The REAL reason...

Ever since my Youngest learned how to write his own name, he's insisted on leaving out the second letter... the letter A.

Before I go on, just know that I am fully aware that you're not supposed to publicly post your child's name on the internet, for fear some internet predator learns it and starts stalking. I'm always warning friends and family about that very danger, and normally I follow it to the T (in case you hadn't gathered by the names Youngest and Older Son). However, his is a fairly common name, and since I'm not sharing any information beyond his first name, and since his last name is not the same as mine, I think it's okay to impart this wee bit of information, just this once, for the sake of this post.

Besides, I have to have blackmail material for when he starts dating, right?

Danny is like many children--- inquisitive, compassionate, and independent. He loves life, loves his family, and loves trains and firetrucks.

But he does not like that second letter in his name. And so he insists on spelling his name "Dnny."

It's actually rather comical, and I like the way Dnny looks when it's written down. His foster mother said once, "I don't know what the letter A ever did to him, but he does not like it when we spell his name with it!"

I've asked him several times over the past few months, "So, Danny, how do you spell your name?" And his answer is always the same: "D-n-n-y."

But I know that he needs to be able to spell his name properly, so I finally decided to ask him about it. This ended up being asked during a visit when his older brother was sick, so it was just Danny and me, playing with Legos on the floor of the DHS office.

"So, Danny, how do you spell your name now?" I ventured while fitting a neon pink brick into the wee house I was building.

He grumbled, apparently disliking the question. "D-n-n-y."

I cocked my head to look at him. "Why don't you spell it D-a-n-n-y? That's the way it's supposed to be spelled, you know."

"I don't like the 'a.'" SNAP went another piece into place.

"What don't you like about the 'a?'" I prompted, struggling with another Lego that refused to go where I wanted it.

He continued building the rocket launcher in his hand. "I don't like the way it looks. Teacher won't let me write it the way I want to write it, so I don't use it at all." He reached for a piece, and I handed it to him.

A light bulb flashed into brilliant life in my head. "You like the big letter 'A,' but not the small letter 'a,' is that it?" I queried.

Danny nodded, not looking at me.

I put down my half-finished house and pointed out where I have his name tattooed on the inside of my left ankle, all in capital letters. "So you like it when it's written like this?"

He stopped what he was doing (which is a rarity for him!) and took a long look. "Yep. That's right." Then he resumed retrofitting his rocket launcher.

Now I'm wondering whether this has been explained to his teacher, or if I can talk to her about it. While I understand why it's important for him to know the difference between upper case and lower case letters, I do not think it's important that he spell his name with lower case letters if he can demonstrate that he knows how to write them when necessary.

Smart little rascal...

The face of agoraphobia...

Tonight the true meaning of agoraphobia hit me like a ton of bricks as I stood in the pouring rain outside the nursing home where my beloved grandmother now resides... and could not bring myself to go to the door and ring the bell to be let in, simply because there were other residents who would see me.

No, they didn't pose a danger to me. Most of them were in wheelchairs. Most of them seemed to be in their late seventies or early eighties, though at least one man seemed to be around my age.

So why couldn't I go in?

Because they could SEE me.

My counselor mentioned during my session the other day that a phobia is an irrational fear (we were discussing spiders, and how I'd managed to overcome the worst of my fear of them), a fear without rational cause, and at the time I didn't really understand why he said that. I couldn't think of any sort of irrational fear I had, now that I've overcome my fear of spiders.

Obviously, I forgot my diagnosis of agoraphobia (cue heavy eye-roll here), and now it makes sense to me.

This is a good tool for me, knowing this, because I can (hopefully) use it to explain to my family why I can't just come to visit like I used to do, or pick up the phone and call.

I waged an internal battle all the way over to Grandma's nursing home. I knew that I love her, and that she loves me. I knew I wanted to see her, and that if I didn't, and she happened to die over the weekend, I'd never forgive myself. But at the same time, I was afraid to go see her because I didn't know what to say to her, other than, "I love you, Grandma." I didn't want to go to her room and say, "Hi, Grandma! I love you, but I can only stay for a few minutes because Lucy is waiting for me at home and needs to go out."

I finally convinced myself that Grandma would rather see me for a few minutes than to not see me at all. I told myself I can tell her about my new home in Veneta, near the community in which she used to live when my dad was in high school. It didn't matter that she won't really be able to talk to me--- it was enough to see her smile and to hug her.

But I couldn't get past that simple glass door because then the people in the entry room would see me.

Rainy days...

I'm actually enjoying the rain today... it matches my mood.

I'm accomplishing a little bit each day--- some days more than others. But I'm okay with that, because it's still forward motion.

Today is an oatmeal day. It's a day for steadiness, for warmth and comfort and progress. I ate Scottish oatmeal for lunch, have laundry in the dryer, put away a few more books on the shelf, and will soon head off for counseling (rescheduled to accommodate Dan). After that, I'll stop by St. Vincent de Paul's and donate some more books--- more forward motion.

Just another day in Oregon.