Dear Boy,
It is with both a bang and a whimper, amongst lost forms and fresh school supplies, that tomorrow you march off to Kindergarten, and embark upon a journey that leads you inexorably, inevitably to adulthood. Adulthood is a place you yearn to be and, like every parent before me, I plead with you to slow down. Adulthood is it. It is the remainder of your life, which is itself a blip on the cosmos.
Until we went shopping for school supplies, I never understood the gnashing of teeth over sending one's baby to Kindergarten. Rejoice! It's Kindergarten! No more long days at home! No more filling the space between with fights and complaining!
You sat in that cart, flipping through your very first marble notebook, and my mind flashed forward, like a flip book of a different sort. That book. It will have chicken scratch, pulled out of you by a patient and experienced teacher. Letters will become sentences will become paragraphs will become stories will become essays hastily scribbled in what we call a Blue Book will become emails will become real estate contracts will become wills. I hope in there you'll find the time and motivation for a love letter or two. You will learn to do addition. Then subtraction and multiplication and division and algebra and geometry and then algebra again (it's confusing, I know) and then trigonometry and then something horrible they call functions and then calculus and then. Adulthood. Where it all devolves back into addition and a lot of long division and more statistics than you thought you would need but almost never calculus, except for the engineers.
I've thought about holding you back. You're young for Kindergarten these days. In my time, you weren't young. Five was the norm. But now it's competitive and kids start at six. You still suck your fingers, though you declared to me on the practice walk to school this morning that you no longer sucked your fingers because you are a big boy and don't need to, right before immediately sucking your fingers. It's okay. People have asked when you are going to stop doing that. When I am going to take your lovies. You are different from other kids, Boy (though the dirty little secret is every kid is different from the other kids, and trying to make it otherwise is brutal and pointless). You need your tools for calming down, and I am not going to take this one from you. If, in your own time, you decide Big Boys really don't suck their fingers, then I will support you in that.
You will learn so much. You will learn that English is damn near impossible to spell with any consistency and that you just have to figure it out. You will learn that not every child is a friend and that not ever adult will offer a hug. You will have to save your cuddles for me and your dogs and cats. We will save ours for you as well. You will learn that a circle and a sphere are not the same but kinda they are but not really. You will learn, please God will you learn, to flush.
And with any luck after this it will be First Grade. And then Second. And Third after that. You see where I am going with this.
It is a new world for you, of packed lunches and cafeterias and cliques. The enthusiasm with which you've practiced eating a school lunch--which so far largely entails your marching off with your lunch box, opening it, and declaring "Let's see what Mom packed for me today!"--tells me this new adventure piques your interest.
Here's a secret as you start your journey: there is no magic moment of adulthood. It is a transformation over time, of learning lessons both good and regrettable, of sticking it out and throwing in the towel, of hurt feelings and crying into your pillow. Of doing what is unfun and unrewarding. Of doing what is right even when it is unpopular. Of learning that picking on a kid just might get you socked in the mouth and that defending a kid just might make you an outsider as well. Being an outsider is okay, sometimes.
Here's another secret: I'm still figuring it out too.
Godspeed and kick ass, Little One.
Love,
Mommy
Showing posts with label Anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anxiety. Show all posts
Monday, August 26, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
40-Love
I sat in Girl's bed tonight, putting on her PJs, when I was caught suddenly and viscerally by the extreme frustration I feel for such large chunks of the day. I slumped, eyes misty, right hand forming a brim over my brow line to shield my face while I composed myself. Girl noticed right away. She place her hand--her two-year-old hand!--on my shoulder, rubbed it a little and asked with noticeable concern, "What's wrong, Mommy?" Her compassion is impressive, and I was too caught of guard to answer anything but truthfully. "I feel like a bad mommy," I said, probably unfairly to her. This isn't her row to hoe.
She asked me if I was angry. I said I was, sometimes, but mostly I was really really frustrated. She said, "With Boy?"
Holy smokes. Is this just who she is, or has living with me done this to her?
Our day wasn't so bad, taken as a whole. Boy started it at 5:15, but was chipper about it, until about 8:00 when I was trying to bundle them out the door so I could make it to the gym in time to humiliate myself in Zumba. Then he was too tired to move, too tired to be good at the gym, too tired to put on his shoes. I muttered through clenched teeth my usual schtick about how unfair that was and that he didn't get to take the rest of us hostage. I added that it was ridiculous to insist on waking up so early and then play the victim. There was lots of clenched-teeth muttering. I trust he ignored most of it, as he is wont to do.
He actually did well at the gym, earning 15 minutes of iPad time for the three positive checks on his behavior chart. We made it through lunch and nap (yes! a rare and pleasant occurrence). He played outside nicely with Girl while I mowed the lawn (super quiet, eco-friendly reel mower FTW). The two boys from across the street came over, and stayed with us while their dad got some yard work done. They were fine, my kids were fine, but I found that my ability to stay positive and energetic through the whole impromptu playdate waned quickly. When they went home and we started to get ready for our traditional Friday evening bike ride for burgers, it fell apart. I fell apart. Boy gleefully and repeatedly ran out of the house (once while I was in the shower, it turns out). Boy gleefully refused to let his sister in his room to retrieve her shoes. There were some fisticuffs on the way there (I wish bike trailers had a wall between the two seats). There were significant fisticuffs on the way back (Girl's face was red from blows, but I must note she was not entirely innocent in the throwdown and in fact is much more vicious than her brother when it comes to it).
What put me over the edge, of all things, was Boy continuing to shout to the boys across the street that they were poop, as I repeatedly told him to stop calling people that. It was an entirely unimportant fight to pick at that time, but it was also an entirely straightforward instruction to follow. It was nothing short of defiant, just as running out of the house had been, just as holding his door shut as I stood 6 inches away telling him to open it was. It was a Screw you, Mom. It sucked. I sucked.
When asked to describe Boy's problems, I sometimes struggle to find a good example. In the end it's not often an isolated outburst. It's wiping toothpaste on the wall and running out of the house. It's turning on the TV immediately after I said no more cartoons or bolting off in a store. When he was in school it was chucking trains across the room compulsively, not so much acknowledging the adult next to him until she picked up him, and then he would turn into a writhing screaming mess. It's a steady stream of defiance. Defiance almost as a knee-jerk reaction. Defiance for no obvious reason.
It's an endless power struggle and it is exhausting.
She asked me if I was angry. I said I was, sometimes, but mostly I was really really frustrated. She said, "With Boy?"
Holy smokes. Is this just who she is, or has living with me done this to her?
Our day wasn't so bad, taken as a whole. Boy started it at 5:15, but was chipper about it, until about 8:00 when I was trying to bundle them out the door so I could make it to the gym in time to humiliate myself in Zumba. Then he was too tired to move, too tired to be good at the gym, too tired to put on his shoes. I muttered through clenched teeth my usual schtick about how unfair that was and that he didn't get to take the rest of us hostage. I added that it was ridiculous to insist on waking up so early and then play the victim. There was lots of clenched-teeth muttering. I trust he ignored most of it, as he is wont to do.
He actually did well at the gym, earning 15 minutes of iPad time for the three positive checks on his behavior chart. We made it through lunch and nap (yes! a rare and pleasant occurrence). He played outside nicely with Girl while I mowed the lawn (super quiet, eco-friendly reel mower FTW). The two boys from across the street came over, and stayed with us while their dad got some yard work done. They were fine, my kids were fine, but I found that my ability to stay positive and energetic through the whole impromptu playdate waned quickly. When they went home and we started to get ready for our traditional Friday evening bike ride for burgers, it fell apart. I fell apart. Boy gleefully and repeatedly ran out of the house (once while I was in the shower, it turns out). Boy gleefully refused to let his sister in his room to retrieve her shoes. There were some fisticuffs on the way there (I wish bike trailers had a wall between the two seats). There were significant fisticuffs on the way back (Girl's face was red from blows, but I must note she was not entirely innocent in the throwdown and in fact is much more vicious than her brother when it comes to it).
What put me over the edge, of all things, was Boy continuing to shout to the boys across the street that they were poop, as I repeatedly told him to stop calling people that. It was an entirely unimportant fight to pick at that time, but it was also an entirely straightforward instruction to follow. It was nothing short of defiant, just as running out of the house had been, just as holding his door shut as I stood 6 inches away telling him to open it was. It was a Screw you, Mom. It sucked. I sucked.
When asked to describe Boy's problems, I sometimes struggle to find a good example. In the end it's not often an isolated outburst. It's wiping toothpaste on the wall and running out of the house. It's turning on the TV immediately after I said no more cartoons or bolting off in a store. When he was in school it was chucking trains across the room compulsively, not so much acknowledging the adult next to him until she picked up him, and then he would turn into a writhing screaming mess. It's a steady stream of defiance. Defiance almost as a knee-jerk reaction. Defiance for no obvious reason.
It's an endless power struggle and it is exhausting.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Blame the Biebs
I had a thoughtful post in mind. I think think I was going to talk about knowing when to pull the plug, when to walk away, when to just start fresh.
This wasn't going to be about quitting the Service or divorce or anything inherently consequential--so calm down--but only about our day at the gym yesterday, the 8th in a row. Boy has a gym-specific behavior chart. Three checks equals 15 minutes of iPad time after the gym. Twelve checks in a week equals a trip for ice cream (for them, not me). He's held it together most days, but yesterday one of the staff came to retrieve me in my final minutes of personal training. He had hurt three kids and it was time to just take him home. I agreed, upset not simply because it happened (he is often the oldest by far, so the kids he hurts tend to be quite young), but because he is nobody's fool. He'd rather be in the house than ever leave it, and the second he knows he can get me to take him home simply by engaging in some fisticuffs, it's game over. I was stewing on this, my frustration rising, when I decided to just let it go. It had been 8 days in a row. We played outside, both (!) kids took naps, and then we played outside some more. Two meals on the front porch, some up close observation of bees on the dandelions, and other kid-worthy pursuits.
In a moment, it all made sense, the need to step back, restart, recharge, let go, forgive, move on. In that moment, in a larger sense. In parenting, in life.
But then I clicked on a slideshow entitled "Justin Bieber through the Years" (thanks for nothing, HuffPost), and my brain oozed out my ear. I think I've heard one Bieber song ever and I find young celebrity too tragic to make him a punchline. I don't know why I did it. But any sense of larger meaning and human frailty and carpe-ing the diems: poof. Gone.
Sorry.
This wasn't going to be about quitting the Service or divorce or anything inherently consequential--so calm down--but only about our day at the gym yesterday, the 8th in a row. Boy has a gym-specific behavior chart. Three checks equals 15 minutes of iPad time after the gym. Twelve checks in a week equals a trip for ice cream (for them, not me). He's held it together most days, but yesterday one of the staff came to retrieve me in my final minutes of personal training. He had hurt three kids and it was time to just take him home. I agreed, upset not simply because it happened (he is often the oldest by far, so the kids he hurts tend to be quite young), but because he is nobody's fool. He'd rather be in the house than ever leave it, and the second he knows he can get me to take him home simply by engaging in some fisticuffs, it's game over. I was stewing on this, my frustration rising, when I decided to just let it go. It had been 8 days in a row. We played outside, both (!) kids took naps, and then we played outside some more. Two meals on the front porch, some up close observation of bees on the dandelions, and other kid-worthy pursuits.
In a moment, it all made sense, the need to step back, restart, recharge, let go, forgive, move on. In that moment, in a larger sense. In parenting, in life.
But then I clicked on a slideshow entitled "Justin Bieber through the Years" (thanks for nothing, HuffPost), and my brain oozed out my ear. I think I've heard one Bieber song ever and I find young celebrity too tragic to make him a punchline. I don't know why I did it. But any sense of larger meaning and human frailty and carpe-ing the diems: poof. Gone.
Sorry.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Redux
Whoops. Disregard previous post.
I've been at this motherhood gig almost 5 years. You'd think I'd know better than to note publicly when things are going well, but alas. I don't. I never have.
I don't know if it's the stress of the arrival of our HHE, or a general loathing of me, or a genuine developmental issue, but it's been a rough few days for Boy and me. My Like-A-Boss-Ness has devolved into tantrums, writing/drawing/smearing inkpads on the wall, and other infractions that would so embarrass Teenage Boy that I won't mention them in a public forum. Girl, for her part, is generally well-behaved but still easily influenced by her big brother, whom she naturally worships, so when we went to Target and both of them took off in opposite directions for a game of Hide and Seek (only I wasn't playing), I thought I was damn near losing my mind.
Today my aunt, uncle, and teenage cousin came over to help with the last of the heavy schlepping. While Uncle R assembled a tool cabinet, I moved empty boxes from Garage 1 to Garage 2 (yes, 1890 sq ft of house and two entire garages...makes total sense). Girl wanted to help, so I asked her to drag a giant, fairly flat box from the garage at the side of the house to the garage at the back of our long yard. I didn't expect she'd make it more than a foot before running off to play T-ball with Boy. I was shocked when I came back in the yard to find her masterfully walking up the steps to Garage 2 backwards, hauling this large cardboard box. She continued on that way, holding one end of more cumbersome boxes while I held the other. I may have done most of the lifting, but certainly not all of it. She wouldn't finish until all the boxes had been moved, and even then, she requested "Moh boskes!"
I found myself caught between lavishly praising Girl and asking Boy to stop swinging the baseball bat at us, or to stop pouring water on the bathroom floor, or to stop sitting on the cat. I was cuddles and compliments with one, pure scolding with the other. I wouldn't want to be scolded all day, and I saw Boy descending deeper into a defiance I'm sure I too would embrace in his situation. I don't write on walls or swing a cat by his head, so that's one difference, but in a four-year-old's perspective I'm sure Mommy the Meanie looms larger than his own transgressions.
He's told me, several times, that I am a mean mommy, and I need to work on being frustrated.
I feel like a mean mommy. I want each moment to be a fresh start, but I turn around to find him engaged in an example of the World's Worst Judgment. I recently outlawed television, except for in the 5 a.m.to 7 a.m. hours (because come on), in hopes that that would force more creative and physical play and, in turn, a more exhausted and contented Boy. We'll see if it works. In the meantime, I find myself crawling into Boy's loft bed, smushed tailbone and all, to whisper love and forgiveness and regret in his sweet little ear. He nods quietly, his eyes too heavy to keep open, absorbing the flaws and missteps of his mother. In the end, I can only hope he remembers me not simply as Mommy the Meanie, but as Mommy the Human.
I've been at this motherhood gig almost 5 years. You'd think I'd know better than to note publicly when things are going well, but alas. I don't. I never have.
I don't know if it's the stress of the arrival of our HHE, or a general loathing of me, or a genuine developmental issue, but it's been a rough few days for Boy and me. My Like-A-Boss-Ness has devolved into tantrums, writing/drawing/smearing inkpads on the wall, and other infractions that would so embarrass Teenage Boy that I won't mention them in a public forum. Girl, for her part, is generally well-behaved but still easily influenced by her big brother, whom she naturally worships, so when we went to Target and both of them took off in opposite directions for a game of Hide and Seek (only I wasn't playing), I thought I was damn near losing my mind.
Today my aunt, uncle, and teenage cousin came over to help with the last of the heavy schlepping. While Uncle R assembled a tool cabinet, I moved empty boxes from Garage 1 to Garage 2 (yes, 1890 sq ft of house and two entire garages...makes total sense). Girl wanted to help, so I asked her to drag a giant, fairly flat box from the garage at the side of the house to the garage at the back of our long yard. I didn't expect she'd make it more than a foot before running off to play T-ball with Boy. I was shocked when I came back in the yard to find her masterfully walking up the steps to Garage 2 backwards, hauling this large cardboard box. She continued on that way, holding one end of more cumbersome boxes while I held the other. I may have done most of the lifting, but certainly not all of it. She wouldn't finish until all the boxes had been moved, and even then, she requested "Moh boskes!"
I found myself caught between lavishly praising Girl and asking Boy to stop swinging the baseball bat at us, or to stop pouring water on the bathroom floor, or to stop sitting on the cat. I was cuddles and compliments with one, pure scolding with the other. I wouldn't want to be scolded all day, and I saw Boy descending deeper into a defiance I'm sure I too would embrace in his situation. I don't write on walls or swing a cat by his head, so that's one difference, but in a four-year-old's perspective I'm sure Mommy the Meanie looms larger than his own transgressions.
He's told me, several times, that I am a mean mommy, and I need to work on being frustrated.
I feel like a mean mommy. I want each moment to be a fresh start, but I turn around to find him engaged in an example of the World's Worst Judgment. I recently outlawed television, except for in the 5 a.m.to 7 a.m. hours (because come on), in hopes that that would force more creative and physical play and, in turn, a more exhausted and contented Boy. We'll see if it works. In the meantime, I find myself crawling into Boy's loft bed, smushed tailbone and all, to whisper love and forgiveness and regret in his sweet little ear. He nods quietly, his eyes too heavy to keep open, absorbing the flaws and missteps of his mother. In the end, I can only hope he remembers me not simply as Mommy the Meanie, but as Mommy the Human.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Like a Boss
Wow. Three weeks, no blogging. This isn't good, but our brand of groundhog day is unlikely to be particularly thrilling reading material, so maybe it's best. If you don't have anything interesting to say, don't say anything at all.*
This post is full of Foreign Service Top Tips. I bet you are super excited.
We've been settling in and we were doing alright--our behavior management plan is making life so much better for Boy and me--until a week ago. We had already received our license-plate-free cars and on Wednesday last we were eagerly anticipating our HHE, scheduled to arrive at our doorstep between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. I received a call from the driver, saying they had another delivery and wouldn't be at our house until noon or so. I asked if there would be sufficient time for a full unpack and in response received the typical, "Oh? You wanted a full unpack?"
NOTE FOR FS NEWBIES: When in America, insist on your full unpack. The companies receive a lot of taxpayer dollars to do it for you, and will often try to wiggle out of it.
So I decide to continue tidying to prepare for the avalanche, hurricane, other weather-disaster-related metaphor of stuff that was about to rain down on us (see what I did there?). And I promptly fell down the stairs and destroyed my tailbone. I took one car for emissions testing and the garage door wouldn't close and Boy had a huge meltdown at the testing station and my butt really hurt and at one point I might have sat in the driver's seat, slammed my hands repeatedly against the steering wheel and screamed, "I hate my life!" Might have.
Our stuff arrived at....drumroll please...at 4:30 p.m. and was unpacked the next day. Once it was unpacked, it was clear that our 1890 sq. ft. house was not equipped to handle all our crap. I despaired for another day.
The village descended. My stepmom flew in from Washington and her sister and brother-in-law who live just a mile from my house became Team Awesome, sorting and tossing and organizing. There was even a margarita in there. I had to choose between Percocet and the margarita, and I chose the latter. More satisfying. In order to make my life easier, I ordered a storage container from 1-800-Packrat, which is now sitting in my driveway and holding all of the stuff that will go on Craigslist or in a yard sale. Super cheap, totally worth it. Consider this a Foreign Service Downsizing HHE Processing Top Tip.
Monday was the Like a Boss day. Emissions testing, VIN verification, registration of two cars? Driver's license? Nailed it. Taxes? Done. Paid. (If you have household staff, like we did for the first 6 months of 2012, you pay a lot come April 15.) Rental car? Returned. IN THE SNOW. LIKE A BOSS. Computer desk? Assembled.
Only Foreign Service Officers and their families might appreciate the atrociousness of international relocation, but its awfulness cannot be overstated.
Tuesday was also successful, though not as much in the conquering of Bureaucratic Forces Designed to Make Citizens Cry. I made it to the gym and did a good lower body/upper body workout. (No sitting though, so in order do bench presses from the balance ball, I had to flop somewhat fishlike on it. Trainer was amused.) Then I showered (! I know!) and took Girl to an affordable, well-reviewed preschool to secure the remaining spot for September enrollment. It's only for three half-days a week, and she pouted the whole way home because she wanted to go to preschool right then (there were bunnies, so can't blame her), but it's a win. It's two blocks from Boy's future school, which we will tour this morning if I can successfully cover up the fact that he's been up coughing all night long.
I'll cover the impossibility of securing an appointment with a behavioral psychologist in our network (at least a three month wait unless I go to the pediatric psych ER and get him admitted), the near miss for our family in Kandahar, Boston, and all things glum some other time. For now, our life is mundane, but each task conquered is a task conquered, so I'll take it.
Oh, also got a haircut for the first time in six months and a dye job to deal with this gray hair. LIKE A BOSS.
*Never stopped me before.
This post is full of Foreign Service Top Tips. I bet you are super excited.
We've been settling in and we were doing alright--our behavior management plan is making life so much better for Boy and me--until a week ago. We had already received our license-plate-free cars and on Wednesday last we were eagerly anticipating our HHE, scheduled to arrive at our doorstep between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. I received a call from the driver, saying they had another delivery and wouldn't be at our house until noon or so. I asked if there would be sufficient time for a full unpack and in response received the typical, "Oh? You wanted a full unpack?"
NOTE FOR FS NEWBIES: When in America, insist on your full unpack. The companies receive a lot of taxpayer dollars to do it for you, and will often try to wiggle out of it.
So I decide to continue tidying to prepare for the avalanche, hurricane, other weather-disaster-related metaphor of stuff that was about to rain down on us (see what I did there?). And I promptly fell down the stairs and destroyed my tailbone. I took one car for emissions testing and the garage door wouldn't close and Boy had a huge meltdown at the testing station and my butt really hurt and at one point I might have sat in the driver's seat, slammed my hands repeatedly against the steering wheel and screamed, "I hate my life!" Might have.
Our stuff arrived at....drumroll please...at 4:30 p.m. and was unpacked the next day. Once it was unpacked, it was clear that our 1890 sq. ft. house was not equipped to handle all our crap. I despaired for another day.
The village descended. My stepmom flew in from Washington and her sister and brother-in-law who live just a mile from my house became Team Awesome, sorting and tossing and organizing. There was even a margarita in there. I had to choose between Percocet and the margarita, and I chose the latter. More satisfying. In order to make my life easier, I ordered a storage container from 1-800-Packrat, which is now sitting in my driveway and holding all of the stuff that will go on Craigslist or in a yard sale. Super cheap, totally worth it. Consider this a Foreign Service Downsizing HHE Processing Top Tip.
Monday was the Like a Boss day. Emissions testing, VIN verification, registration of two cars? Driver's license? Nailed it. Taxes? Done. Paid. (If you have household staff, like we did for the first 6 months of 2012, you pay a lot come April 15.) Rental car? Returned. IN THE SNOW. LIKE A BOSS. Computer desk? Assembled.
Only Foreign Service Officers and their families might appreciate the atrociousness of international relocation, but its awfulness cannot be overstated.
Tuesday was also successful, though not as much in the conquering of Bureaucratic Forces Designed to Make Citizens Cry. I made it to the gym and did a good lower body/upper body workout. (No sitting though, so in order do bench presses from the balance ball, I had to flop somewhat fishlike on it. Trainer was amused.) Then I showered (! I know!) and took Girl to an affordable, well-reviewed preschool to secure the remaining spot for September enrollment. It's only for three half-days a week, and she pouted the whole way home because she wanted to go to preschool right then (there were bunnies, so can't blame her), but it's a win. It's two blocks from Boy's future school, which we will tour this morning if I can successfully cover up the fact that he's been up coughing all night long.
I'll cover the impossibility of securing an appointment with a behavioral psychologist in our network (at least a three month wait unless I go to the pediatric psych ER and get him admitted), the near miss for our family in Kandahar, Boston, and all things glum some other time. For now, our life is mundane, but each task conquered is a task conquered, so I'll take it.
Oh, also got a haircut for the first time in six months and a dye job to deal with this gray hair. LIKE A BOSS.
*Never stopped me before.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Implementation
SUMMARY This post contains the nitty gritty on our behavior management plan, as developed by our behavioral psychologist at Kennedy Krieger. It also contains a read out on some of my biggest challenges as a mother. Feel free to skip if the nitty gritty is not useful. Several of you are facing similar challenges, or have toddlers who may present similar challenges, and might find all this helpful. END SUMMARY
(That was for all you cable-writers out there.)
The first part of Sunday was shaping up to be horrendous. I don't even remember what was happening, but I remember it was all wrong and all I could think is: how can I get through this day, let alone a year? Then the normal/maybe not so normal self-loathing thoughts of how I'm a terrible mother with no patience and my kids deserve better and so on and so forth. I think Boy was punching cats. Or something. It was rough.
I had attempted to bring the kids to the gym for the first time, so they could see the kids' club and I could get a brief workout in. Girl was dressed and rarin' to go--she always loves to get out--but Boy would. not. move. Every single attempt to get him dressed wasn't working, and all he would do is scream how much he wanted to die and was never going to leave the house and was certainly not going to go to the gym. Then the cat punching. Or something. Again, details are fuzzy.
I started to despair, and at that moment I felt a kinship with every teacher he's ever had. Boy is smart and affectionate, but he's unpredictable and at times a bit of a terrorist, in that he will hold everyone in the room hostage to his whims. I knew I couldn't let him win, but I also knew I couldn't take him to the gym and a) have it go horribly and have them kick him out or b) have it go horribly and he'd never want to return. I started to panic, had a rushed call with my mom in which I lamented my lot in life, and then it hit me:
Let's get this behavior management program on the road.
This was the whole reason I'm home, right? Right. We couldn't fully implement his program in Estonia, because it was just not possible to cross the cultural barriers to manage it while working full time. We couldn't implement it the first few weeks we were in Colorado because we were moving and there was a lot of iPad time in order to accomplish anything. But now we were by ourselves, our house was livable, and we weren't setting our schedule around vendors anymore. Time to get cracking.
I tossed the angry child and his sister in the car and drove to the teacher store, where I loaded up on behavior charts of all types and sizes, a lesson plan book for me, bulletin board paper and border for our very own word wall, and a few other teaching items. He has to be ready for kindergarten in August, and I had some work to do.
The thrust of his plan is anathema to some: I address the behavior, not the emotion. It sounds counterintuitive, but when you have a violent child who doesn't express himself verbally (he does now, incessantly, but remember we started dealing with this when he was still a toddler), you get used to verbalizing emotions for him. So for years we have been super attuned to his needs and frustrations, which is normally great, but as he developed a huge vocabulary and reached an age where his behavior expectations were such that in no way could we write off, say, biting as just a phase, he needed an adult to interpret everything for him. This is how every school he's ever been in (to be fair, two) both said he essentially needed one teacher assigned to him all the time. He could express himself however he wanted, because the adult was going to say "I see you feel...., let's...." Well, okay, that's great with a two year old, but he's almost five. He needs to learn to self-regulate.
This is not to say we aren't supposed to care about his emotions. We certainly are. It's just that, except for emergencies or moments of pain, it's okay to let him get frustrated and angry and figure out how to deal with it. Without violence. The violence was so prevalent that we didn't let him do that, but that's not a long term strategy for success. So I am supposed to address the emotion when it's presented calmly. If he's frustrated, angry, sad, excited--whatever--I engage with him when he presents that in a way that is acceptable. My crunchy tendency is to say, well shouldn't we validate all feelings? Yes, says the psychologist, but feelings and manifestations are not the same thing, and that lesson is a key one. Being upset with me because I used a block he wanted is legit. Screaming that he hates me and that I need to put back or, all too often, throwing a block at me or trying to bite, certainly isn't. So I keep on playing with that block, deflecting the attack, not making eye contact, and calmly saying "try that again." The absolute second he calms down and asks me for the block back I specifically and enthusiastically praise the calm way he asked for it, and give it to him. Or don't, and tell him I needed it for my tower but let's work out a solution. You know, those human interactions we wish the road rage types could practice.
It boils down to this:
1) Really ignore negative behavior (no eye contact, no getting red in the face, no yelling, no engagement). If you need to intervene during dangerous behavior, say when a kid is throwing blocks, you walk over and take the blocks away without words and without eye contact. When a kid is four, he knows why you are taking them. Exposition is unnecessary.
2) Praise specific behavior in an over-the-top and immediate way. "You're doing great!" isn't as valuable as "You calmly put your toys back in the box. That's awesome!"
3) Schedules schedules schedules. Post them everywhere, so the child knows what comes next and what he or she has to look forward to. Teachers do this with their "Flow of the Day."
4) Charts charts charts. Reward the hell out of good behavior...give the kid a goal that is attainable but also missable so that they have something that requires a little improvement on their part. Behavior charts, "first/then" charts (that's been huge for us...don't say "if you ___, then you can __" because then it's an option!), stoplights. There are a lot of options, all part of the teachers' toolkit as well.
5) Give directions properly. I am the worst at my verbal tics. As adults, we make things polite by saying, "Could you?" or "Can you?" or "It would be great." As the psychologist asked me: is it really an option? If it is--and sometimes it is--then ask it like it is one. Kids are verbal literalists. If it's something that must happen, phrase it as such: "I need you to x." Give directions within arms length in a normal speaking voice.
6) Follow up. Our plan uses the following strategy: count to five in your head (not out loud), repeat the direction and add that if the child doesn't do it, you will help them do it. Then do it. For Boy, the best example at the doctor's office was his shoes: he took them off at the beginning of the session, and when it was time to go he didn't even acknowledge my request to put them on. The doctor told him to do it, waited five beats, reminded him and said she would help him if he didn't do it. He didn't do it. So she took his hand, put it on his shoe, then started putting his shoe on for him. His dignity was insulted and he started screaming screaming that he wanted to do it himself, digging his nails into her hands. She calmly, without eye contact, informed him that he had an opportunity and chose not to do it, so the consequence is now she will do it for him. Then she pried his nails off her. As soon as she was done, he took them off. And so it went. The next day, he put his shoes on by himself.
7) Make rewards meaningful but easy on you. Don't give dessert, make it a reward! Don't allow iPad time, make it a reward! Rewards should only rarely cost money and always be something a child genuinely enjoys. When Boy was three, we were buying crappy little toys he could earn by accumulating coins (read: poker chips). In the end, we were out a ton of cash and had a ton of plastic toys we didn't need around the house. I find iPad time or a TV show or dessert to be more meaningful for everyone. (Or picking the museum we go to or which restaurant we eat at or...you get the idea).
8) It gets worse before it gets better. This has been very true. The first month after our trip to Baltimore was constant despair for me. I was scratched, hit, bitten. He told me he hated me regularly (current version: telling me he wants to die).
And yesterday was no different.
I was really proud of myself. The night before I had created a chore chart for Boy that listed his responsibilities (clean up Legos, brush teeth, be gentle with pets, etc.). He helped me make one for myself:
I have a lot more chores.*
We made a chart just for mealtime, and he could earn stickers for staying in his chair, using utensils, asking to be excused, and clearing his plate from the table. Twenty stickers on the chore chart equals twenty minutes of iPad time (achievable every two to three days). Ten stickers on the meal chart equals dessert (last night was hot chocolate).
When the kids woke up, they had a great flow of the day up in their little hallway. We went over it. I told Boy that good behavior at the gym meant 15 whole minutes of iPad. He dutifully got into play clothes all on his own, went to the gym, and did well. He had a minor meltdown in the store afterward, but held it together during rest time and even learned some new words on our word wall while Girl was napping. Later, he was upstairs while I helped her in the bathroom downstairs. I had set up an activity for them (reading for him, colors and shapes for her), and I was feeling confident that our program was going to be effective and helpful for all three of us.
I brought Girl upstairs, eager to do our activity and happy with the way our day was going.
Boy had taken a marker and scribbled all over my schedule, moving parts of it and taking other parts away. He had take then same marker to the activities I set up, covering the work I had done with blue marker.
He looked viciously at me, as if challenging me to say something about it. My inclination was to lose it. In my head all I could think is that we had turned our life upside down and I was doing the best I could, on my own, while his dad was in a war zone, all to give him a better chance. I wanted to send him to his room, tell him he was awful, and then give up. But all that is horrible to lay at the feet of even the most difficult four year old. Plus, "Use a calm voice" was on my chore chart.
So I cried. I fake cried. I was angry and frustrated enough to cry, but I wasn't going to. So I squeezed some tears out, told him I was doing this for him to make his day easier, and that it really hurt me that he ruined it. I looked up to find him genuinely remorseful. He hugged me, told me he was "really really sorry for ruining your hard work." He did assure me he'd do it again next time he's mad, but we'll work on that. Rather than dwell on it, I recreated the activity and he read a bunch of sentences.
This morning, I had a new flow of the day set up.
So far it's intact and he earned his 15 minutes of iPad time for being great at the gym.
It's an ongoing struggle, but I know that consistency is going to be key.
There are a lot of parents who might not be comfortable with this. One school would prefer that he just behave or face consequences--corporal or not. That's just not our kid. Another would prefer that he be given the deference we'd give an adult, out of respect. That's just not our kid. I respect him, but there are certain things required of a functioning member of society. I'm with Louis CK on this one; sometimes you just need to put your damn shoes on. I'll let you know if this works the way I hope it will, but it definitely gives us structure, reference points, and goals. Girl likes the schedule too, and I even convinced her it was naptime by pointing to it. Ultimately, this reduces the number of negative interactions we have, as I just do not engage on most of the negative behavior. It's easier on our relationship.
I know from experience this is how classrooms in the U.S. function. Fingers crossed, we might finally be heading down the right path.
*Yep, on Sunday I neither showered nor put on clean clothes. Woot.
(That was for all you cable-writers out there.)
The first part of Sunday was shaping up to be horrendous. I don't even remember what was happening, but I remember it was all wrong and all I could think is: how can I get through this day, let alone a year? Then the normal/maybe not so normal self-loathing thoughts of how I'm a terrible mother with no patience and my kids deserve better and so on and so forth. I think Boy was punching cats. Or something. It was rough.
I had attempted to bring the kids to the gym for the first time, so they could see the kids' club and I could get a brief workout in. Girl was dressed and rarin' to go--she always loves to get out--but Boy would. not. move. Every single attempt to get him dressed wasn't working, and all he would do is scream how much he wanted to die and was never going to leave the house and was certainly not going to go to the gym. Then the cat punching. Or something. Again, details are fuzzy.
I started to despair, and at that moment I felt a kinship with every teacher he's ever had. Boy is smart and affectionate, but he's unpredictable and at times a bit of a terrorist, in that he will hold everyone in the room hostage to his whims. I knew I couldn't let him win, but I also knew I couldn't take him to the gym and a) have it go horribly and have them kick him out or b) have it go horribly and he'd never want to return. I started to panic, had a rushed call with my mom in which I lamented my lot in life, and then it hit me:
Let's get this behavior management program on the road.
This was the whole reason I'm home, right? Right. We couldn't fully implement his program in Estonia, because it was just not possible to cross the cultural barriers to manage it while working full time. We couldn't implement it the first few weeks we were in Colorado because we were moving and there was a lot of iPad time in order to accomplish anything. But now we were by ourselves, our house was livable, and we weren't setting our schedule around vendors anymore. Time to get cracking.
I tossed the angry child and his sister in the car and drove to the teacher store, where I loaded up on behavior charts of all types and sizes, a lesson plan book for me, bulletin board paper and border for our very own word wall, and a few other teaching items. He has to be ready for kindergarten in August, and I had some work to do.
The thrust of his plan is anathema to some: I address the behavior, not the emotion. It sounds counterintuitive, but when you have a violent child who doesn't express himself verbally (he does now, incessantly, but remember we started dealing with this when he was still a toddler), you get used to verbalizing emotions for him. So for years we have been super attuned to his needs and frustrations, which is normally great, but as he developed a huge vocabulary and reached an age where his behavior expectations were such that in no way could we write off, say, biting as just a phase, he needed an adult to interpret everything for him. This is how every school he's ever been in (to be fair, two) both said he essentially needed one teacher assigned to him all the time. He could express himself however he wanted, because the adult was going to say "I see you feel...., let's...." Well, okay, that's great with a two year old, but he's almost five. He needs to learn to self-regulate.
This is not to say we aren't supposed to care about his emotions. We certainly are. It's just that, except for emergencies or moments of pain, it's okay to let him get frustrated and angry and figure out how to deal with it. Without violence. The violence was so prevalent that we didn't let him do that, but that's not a long term strategy for success. So I am supposed to address the emotion when it's presented calmly. If he's frustrated, angry, sad, excited--whatever--I engage with him when he presents that in a way that is acceptable. My crunchy tendency is to say, well shouldn't we validate all feelings? Yes, says the psychologist, but feelings and manifestations are not the same thing, and that lesson is a key one. Being upset with me because I used a block he wanted is legit. Screaming that he hates me and that I need to put back or, all too often, throwing a block at me or trying to bite, certainly isn't. So I keep on playing with that block, deflecting the attack, not making eye contact, and calmly saying "try that again." The absolute second he calms down and asks me for the block back I specifically and enthusiastically praise the calm way he asked for it, and give it to him. Or don't, and tell him I needed it for my tower but let's work out a solution. You know, those human interactions we wish the road rage types could practice.
It boils down to this:
1) Really ignore negative behavior (no eye contact, no getting red in the face, no yelling, no engagement). If you need to intervene during dangerous behavior, say when a kid is throwing blocks, you walk over and take the blocks away without words and without eye contact. When a kid is four, he knows why you are taking them. Exposition is unnecessary.
2) Praise specific behavior in an over-the-top and immediate way. "You're doing great!" isn't as valuable as "You calmly put your toys back in the box. That's awesome!"
3) Schedules schedules schedules. Post them everywhere, so the child knows what comes next and what he or she has to look forward to. Teachers do this with their "Flow of the Day."
4) Charts charts charts. Reward the hell out of good behavior...give the kid a goal that is attainable but also missable so that they have something that requires a little improvement on their part. Behavior charts, "first/then" charts (that's been huge for us...don't say "if you ___, then you can __" because then it's an option!), stoplights. There are a lot of options, all part of the teachers' toolkit as well.
5) Give directions properly. I am the worst at my verbal tics. As adults, we make things polite by saying, "Could you?" or "Can you?" or "It would be great." As the psychologist asked me: is it really an option? If it is--and sometimes it is--then ask it like it is one. Kids are verbal literalists. If it's something that must happen, phrase it as such: "I need you to x." Give directions within arms length in a normal speaking voice.
6) Follow up. Our plan uses the following strategy: count to five in your head (not out loud), repeat the direction and add that if the child doesn't do it, you will help them do it. Then do it. For Boy, the best example at the doctor's office was his shoes: he took them off at the beginning of the session, and when it was time to go he didn't even acknowledge my request to put them on. The doctor told him to do it, waited five beats, reminded him and said she would help him if he didn't do it. He didn't do it. So she took his hand, put it on his shoe, then started putting his shoe on for him. His dignity was insulted and he started screaming screaming that he wanted to do it himself, digging his nails into her hands. She calmly, without eye contact, informed him that he had an opportunity and chose not to do it, so the consequence is now she will do it for him. Then she pried his nails off her. As soon as she was done, he took them off. And so it went. The next day, he put his shoes on by himself.
7) Make rewards meaningful but easy on you. Don't give dessert, make it a reward! Don't allow iPad time, make it a reward! Rewards should only rarely cost money and always be something a child genuinely enjoys. When Boy was three, we were buying crappy little toys he could earn by accumulating coins (read: poker chips). In the end, we were out a ton of cash and had a ton of plastic toys we didn't need around the house. I find iPad time or a TV show or dessert to be more meaningful for everyone. (Or picking the museum we go to or which restaurant we eat at or...you get the idea).
8) It gets worse before it gets better. This has been very true. The first month after our trip to Baltimore was constant despair for me. I was scratched, hit, bitten. He told me he hated me regularly (current version: telling me he wants to die).
And yesterday was no different.
I was really proud of myself. The night before I had created a chore chart for Boy that listed his responsibilities (clean up Legos, brush teeth, be gentle with pets, etc.). He helped me make one for myself:
I have a lot more chores.*
We made a chart just for mealtime, and he could earn stickers for staying in his chair, using utensils, asking to be excused, and clearing his plate from the table. Twenty stickers on the chore chart equals twenty minutes of iPad time (achievable every two to three days). Ten stickers on the meal chart equals dessert (last night was hot chocolate).
When the kids woke up, they had a great flow of the day up in their little hallway. We went over it. I told Boy that good behavior at the gym meant 15 whole minutes of iPad. He dutifully got into play clothes all on his own, went to the gym, and did well. He had a minor meltdown in the store afterward, but held it together during rest time and even learned some new words on our word wall while Girl was napping. Later, he was upstairs while I helped her in the bathroom downstairs. I had set up an activity for them (reading for him, colors and shapes for her), and I was feeling confident that our program was going to be effective and helpful for all three of us.
I brought Girl upstairs, eager to do our activity and happy with the way our day was going.
Boy had taken a marker and scribbled all over my schedule, moving parts of it and taking other parts away. He had take then same marker to the activities I set up, covering the work I had done with blue marker.
He looked viciously at me, as if challenging me to say something about it. My inclination was to lose it. In my head all I could think is that we had turned our life upside down and I was doing the best I could, on my own, while his dad was in a war zone, all to give him a better chance. I wanted to send him to his room, tell him he was awful, and then give up. But all that is horrible to lay at the feet of even the most difficult four year old. Plus, "Use a calm voice" was on my chore chart.
So I cried. I fake cried. I was angry and frustrated enough to cry, but I wasn't going to. So I squeezed some tears out, told him I was doing this for him to make his day easier, and that it really hurt me that he ruined it. I looked up to find him genuinely remorseful. He hugged me, told me he was "really really sorry for ruining your hard work." He did assure me he'd do it again next time he's mad, but we'll work on that. Rather than dwell on it, I recreated the activity and he read a bunch of sentences.
This morning, I had a new flow of the day set up.
So far it's intact and he earned his 15 minutes of iPad time for being great at the gym.
It's an ongoing struggle, but I know that consistency is going to be key.
There are a lot of parents who might not be comfortable with this. One school would prefer that he just behave or face consequences--corporal or not. That's just not our kid. Another would prefer that he be given the deference we'd give an adult, out of respect. That's just not our kid. I respect him, but there are certain things required of a functioning member of society. I'm with Louis CK on this one; sometimes you just need to put your damn shoes on. I'll let you know if this works the way I hope it will, but it definitely gives us structure, reference points, and goals. Girl likes the schedule too, and I even convinced her it was naptime by pointing to it. Ultimately, this reduces the number of negative interactions we have, as I just do not engage on most of the negative behavior. It's easier on our relationship.
I know from experience this is how classrooms in the U.S. function. Fingers crossed, we might finally be heading down the right path.
*Yep, on Sunday I neither showered nor put on clean clothes. Woot.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Falling Short
Boy opened the front door yesterday to throw out his apple core, "so the bugs can eat it," and I added a compost pile to my growing list of domestic aspirations. Like many Washingtonians, I strive to overachieve, and though I fall short regularly and spectacularly, I cannot stop pinning DIY detergents and fabric organizers and memory books.
When Husband and I were debating how best to handle this massive shift to one stay-at-home parent, he told me that I needed to direct his ambition. That he was going to be ambitious was a given, but I had to tell him whether I wanted him to have career ambition or stay-at-home-dad ambition. I am similar, and so I strive to can, and sew, and generally make a home.
I haven't added "grow kale" to my list, but I figure with a sleeve of tattoos and at least one bird-print dress, I'm one pin away from growing some in a repurposed crate. I know my children will eye a kale smoothie with intense skepticism, as would I, but it seems to be what I should be aiming for, so aim I shall.
It would be great if I could pretend that's not how this ambition works, that I'm not competitive with myself and the world, but that would be a lie and you all would know it, so let's just dispense with such notions now.
Stepping back from the Service is harder than I thought it would be. I squeezed in a few precious minutes to read the Washington Post the other day, and as I read "Secretary Kerry" over and over again it hit me that the Department moves on without me. His first day was my last, and that was just one of many changes that will surely come. I know when I return the software will be different, the procedures will be different, and--possibly--immigration and nationality law in itself could be different. My friends and colleagues will be promoted over me. We are an intensely competitive service, staffed with people who genuinely like their work and each other, but who all aspire to superstar status. I am that way by nature, but I've had to step back for my kids. Even if Boy were your average child, I can't work 14 hour days with two small kids at home and a husband with a full-time job. So I end up in a life were I spend most of my day giving not-quite-enough at the office, and the rest of it giving not-nearly-enough at home. It's tough on your soul.
I'm hoping to enjoy this break from paid employment, however long it will be, as a break from the pressure and competition and, in my case, the omnipresent sense of inadequacy. I am still me, though, and as I finished re-upholstering our dining room chairs, I put out a cloth and called the kids over to paint embroidery hoops for Girl's room (pictures will soon explain). I whipped up some pumpkin bread this morning, and after the kids wake up from their nap, my mom and I will caravan to the other side of the city to pick up some great mid-century modern vintage vinyl chairs for my porch. I joined the local food co-op this morning, I bought kids chalk for their new chalkboard wall, and I even took a shower. It sounds great, right? I'm somewhat productive, I'm nesting, and I'm even clean.
All I can think is I haven't planted any kale and I haven't been anybody's staff assistant. And so my list keeps growing, passing aspirational and approaching delusional, as I calculate not how I can have it all, but how I can do it all. I'm still hoping that some day, in some way, I'll finally walk on water.
When Husband and I were debating how best to handle this massive shift to one stay-at-home parent, he told me that I needed to direct his ambition. That he was going to be ambitious was a given, but I had to tell him whether I wanted him to have career ambition or stay-at-home-dad ambition. I am similar, and so I strive to can, and sew, and generally make a home.
I haven't added "grow kale" to my list, but I figure with a sleeve of tattoos and at least one bird-print dress, I'm one pin away from growing some in a repurposed crate. I know my children will eye a kale smoothie with intense skepticism, as would I, but it seems to be what I should be aiming for, so aim I shall.
It would be great if I could pretend that's not how this ambition works, that I'm not competitive with myself and the world, but that would be a lie and you all would know it, so let's just dispense with such notions now.
Stepping back from the Service is harder than I thought it would be. I squeezed in a few precious minutes to read the Washington Post the other day, and as I read "Secretary Kerry" over and over again it hit me that the Department moves on without me. His first day was my last, and that was just one of many changes that will surely come. I know when I return the software will be different, the procedures will be different, and--possibly--immigration and nationality law in itself could be different. My friends and colleagues will be promoted over me. We are an intensely competitive service, staffed with people who genuinely like their work and each other, but who all aspire to superstar status. I am that way by nature, but I've had to step back for my kids. Even if Boy were your average child, I can't work 14 hour days with two small kids at home and a husband with a full-time job. So I end up in a life were I spend most of my day giving not-quite-enough at the office, and the rest of it giving not-nearly-enough at home. It's tough on your soul.
I'm hoping to enjoy this break from paid employment, however long it will be, as a break from the pressure and competition and, in my case, the omnipresent sense of inadequacy. I am still me, though, and as I finished re-upholstering our dining room chairs, I put out a cloth and called the kids over to paint embroidery hoops for Girl's room (pictures will soon explain). I whipped up some pumpkin bread this morning, and after the kids wake up from their nap, my mom and I will caravan to the other side of the city to pick up some great mid-century modern vintage vinyl chairs for my porch. I joined the local food co-op this morning, I bought kids chalk for their new chalkboard wall, and I even took a shower. It sounds great, right? I'm somewhat productive, I'm nesting, and I'm even clean.
All I can think is I haven't planted any kale and I haven't been anybody's staff assistant. And so my list keeps growing, passing aspirational and approaching delusional, as I calculate not how I can have it all, but how I can do it all. I'm still hoping that some day, in some way, I'll finally walk on water.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Emotional Escrow...
...financial escrow.
Life is nuts right now, so let's throw a bunch of stuff at the wall, shall we?
First things first: Ankara. Digger's post over at Life After Jerusalem has gone a bit viral on Facebook, and deservedly so. She nails something that saddens me now and pained me (and others) throughout the Benghazi hullaballoo. For those of us in the field, the safety of American employees is not a higher priority than that of our local staff (in some respects Ambassador aside, for obvious reasons). We're all one team and--as is true in places that experience suicide bombings on regular places--security guards are often the first line of defense, and the most likely victims. Mourn Mustafa Akarsu, please.
Onto less important things: We beat a cash offer and are under contract. At our broker's urging, we wrote a letter explaining what that house would mean to us, and the seller supposedly liked it enough to go through the expense and time of closing on a very-much-so-not-cash deal.
TSP denied our loan for cash for down payment, etc. DENIED. And then, in that very TSP way, the only explanation online was a non-explanation. They sent the real explanation to our address on record, which will of course arrive long after we've left. You can call and ask, but you have to have your PIN, which we do not. This is not the same as your internet password, which we do have but can never lose, as that too will only be sent to your address on record. Why is it harder to get into your TSP account than it is to buy a gun?
At any rate, I'm hoping the problem was that I faxed the app multiple times, as I didn't get a confirmation sheet. This is my hunch, as an hour after it stated we were rejected, a second, newer message said we were in process. If that is the case, I'll bet you $50 they deducted the $50 application fee for each faxed application.
We have assignment notifications, but not orders. I may have to cost-construct to Denver, since as an employee on LWOP I'm assigned to Washington, though once I'm on LWOP, I'm entitled to ISMA as an EFM for all intents and purposes. Don't know! No one knows! This may actually be the first time this has happened (tandem, curtail, one to LWOP not-in-DC, other to Afghanistan, things to ship under both names, kids in there somewhere).
Boy was a bit distraught today packing up his Legos in order to prepare for packout. He doesn't want to leave Estonia. But just in case we're going to make him leave anyway, he put together a Polyvore with his ideal bedroom.
And somewhere, in all of this, I have moments of extreme sadness. I never thought I'd want to stay home with the kids (oomph, that sounds awful). It never occurred to me to do so until fairly recently, and even then it was appealing because it is just so difficult to help Boy from the office. Right now I plan to come back on duty, but we are open to the possibility that--should life work better in the U.S., should Boy do better with a parent home--we'll have to figure out how to make this change permanent. Chances are I'd end up working and Husband would stay home, at least for a while, but I don't know what I'll do for a living if I don't do this.
But! One step at a time. My suitcase is packed so it doesn't end up in a sea shipment, and it's filled with cardigans and knit jersey and leggings. Not a blazer in sight.
Life is nuts right now, so let's throw a bunch of stuff at the wall, shall we?
First things first: Ankara. Digger's post over at Life After Jerusalem has gone a bit viral on Facebook, and deservedly so. She nails something that saddens me now and pained me (and others) throughout the Benghazi hullaballoo. For those of us in the field, the safety of American employees is not a higher priority than that of our local staff (in some respects Ambassador aside, for obvious reasons). We're all one team and--as is true in places that experience suicide bombings on regular places--security guards are often the first line of defense, and the most likely victims. Mourn Mustafa Akarsu, please.
Onto less important things: We beat a cash offer and are under contract. At our broker's urging, we wrote a letter explaining what that house would mean to us, and the seller supposedly liked it enough to go through the expense and time of closing on a very-much-so-not-cash deal.
TSP denied our loan for cash for down payment, etc. DENIED. And then, in that very TSP way, the only explanation online was a non-explanation. They sent the real explanation to our address on record, which will of course arrive long after we've left. You can call and ask, but you have to have your PIN, which we do not. This is not the same as your internet password, which we do have but can never lose, as that too will only be sent to your address on record. Why is it harder to get into your TSP account than it is to buy a gun?
At any rate, I'm hoping the problem was that I faxed the app multiple times, as I didn't get a confirmation sheet. This is my hunch, as an hour after it stated we were rejected, a second, newer message said we were in process. If that is the case, I'll bet you $50 they deducted the $50 application fee for each faxed application.
We have assignment notifications, but not orders. I may have to cost-construct to Denver, since as an employee on LWOP I'm assigned to Washington, though once I'm on LWOP, I'm entitled to ISMA as an EFM for all intents and purposes. Don't know! No one knows! This may actually be the first time this has happened (tandem, curtail, one to LWOP not-in-DC, other to Afghanistan, things to ship under both names, kids in there somewhere).
Boy was a bit distraught today packing up his Legos in order to prepare for packout. He doesn't want to leave Estonia. But just in case we're going to make him leave anyway, he put together a Polyvore with his ideal bedroom.
And somewhere, in all of this, I have moments of extreme sadness. I never thought I'd want to stay home with the kids (oomph, that sounds awful). It never occurred to me to do so until fairly recently, and even then it was appealing because it is just so difficult to help Boy from the office. Right now I plan to come back on duty, but we are open to the possibility that--should life work better in the U.S., should Boy do better with a parent home--we'll have to figure out how to make this change permanent. Chances are I'd end up working and Husband would stay home, at least for a while, but I don't know what I'll do for a living if I don't do this.
But! One step at a time. My suitcase is packed so it doesn't end up in a sea shipment, and it's filled with cardigans and knit jersey and leggings. Not a blazer in sight.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Thump
I've told anyone who would listen, and at least three who wouldn't, how I was certain I was going to have a heart attack today. Just fall over and that would be it. Why else would my left arm hurt, my heart thump wildly, my thoughts race?
I even walked into the nurse's office and declared Welp, sorry, probably going to die on you today. Don't worry, I'll make sure they call you. She offered me some magic drops that would do something magical, but considering I had decisions to make regarding border security and some of our taxpayers to meet that night, I declined. Seemed irresponsible to do otherwise.
We submitted an offer on a house tonight and we're awaiting the answer. So far this experience of trying to buy a house--our first--has felt uncannily like having a horse step on my chest. I've googled a lot of things about buying a house and while I'm proud I finally understand what escrow is (kinda), googling "horse stepping on chest" and "earnest money" yields few useful results.
In order to have the best chance of a successful offer, we wrote a letter to the property owner, per our excellent agent's request. It took me only a few minutes to tap out our reasons for the house. We've lived everywhere, we've lived together, we've lived apart. We have a child with special needs and Husband's going to Afghanistan. We need sun and support and a community. Please please please take our offer.
So we'll see. We have no orders, no firm flight plans. Boy is hanging in there, though last week he came home from school and declared that he bit "lots of people." Today, though, we learned that he drew this:
During his IQ test in Baltimore, the only task he performed only at the 4 year old level was drawing a person. I maintained it was because he doesn't actually like people and has no interest in drawing them. Check out his sense of perspective on the airplane. That little omega-looking thing is a mouse hole. Look closely and see a little tail and mouse bottom sticking out the right side. His cat is already better than mine.
No orders, no firm flight plans. But possibly a house, and definitely some hope.
I even walked into the nurse's office and declared Welp, sorry, probably going to die on you today. Don't worry, I'll make sure they call you. She offered me some magic drops that would do something magical, but considering I had decisions to make regarding border security and some of our taxpayers to meet that night, I declined. Seemed irresponsible to do otherwise.
We submitted an offer on a house tonight and we're awaiting the answer. So far this experience of trying to buy a house--our first--has felt uncannily like having a horse step on my chest. I've googled a lot of things about buying a house and while I'm proud I finally understand what escrow is (kinda), googling "horse stepping on chest" and "earnest money" yields few useful results.
In order to have the best chance of a successful offer, we wrote a letter to the property owner, per our excellent agent's request. It took me only a few minutes to tap out our reasons for the house. We've lived everywhere, we've lived together, we've lived apart. We have a child with special needs and Husband's going to Afghanistan. We need sun and support and a community. Please please please take our offer.
So we'll see. We have no orders, no firm flight plans. Boy is hanging in there, though last week he came home from school and declared that he bit "lots of people." Today, though, we learned that he drew this:
During his IQ test in Baltimore, the only task he performed only at the 4 year old level was drawing a person. I maintained it was because he doesn't actually like people and has no interest in drawing them. Check out his sense of perspective on the airplane. That little omega-looking thing is a mouse hole. Look closely and see a little tail and mouse bottom sticking out the right side. His cat is already better than mine.
No orders, no firm flight plans. But possibly a house, and definitely some hope.
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