Binkies and Briefcases

My grandmother is dying. This is not news to us, she has been under hospice care for almost 2 years, but a few days ago she took a turn for the worst and it is probably only a matter of hours now. Eddie & I went to see her yesterday, it is a sad time for the family but because I knew her very well I can say that Mommom most certainly would not have wanted to linger like she has with no quality of life, so it will be a blessing when she goes. Rather than focus on the current state of her fragile body & morphine drips, I’m going to use this post to focus on the impact her life has had.

“An excellent wife who can find? She is far more precious than jewels. The heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain. She does him good, and not harm, all the days of her life. She seeks wool and flax, and works with willing hands. She is like the ships of the merchant; she brings her food from afar. She rises while it is yet night and provides food for her household and portions for her maidens. She considers a field and buys it; with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard. She dresses herself with strength and makes her arms strong.
She perceives that her merchandise is profitable. Her lamp does not go out at night. She puts her hands to the distaff, and her hands hold the spindle. She opens her hand to the poor and reaches out her hands to the needy. She is not afraid of snow for her household, for all her household are clothed in scarlet. She makes bed coverings for herself; her clothing is fine linen and purple. Her husband is known in the gates when he sits among the elders of the land. She makes linen garments and sells them; she delivers sashes to the merchant. Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her:
‘Many women have done excellently,but you surpass them all.’ Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands,
and let her works praise her in the gates.” Proverbs 31: 10-31

I have spent the past year in a church group that focused solely on this verse and how it is something that women can aspire to, but no one will actually achieve, blah blah blah….I know this woman. She was my Mommom, not the one I saw last night, but the one I lived with for three years, the one who was the most dedicated wife, mother & grandmother anyone has ever seen.

I have to smile because I know exactly what she would do if she read this & saw me compare her to that woman in the Bible. She’d roll her eyes and say “Gloryosity! Honey I’m not so special, this is what a grandmom’s supposed to do.” And I guess it is, but the special thing is that she’s the only person I’ve ever met, and probably will ever meet, who’s actually been able to do it.

I am a good mother and I know that, but can’t help but feel a tremendous sense of guilt every time I lose my patience over something stupid-like couch cushions-because my grandmother taught me better than that. I remember a time when my sister accidentally broke a crystal candy dish that had been Mommom’s mother’s. I knew it was very special, because she had told me it was one of the only things that she had of her mom’s and she had fond memories of it from her childhood. I thought Mommom would be upset, or angry, or disappointed. I thought Charlotte would get in trouble. I thought Mommom might cry. Nope. None of the above. She just calmly picked up the pieces and threw them away. Later I asked her if she was upset and she gave me a strange look like she couldn’t understand why I would think that. She said, “Honey, it’s just a candy dish. Your sister is a child.”

To my grandmother children were hands-down the most important thing in the world. She would go out of her way to surround herself with them, watching the lawn-maintenance worker’s boys while he cut several lawns on her block, babysitting us, volunteering at the church nursery or Vacation Bible school program, the list goes on. I’m sure it happened, and I’m sure her own children remember differently, but I never once saw my grandmother lose her patience with a child. I did see her punish children when they needed discipline, but I don’t remember her ever being angry at one. I definitely don’t remember her ever losing her patience with me.

What I do remember is a woman who loved to feed people. Simple but special recipes that I am glad I learned and still make for my own family. It is still a family joke. She literally would not sit down at the dinner table, always jumping up to get something for someone. I remember chocolate eclairs, snowball (frozen chocolate milk), hot milk cakes, crab soup, meatloaf, spaghetti, and instant mashed potatoes. I remember midnight snacks like Bugles & cream cheese. I remember being allowed to help in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with a bowl of pancake batter because I was too little to see over the counter top. I remember setting a fire in the kitchen while helping to make rice crispy treats, but I didn’t get in trouble then either. She calmly put the little fire out and said, “Oh honey, you can’t clean up with a paper towel near the gas stove. Paper catches on fire.” Lesson learned.

I remember games like Hot Butter Beans, Stone School, Stage & Punchanella. The only prop you need to play any of these is a rock, or in our case the red topper from the plastic stacking rings. I remember feeling so special because when we wanted to play “store” Mommom would let us take the real food out of her pantry and line it up along the fireplace. I remember a white pull-out couch w/ two twin beds in it. I’ve never seen another couch like that, but it was awesome. I remember sitting on that couch & reading There’s a Monster at the End of This Book and The Penguin That Hated The Cold, books I have hunted down & now read to my own children.

I remember calling to ask if I could move in while I went to college just a few miles away. I remember how she loved it when we as a special treat we would go to Taco Bell every now and again for lunch. I remember how impressed she was with the quality of their plastic nacho container. She saved several of them to reuse at home. “Why would anyone throw something this nice away?” I remember scoffing at the collection of mismatched plastic containers in her pantry, and I’m sure she’d love to see the Cool Whip & Country Crock containers that I now have in mine.

I remember how it could easily take her over an hour to take her daily walk around the block because she would stop and talk to Alma, or Dot, or Bev, or any one of her thousands of friends. She seemed to know everyone and they all adored her the same way I did. Because she deserved it. Because my Mommom was the kind of woman that God wants every wife and mother to aspire to be. She is the woman in Proverbs 31.

Update: a few days later Mommom passed away. I read this post at the funeral service and my father gave the eulogy. The funeral home opened a temporary wall to make more room for the service, but so many people came that it was still Standing Room Only. In his speech my dad said, “Tuesday morning Heaven became a better place because my mom entered the gates. How many people can you say that about?” He was right.

Seeds of Encouragement

My three-year-old son “unofficially” has Reactive Attachment Disorder. It’s only unofficial because the one therapist in our county who would see him (because therapists are apparently terrified of this disorder and even more terrified when the client is a toddler) wasn’t ballsy enough to give the diagnosis. What he said was that Nicholas’ issues were “consistent with Reactive Attachment on several levels and the only other appropriate diagnosis would be Aspergers, but after meeting him, it is clear that he does not have any form of Autism.” However, he did not feel comfortable making the diagnosis because he is not an attachment specialist.

This is where I would like to mumble swear words suppressed under a fake coughing noise. Cough-bull-cough-sh-cough-it. He has it. I know it. Eddie (reluctantly) knows it. His Occupational Therapist knows it. His one-on-one teacher knows it. The therapists know it too. Hopefully we’ll be geting some help soon because I’m meeting with a play therapist this afternoon, finally, after months of phone calls to children’s therapists, art therapists, and other play therapists. This one agreed to meet with us. Guess what? She also has an adopted son. Coincidence? I think not.

Actually, there are a lot of people, like the aforementioned OT and teacher who are trying to help, but they can’t because the only treatment for this disorder is a special form of therapy. Therapists don’t want to treat a three-year-old because he can’t verbalize complex emotions. Yet they warn you that it will only get worse as he gets older, so be sure to get him into therapy (with some other therapist, not me!) right away.

I’m glad I am familiar with this system because I spent several years as a public school teacher. I know my son’s rights and I know who to call and how to fight for them. I got him Early Intervention services, I finally found him a therapist, I’ll get him behavior intervention services if they’re necessary, but I can see why people who aren’t as familiar would give up. That’s not happening here. I’m a stubborn old broad who doesn’t back down until I get what I want, and in this case what I want involves helping my child, so I’ll fight twice as hard. But it still SUCKS.

I’ve been a waitress, sales associate, nanny, elementary school teacher, and stay-at-home mom. Granted, I’ve never been deployed overseas, but next to that (or what I imagine that to be) I can assure you being the mother of a child with RAD is hands-down the most emotionally challenging job in the entire world. NEVER NEVER NEVER did I ever think I’d be able to identify with the mothers you see on the news who do horrible things to their children. Let me just say that I have the self-control and the strong support system in place so I will never do those things, but I understand how a woman could be pushed to that point.

I love my son. I wouldn’t fight so hard for him if I didn’t. What I do not love is being kicked, pinched, and bitten while I change his diaper. I do not love that I have to change his diaper because he is not “emotionally ready” to be potty trained. I do not love being head-butted while I try to restrain him during temper tantrums because if I don’t restrain him he will (and has) wind up with huge scratches, bruises, or worse from the pain he inflicts on himself, other people, and the dog during his outbursts of rage. I do not love the judgment I feel when he acts out in public. (The next time an old lady tells me in a patient-on-the-surface-but-actually-condescending-and-obnoxious way, “When my little one used to act out I would….” I swear I’m going to scream at her, “Really? Were you trying to raise a child who was born to homeless parents, given cows’ milk from birth that destroyed his insides, and had lived with three families, fifteen different siblings, and in two states by the time he was a year and a half old? No? Then SHUT UP!”) And I really don’t love that people have a hard time believing me when I tell them that he acts like this because he is so sweet to strangers and people he doesn’t know that well. That’s one of the symptoms of the disorder too, it’s called being “artificially engaging.”

I also do not love that the treatment for this disorder goes against everything I’ve ever learned about child rearing. I’d like to think I know a bit about this subject, after all I did earn a Master’s Degree in education, work for years as a nanny and teacher, start my own child-centered business, and just land a new job teaching (ironically) parenting classes. Children with RAD have such awful behavior essentially because they are testing you to see if you will abandon them like they feel their birth parents did. Children have a way of internalizing things to make them their fault. They think they did something bad to make their birth parents leave, so they figure, “It’s going to happen eventually, might as well be REALLY bad and get it over with.” The only way to deal with this behavior is with patience and love so that they understand that even when they are awful, you still love them. Seriously. He kicks me in the jaw and I’m supposed to say, calmly, “Nicholas, we do not kick. I know you are upset, but Mommy loves you. Let’s sit on your bean bag chair for a minute.” The beanbag supposedly serves as a safe place for him to throw a violent temper tantrum, but in reality he just picks it up and throws it at someone, then throws himself headfirst into a wall or onto the floor. That’s it. No punishment, no consequences, just repeat that process a hundred million times and maybe eventually he’ll get the message that we love him and he gets to stay with us forever. Period.

Sometimes it seems like every aspect of his personality is a symptom of this disorder. How do I even know who this kid is? Sometimes he is so personable that I swear he’s going to be either the President of the United States or the next Billy Graham. Sometimes he has such evil in his eyes and seems to get such pleasure out of other people’s pain that I worry he’s a sociopath. How do I make sure the latter doesn’t happen. We’ve tried every “natural consequence,” every sticker chart, every prize jar, time out, spanking, ignoring, everything and anything you can think of. Did it. Didn’t work. Supposedly that’s because the only thing that will work is therapy. If you can find a therapist. Hopefully I have. Hopefully today is the start of a new beginning. I kind of doubt it.