, really, just that it's the medicine that helps him keep his feelings from getting too big to handle), and how he even reminds me that he needs to take his evening pills if I forget to bring them out with dinner.

Then I got a call from the beforecare director letting me now that Hoss had experienced a signficant outburst and was being attended to in the school office.  Followed by a call from the principal about 20 minutes later, letting me know that Hoss had stripped down to his Spiderman skivvies, and was hiding under the desk refusing to put his clothes back on.  Had yesterday not been the day that the elementary school was doing a mock-Congressional hearing, compelete with visits from some of our state politicians, the staff would probably have kept him in the office and dealt with it.  The VIP's in attendance, however, did not need to be subjected to my son in his birthday suit.

He was fine for most of the day, and worked to articulate what made him so angry and what a better coping mechanism would have been ("What's up with taking your clothes off, Hoss?" I asked him.  "I was really angry," he replied.  "And getting naked helped with that?"  "Not so much," he admitted, "I should do something else instead.")  Because this was the start of the school day, I had no assignments for him to complete, but I didn't want the day to be a vacation either.  So I made him fold laundry.

Anyway, it seems that in addition to my 'don't write about a good streak, because that's tempting fate' stance, I also can't think about how we've improved over the past two months, lest the whole shabang blow up in my face.

I am such a dork

I know, that title give you no clue as to the post contents, since there is a myriad of behaviors that I exhibit that could lead to the assessment.

Did you know that CrockPots have touch screens now?   No lie.  And program options from as little at 30 minutes?  Seriously, none of that "well, I'll round to the nearest hour" crap.

And I am bound and determined to win myself a new slow cooker.  CrockPots rock my world.  I love being able to throw a ton of stuff in a container and have a meal ready to eat when I come home.  And I love gadgetry.  Touch screens are awesome. 

So, here I sit, dorking out over the latest time saving/kitchenry technology.

Tomorrow I plan to call in "snarky"

One of the women in my department sent an email to explain her absence.

"I am feeling extremely uncomfortable, and will not be in today."

The "not posting" post

There has been a lot of sadness in the blogosphere.  The parents (and non-parental readers) who are mourning Maddie and Thalon because of their online connection to those babies' moms.  The sports fans who are reeling from Nick Adenhart or Harry Kalas.  There is also a lot of silliness in the blogosphere, since there's a decent amount of the population still on a Peeps high.

Hoss is back at school, and not having the easiest time of it (but, as the counselor pointed out, more kids are having a hard time coming back from Spring Break than those who are OK with it, so he's totally in the norm today.)  I'm at work and getting called on the carpet for the mistakes I've been making because I've been off my game for two months (not unreasonably called on the carpet; more like "I know your life has been hell, but you need to pass stuff off or ask for help and keep people in the loop.")  Husband is home cleaning out the pantry while he and Princess are on break, and calling me too freaking often to ask whether to throw stuff away.

I just want to curl up in a ball somewhere, with a mocha on the table next to me and a pair of socks on my knitting needles.  But I don't see that happening any time soon...

Lost

I lost Hoss in a parking lot once.  I put him in the van and came around to the other side door to connect Little Joe's baby seat, and Hoss took that brief moment to climb out and run away.  For a moment, I froze.  I couldn't run around to look for him without leaving my other children unprotected, but I couldn't stay where I was.  Thankfully, I was coherant enough to be able to describe his build and looks and clothing to the passers-by who heard me screaming him name, and one of those kind hearted folks led him back to me before he had a chance to get hit by a car or wander back into Target or anything more worrisome.  I learned my lesson, and watched him more closely when we were out, and I vowed that I couldn't think of how badly things couldn't have been.

Hoss' issues seem very similar to those exhibited by one of my cousins.  Jamie is an adult now, but during his teenage years, he hit depths that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  I suspect that the research that exist today, the studies that have come to light about bipolor disorder and ADHD and all those other "disorders" with the capital D's, the information that wasn't available a few decades ago about how a kids' mind might be working when he's not a typical kid, might have prevented some of the misunderstandings and hard times and issues that he faced.  The rift between him and his parents has long since mended, and we all know that the pain he caused himself and those he loves were not coming from any place of malice or bad intention (in fact, you'd be hard pressed to find a more deeply caring person than he is).  My Nanna told me years ago that she felt, in some ways, so much more strongly for Jamie than for some of the rest of us.  She described him as being a lost soul, and prayed that he'd find his way back, and I'm guessing that she now says some prayers of gratitude that he wasn't lost forever.

I've seen today a huge series of tweets and blog posts and online bonding over a loss experienced by a woman I have never met, and do not even know in a cyber-sense, much less a real-life one.  I'd link to the information, but the traffic to her blog is so heavy right now that no links work.  In any case, I saw the Twitter posts, and figured out very quickly that this beautiful, precious 17-month old had succumbed to what I assume is RSV.  It seems to me as though it happened quickly, probably in a mind-blowingly surreal whirwind.

I've never read this mother's blog, never followed her tweets, but seeing this gripped my heart in a way I can't fully articulate.  The fog I lived in for those weeks last month, the fatigue and numbness I felt when I came back from visiting hours, and the bursts of tears I had when I let the numbness wear off, all of that is nothing.  Hoss is here.  He's here and he's breathing and he's laughing.  And this woman's baby girl is not.   For the rest of her life, she's got an invisible wound that never quite goes away.  And she's got support and prayers and life will go on for her, for her husband, for the rest of her family.  But she's never going to regain what she lost.

Life lessons, from a snack food

Today at work, one of my cube neighbors stated that her children are trying to kill her.  She's had a bit of a rough week with her children, with various sleep issues and toddler behaviors.

"Aw, come on," I said, "if my kids haven't killed me yet, you know there's hope for you.  Hang in there."

That which does not kill us makes us stronger.  And the past month or so has shown me that there's a pretty decent amount of what life can throw at us, but that we muddle through.  I know I'm not Miss Mary Sunshine all the time, but I try to roll with the punches.  So, when I got an email link from Mommy Track'd, letting me know about Pepperidge Farms' Fishful Thinking campaign, I figured I'd give it a shot.  Things are not always great for my children, and they all get upset about the things that happen.  But they survive, and they find the happy spots where they can, and I try to foster that.  Besides, who can stay grumpy when eating Goldfish?  They are the snack that smiles back!

Back to life, back to reality

Hoss is being discharged from the outpatient program today.  Which is good, since it means he is no longer exhibiting behaviors that make the doctors think he cannot handle his regular day.  But all indications I had been given up until today made me think he was not going to be discharged yet, so I have not been able to get with the school to make a transition plan for tomorrow.  I did speak with the principal, and we agreed to start him again on Monday.  This will allow the school counselor to speak with the other students about Hoss coming back after a month of suspension/hospitalization (they are even planning to make cards to say how much they've missed him and how they want to welcome him back), it will allow the staff to get the visual clues for what spaces are OK to use to decompress (and to put big red dots on the doors to remind him that NO, you may NOT exit!), and they will use Monday morning to work closely with him to lay out his day and his special rules and guidelines. 

The hospital discharge coordinator made an appointment with Hoss' regular psychiatrist upon his release from the inpatient unit.  Being as he's being released from the daily program earlier than anticipated, I decided to try to get the appointment moved up to tomorrow (I may as well use the day off to get something accomplished, instead of taking more time next week for the scheduled visit).  I got the voicemail, telling me that my party does not answer and that I can hit extension 10 to get the receptionist.  The problem is that my party IS the receptionist, so hitting x10 just takes me into the same voicemail loop that does not include the ability to leave a message.

I am happy to see Hoss go back to school.  I want him to lead his normal life, and I hope that his medication adjustment has put him in a state of mind to allow the outpatient therapy and educational accomodations to be effective.  I just hate having to plan all of this on the fly.  Routine is soothing to him, I think, and the past month has been anything but routine.

One routine to which I plan to return is the periodic enjoyment of an adult beverage.  I have not partaken since the night before Hoss' admission to the hospital, and I can faithfully say that a nice pinot noir or a raspberry martini will be a very welcome addition to my weekend.

Same [stuff], different day

Hoss cried and said he wanted to go home as soon as he looked at the group room at the day hospital.  Sigh.  Once again, I tell myself that this is the right thing to do, and I believe that deep down, but almost all of my decisions about Hoss' well-being in the past few weeks have made him cry.

I worry about the increase in dosage on his medication, even though the dramatic increase is more a result of how very, very teeny tiny the original dosage was, not an indication that he's been overmedicated.  I worry that he was released before we got anywhere near figuring out what sets off the "flight" response he shows so often in school or at home.  But I hated having him in that place away from home, without access to whichever pajamas he felt like wearing and whatever Webkinz toy he felt like cuddling and his nightly kiss and hug goodnight.  He was safe there, but we couldn't make it be home, nor should it have been. I need home and school to be places where he is safe, and the only way I know that can happen is if he gets back to home and school and makes choices that let us protect him and keep him safe.  I know that treating him now, figuring out this combination of medication and therapy and educational assistance, will mean a better life for him in middle school and high school and adulthood.  I know it will get better, and that it will take awhile to determine the best way to get to "better."  I know he's not going to hate me forever because I put him in the hospital when he's eight years old.  He doesn't even hate me now, he just misses me.  Sad has replaced a fair amount of the anger lately.

It hurts some.  I know he's probably all kinds of fine now, that his tears were dried and other activites begun that keep him busy and not missing me one iota.  But he's probably cried more in the past eight days than he has in the last year.  Just like him mama.