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!