"Do not pursue the past.
Do not lose yourself in the future.
The past no longer is.
The future has not yet come.
Looking deeply at life as it is
in the very here and now,
the practitioner dwells
in stability and freedom."
The above quote is attributed to Buddha. I try very hard to follow it and live in the now. Trouble is, yesterday keeps finding me. And for the most part, that's been good. Over the past year, I have reconnected with some very important people from my past. My BFF from middle school onwards, a lot of great friends from high school, even my middle school crush. What I found was that I still got along with these people just like I did back in the day, even finding my old crush still worthy of swoon (seriously, he should be glad I am happily married or I might've flown to New York and thrown myself in his path, just like I used to "accidentally" be by his locker after fourth period every day in the seventh grade). I have found several old photos and mementos I thought long gone. Some of them I held onto, others I had to let go, for in addition to the constant revisiting of old memories and friends, I have been on a quest to clear the clutter from my life.
It seems like the Universe is trying to tell me something. Every time I turn around, I am running into old friends or seeing signs to clear clutter. For example, I'll turn on the TV only to see a special on clutter coming up, or I'll get an email from my book club, and the featured book will happen to be about clutter and how to get rid of it. I am a big believer in synchronicity. I take these signs seriously, and I have been systematically cleaning and clearing, both materially and spiritually/emotionally. I do this because I realize now that if I don't, I won't have room for anything new.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard from my cousin Kerri that my sister wanted to contact me. I've never met my sister, but when I was a little girl, I wanted to meet her more than anything in the world. I wanted someone to borrow clothes from, someone to play dolls with, or produce interesting nail polish experiments with. For the most part, my friends filled this role, but most of them had their own sisters and I knew that our relationship was still different than the one they had with their sisters. For all practical purposes, I was an only child. My brother is 12 years older than me, and he was always more of a dad to me than anything. All the things that dads are supposed to do, my brother did. He taught me to ride a bike, how to drive, and he gave me away at my first wedding. I still call on him for advice on car repairs and such. But he never would assist me in the nail polish experiments.
Where was my dad, you ask? Drunk. We pretty much only saw him when he wanted to take his frustrations out on someone. And that's why I never met my sister. About ten years before my mom and dad met and mated, my father was married and had a daughter. But after dealing with Dad's drinking and abuse for so long, his first wife took their daughter and left. Dad never knew exactly where they were, which was smart on his first wife's part, because Dad was not above stalking to terrify someone. Eventually she remarried and her new husband adopted my sister. All I really knew about her was her name and birthday. Every so often, Dad would call one of his first wife's relatives and put me on the phone to beg for information. That finally stopped when I was around nine years old and refused to do it anymore, both for my sake and my phantom sister's sake. She didn't want to be found and I didn't blame her. I would've felt the same way. I hadn't thought about this in years; I guess you could say I relegated it to the clutter pile.
So now I finally have the chance to have a sister. But do I want one? The crass cynic in me wonders why now? Does she need a kidney? What if I don't like her? What if she's really horrible? What if she doesn't like me? What if she thinks I'm horrible?
I told Kerri I would call her because I needed to chew on this a bit. But I procrastinated (one of my worst personal flaws, hands down) and didn't call (sorry, Kerri!). Then yesterday I received two emails back to back from Facebook: a message from my brother asking if we could meet him for dinner because he was in town for business, and a second, a friend request from someone with my sister's name. I accepted the dinner invitation, and then went to see what I could see on my sister's profile. There wasn't much info there; it looked like she just opened an account with Facebook. So now I know her name, her birthday, and where she went to school.
I discussed it with my brother (who, for the confused, shares a mother but not a father with me, so my sister is not his sister) at dinner. He said, "it's better to regret contacting her than it is to regret NOT contacting her." As usual, he is right. So after posting this, I will accept the friend invitation. And hopefully, this will be a part of the past I am glad to bring into the future.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
A brief hello
Greetings! You may be wondering where I've been. Or not. I'll tell you anyway.
Killian is using the potty (poops included) more than ever. So all day, every day, goes something like this: he uses the potty just enough to get candy...I give him the candy and clean him up before dumping the contents of the potty into the toilet...I clean the potty and place it back into the seat...he goes again five minutes later, thus restarting the cycle all over again. I used an entire roll of paper towels yesterday just cleaning his potty! Last week, when I reported that he was parsing out the pee in order to get more candy, I wasn't exaggerating. And I am tired. But I am also happy he is that much closer to being toilet trained so we can do away with pull-ups once and for all.
Today is Killian's last day in the ECI program as well. He's been in ECI (which stands for Early Childhood Intervention) for about a year now, but since he will be three this Saturday, he is no longer eligible for the program and will transition to services in our school district. I cannot say enough good things about ECI. The speech therapist has been wonderful. For those unfamiliar with ECI, it's a program for kids ages 0-3 who have developmental delays, which encompasses everything from speech delays (like Killian) to autism. They do home visits so you never have to take your child to an office and they bill your insurance (if you have any). If your insurance does not cover their services or you don't have insurance, then the services are paid for by state funds, so it's totally free (and one of the few programs that our asshat governor hasn't cut). The services through our school district will be free as well. Killian was evaluated last month by a psychologist and speech therapist with the district and approved for their PCCD program. Starting in August, he will go for half a day to enhanced pre-school, where he will continue to receive speech therapy. Transportation is furnished via a school bus; much to Shelby's amusement, it will be a short bus with air conditioner and seat belts. I am really looking forward to this, mainly because he will have peers to socialize with again. We had to pull him out of daycare when Danny lost his job, so Killian hasn't had too many playmates since.
Speaking of, today Danny has an informal interview for a job. Here's hoping, especially since my unemployment has run out and God only knows if or when Congress will approve the extension. I am praying they do because if not, I don't know how we're going to eat. I figured out recently that if we never spent money at the grocery store or Target, we could pay all of our bills pretty well. Damn human physiology, needing food and water to survive. Booooo.
Shower time!
Killian is using the potty (poops included) more than ever. So all day, every day, goes something like this: he uses the potty just enough to get candy...I give him the candy and clean him up before dumping the contents of the potty into the toilet...I clean the potty and place it back into the seat...he goes again five minutes later, thus restarting the cycle all over again. I used an entire roll of paper towels yesterday just cleaning his potty! Last week, when I reported that he was parsing out the pee in order to get more candy, I wasn't exaggerating. And I am tired. But I am also happy he is that much closer to being toilet trained so we can do away with pull-ups once and for all.
Today is Killian's last day in the ECI program as well. He's been in ECI (which stands for Early Childhood Intervention) for about a year now, but since he will be three this Saturday, he is no longer eligible for the program and will transition to services in our school district. I cannot say enough good things about ECI. The speech therapist has been wonderful. For those unfamiliar with ECI, it's a program for kids ages 0-3 who have developmental delays, which encompasses everything from speech delays (like Killian) to autism. They do home visits so you never have to take your child to an office and they bill your insurance (if you have any). If your insurance does not cover their services or you don't have insurance, then the services are paid for by state funds, so it's totally free (and one of the few programs that our asshat governor hasn't cut). The services through our school district will be free as well. Killian was evaluated last month by a psychologist and speech therapist with the district and approved for their PCCD program. Starting in August, he will go for half a day to enhanced pre-school, where he will continue to receive speech therapy. Transportation is furnished via a school bus; much to Shelby's amusement, it will be a short bus with air conditioner and seat belts. I am really looking forward to this, mainly because he will have peers to socialize with again. We had to pull him out of daycare when Danny lost his job, so Killian hasn't had too many playmates since.
Speaking of, today Danny has an informal interview for a job. Here's hoping, especially since my unemployment has run out and God only knows if or when Congress will approve the extension. I am praying they do because if not, I don't know how we're going to eat. I figured out recently that if we never spent money at the grocery store or Target, we could pay all of our bills pretty well. Damn human physiology, needing food and water to survive. Booooo.
Shower time!
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Pavlov's Boy: UPDATE
KILLIAN POOPED IN THE POTTY YESTERDAY. TWICE. TWICE!
No crying, minimal whimpering, just poop in a potty. And no, it wasn't a dream or some type of hallucination that results from sleep deprivation. I could tell by the rank odor.
I WIN!
No crying, minimal whimpering, just poop in a potty. And no, it wasn't a dream or some type of hallucination that results from sleep deprivation. I could tell by the rank odor.
I WIN!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Pavlov's Boy
Adorable, isn't he? Don't you just want to squeeze those sweet chubby cheeks? Pick him up and cover his face in kisses so you can hear the angelic peals of laughter emanate from that baby face?
Well, don't let the face fool you. Underneath that lovable countenance lies a ruthless stubborn streak and the iron will of a KGB general circa 1985. I know you're thinking , "Huh? Oh, c'mon, Angela! You're exaggerating! That sweet little angel could melt the cold, dead heart of Dick Cheney even. Ruthless? Please!" Well, you don't live with him. You don't know. I do.
My adorable son has been going pee pee in his potty pretty well this week. Earning and eating so many M&M's, I'm surprised his pants still fit. But pooping in the potty? Not so much. He's got it all figured out, see. Killian's bowel movements are about as regular and predictable as a Lindsay Lohan coke binge. Every day, near noonish, he's got to go. But he refuses to go in the potty. This plays out one of three ways. The first is that he hides and poops in his big boy pants, and when we discover that this has occurred, he then stares at us with woeful brown eyes that say "please don't be mad." We react the same way every time he does it: we gently walk him to the bathroom, speaking softly and telling him that we all have accidents but he really needs to tell us when he's got to go. We clean him up, while he whimpers remorsefully, which tears at the heart like nothing else. Sometimes we are able to salvage the underpants, sometimes not. And as soon as we're finished, his mood brightens instantly. An outsider would never suspect that mere seconds earlier, he was crying as if the world were ending or Sesame Street was canceled. No, the giggles that bubble up as he runs out of the bathroom and back to playing would never suggest anything at all had happened. It's very suspicious.
If he doesn't poop his big boy pants, it's because he still has pull-ups on. The same basic scene is played out, with us reminding him that he needs to alert us before going, but minus the crying because hey, pull-ups are like diapers and he's pooped in diapers his whole life, so why should he feel bad? The third option is that the moment of poop occurs while we're letting him run around sans pants of any sort; I read somewhere that if you let your toddler go without pants that they'll be more aware of their need to go and act accordingly. This has worked well with urination. But with pooping, he either poops on the floor, after which a scene similar to the one where he poops in his big boy pants occurs, or he grabs a pair of pull-ups and insists we put them on him and then soils them within 5 short minutes, or he holds out as long as possible and just refuses to go.
Yesterday came and went with no poop. There were stray escapes of gassiness, but that was it. So we figured at bedtime that he must be holding it in. And the problem was that we only had one pull-up left, and no way of getting more until today when the unemployment money arrives. If we put the last pull-up on him and he pooped in it, then he would have to wear big boy pants to bed, and he hasn't mastered overnight dryness yet. That meant he would invariably wet the bed in the middle of the night, waking everyone up and creating a large mess to clean up. Being the optimists that we are, we figured we could once and for all trick him into using the toilet. We're adults, we can outlast a 2 year old, right?
Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
We went through the usual bedtime rituals of picking up toys, teeth brushing, bathing, etc. Interspersed in the activity were several trips to the toilet to urinate. No poo. After a particularly noxious passage of gas, we put him on the toilet thinking this was it. We did everything we could to entertain him and thus keep him there. We read him books. We watched Sprout. We sang songs. He got back up leaving only urine. It was 10:30 P.M., his usual bedtime (we're night owls and not working, whaddya want? Early birds we are not). We calmly played with puzzles until another gas bubble. Rushing to the toilet, we again did our best to keep him there. I read Dr. Seuss while Danny hugged him. He got up leaving nothing. It was 11:30 P.M. now. We decided to roughhouse, thinking the activity would force his sphincter to let go, at which point we would place him on the nearby toilet. This only resulted in my glasses almost being broken along with Danny's nose (Killian is much stronger than he looks). Now it was 12:30. I was starting to tire. Killian was not. I thought, "I can do this...I have the blood of Celtic warrior queens running through my veins, along with strong Native chieftains and German tenacity. I got this."
At 1 A.M. it occurred to me that Killian gets half of his genetic material from me and that he, too, is full of the blood of Irish warrior queens, etc. He also has the whole French charm thing working for him. Then I knew I was beat. But rather than admit defeat, we decided to place Killian on the big potty with his stepstool supporting his feet while Danny held him there. Maybe the change in position would help him along? He looked rather unsure, but he didn't protest. He made a couple of his "I'm pooping" noises, and we thought we had won. He started to get off the toilet so we hastily grabbed another Dr. Seuss and I started reading. All to no avail. Nada. And it was 1:45 A.M. It had been over three hours, 12 books, 2 bouts of roughhousing, 3 Sprout productions, and countless opportunities. We had lost the battle. We put him in his pull-ups and then to bed. He never did poo.
I'm not exactly sure what this all means. I thought I was learning patience when we had to wait almost two years and file endless stacks of paper with thousands of dollars just so Danny and I could get married. I thought all my wacky health problems were teaching me to let go, that I couldn't be in control all the time. I've always encouraged my kids to express themselves, so I don't think that's it. All I know is that my entire life is now centered around the toilet...day after day of laundering big boy pants, clothing, towels, crib sheets, and stuffed animals all covered in urine. Hours of asking "do you need to potty?" while rushing to the toilet and cheerfully reminding him "you'll get candy!" Sometimes we even have to bathe Killian more than once a day, and we probably have spent hundreds of dollars on bubble bath and body wash for kids. Oh, and the pull-ups and wipes? Another small fortune. Worse than that, I recently found myself telling another adult "I need to go pee pee. I'll be right back." I'm not sure I'll ever be able to regain my dignity. I will persevere though. That's what parents do. But he better learn soon because I'm sure as hell not explaining to his future wife why he needs to go to the restroom every time he sees M&M's.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
AS sucks ass. You will hear this a lot from me.
I mentioned before that I have Ankylosing Spondylitis, and I would discuss that here from time to time. I want those who have it to read my blog and say, "Hey! She's got that too! I'm not crazy!"; my hope is that they won't feel so alone. I want people who suspect they have it to learn and advocate for themselves, and if I can educate and empower them, so much the better. I want people who don't have it to learn as well, and to be able to take some of that learning into their relationships, because chances are at some point, someone they love will be diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder.
I will eventually have several pages on Ankylosing Spondylitis. I will attempt to answer what AS is, how it feels, how it affects relationships, how it's treated, and hopefully, how to live with it. And by that, I don't mean just to tolerate it, but how to embrace it as well. I want to learn the lesson it's trying to teach me and hope that it takes me, and those along with me, to a better place.
Not buying the wisdom-of-the-body, patient, accepting Oprah shit?
Yeah, me neither. Don't get me wrong; I love Oprah, and if she ever decides to do a show on AS, I will more than happily go to Chicago per her request, sit on her couch, and pour my little heart out. She can even trot out my handsome spouse and cute, intelligent offspring to show how normal I really am and that AS is not the end of the world. But one thing I will not do is sugarcoat it. I promised honesty, here it is.
AS sucks ass. I keep thanking the Powers That Be for not giving me cancer since that's always the worst it could get and hey, at least I don't have cancer, right? Though come to think of it, one of the few available drugs to treat AS also causes cancer. You saw that correctly: CAUSES cancer. But I take my Humira shot every 2 weeks, because statistically speaking, it's more likely that my AS will rapidly progress to unbearable levels if I don't take the meds than me getting cancer because I take the meds.
I see a rheumatologist for the Humira; a pain specialist for pain meds to control the pain and fatigue; a physical therapist who gave me exercises to do at home that are supposed to help alleviate pain and prevent muscle wasting; a therapist to discuss the loss issues that come with a lifelong, progressive disease (and also to pronouce me mentally healthy and not a drug addict to my pain doc); an ophthamologist for the iritis flares that come with AS; a gastroenterologist for the gut inflammation caused by AS; and then my GP who helps me with my other conditions, like hypothyroidism and hypertension. Even with this bright team of medical specialists, the pain never really goes all the way away, nor does the fatigue. It's better though. A couple of months ago, I took my daughter to the mall and shopped all day long. We walked the whole mall, then went to Target afterwards, plus the Vitamin Shoppe (I also take Omega 3 to help with the inflammation); we were gone for about 8 hours. I ended the day with my lower back spasming a bit and my feet feeling like the bones were rubbing together. I was in bed with debilitating fatigue the next 3 days, but I had that 1 day of freedom and it was bliss. Prior to that, before things got so bad and I didn't have a proper diagnosis or medication, that would have been impossible. I would've been lucky to make it from the parking lot to even one store inside the mall. So it's days like that I live for. I worry though-what happens when I finally get another job? Will I make it? Am I being unrealistic? Should I just try to get disability, like the therapist and pain doc suggested?
It is hard on everyone around me. My husband has to do way more than his share; he used to do pretty much everything before I started treatment! My daughter thought I was lazy or didn't want to do the things I used to do, which was really painful for me, but what else could she think? I used to tell her I would take her places or do things and then I would have to cancel at the last minute if I had an episode of fatigue/pain, which I did more often than not. My dad used to make promises to me he could never keep due to his alcoholism, so I knew how she felt and it killed me. Killian will never know the mom Shelby knew when she was little-the mom who would turn on the stereo and dance with her or jump on the trampoline or make dinners. I am able to do a lot more now, although there are established things I cannot do, like mopping, cooking, heavy lifting, giving Killian a bath. Danny has to do those things, along with the stuff he already did, like mowing the yard. There are also times I overextend myself and have to ask for last minute help, like a few days ago when I was cleaning the kitchen. I was scrubbing down the last cabinet when both my hands started cramping up and spasming so bad I could not hold the Clorox wipe, so Danny saved me once again. If I am grateful for anything, it's my husband and family.
This is on my mind today for a couple of reasons. The fatigue that comes with AS is unlike any other...it's like having the flu, muscles exhausted, mind in a fog, so tired even though sleep is elusive. If the pain that accompanies it is particularly bad, then my mood can go pretty sour pretty quick. My neck will go so stiff I can't turn it, muscles throughout my back and ribs will spasm uncontrollably, arthritic pain in the feet and hands and lower back, like bones rubbing together or displaced. Sometimes you can hear them crackle! Sciatica comes along too. All this, coupled with my natural introvertedness, has made for a pretty non-existent social life (both of us not working doesn't help-even simple things like movies and eating out are off the menu now, though hopefully they'll return soon because we'll be working!). My friends have been remarkably understanding and tolerant, and don't take it personally when I have to flake out last minute. They remember when I wasn't a flake, I guess. I miss them though. I have a few friends here in town that I've known forever, and some I met online at HMC (for fans of Joss Whedon enterprises) and subsequently at Buffy cons. I have not been there for people who were always there for me and it's killing me! I want circumstances to change-maybe the people I love could just move here, dammit! Or the AS could go away, like magic. I'll find a solution somewhere, it's just troubling me a lot tonight. It didn't help that I had to flake out on an new old friend. I actually got invited somewhere and had planned to go, but like a dumbass, I overdid it this morning. Killian woke up in a puddle of pee, and Danny was sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to interrupt his rest. I was feeling pretty good, so I thought "meh, I'll give Killian his bath. Let Danny rest, he deserves it." So bathe the boy I did, and now I can't bend over, and the sciatica is torturing my left leg and foot. This too shall pass. And my friend was understanding. I just hate being Flaky Woman. And I want to reconnect with people. Time in my world does not match real time...I got in touch with an old friend back in the fall, met up in January, and I keep thinking we should get together again, because honestly, it was like we never lost touch! Now I hear she's moving, and I think, "but I just found her", before realizing this is June and most normal people would think I didn't intend to see them again. I'll figure it out eventually though.
So there's your introduction to AS, and by AS, I mean Ankylosing Spondylitis. My daughter pointed out that people also use the acronym 'AS' for Asperger's Syndrome, which she has and I will discuss in the future. But I will be sure to differentiate between the two. Happy Sunday-I will make you a deal. Try to reconnect with someone, anyone, that you have been thinking about lately but haven't called for whatever reason. I will do the same. Deal?
I will eventually have several pages on Ankylosing Spondylitis. I will attempt to answer what AS is, how it feels, how it affects relationships, how it's treated, and hopefully, how to live with it. And by that, I don't mean just to tolerate it, but how to embrace it as well. I want to learn the lesson it's trying to teach me and hope that it takes me, and those along with me, to a better place.
Not buying the wisdom-of-the-body, patient, accepting Oprah shit?
Yeah, me neither. Don't get me wrong; I love Oprah, and if she ever decides to do a show on AS, I will more than happily go to Chicago per her request, sit on her couch, and pour my little heart out. She can even trot out my handsome spouse and cute, intelligent offspring to show how normal I really am and that AS is not the end of the world. But one thing I will not do is sugarcoat it. I promised honesty, here it is.
AS sucks ass. I keep thanking the Powers That Be for not giving me cancer since that's always the worst it could get and hey, at least I don't have cancer, right? Though come to think of it, one of the few available drugs to treat AS also causes cancer. You saw that correctly: CAUSES cancer. But I take my Humira shot every 2 weeks, because statistically speaking, it's more likely that my AS will rapidly progress to unbearable levels if I don't take the meds than me getting cancer because I take the meds.
I see a rheumatologist for the Humira; a pain specialist for pain meds to control the pain and fatigue; a physical therapist who gave me exercises to do at home that are supposed to help alleviate pain and prevent muscle wasting; a therapist to discuss the loss issues that come with a lifelong, progressive disease (and also to pronouce me mentally healthy and not a drug addict to my pain doc); an ophthamologist for the iritis flares that come with AS; a gastroenterologist for the gut inflammation caused by AS; and then my GP who helps me with my other conditions, like hypothyroidism and hypertension. Even with this bright team of medical specialists, the pain never really goes all the way away, nor does the fatigue. It's better though. A couple of months ago, I took my daughter to the mall and shopped all day long. We walked the whole mall, then went to Target afterwards, plus the Vitamin Shoppe (I also take Omega 3 to help with the inflammation); we were gone for about 8 hours. I ended the day with my lower back spasming a bit and my feet feeling like the bones were rubbing together. I was in bed with debilitating fatigue the next 3 days, but I had that 1 day of freedom and it was bliss. Prior to that, before things got so bad and I didn't have a proper diagnosis or medication, that would have been impossible. I would've been lucky to make it from the parking lot to even one store inside the mall. So it's days like that I live for. I worry though-what happens when I finally get another job? Will I make it? Am I being unrealistic? Should I just try to get disability, like the therapist and pain doc suggested?
It is hard on everyone around me. My husband has to do way more than his share; he used to do pretty much everything before I started treatment! My daughter thought I was lazy or didn't want to do the things I used to do, which was really painful for me, but what else could she think? I used to tell her I would take her places or do things and then I would have to cancel at the last minute if I had an episode of fatigue/pain, which I did more often than not. My dad used to make promises to me he could never keep due to his alcoholism, so I knew how she felt and it killed me. Killian will never know the mom Shelby knew when she was little-the mom who would turn on the stereo and dance with her or jump on the trampoline or make dinners. I am able to do a lot more now, although there are established things I cannot do, like mopping, cooking, heavy lifting, giving Killian a bath. Danny has to do those things, along with the stuff he already did, like mowing the yard. There are also times I overextend myself and have to ask for last minute help, like a few days ago when I was cleaning the kitchen. I was scrubbing down the last cabinet when both my hands started cramping up and spasming so bad I could not hold the Clorox wipe, so Danny saved me once again. If I am grateful for anything, it's my husband and family.
This is on my mind today for a couple of reasons. The fatigue that comes with AS is unlike any other...it's like having the flu, muscles exhausted, mind in a fog, so tired even though sleep is elusive. If the pain that accompanies it is particularly bad, then my mood can go pretty sour pretty quick. My neck will go so stiff I can't turn it, muscles throughout my back and ribs will spasm uncontrollably, arthritic pain in the feet and hands and lower back, like bones rubbing together or displaced. Sometimes you can hear them crackle! Sciatica comes along too. All this, coupled with my natural introvertedness, has made for a pretty non-existent social life (both of us not working doesn't help-even simple things like movies and eating out are off the menu now, though hopefully they'll return soon because we'll be working!). My friends have been remarkably understanding and tolerant, and don't take it personally when I have to flake out last minute. They remember when I wasn't a flake, I guess. I miss them though. I have a few friends here in town that I've known forever, and some I met online at HMC (for fans of Joss Whedon enterprises) and subsequently at Buffy cons. I have not been there for people who were always there for me and it's killing me! I want circumstances to change-maybe the people I love could just move here, dammit! Or the AS could go away, like magic. I'll find a solution somewhere, it's just troubling me a lot tonight. It didn't help that I had to flake out on an new old friend. I actually got invited somewhere and had planned to go, but like a dumbass, I overdid it this morning. Killian woke up in a puddle of pee, and Danny was sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to interrupt his rest. I was feeling pretty good, so I thought "meh, I'll give Killian his bath. Let Danny rest, he deserves it." So bathe the boy I did, and now I can't bend over, and the sciatica is torturing my left leg and foot. This too shall pass. And my friend was understanding. I just hate being Flaky Woman. And I want to reconnect with people. Time in my world does not match real time...I got in touch with an old friend back in the fall, met up in January, and I keep thinking we should get together again, because honestly, it was like we never lost touch! Now I hear she's moving, and I think, "but I just found her", before realizing this is June and most normal people would think I didn't intend to see them again. I'll figure it out eventually though.
So there's your introduction to AS, and by AS, I mean Ankylosing Spondylitis. My daughter pointed out that people also use the acronym 'AS' for Asperger's Syndrome, which she has and I will discuss in the future. But I will be sure to differentiate between the two. Happy Sunday-I will make you a deal. Try to reconnect with someone, anyone, that you have been thinking about lately but haven't called for whatever reason. I will do the same. Deal?
Friday, June 11, 2010
Toilet Training, aka How the Universe Puts Even the Cockiest Parent in His/Her Place
Toilet training. A rite of passage as old as time itself, spanning space, culture, and gender...a rite that ultimately helps both child and parents embrace his/her newfound independence...a rite that anyone with even a rudimentary understanding of psychology knows can make or break a child's mental health FOR A LIFETIME. No pressure, right?
Crack open an introductory psychology book, read a parenting manual, or watch an episode or two of Jerry Springer, and the importance of proper toilet training becomes quite clear. Luckily for me and my daughter, Shelby, I was attending school full time during her initial toilet training and had planned ahead so that I would be taking Psychology of Personality and Abnormal Psychology to coincide with this timeless rite of passage. I took the process very seriously, for fear of being too lenient or too rigid. Too lenient, and my daughter would be doomed to a life of inconsiderate and lazy behavior that would only qualify her for employment as a smacked-out prostitute. Too rigid, and she might be too successful and become an alcoholic with bizarre sexual fetishes involving leather. Like Goldilocks with psychological poo poo instead of porridge, it had to be juuuuust right.
The process was surprisingly easy. It took only a couple of days and a sticker chart to ensure proper urination; evacuation was more difficult. It took about two weeks to reassure Shelby that it was a good thing that her poops disappeared out of sight, never to return. Nevertheless, she was fairly easy to train and even though there were frequent episodes of nighttime enuresis, I was pleased with her performance as well as mine. I suspected the nighttime enuresis was hereditary, as I too had been a bed wetter regardless of how little I drank after 6 PM. A medical exam confirmed my suspicions and her bladder finally caught up with her maturity. Overall, toilet training was not particularly stressful and I thought it successful.
By the time Killian came along, I had grown more relaxed as both a parent and a person. For example, pretend you've informed me that my child has just stuck their hands into a poopy diaper, then into their mouth. When Shelby was little, that would've elicited an immediate bath in whatever cleaning substance was the closest to bleach in formulation, but legal to apply to human skin, along with approximately 50 teeth brushings, followed by a trip to the emergency room to ensure that no tropical disease had been contracted, and later on, a bedtime story featuring little poo monsters that tie your intestines into knots for fun and that is why we never, under any circumstances, ingest poop. Now if you were to tell me my kid ate poop? Meh, whatever...I'd give him some water to drink, wash his hands, and change the poopy pull-ups. I'd tell him "dude, don't eat your poop, that's gross", before helping him to brush his teeth. And that would be that.
When Killian started exhibiting some of the signs for toilet training readiness, I was overjoyed. I had recently figured out that between toilet paper, cat litter, Pull-Ups and diapers, our household was spending close to $100 a month just on waste. And that made me feel...well, wasteful.
The first few days of training Killian, I let him just sit on his potty. You know, get a feel for it and all. He responded by sitting there for all of 20 seconds before disappearing out of the room, only to return with a handful of Hot Wheels that he would promptly stack into neat combinations in his toilet. After several days of redirection, he stopped placing items into the toilet and began to sit there for progressively longer periods of time. After a couple of weeks, he surprised us all by urinating into the toilet! I think he was as surprised as we were for when the urination started, he opened his legs and watched incredulously as liquid came out his penis, which he inspected thoroughly, like he suspected it was broken.
He made even more progress in the following weeks: he began depositing feces into the toilet along with urine, and he needed less prompting to use the toilet. I thought we were well on the way to independent toileting. Then The Stomach Flu happened. We all got sick with it, which meant no one did laundry for about four days. No big deal, we had pull-ups as a back-up. We noticed he was using the toilet less frequently while wearing the pull-ups, then on the fifth day, when we attempted to put newly laundered big boy pants on Killian, he let out a screech so horrific I thought the neighbors would call the police to report a domestic disturbance.
Our domecile was disturbed all right...three months of hard work disappeared after only four days of illness! All of it!!! Now we couldn't even put regular undies on him without severe decompensation. He showed absolutely no interest in his potty books or DVD's. What about the fabulous sticker chart, you ask? He couldn't give a shit. Literally. No, he had decided that life was more comfortable when other people wiped his ass for him. 'Stop playing and run into another room in time to use the toilet? But why? It's so much easier for Mom and Dad to clean me up'. The ramifications were horrifying: my son was going to be a lazy, inconsiderate man who expected women to clean up after him. And it was all my fault. I had failed!
My husband, ever the philosopher, took it in stride. "Maybe he's just not ready. He'll let us know when he's ready." My response to that was, "Easy for you to say. No one is going to blame you when he goes off to college in diapers. It will be my fault, because I'm the mom. It's ALWAYS our fault. We're too cold AND too affectionate. Too overbearing yet disinterested. Whether he picks his nose or grows up to strangle hookers, it will be my fault, not yours!"
I talked about it with a friend, Laura, whose son is three months younger than ours. Her son, Grant, was toilet training rapidly; I had thought he would be the opposite. Killian is supremely laid back, will eat just about anything, or go to just about anyone. Grant, on the other hand, is the definition of picky. He only eats boiled eggs and Cheerios, and excepting his mother and me, does not enjoy the company of women. I just knew he would be difficult to toilet train, and Killian would be easy. Except that wasn't happening. Was I competing with Laura through our kids? She suggested using M&M's as a reward for sitting on the toilet. I resisted, saying that I didn't like to use food as a reward or punishment as that sometimes plants the seeds for future eating disorders.
After the realization that it was my issues interfering in the toilet training, I decided that leniency was preferable to rigidity and laid off for a couple of months. After all, his mental health and my physical health depended on it as autoimmune disorders are made much worse by stress. Eventually, we got out the big boy pants and presented them as an option to the pull-ups, and Killian eventually chose them. Eventually, he showed interest in his potty again as something other than a step-stool. Eventually, he peed in the potty. And yes, I ended up breaking my own rule about using food as a bribe. Guess what? The M&M's work beautifully! He gets one for sitting on the potty, two if he pees in the potty, and three if he poops in the potty. He's still skittish about defecation, but we're working on it. I am learning a great lesson in patience and flexibility, if anything. Only one thing: I noticed today that he is parsing out the pee in order to maximize M&M receipt. He'll sit on the toilet, getting one M&M just for sitting there. Then he'll urinate, but only a tiny amount that in no way matches prior consumption of liquid. I'll give him another M&M since I promised that was the deal. He'll get up, wipe himself, then run off for a few minutes, at which point we begin again. What should've been two trips to the potty resulting in four M&M's ended up being nine trips resulting in eighteen M&M's! I'm scared that he has a future in Wall Street...help???
Crack open an introductory psychology book, read a parenting manual, or watch an episode or two of Jerry Springer, and the importance of proper toilet training becomes quite clear. Luckily for me and my daughter, Shelby, I was attending school full time during her initial toilet training and had planned ahead so that I would be taking Psychology of Personality and Abnormal Psychology to coincide with this timeless rite of passage. I took the process very seriously, for fear of being too lenient or too rigid. Too lenient, and my daughter would be doomed to a life of inconsiderate and lazy behavior that would only qualify her for employment as a smacked-out prostitute. Too rigid, and she might be too successful and become an alcoholic with bizarre sexual fetishes involving leather. Like Goldilocks with psychological poo poo instead of porridge, it had to be juuuuust right.
The process was surprisingly easy. It took only a couple of days and a sticker chart to ensure proper urination; evacuation was more difficult. It took about two weeks to reassure Shelby that it was a good thing that her poops disappeared out of sight, never to return. Nevertheless, she was fairly easy to train and even though there were frequent episodes of nighttime enuresis, I was pleased with her performance as well as mine. I suspected the nighttime enuresis was hereditary, as I too had been a bed wetter regardless of how little I drank after 6 PM. A medical exam confirmed my suspicions and her bladder finally caught up with her maturity. Overall, toilet training was not particularly stressful and I thought it successful.
By the time Killian came along, I had grown more relaxed as both a parent and a person. For example, pretend you've informed me that my child has just stuck their hands into a poopy diaper, then into their mouth. When Shelby was little, that would've elicited an immediate bath in whatever cleaning substance was the closest to bleach in formulation, but legal to apply to human skin, along with approximately 50 teeth brushings, followed by a trip to the emergency room to ensure that no tropical disease had been contracted, and later on, a bedtime story featuring little poo monsters that tie your intestines into knots for fun and that is why we never, under any circumstances, ingest poop. Now if you were to tell me my kid ate poop? Meh, whatever...I'd give him some water to drink, wash his hands, and change the poopy pull-ups. I'd tell him "dude, don't eat your poop, that's gross", before helping him to brush his teeth. And that would be that.
When Killian started exhibiting some of the signs for toilet training readiness, I was overjoyed. I had recently figured out that between toilet paper, cat litter, Pull-Ups and diapers, our household was spending close to $100 a month just on waste. And that made me feel...well, wasteful.
The first few days of training Killian, I let him just sit on his potty. You know, get a feel for it and all. He responded by sitting there for all of 20 seconds before disappearing out of the room, only to return with a handful of Hot Wheels that he would promptly stack into neat combinations in his toilet. After several days of redirection, he stopped placing items into the toilet and began to sit there for progressively longer periods of time. After a couple of weeks, he surprised us all by urinating into the toilet! I think he was as surprised as we were for when the urination started, he opened his legs and watched incredulously as liquid came out his penis, which he inspected thoroughly, like he suspected it was broken.
He made even more progress in the following weeks: he began depositing feces into the toilet along with urine, and he needed less prompting to use the toilet. I thought we were well on the way to independent toileting. Then The Stomach Flu happened. We all got sick with it, which meant no one did laundry for about four days. No big deal, we had pull-ups as a back-up. We noticed he was using the toilet less frequently while wearing the pull-ups, then on the fifth day, when we attempted to put newly laundered big boy pants on Killian, he let out a screech so horrific I thought the neighbors would call the police to report a domestic disturbance.
Our domecile was disturbed all right...three months of hard work disappeared after only four days of illness! All of it!!! Now we couldn't even put regular undies on him without severe decompensation. He showed absolutely no interest in his potty books or DVD's. What about the fabulous sticker chart, you ask? He couldn't give a shit. Literally. No, he had decided that life was more comfortable when other people wiped his ass for him. 'Stop playing and run into another room in time to use the toilet? But why? It's so much easier for Mom and Dad to clean me up'. The ramifications were horrifying: my son was going to be a lazy, inconsiderate man who expected women to clean up after him. And it was all my fault. I had failed!
My husband, ever the philosopher, took it in stride. "Maybe he's just not ready. He'll let us know when he's ready." My response to that was, "Easy for you to say. No one is going to blame you when he goes off to college in diapers. It will be my fault, because I'm the mom. It's ALWAYS our fault. We're too cold AND too affectionate. Too overbearing yet disinterested. Whether he picks his nose or grows up to strangle hookers, it will be my fault, not yours!"
I talked about it with a friend, Laura, whose son is three months younger than ours. Her son, Grant, was toilet training rapidly; I had thought he would be the opposite. Killian is supremely laid back, will eat just about anything, or go to just about anyone. Grant, on the other hand, is the definition of picky. He only eats boiled eggs and Cheerios, and excepting his mother and me, does not enjoy the company of women. I just knew he would be difficult to toilet train, and Killian would be easy. Except that wasn't happening. Was I competing with Laura through our kids? She suggested using M&M's as a reward for sitting on the toilet. I resisted, saying that I didn't like to use food as a reward or punishment as that sometimes plants the seeds for future eating disorders.
After the realization that it was my issues interfering in the toilet training, I decided that leniency was preferable to rigidity and laid off for a couple of months. After all, his mental health and my physical health depended on it as autoimmune disorders are made much worse by stress. Eventually, we got out the big boy pants and presented them as an option to the pull-ups, and Killian eventually chose them. Eventually, he showed interest in his potty again as something other than a step-stool. Eventually, he peed in the potty. And yes, I ended up breaking my own rule about using food as a bribe. Guess what? The M&M's work beautifully! He gets one for sitting on the potty, two if he pees in the potty, and three if he poops in the potty. He's still skittish about defecation, but we're working on it. I am learning a great lesson in patience and flexibility, if anything. Only one thing: I noticed today that he is parsing out the pee in order to maximize M&M receipt. He'll sit on the toilet, getting one M&M just for sitting there. Then he'll urinate, but only a tiny amount that in no way matches prior consumption of liquid. I'll give him another M&M since I promised that was the deal. He'll get up, wipe himself, then run off for a few minutes, at which point we begin again. What should've been two trips to the potty resulting in four M&M's ended up being nine trips resulting in eighteen M&M's! I'm scared that he has a future in Wall Street...help???
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The first post (hopefully not my last)...
Once upon a time, I was a writer. And quite the prolific one, too-I turned out more dark, angst-ridden poetry than any chain-smoking, Depeche Mode loving, all-black wearing teen girl should. There was also the occasional essay on say, the meaning of life (because at 17, I had it all figured out). Then I got pregnant at 18 and had a baby girl (my Shelby) at 19. Started taking school seriously. Married my Shelby's daddy. And I worked. So all my writing energy (what there was of it) was concentrated on things like feminist deconstruction analysis of Buchi Emecheta's The Bride Price or the history of Freud. You know, things for school.
After seven long years, I finally got my BA in Psychology, Minor in Women's Studies, and got a real job. Between that, and being a wife and mother, writing fell by the wayside. Then I found myself divorced; now I was a single mother and really had no energy! Despite that, I started grad school since a bachelor's in psychology doesn't take you too far. The writing returned briefly to accomodate a particularly exasperating relationship with a coworker, and I turned out more dark, angst-ridden, "why won't you love me like I love you?" poetry. But that ended too.
So there I was, perking along, single mom in school, working full time, and doing an internship, and BAM! I fell in love for real. He was tall, dark, and Canadian, 11 years my junior, and just what I needed. But the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services isn't so easily swayed, and the excruciatingly long and painstaking process of immigration started. In the midst of that, and during my last semester of school, I was rear-ended by an 18-wheeler truck. The ensuing health problems forced a medical leave from school, but I still worked...my fiance was finally granted entrance to the US and we married...and before we knew it, we were pregnant. It was a difficult pregnancy, to say the least, and I was on modified bed rest the last trimester. At 38 weeks, an ultrasound revealed our baby to be a whopping 10 pounds, 1 ounce, plus low amniotic fluid, so my c-section was scheduled for that evening. June 26, 2007, our Killian arrived. I returned to work 8 weeks later. Not soon after, my daughter was diagnosed with Asperger's-after years of misdiagnosis, medications, and bewilderment.
All that time, my writing was confined to a personal journal. That is, until I found Yelp. Hoorah! A place I could offer my totally unsolicited opinion on everything from restaurants to doctors, and once in awhile, people actually expressed appreciation for my writing AND opinions. It was heaven. Yet something was missing...
This past year has found my husband laid off from his job and me with an autoimmune disorder called Ankylosing Spondylitis. A month after I disclosed this to my employer, they let me go. So here I sit, jobless, contending with a disease that will make the sanest person crazy (one of the complications of AS is iritis, aka "arthritis in the eyes"-enough said?), still madly in love with my French-Canadian, trying to live and take care of our kids...and something an old, dear friend said is nagging at me. Back in September, around my 20th high school reunion, I was blessed enough to reconnect with some people I thought of as soul mates during my teen years (still do, really). My friend was describing her daughter to me and she said, "she's a lot like you. A writer". Me? A writer? Man, I don't know when I last called myself that. I mean, I haven't written a lick of bad poetry in at least 10 years. But what if I am? I am thoroughly burned out on social work and while I still hold dear the tenets of social justice, I don't think I have it in me to be a decent direct services provider. Years of being underpaid and overworked, with the consistent chipping away of resources for my clients, have seen to that. And I would be doing a grave disservice to the most vulnerable of people if I tried to be a social worker again. Could I actually make money from writing?
I don't have a great American novel in me (yet). The relationship with my husband is too happy to inspire any tortured poetry. Blogging is an easy choice, but what do I blog about? Ankylosing spondylitis? Not too many people know about it, the public could use some education, but does anyone want to hear about my eye arthritis or the funny infections (not THOSE kind, the kind that needs a hospital stay) caused by the meds I have to take for the AS? Should I write about the ecstatic highs and surreality of being a wife and mother AGAIN? I know there are more and more women like me, who don't plan on remarrying or having more kids yet find themselves precisely there, with kids who are 16 years apart. Would they want to hear what I have to say? Maybe politics...but there are so many political bloggers already, and it seems like the family bloggers stay away from politics so as not to alienate their audience. If I stay honest, however, it's going to be a hard topic to avoid because like I said, even though I don't want to practice social work, I am still a social worker. Toilet training! Because God knows that's taken over every single aspect of my life...every day is full of M&M bribes just to get my son to sit on the toilet, not to mention the planning of every activity around his bowel movements. Maybe Asperger's, since that's become a huge part of our lives. How to keep all the utilities on and food on the table when both breadwinners are on unemployment? Transcripts of the snarky conversations my spouse and I have while watching bad (and sometimes good) film?
I don't know. Maybe all of it. I know at least my friends and family will visit the blog, if not to hear what I have to say, then to click on some of the ads and generate income for us so we are less likely to ask them for money. Perhaps some strangers will wander here as well after Googling "Ankyosing Spondylitis" or "free porn" and they'll decide to stay.
Side note: if you arrived here after Googling "free porn", my apologies. I wanted to increase traffic to the site. I'd offer you some naked pictures of me in return for your troubles, but after viewing them, you'd probably just get more pissed off.
Anyway, here I go. I can't promise brilliance, but I can promise honesty. If you think of some cool gimmick, like "Julie and Julia", let me know. The teenaged fantasy of me sitting at the typewriter, thoughtful fedora perched on my head, surrounded by a bottle of Southern Comfort and an overflowing ashtray like some kind of crazed Hemingway crossed with Janis Joplin, furiously pounding away every joy and heartache on the keyboard, is gone. Now it's just me, close to forty, sitting here with a laptop and a cup of decaf blueberry tea, surrounded by 4 snoozing cats and a toddler gleefully screaming "uh-oh!" as he urinates on the floor. For now, it's just me, the...writer?
After seven long years, I finally got my BA in Psychology, Minor in Women's Studies, and got a real job. Between that, and being a wife and mother, writing fell by the wayside. Then I found myself divorced; now I was a single mother and really had no energy! Despite that, I started grad school since a bachelor's in psychology doesn't take you too far. The writing returned briefly to accomodate a particularly exasperating relationship with a coworker, and I turned out more dark, angst-ridden, "why won't you love me like I love you?" poetry. But that ended too.
So there I was, perking along, single mom in school, working full time, and doing an internship, and BAM! I fell in love for real. He was tall, dark, and Canadian, 11 years my junior, and just what I needed. But the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services isn't so easily swayed, and the excruciatingly long and painstaking process of immigration started. In the midst of that, and during my last semester of school, I was rear-ended by an 18-wheeler truck. The ensuing health problems forced a medical leave from school, but I still worked...my fiance was finally granted entrance to the US and we married...and before we knew it, we were pregnant. It was a difficult pregnancy, to say the least, and I was on modified bed rest the last trimester. At 38 weeks, an ultrasound revealed our baby to be a whopping 10 pounds, 1 ounce, plus low amniotic fluid, so my c-section was scheduled for that evening. June 26, 2007, our Killian arrived. I returned to work 8 weeks later. Not soon after, my daughter was diagnosed with Asperger's-after years of misdiagnosis, medications, and bewilderment.
All that time, my writing was confined to a personal journal. That is, until I found Yelp. Hoorah! A place I could offer my totally unsolicited opinion on everything from restaurants to doctors, and once in awhile, people actually expressed appreciation for my writing AND opinions. It was heaven. Yet something was missing...
This past year has found my husband laid off from his job and me with an autoimmune disorder called Ankylosing Spondylitis. A month after I disclosed this to my employer, they let me go. So here I sit, jobless, contending with a disease that will make the sanest person crazy (one of the complications of AS is iritis, aka "arthritis in the eyes"-enough said?), still madly in love with my French-Canadian, trying to live and take care of our kids...and something an old, dear friend said is nagging at me. Back in September, around my 20th high school reunion, I was blessed enough to reconnect with some people I thought of as soul mates during my teen years (still do, really). My friend was describing her daughter to me and she said, "she's a lot like you. A writer". Me? A writer? Man, I don't know when I last called myself that. I mean, I haven't written a lick of bad poetry in at least 10 years. But what if I am? I am thoroughly burned out on social work and while I still hold dear the tenets of social justice, I don't think I have it in me to be a decent direct services provider. Years of being underpaid and overworked, with the consistent chipping away of resources for my clients, have seen to that. And I would be doing a grave disservice to the most vulnerable of people if I tried to be a social worker again. Could I actually make money from writing?
I don't have a great American novel in me (yet). The relationship with my husband is too happy to inspire any tortured poetry. Blogging is an easy choice, but what do I blog about? Ankylosing spondylitis? Not too many people know about it, the public could use some education, but does anyone want to hear about my eye arthritis or the funny infections (not THOSE kind, the kind that needs a hospital stay) caused by the meds I have to take for the AS? Should I write about the ecstatic highs and surreality of being a wife and mother AGAIN? I know there are more and more women like me, who don't plan on remarrying or having more kids yet find themselves precisely there, with kids who are 16 years apart. Would they want to hear what I have to say? Maybe politics...but there are so many political bloggers already, and it seems like the family bloggers stay away from politics so as not to alienate their audience. If I stay honest, however, it's going to be a hard topic to avoid because like I said, even though I don't want to practice social work, I am still a social worker. Toilet training! Because God knows that's taken over every single aspect of my life...every day is full of M&M bribes just to get my son to sit on the toilet, not to mention the planning of every activity around his bowel movements. Maybe Asperger's, since that's become a huge part of our lives. How to keep all the utilities on and food on the table when both breadwinners are on unemployment? Transcripts of the snarky conversations my spouse and I have while watching bad (and sometimes good) film?
I don't know. Maybe all of it. I know at least my friends and family will visit the blog, if not to hear what I have to say, then to click on some of the ads and generate income for us so we are less likely to ask them for money. Perhaps some strangers will wander here as well after Googling "Ankyosing Spondylitis" or "free porn" and they'll decide to stay.
Side note: if you arrived here after Googling "free porn", my apologies. I wanted to increase traffic to the site. I'd offer you some naked pictures of me in return for your troubles, but after viewing them, you'd probably just get more pissed off.
Anyway, here I go. I can't promise brilliance, but I can promise honesty. If you think of some cool gimmick, like "Julie and Julia", let me know. The teenaged fantasy of me sitting at the typewriter, thoughtful fedora perched on my head, surrounded by a bottle of Southern Comfort and an overflowing ashtray like some kind of crazed Hemingway crossed with Janis Joplin, furiously pounding away every joy and heartache on the keyboard, is gone. Now it's just me, close to forty, sitting here with a laptop and a cup of decaf blueberry tea, surrounded by 4 snoozing cats and a toddler gleefully screaming "uh-oh!" as he urinates on the floor. For now, it's just me, the...writer?
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