Instant Attitude Adjustment--oof!

Spring break is over and it's time to get back to life (I still can't say that without singing Into the Woods). I know that first day back is always challenging. I know this. It is. Knowing doesn't make it easier, but it helps to know why things are hard. It's just the law.

And boy, we followed the law! Second day back wasn't any better. I knew that the next step is my own attitude. I get ugly in my heart after repeated poor treatment. Like I deserve better. It's gross and difficult for me to manage. So, there I was at dinner after two super hard days with the girls, wrestling and forcing myself to be pleasant.

Then it happened. The humbling gut-punch. My girl gushed her multiple thank-yous for a basic dinner of meatloaf and baked potatoes with corn (I was done being sad that we were out of broccoli). Another was pretending to be on a baking show and kept calling the meatloaf meat cake. Other girl was happily smashing everything on her plate and being sure that each person had napkin, utensils, and drinks--repeatedly.

Then a girl said, "I feel like crying because I am so happy to eat this. When we were with (first father), we didn't eat this kind of food. We sometimes had peanut butter sandwiches or nothing. Thank you, Mommy, for making this. Thank you! It is so delicious!"

If I were reading this, I would assume the writer was paraphrasing and exaggerating. Let me tell you, I am toning it down.

My DRA (dirty rotten attitude, doncha know) evaporated, leaving behind humble gratitude tinged with some shame. This life is so much bigger than me and my fragile ego.

The Ultimate Girl Brother

I spent some time with my adult kids. I was shifting toys, clothes, and bedding between rooms, and the place was a mess.  I asked my kids to help me find a top sheet and described it as sparkly. My son said sparkly in a weird baby voice. Then they looked at each other and knowingly chuckled. Ok, I clearly missed something.

They explained that they were quoting a Barbie sidekick. But--plot twist! They didn't name the same sidekick or same movie. They stared at one another in consternation. And then I sat back for the best show ever. I can't actually replicate it because I am just a mom of four girls.

My 25-year-old son proceeded to school my 23-year-old daughter on the polar bear and other cutie sidekick from some Barbie and Mariposa. He gave detail after detail until light dawned on my daughter's face. Ah, yes! Of course! The cutie little thing is the one who said sparkly in a weird baby voice!

If there is another scenario that better exemplifies the ultimate girl brother, I don't know what it is. Although, seeing as how he IS the ultimate girl brother, these scenes happen on the regular.

March: 2025

We made it! It's now! March, 2025. When I started the little series of March posts, I hadn't realized how long ago 2018 is. In my head, 2020 was just last year.  It seemed only smart to back up a couple more years for context. But, I don't know if you know this, 2018 was SEVEN years ago!! How'd that happen?

Where are we now? I am homeschooling! Praise be to God! I have all three at home. I do not need to keep track of three different schedules. I do not have to worry about three different germ sources.  I do not have to undo teaching or decipher what really happened on the playground.  All three girls are learning about Jesus and Biblical literacy. Ah...

My husband and I switched roles to what is more familiar to us both. It was a painful sacrifice to give up retirement and return to full-time work for him.  He was a wonderful homemaker but didn't love the tasks involved with being a stay-at-home dad.  And I loved my job, but I was itching to school all three of my girls myself.  This is good.

The girls are still healing. I am still learning. I need Jesus each day. Therapy is a need that is far away. Diagnoses are sketchy. Homeschooling answers so many of these things. We start the day with Bible and prayer. We incorporate Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Socioemotional Intelligence Education into the week. We feed their artistic creativity with tons of music. I accommodate and modify lessons to scaffold learning. I use tools like essential oil rubs, Thera-bands, weighted blankets, fidgets, and Starbursts to meet both sensory-seeking and sensory-avoidant behaviors. We have a Cozy Corner for big feelings, and can stop the world when a new memory emerges or we hit a trauma trigger.

What more will this March hold?

Doctors, Specialists, and Therapists, Oh my!

I'm processing a lot since our girls' last doctor visit.  We have been on waiting lists for various therapies for the entire two years that they've been living with us.  That is a long time.  However, the number of people trained in the treatments recommended for our girls does not match the number of people needing the therapy. And there is an apparent baby boom among these golden ticket therapists, so it seems there are more on maternity leave than there are taking patients.  It's a frustrating situation.

But I am a card-carrying homeschool mom, so I read books, watch videos, and do my best to meet their needs.  I've done this before when my son needed speech therapy, and I got tired of sitting behind a mirror at a university speech therapy program 100 miles (no lie) from home three days a week just to watch people not understand him.  So, I decided to do it at home. The first time that boy said "k," I could have flown!

Later, I discovered my first daughter has the most severe dyslexia of all the dyslexias.  This goes with her over-achieving, competitive personality; if she's going to be dyslexic, then she's going to out-dyslexic all the dyslexics! All the therapies available were through the public school system in our area and I was invested in staying out of that dysfunctional rabbit hole. So, I decided to do it at home.

We participated in therapies for our first foster children and the experiences were overwhelmingly positive.  I learned a lot. Since then, I got my degree in education, with dual emphases in Gen Ed and SPED. The various diagnoses and possible diagnoses of our girls don't scare me very often (mostly).  I feel like I can tackle them with some competency.

Put that on the shelf for a moment with me while I discuss a deeper thing that I don't like talking about.  I have said before that our interactions with therapists and medical personnel for all our foster placements and adopted girls have been positive. But my experiences with doctors for myself and my children have been wildly different. Ask me how long it took to be diagnosed with POTS, and how I was treated until I was. I had an eye doctor throw a pen across the room and storm out because he conducted the entire exam not knowing my contacts were in.  There was the dentist who rested his tools on my chest and grabbed 'widely' to pick them up.  I can't forget the gynecologist who argued with me to get an IUD while he biopsied my uterus.  When I wouldn't give in, he tore off his gloves and dropped them on the floor before walking out.  He left me bleeding on those gloves, shaking.  Whenever my friends went for their visits, he told them that they should tell me to come back to get the IUD, hipaa be damnned. Thankfully the experiences with my kids' doctors tended toward mere incompetence and arrogance.

My point is that I'm scared. So scared that I didn't even recognize it. The girls' current primary said she would try to push some referrals to get therapy going.  I'm grateful.  Relieved.  I need help.  They need help.  It's a good thing.  

But I was cooking dinner that night and making mistakes that would make my poor grandma roll in her grave.  My dinner roll dough took my KitchenAid for a walk across the length of my counter.  I burned my fingers as I tried to get the meat from the drumsticks I cooked.  The entire room looked like I violently decorated it with a 20-pound bag of flour.  I got overheated, so layers of clothes littered the floor because I'd ripped them off and dropped them where I stood.  And then I cried.  And cried.  

My sweet husband came to my rescue, asking me what was wrong.  I asked if we could just pretend that I was on my period because whatever was going on was just as reasonable as that.  He stifled his laughter as he watched me tear at drumsticks and cry that it looked like meat stuck in a dinosaur's maw and that I didn't want to eat dinosaur food.

It took the next 24 hours for me to realize that I'm scared of getting entangled with therapists who'll make my girls' lives harder.  I'm scared that helping in one area could exacerbate dysfunction in others. I worry about getting entrenched and not knowing how to get out.

I have no pat answers yet. It astonishes me that God works on me while I am trying to raise these girls well.  I didn't think this was something I needed to address.  It just is: I don't trust doctors, but I do what I need to for my kids. But maybe changes are coming?

Boiling Water

A friend once talked to me about how boiled water boils again more easily.  It struck me both spiritually and practically.  I want to be in my Word and in prayer so frequently that pressing in without notice is second nature. I’d like my body and soul to be so practiced at listening to the Lord that I am instinctively inclined to it.

On the practical side, I like to boil water.  Like, I really like to boil water.  It’s become a bit of an obsession and it makes me unreasonably happy to do it.  It started last year when I was working at a private preschool.  I worked the full day, teaching Kindergarten in the morning and PreK in the afternoon. I didn’t have loads of downtime at the building for bathroom or eating breaks. Winters are cold here, so I lived on hot tea.  I got into the habit of turning on the tea kettle whenever I passed the kitchen so that when I needed more hot water, it would boil more quickly.

Now that I am home, I like to boil water to pour down my sink.  It cleans, disinfects, and dries the sink in one step.  I like that!  And, if I have guests or the girls come in from playing in the snow, a hot drink is ever-ready.  So, I boil water. Often. For your pleasure, I included a photo of my little friend.