Out with the old, in with the new!

2012, I am so done with you!

Here's to 2013.

Here's hoping this year's a good sight better than the old one, and may my sons be home before it's done!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Eighteen years ago today...

... I was awakened by the start of labor, pain that was so strong that I couldn't walk when a contraction hit.

Fourteen hours later, at 4:45pm, my firstborn child slid into the world... and was whisked away without anyone telling me whether I'd had a boy or a girl! My sister ran after the retreating nurses, saying, "Wait! What is it??"

The need for speed was because the doctor was afraid the baby had breathed meconium into those wee lungs, so the special respiratory team needed to suction out every possible bit of foreign matter before the infant drew a breath. While they were doing so, my sister took a quick photograph, then hurried back to tell our mother and me that I'd had a baby girl.

Great blackmail photo, let me tell you--- all you can see is her swollen genitals, her legs, and the oxygen mask over her face!

We've had our ups and downs, to be sure. But I don't know if I'd change a moment of them, because my daughter is a force to be reckoned with, a strong, vibrant young woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to express her opinions.

Beans, Nana-berry, Hobbes, my little girl with the blonde brain (another long but excellent blackmail story!), I love you so much, and I am so proud of the woman you've become in spite of all the trials of your young life.

Keep up the great work, Beans!

Love always,

Mom

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.

Missing...

Today I was scheduled for a visit with my sons.

That's right--- I no longer get to have them for four hours each in the wild.

Seems Older Son's counselor has decided that I am the cause of Older Son's misbehavior at school, and she says that Older Son has stated that I remind him of the sexual abuse his sperm donor inflicted upon him... so she recommends that I no longer have unsupervised visitation with him, and that such visitation should be extremely limited.

I won't go into the rest of what she said. But I do admit that I brought my sons to my new apartment to show it to them... and then we went to BFF's house so that they could play with her kids. Oh, yeah--- Youngest got upset one time, so I brought him to my apartment to play on my computer.

SO... because I was stupid and thought that it was okay to bring my sons to my empty apartment without DHS's approval ahead of time, I can't have unsupervised visits anymore.

I got it. I screwed up.

But I came to DHS's office for our visit today... and my boys never arrived. And the foster family didn't answer the phone when the supervisor called to find out what was going on. And Anastasia, our caseworker, is out of town this week... so nobody knows what to do.

I don't even think I can call SIL or MIL myself to ask... I'm afraid it will be held against me in court.

Court, by the way, is on December 3rd, 2012. DHS is pushing for making SIL guardian of my sons... and I'm afraid that if that happens, I'll never get my sons back, no matter how perfect my life becomes.

I miss my kids... especially my sons. DD is on Facebook, and I can text or call her whenever I like.

But my sons... I don't even know if I can call them on the phone anymore, or if they're allowed to call me. So the only time I get with them is during this one hour a week... and if the grownups in the house don't bring them, I don't get to see them. I don't even know if I will get a makeup visit this week.

All I have are photos and memories of my sons to tide me over 'til the next visit.

I miss them...

I am stranger than I think...

My MIL told my BFF that I'm nuts.

I've gone off the deep end, big time, and I'm getting crazier every day.

Supposedly I never call her Mom anymore (when in fact, this morning's phone call is the first time I've not called her Mom to her face... er, I mean, ear!).

Supposedly they've had to start locking the door because I've become so insane-acting... and supposedly they've told me all I have to do is knock on the door and they'll answer (in fact, no one has told me that they've needed to start locking the door because of me, nor have they told me to knock... nor would they need to tell me!)

Supposedly I don't even try to knock on the door when I come to get my sons for my visits with them--- according to MIL, I just sit in my van and stare at the door until they bring the appropriate boy out to me... when in fact yesterday was the first time I've driven to pick up either son for a visit since I broke my glasses on July 3rd, 2012. I just got my replacement glasses two days ago.

I may be paranoid, but that doesn't mean someone's not gunning for me... or for my sons. I think something is fishy, and it's not just me who thinks it, thankfully. I'm so grateful for my allies, since it's obvious I can't trust the family nearest to me!

Changes...

I'll be offline for a bit. Circumstances have changed, and I am unable to stay where I am. We'll just say I'm camping.

Ta for now!

Backstabber...

I just learned tonight that my MIL is trying to get in contact with someone who owes my husband $10,000... and she doesn't want me to know about it.

She asked me roughly two weeks ago for my ex-landlord's phone number, but didn't tell me why.

Tonight, my BFF told me that my MIL came over last night and asked for my ex-landlord's number again, because he's not returning her phone calls.

Then MIL told BFF that before my husband was arrested for molesting my kids, he'd loaned a friend $10K... and that this friend had indicated that he was ready to pay it back. Somehow, Ex-landlord seems to be the go-between, but he's not easy to reach.

MIL confided that she and my husband really need that money. I don't know if she thought that might make my BFF more likely to help or not. Apparently she never considered our relationship, because she was taken aback when BFF said, "Jo really needs money, too, you know. She's almost out of the money she had in savings."

MIL just seemed to brush that off, repeating, "(Son) and I really need that money, so we need to get in touch with (Ex-landlord) as soon as possible."

I just gave this woman a lovely coral necklace, for which I carefully picked out just the right beads and painstakingly strung as securely as I could, which I knew she’d love, for Mother’s Day. She’s been wearing it almost every time I’ve seen her since I gave it to her. And this is how she repays me.

She (and her son) have always insisted that NOTHING comes before family, that you protect and defend family above all else.

Yet she doesn't care that I have no income, that her son has never supported me since going to prison, that my sons are her grandchildren. She doesn't care that I dedicated my life to taking care of her son, forsaking my own wishes for his, until the day I learned that he was sexually abusing my son (and my daughter, as I learned later). She doesn't care that I have always called her Mom, that I've honored her just as I did my own, that I considered her as close a family member as if she were my own flesh and blood.

She just wants money... and she stabbed me in the back in an attempt to get it.

I will never trust her again. I can’t. I’ve been married to her son for nearly 12 years now, and she still doesn’t think of me as family.

The mysterious green bridge...

My sister wanted to go visit a friend in Florence, OR, but it seems she feels nervous traveling by herself outside of the Springfield/Eugene area, so she requested I accompany her. Since she so rarely spends time with me, I agreed.

En route, she was telling me about this green arched bridge which was supposedly near a good agate-hunting bed, and she said she understood it to be by Big Creek. I had done a Google search the night before, because I know I've seen a green bridge somewhere along Highway 101, and found a photo of the bridge at Big Creek... and it did indeed look green.

However, when we arrived at Big Creek, the bridge did not look green, nor did it have any real parking, so we continued on to Stonefield Beach.

From above, that bridge didn't look green, either, but we were running out of time to beachcomb, so we went down to the water anyway and sought agates, walking first to the north end of the accessible beach and noting how the sand erosion had covered much of the stones for which the beach was named.

Looking east from the creek, the supports under the bridge are a greenish tone, so we decided that maybe we were at the right place. I found six agates to her single find (I gave my fourth agate to her because I didn't want her to go home empty-handed, and promptly after that she spotted her own), and we had a lovely time looking at tidepools along the southern edge of the beach.

We're still stumped as to the location of that mysterious green bridge. Google isn't helping me so much today when I search, but I'm not giving up. I know I've seen a green arched bridge somewhere along 101.

Any ideas, anyone?

The heart of the matter...

My Youngest was born with severe aortic valve stenosis.

What that means that his aortic valve was extremely constricted, as in, smaller than it should have been in comparison to the rest of his heart. As if that weren't enough, the valve is also deformed: instead of being tricuspid (having three "leaflets" which look somewhat like a peace sign), his is bicuspid (having only two). The valve is also much thicker than a normal cardiac valve (making it less flexible and thus more difficult for it to open and close), and it was fused on either end, resulting in barely a quarter of his aortic valve being open to allow blood to circulate through it.

This was discovered shortly after he was born. We'd no clue that his heart was anything but perfect. As a matter of fact, we'd been warned that one of his kidneys was longer than the other and possibly slightly malformed, and that was the only thing we were prepared to deal with upon his birth! The news that my son would likely need a heart valve transplant in his life was not easy to digest. It was a little easier for me to deal with the news that he likely could not play vigorous sports like football or basketball, although sports that weren't so strenuous would be a possibility.

We were warned not to let him get angry, for fear of triggering a cardiac arrest. I also had to bring him in for monthly injections of a special medication to keep up his immune system, and was warned to get my family's flu vaccinations so that he didn't catch the flu through us.

In January, after having three months of weekly checkups and EKG's to make sure he wasn't going to have a heart attack, the pediatric cardiologist, whom I'll call Dr. L, told us that he wanted to perform a balloon valvuloplasty on Youngest very soon, because the surgeon whom he wanted to have do the eventual valve transplant was leaving the country for a few months, and Dr. L wanted to do the valvuloplasty while the surgeon was still local, just in case the valve didn't work as well after the procedure.

January 19th, 2007--- Youngest and I checked into the hospital in Portland for the procedure. He was three months and 9 days old. I couldn't bear to be away from him except for during the actual valvuloplasty, so I slept with him in his crib.

To make a long story short (too many details for tonight's posting!), the procedure went much better than expected. The valve popped right open exactly the way they'd wanted, and there was only trace leakage through it. Dr. L told me (and has told me every time I've seen him since) that if he hadn't seen Youngest before the procedure and after, he'd never have believed it was the same child. I asked him, "Do you believe in God?" He looked me dead in the eye and said, "I do now!"

(I'd mentioned to him beforehand that I had many friends of all faiths praying for him: LDS, Baptists, Catholic nuns, Jewish friends of my aunt's, etc. The LDS missionaries had even come over and given him a blessing before we drove to Portland. I joked that because of that, his valve hadn't had a chance to misbehave!)

Fast-forward to yesterday.

I took Youngest in to see Dr. L for his yearly checkup. Although he somewhat remembers his wonderful cardiologist, this is the first time he's ever really been interested in what was going on inside his body. He lay still for the EKG, watching the ultrasound screen intently and listening to the sound of his heartbeat. He had no dread, no anxiety about being there, and he did everything he was told to do.

Afterward, Dr. L told me again that he was simply amazed that the valve opened so perfectly, and that the leakage was still only minimal (up from "trace" two years ago). He decided that we could wait two years this time before our next checkup!

Everyone has greeted the news with joy and celebration. Older Son, overhearing me talking to MIL about it, asked me, "So does this mean Youngest doesn't have heart disease anymore?" Eyes twinkling, I reassured him that his little brother's heart is doing fine.

I was a bit concerned before the checkup because SIL wasn't able to come along and see what was going on with Youngest's heart, because I wanted her to understand what exactly was wrong, and what should be done if necessary. Yes, I was preparing for the worst. Seems I needn't have worried.

Now I'm telling myself that my sons will be living with me again by the time we have to attend the next cardiologist appointment.

God is good. ^_^

Apologies are in order, methinks...

I just realized that I started this blog with the intentions of writing about my lovely home state of Oregon... and I've done very little of that sort of writing.

*facepalm*

My apologies to anyone who is upset by this--- feel free to ream me in the comments section.

However, I don't think I'm going to bother changing the blog much. Just consider any actual Oregon posts to be a bonus.

Mother's Day 2012

I think this is the first time I've ever not had to remind my daughter about Mother's Day... though I'm guessing her foster parents did. She texted me the day before to ask if I wanted to see a movie with her. We went to see "Pirates! Band of Misfits" It was quite delightful, actually, and DD not only bought the tickets, but also bought popcorn and a drink, both of which we shared (you have seen the price of snacks in the movie theaters, right?). She also brought me a handmade card and an iris in a "vase" (a water bottle). Very much my style, trust me!! I love them!

Inside the card:

I have to say it--- I really appreciate that she understands that I'm not perfect... and that she loves me anyway! She wasn't the only one who remembered, though--- Older Son came through as well, with a handmade card and a pair of pansies in a pot he painted himself:

Since Older Son was just recently diagnosed as being high-functioning autistic, I can now completely see his personality in his inscription. I love it, too! I don't seem to have a photo yet of the pansies--- I'll have to add it tomorrow. But the pot is painted with different colors, almost in wide vertical stripes, and the pansies are purple and yellow. Very lovely Mother's Day! I hope yours was, too! :D

I AM STRONGER THAN I THINK

My BFF, whom I often call Jubee, and I runned away to the coast last Sunday. I'm not sure it was the brightest thing for me to do, since I was (and still am) suffering from a cold which sank into my lungs and still keeps me from talking longer than five or ten minutes without trying to hack up a lung.

But it was definitely worth it.

We left at 4am.

We went to the tidepools just north of the Devil's Punchbowl, where we walked around looking for agates and sea glass, and then we plopped ourselves down onto the rock-scattered sand and sought the translucent stones that were hiding there. We've been doing this for our solo beach trips, and this is our favorite spot to seek agates. We stayed there from our arrival at roughly 6:30am until nearly 11:30am, and are still delighted with our finds.

Then it was time for lunch. Jubee has decided to make eating at Mo's a tradition for our solo outings, and since she's funding the trips, I can't complain... as if I would! Oddly, fish and chips sounded perfect for me, which is unusual--- I usually save that for a treat when I'm at home. But it was nearly too much for me, especially with a cup of their famous chowder, a side of garlic mashed potatoes and a slice of their homemade bread. I had a Widmer Hefeweisen to drink, while Jubee had her usual diet Pepsi.

Afterward, we had roughly an hour to kill before our appointment, so--- *yawn*--- I voted we take a nap in Jubee's van. She agreed. I'm glad cat-naps work so well, since I barely got half an hour's sleep before the alarms went off!

Then it was time.

I'd been anticipating it, dreading it, determined all day. The appointment had been made during our last beach escape. We were sharing a bonding experience--- getting tattooes.

Most of my family still doesn't know--- I've only told my sister, her kids and mine. But I've been thinking about it for over 20 years, and knew for the last two years what I would get if I did, so this wasn't a rash decision. I wanted it, and knew I'd be okay with having it when I was 90 years old in a nursing home (as Mom used to warn me to consider--- I think she was trying to convince me not to get tattooed).

As much as some people might argue with me, I needed this tattoo. It's easy enough to say I can tell myself that I'm strong enough to get through whatever trial is hammering at me... but it's not so easy to remember to actually tell myself that when I'm so depressed I can't remember to get out of bed. I need to be able to see these words whenever I look at my wrist.

The ladybug I added to remind me of my kids, on the suggestion of one of my fellow Ravelers. My Youngest is always hunting for ladybugs whenever we're together, but I'll never forget March 12, 1995, when my daughter was just three months old and I found a ladybug crawling up her face between her eyes, which were crossing with the effort to see it! The artist, Justin, freehanded it, and I think he did a wonderful job, adding shading, a couple legs, and even the shine of its shell.

While he was working on me, I told him the significance of this statement to me, and that it signified my determination not to let my husband's actions control my life any more. He thought it was a great idea, and suggested it marked a turning point in my life as well.

After Jubee's tattoo was finished, we went to Stonefield Beach, south of Yachats, where we had lovely luck last time finding larger agates... but this trip was lacking. Oh, I found some, but not even a third of what I found previously. Fickle, shifting sands!

We stopped at Taco Bell for supper before leaving Florence, and I got home around 10:30pm. I walked Lucy, who'd stayed home all day, then made a quick stop at the store for unscented lotion for my new tattoo, and was able to sink into bed just after midnight.

Yes, it might not have been a good idea for me to go when I was coughing so, but I bundled up, drank lots of fluids, and felt pretty good other than my lungs. We both agreed it was one of our best ever mini-vacations, and we're looking forward to our next trip, on June 3rd.

Lovely day for a walk...

Tonight Lucy and I took our first long walk, from our house to the nearby Willamette River. It took us roughly twenty minutes of hard walking to reach it, and we rewarded ourselves with jerky and water (well, I drank the water; Lucy only wanted the jerky). Then we walked back, again as hard as we could, and arrived home dog-tired (please pardon the pun!).

I want to do this daily.

Eventually, like within a couple weeks at the most, I'd like to be doing it at least twice daily, and eventually thrice. I want to get back into shape. I may not be able to get to the point where I was before I had my kids... but I know that I can do a lot more than I can currently!

Wish me luck!

Untangling my thoughts...

I think it's no wonder I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything. My thoughts are chasing themselves around and around in my head until I'm not sure which thought I was actually entertaining when another one bashed into it and knocked it away.

Just what I need--- thought bumper cars.

(rolling my eyes)

Part of it is anticipation of Jubee's and my next trip to the coast. We actually have an appointment in Newport, down on the Bayfront. I mean, a real appointment, not just "the low tide is at such-and-such-a-time, so we need to be there an hour early" type of appointment we usually set (also known as "winging it").

I'm excited... and anxious... and skeered.

Sorry--- I'm not going to say what it is she's planned for us, just in case I chicken out. But after May 6th, if I've got the guts I'm telling myself I do, I'll post it here.

I'm stronger than I think. I know I am. I just keep forgetting.

Oh, the irony... (rolling my eyes again)

Ah, as I said--- my thoughts keep getting all jangled, almost as badly as the two socks I was knitting. I ended up first cutting them free of the wrist distaff with which they were entwined, then moving from knot to knot as I worked them loose. Finally liberated one sock, which I finished knitting the next day while visiting Jubee and her nestlings. Now I'm working on the other sock... and thinking of all the other things from which I can choose...

I have fibers to spin, singles to ply, yarns to wash, books to read, a bike lock and cable to find, people to call, laundry to fold, supper to decide upon and then cook, dishes to wash, a leash to repair, books to list online to sell, linens to change, a visit with Older Son to plan for tomorrow, phone numbers to track down (to contact the detective with whom I need to speak), a Lucy to walk... and I have to be in bed by 9pm tonight in order to be up tomorrow in time to go to counseling via bus (since I can't find the lock and cable to my bicycle).

*sigh* I don't even have a job... and I have too many things to do.

The one-year mark...

March 25th marked one year since my sons were taken away from me by DHS.

Today was court, where all parties involved said, "Yes, we agree with the change in plans for the kids," and the judge makes a note of it for when we go to court to actually put the change into action. (At least, I think that's how my attorney explained it!)

I was stressing out about the day already, so I took an extra 25mg of my Zoloft to help keep me calmer. I was still shaking a bit, but not at all like the last time (I think it helped that there were very few people waiting to be in court today--- perhaps because of Spring Break?).

Things went smoothly, for the most part. Toward the end of the hearing, the kids' attorney asked me to tell the court how our visitation schedules are going where my daughter is concerned, and I had to admit that every time I've made plans to see her, she's canceled it, so I haven't seen her since before New Year's. (Everyone rushed to reassure me that it was "the age," and not to take it personally.) I also told the judge that we do text more frequently, and that DD had sent me a photograph, which the judge requested to see.

I hesitated, then said it was on my cellphone. The judge smiled and said, more or less, "Oh, I know how that is!" My attorney told me to go ahead and fetch the photo from my phone, and then took the phone up to the judge, who smiled at it. I told her, from where I still sat at the table, "She knit that hat herself!"

My attorney then told her that I also do some knitting (I'd shown her the shawl on which I was working that morning), and then the judge really surprised me by saying, "I know Ms. Frey does crafty things--- I see her every year at the Black Sheep Gathering!"

o.0

Wow.

Either I'm really weird, or I'm really memorable in another way. I'm amazed that I've been remembered from a once-yearly event in which I merely pass through as a spectator!

The next step...

It's coming up on one year since my kids were taken from me by DHS. By that point, the state of Oregon wants a plan in place--- either a "return to home..." or adoption.

Actually, they're being a little more lenient with me--- DHS is suggesting a third option: a durable guardianship.

I'm told that what this means is that I still have a chance to get my sons returned to me (not my daughter, since she has been adamant that she will not return home to me, although she has never explained why).

I know that this is a good thing... but I'm still hesitant, scared, wary.

My SIL will have complete control over my sons. Supposedly I have some say currently... and I will lose that. But I'm told by Anastasia that when I feel I am able to take care of my sons' mental and physical welfare as well as my own, I will be able to go to court to petition that they be returned to my custody.

Somehow, I'm reassured, the court will decide whether or not this is true, and my SIL will have no say in the matter.

But I still am afraid I will never get them back.

Rainy day visit...

This afternoon I had a visit with my Youngest, who loves to visit my home--- partly 'cause it's new to him, partly because Lucy is there, and partly because I have Legos there that he gets to play with only at my house. Today was no different--- he wanted to go to my house as soon as I arrived to pick him up, so we loaded him up into his booster seat and started off.

Around the corner from Grandma's, I asked, wanting to make sure he hadn't changed his mind, "You want to go to my house, right?"

"Yep."

As soon as I'd parked, he announced he was staying in the van. I suggested that we go inside the house to get Lucy, and then walk down to the nearby school playground, and he liked that idea... but wanted to wait in the van.

*sigh*

After making sure he understood that he was not to leave the van, which I could see through the open dining room curtains, I went into the house to deposit my backpack and put Lucy into her harness and leash. We fetched Youngest from the van and started walking toward the far end of my street, which dead-ends into the field at the back of the school. He insisted on holding Lucy's leash, and monitored her very well (she was behaving herself like a lady, unlike yesterday, when she'd twice pulled me off-balance when neighborhood cats tempted her too much!), then turned her back over to my charge in order to dash toward the now-visible playground.

After a few detours, including poop-scooping detail for Lucy (thankfully I had a bag in my pocket from Lucy's earlier walk!), we arrived at the playground, and I walked Lucy around while Youngest climbed around on the equipment. He commented that he should have brought his hood, since it was now raining quite noticeably. We found a section which looked like an old-tyme general store counter, and he "sold" me root beer, Sprite, and hamburgers... but insisted he was out of ketchup, mustard and barbecue sauces. *chuckle*

When he tired of that game, he climbed up to the top of the spiral slide and asked me to come up with him. I told him I didn't want to come up there because I was getting wet... and then admitted that I might as well come up anyway, and he agreed. So I walked up the steps to join him at the little roof covering the top of the slide, bending over to look in at him.

"Come in here, Mom!" he invited me.

I tried, but I couldn't bend down far enough to clear the roof... and my right knee was already threatening to give out on me if I tried to kneel, so I had to tell him I couldn't.

"Why not?" His big brown eyes peered up at me earnestly.

"My knee won't let me get down far enough to get in there. It's because I'm getting old. I'm not young like you," I told him honestly.

"Oh." He thought about that for a moment, then followed me back down the steps. As he started off toward the slide at the other end of the structure, he told me, "Well, you need to stop getting old, Mom."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Okay, son. I'll work on that."

Does this make me 'lawful good?' ;)

SIL and I had a talk tonight, after I brought my sons back from our romp in the park. I followed her outside (she was taking their new Yorkie puppies outside to relieve themselves), and I could tell she was sort of anticipating something "bad."

So I guess it was a nice surprise for her when I told her I have problems breaking rules.

0_o

This is new for me, but as I told her, I never thought of myself as being a stickler for rules. (She laughed and visibly relaxed.) And now I'm dealing with the realization that even though she and MIL have told me that I can take the boys for longer visits, or more frequent visits, I'm finding it really difficult to do so!

I told her I'd spoken with Anastasia earlier today about the issue, and Anastasia had told me that she thought I should go along with it, that she wanted me to spend as much time as possible with them.

SIL agreed.

So it looks like tomorrow I'll be picking up my sons when Youngest gets off his schoolbus, and I'll take them on the bus to Skinner's Butte Park, where (hopefully) DD will meet us and spend time with us.

Older Son told me that he wished I'd move next door to them, so that they could see me every day. I told him I wasn't sure that would work out, but that maybe I could see him more often... and he started planning the days out for me.

Now I just need to wrap my head around it!

Trust...

My counselor suggested the other day that I don't trust him.

That's probably not the exact wording he used, but that's what I got through my thick skull, and it surprised me, even though I told him, "I don't think I trust anyone."

The really odd thing is, this past week I had been considering giving him the URL to my blog here, as well as the URL and password to my private journal (he told me that's not a "blog" since no one else can read it). And for him to say I don't trust him... well, it puzzles me.

Granted, he doesn't know I planned to do that. But I don't know if he's saying that because it's been his experience with other clients of his, or if he honestly believes it.

So now I'm thinking about whether or not I truly trust anyone, as I stated.

I think I do... but why do I think that?

How do I trust people? How do I decide whom I can trust, and why?

I trust Jubee, and I trust Tim. They know just about everything going on in my life. I know that even if they get angry at me, they will get over it and still be my friend. I know that I can ask them for help, and if they are able to do it, they will... and if they can't, they'll tell me up front, and we'll still be friends.

Back up a moment.

I tell them everything. They know about Scott's cheating, his controlling behaviors, his abuse of the kids. They know about my diagnoses, and that I'm a hoarder, and that I have OCD.

But I've told all that to my family and to others who are getting to know me at my knitting group--- in fact, I had a long discussion about it today at my spinning group with Fawn, a newcomer, and JJ, whom I've known since May 2011. I've told my situation to Liz, Tammie, Jo and both Lauras, all of whom I met when I met JJ. I trust them not to turn their backs on me because of my mental issues, even though two friends whom I thought were more tolerant have turned away from me.

Granted, I don't just blurt out my background to every person I meet--- heavens, I don't want to bore anyone! I only mention any of it when I'm asked questions about certain parts of my life, and I don't hold anything back if it's pertinent to their question.

So how am I not trusting people?

The only thing I can think of is that I don't trust people to have my back, so to speak... mostly because I don't think they're capable of helping me. And mostly that's been because the ones upon whom I depended most let me down when I really needed them.

Otherwise, I think I trust people too much.

Dreams...

My dreams have finally become real.

I dreamed that I was riding with friends... and they decided to go to my old house (which, naturally, looked entirely different than in real life). I got out of the van in which we were traveling, and heard Anthony ask where I was.

I freaked.

Backstory:

I don't know why, but I don't want to be around him or his family... at least not for now. It actually makes me seize up, to the point that in real life I can't go to his house to see my daughter, who's his foster daughter.

Yes, you read that correctly--- I even chose him for her foster father. And now I can't bear to be around him.

He's a nice guy. Pretty decent, former best friend of my soon-to-be-ex-husband who dropped Scott like a hot potato after Scott went to prison for sexually abusing the kids. I like him.

So the only reason I can fathom for my current reaction is that I feel shame... shame for my illness, for my hoarding, for my panic attacks and agoraphobia... and the fact that I've seen Anthony avoid me in the grocery store just adds to that shame.

And now it's become part of my dreams.

Anyway, back to the dream:

I heard Anthony say that, and I took off running for cover before he could see me. I went around corners, through hallways, and still he was gaining on me, talking all the while to someone else.

I stumbled upon a bathroom, the only outlet I had left, and even though it was filthy, I went inside and closed the door... or at least I tried to shut it.

The door was off just enough that the bolt couldn't connect with the latch plate and hold shut the door.

Seriously?? What a bathroom!

So I held the door shut, trying to force the bolt into place as Anthony came up and tried to open the door. He didn't sound angry, just his normal conversational voice... and my heart was pounding in fear, in desperation to stay away from him. He started to force the door open...

... and I woke up.

I hate this. I can't even escape in my dreams.

Do me a favor, someone...

Hit me with a clue-by-four, 'kay? Seriously--- upside the head, right now! I'm tired of having others point out things in my own life that I should recognize by now.

(Don't really know if it'll help, but it's worth a shot, right?)

Scary world out there...

I'm really scared these days.

I'm scared of dealing with other people... but I still do interact with them, at least with my knit/spin group, my caseworker and my counselor. I also go shopping when I need groceries, though I don't make extended trips now. But I don't make many phone calls anymore. I'm okay with texting, e-mail and instant messaging, and I can answer phone calls or the door... I just can't bring myself to initiate it.

But more than that, I'm scared of making mistakes.

Yeah, I know everyone goes through that from time to time, and it doesn't stop me from trying some new things. Heck, I finally washed my first skein of handspun the other day, and I learned to knit entrelac last Thursday.

Trust me--- entrelac is tricky. I made several mistakes, even with a handout with pictures by my side, and I had to rip back to the beginning of my mistake and do it over. But that's not the mistakes I mean.

The mistakes I mean are the type which affect LIFE... and I mean my children's lives.

I am doubting myself more and more these days, because my thoughts are so scattered and random. And I realize that that can't be good for my sons.

Anastasia told me last week that she's going to push for the boys to be placed in what she calls a "durable guardianship," so that I can eventually regain custody of them when I'm mentally able to do so.

And the thought of regaining custody of my sons scares me to death.

I keep looking back at what has happened in our lives together, our past, and I don't know how I can keep myself from making mistakes like those I made in the past. I mean, I don't think I'll make the same ones I made when I chose their sperm donor, naturally, since I don't plan on dating until after Youngest is 18 years old... but what if I can't parent them the way they need to be parented? They have, in effect, five parents in their current home... and there is only me here.

If I screw up, especially when it comes to teaching them to be good men--- I don't know if I can bear that.

This is precisely why, after my daughter was born in 1994, I swore I was not going to have any more children unless I was married--- so that I had help making decisions, providing necessities and guiding our children to growing into strong, healthy adults who would be a benefit to this scary world in which we live.

Not only did I choose poorly where a male was concerned, but I didn't have the strength and integrity to call it quits when he openly demonstrated that he was neither a good husband nor a good role model for our children, just ten months into our marriage. I believed him when he said I wasn't providing enough for him, instead of putting the blame squarely on him, where it belonged.

I know that my sons are behaving much better now that they are on medications to help control their impulses, and that I am taking parenting classes (again) to help me to be a better parent... but I don't see how I was doing it "wrong" the first time. The papers I have from DHS and from court state that I was accused of "chronic neglect" and "lack of supervision..." but I don't know what they mean by that.

Why can't I see that? Is this part of the mental illness from which I'm told I suffer?

This is what I see:

I never left them alone in the house. I never shut them in another room from myself--- unless Older Son went into his room, I was always in the same room as he was... and if Youngest went in with him, then I was there, too, because of the whole issue of "reactive sex abuse" which Older Son had admitted to the summer of 2010. If they went outside to play, then I was there with them. They were not unsupervised.

Youngest slept with me rather than in Older Son's room, again because of the potential of "reactive sex abuse." The previous DHS caseworker knew this because I told her, and she said she approved of it.

They were always fed when they were hungry--- in fact, I often asked if they were hungry, since they didn't always express it. They drank milk, juice and water whenever they wanted, though oddly I had to push them to drink the juice. Strange kids--- just like me! Yes, sometimes we did have soda on hand, but they were only allowed one can per day, so it was something special.

They always had clean clothing and clean beds in which to sleep. No, the floors weren't so clean, but the beds were.

The house was a mess. I won't deny that. But we ate off clean dishes, because I washed them before making meals, even though they went back into the sink afterward.

Other than the house, I don't see what was wrong.

And if I can't see what was wrong back then, then how am I supposed to see it now?

And THAT is what scares me.

Graduation!

My middle child, my Oldest Son (as I usually refer to him online, though sometimes he's Squid) graduated from The Child Center on Friday, January 27, 2012!

Woooooo!



According to The Child Center's webpage:

Our mission is to provide individualized, diagnostic, therapeutic and educational services for the emotional and behavioral problems children exhibit in the home, school and community; provide integrated community based psychiatric and support services that are child centered, family driven and culturally competent; to advocate for preventative and educational services from community resources and to promote and/or develop other specialized services for children with serious mental, emotional and behavioral disorders and their families.

Older Son has been attending school there (in the Willow classroom) since November 29, 2010.

Most kids are expected to be there about nine months--- sometimes more, sometimes less. Older Son, however, was already having behavioral issues due to the abuse visited upon him by his sperm donor... and then, four months after starting classes there, he and Youngest were removed by DHS because of my mental issues, and things got worse before they became better.

I've been having memory issues lately, so I'm not certain exactly when he started seriously working to "stay in program" during the day, but it seemed to me that it was roughly a month ago. I believe, however, that he was supposed to demonstrate his ability to stay in program for 90 days before he would be allowed to graduate, so I suspect my memory of when he was last having difficulties with this are flawed.

I found out about his graduation just a few days before the actual event, and luckily was able to catch a ride to it from my mother-in-law. My sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and their daughter Krista joined us in the classroom, and we were invited to sit down amongst the other students. Youngest sat in the midst of everyone, near his big brother's desk.

Unfortunately, at that moment I started to have a panic attack, which became stronger as people tried to encourage me to sit in the midst of all of those present. I just shook my head and stood with my back to the door and concentrated on my son, trying to calm myself.

My Squid was decked out in a (too long) green graduation gown (his favorite color, as it is mine!) with a black graduation cap (sans tassel) on his head. He walked out carefully from the hallway to the front of the room, and perched on the tall stool that stood ready for him in front of the whiteboard, facing the rest of us.

His face was so solemn!

First he was given a gift from the class, which was hidden inside his desk. He was directed to it via "hot/cold" being shouted by everyone in the classroom (when I called out, "Ice cube!" it was met with laughter). It turned out to be a book (sorry, I can't recall the title!), a Beyblade, and a Lego kit which I didn't see clearly enough to identify.

At that point, Wendy had him come fetch a gift bag from her, to present to the staff members. It was a money tree (Pachira aquatica) for the classroom.

One of the boys asked, "If it grows dollar bills, can I have some?"

Wendy turned to him, smiling, and said, "If it grows dollar bills, you call me!" which was met with amused laughter from the knowing adults.

Then each student and staff member took turns reading letters they had each written to Older Son, in turn followed by his reading a letter which he had written to each of them. While the others wrote sundry things, Squid kept to a theme: every single letter he wrote, whether to an adult or a classmate, ended with, "Do your best." This brought renewed laughter whenever it was addressed to staff members!

It must be said that Older Son's Behavioral Support Specialist, Leah, was moved to tears and wasn't able to read her letter to him. I think she feels endings as strongly as do I. She gave him a hug, which I thought was very unusual (you hear stories of how teachers aren't allowed to hug students for fear of being accused of molestation), but which I totally understood. She came to me and hugged me, too, later, which also surprised me--- not Squid's foster mother, my sister-in-law Wendy, with whom Leah had dealt with so much more, but ME.

I guess it surprised me because I have never really felt that, since Older Son and Youngest were removed from my home, the people who directly worked with Squid actually wanted to include me, since they preferred to communicate with Wendy. Even during meetings, I felt I was being addressed as an afterthought.

I guess I'll never really know.

Afterward, the official graduation was done, with the presentation of his "diploma" by his teacher, Sarah. She then assigned him the task of passing out brownies for the graduation party, and suggested he choose someone to help pass out tissues for use as napkins.

Most of his classmates raised their hands, clamoring to be selected.

Instead, Squid looked at his baby brother--- the bane of his existence, if his behavior during our visits is to be believed!--- and said, "You want to help me?"

Youngest slowly nodded, his eyes wide. (Trust me. Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I know they were wide. His eyes are always wide, just like his brother's have been for most of his life!)

It was the sweetest demonstration of brotherly love I've seen in so long!

After everyone ate, the kids all went outside to play together for the last time while we adults gathered all of Squid's belongings to leave the school forever.

It was a bittersweet moment in a joyous day.

I wasn't sure we would ever reach that day. But though the road was so much harder than we thought it would be when this journey began, I can definitely say it was worth it.