What A Difference A Day Makes

Well then, things sure have calmed down since my last post. Oh, who am I kidding? Nothing's easy in our lives and there's way too much to do on a daily basis. But we aren't fighting. We are past the thunderous crescendo and on to the calm quiet movement of the opera that is our lives.

Twig's doctor visit was a smashing success in that the doctor agreed that the incontinence is vey likely emotional/behavioral as I described a fairly clear pattern. The doctor used his (yes, a man doctor!) doctoral authority to impress upon the boy how he needs to follow a 4 times a day rule: breakfast, lunch, dinner, and bedtime. There are still poopy pants, for sure but the doctor helped him understand the importance of getting cleaned up and that parents are the ones to get help from. He's been asking for -okay- accepting help. That the argument has been reduced is huge relief.

I have to say I simply loved this doctor! He talked to Twig and got a couple of other issues out in the open. From the 6 year old perspective. He gently coaxed the boy to express his feelings and concerns with the honesty that only a child brings to the table. He's so advanced for his age, clearly adept at reading other people's feelings, and takes it all on. This is nothing new really, and a little heartbreaking to hear since I'm responsible for his angst, and can't totally make it go away. But a good reminder for me and Wood that we have to be more aware of what we talk about around him and that to the extent possible we have to keep Twig's reality as close to that of a 6 year old as possible. The doc told him that he can let his parents worry about grown up things. He's been respecting when we say "this is a grown up conversation; let us think about grown up things. You think about kid things".

But there is a significant impact of Grammie living with us, as Wood and I overheard while Twig and his friend Warrior Princess chatted in the back seat Sunday:

Twig: There's someone new at my house you've never met before.
Warrior Princess: Who?
Twig: My grandma, she lives with us now. It's kinda hard.
WP: Yeah, its hard for me with my baby sister.
Twig. You have a baby sister? (WP lives between mom & dad. Dad has a new wife & baby that Twig hasn't quite comprehended)
WP: Yeah, and I don't get very much attention any more.
Twig: Yeah, my Grandma forgets and needs a lot of help.
WP: Yeah, babies do too. I get attention but only after she goes to sleep.
Twig: Yeah.

Wood and I said nothing during he exchange. We glanced at each other and discussed it later in the day. Wondering aloud if the current living configuration is causing more harm than good.

We have had cause, however, to become creative in getting our needs met, tasks completed, and social lives lived.

Last week Tuesday or so, Grammie started complaining of a bladder infection. Wednesday she was convinced she has diabetes, and by Friday, at exactly the same time I was taking Twig to the doctor (and concurrently taking calls from the lawyer about our property in California), I got a call from her day program saying she was sick and wanted to go home. It was an incredibly stressful afternoon and evening as Wood was out helping a friend of a friend.
On my own to appease Grammie's fears that the sky might be falling. But, the lie that I'd called the doctor and had been told to wait a day or two and see how things go before going to urgent care (the new doctor appointment doesn't happen until Sept 9th) worked. She hasn't mentioned bladder infection symptoms, woozieness, or other symptoms. She's a bit obsessive about her current meds but that's her Alzheimers and mental health.

Life has become exponentially more complex with her here. And although we're half way considering not keeping her with us, we aren't making any moves to the contrary. We aren't making any moves in any direction, really.

Except vacation. We're on vacation for a week. !!!!!

I Dream Of...

A long list of available jobs at one company, pretty much the exact same duties and responsibilities. Just slightly different titles. I apply for every single one of them despite the fact that they are manual labor jobs requiring much, much, much less than I have capacity for.

Driving along a long, curvy, very fast moving road - a wide freeway, actually - with lots and lots of construction materials, mostly long and wide white plastic plumbing pipes, along the side of the road. There are beautiful bridges and trees along the route. And the road is a surprisingly smooth surface to be traveling along - not many bumps along the way. It's a good thing because the water comes up on the road. The pipes fall from their large stacks into my lanes. The trees blow in the wind's fury. And it takes a long time to get to my destination.

The people on the bus are looking me up and down. They're dressed nicely, quietly chatting, sort of pointing, deciding if they agree or not. I'm at their house, on a beautiful deck, taking in the scenery; chatting, listening to their proclamations. I find a piece of fruit, a cherry-plum that is yellow inside. There's something not right. This place is a cult. It's all wrong. So I leave.

The boys elbow is in my kidney again and I wake up.

The Menu

Twig has been doing his very best to be a helpful boy lately. A few days ago he created a full menu for which he wants complete and total responsibility for cooking, serving, and cleaning up.

He wanted to be responsible for this menu on Friday but for some reason it didn't happen. He was tired and Grammie wanted to go out to eat. Twig and I stayed home because he just couldn't handle going out. Saturday night we were busy doing something else that I can't remember at the moment because I'm kind of enraged.

Every time there's a large transition in our lives Twig has bladder and bowel incontinence issues. I've always known when things are rough for him because potty problems appear out of nowhere and into my nose... They've resurfaced lately. Pee and poo everywhere. Daily. Often multiple times daily.

He's typically a refuser of taking care of his potty needs. He never needs to pee. Rarely needs to poo. In the toilet that is. Whenever I get a whiff, and it's typically an awful awful awful wretched smell, I give him a look and in the gentlest voice I can muster, ask him to "take care of business". He responds with his whiniest "What?" to which I respond, in the gentlest of voices I can muster, that he has had an accident. To which he denies. I ask him to clean himself up, to wash, change, etc. And he refuses. And I can't have him walking around with that terrible stink; the knowledge that he has poop on his butt drives me crazy. There are certain things I can't let go of. Things like shit.

Shitty pants have in the past, led to a rashy ass, which has led to doctor's appointments diagnoses of Staphylococcus infections, and 3 times daily application of ointment to said rash. Yeah. Staph.

Eventually we get to a place where I'm pretty much forcibly changing his poopy pants and underpants, cleaning shit off of him and his clothes (and the bathroom), and being screamed at that he doesn't need help, he hasn't done anything, that I'm a bad mom, to leave him alone, that he can't wait to go on an airplane by himself, etc. It is plain and simple: he hates me. I'm behaving in ways that make him hate me. And I'm trying to pick and choose my battles here.

In the middle of him cooking dinner tonight, I smelled "the smell". I asked him to change his clothes and clean himself up. He slammed the bathroom door. Multiple times. Screamed at me and called me bad, stupid, yadda yadda yadda. I offered to help. He told me to get out of the bathroom, that he didn't need help. I stayed and tried to explain that I understood it was embarrassing, that accidents happen, that we'd be visiting the doctor on Friday because we are worried that he can't feel it coming out, or smell it, or acknowledge that it's happened. I tried to force my help upon him. Eventually I gave in. Angry that it's difficult to get shit done (ha!) I barked my orders: change into clean clothes, wash ass, wash shit off of clothes, put washcloth in dirty washcloth tub, clean out shitty tub, wash hands. Call me if you want help.

He changed his underpants. Wet the washcloth, put it in the tub and resumed cooking. Lied to our faces about washing his hands. With still-shitty pants. And dirty hands. And guess what - suddenly I wasn't hungry any more. And neither was Wood. More screaming at me ensued. Horrible, mean, awful, bad mom.

Then he cooked. And ate. And served Grammie. And when that was done, I helped him get ready for his shower. In the process of helping him get undressed, I showed him the shit on his pants. And the shit that was on the clean underwear that he put on his ass that he didn't wash. And tried to express to him my frustration with him denying that it wasn't there in the first place. It was likely a lot less gentle than I'd like it to be. He's been acting out a LOT lately.

When he got into the shower, we talked about what had transpired. It came out that he thinks I'm mean to him all of the time. As hard as it was to hear that (since I don't always feel it), we accidentally dug a little deeper. My reserves and tolerance is terribly low - I'm done having this talk, this argument, this shit. I want the shower over and for him to go to bed. And after telling him what needed to happen next, he responded in a way that helped me understand that my directive, straight forward, no nonsense approach feels mean to him. I think that I try to reserve the barking for the times that it's really necessary. I give warning after warning, count from 3 to 1, suggest to him that my tone and body language are trying to convey something, suggest that he won't like it when I soon start yelling. But apparently to him the meanness is constant.

So, he's mean to me because he's "just giving it back". Wow, almost 7 years old and able to articulate all of that. But not manage his bowels. I don't know what to do. I feel so angry at him - and awful for not being able to suck it up and go with it. To pretend that everything is happy and good and that these kinds of things aren't a problem.

It's immeasurably difficult for me to let go when it's over. I get so worked up and it takes such a long time to come down. I wonder what is wrong with me, what is wrong with him. I'm fairly certain, even in the middle of it, that I'm doing exactly the same thing my mom did with me - being demanding, uncompromising, fiercely angry - and pushing him away faster than I need to. I question if letting him control everything that was important to him would calm his attempts to control things or make them worse. And I think back to my days working with people who had behaviorists involved in their lives - teaching me about The ABC's (Antecedent, Behavior, Consequense) of undesirable behavior. I know I have a part in it. And I know that this poo problem is not best served by natural consequences. I know he gets something from it too. Sure, we could ignore it, let him get a rash, and spread his feces all over the house. But I can't let it go. Any of it. I just can't.

We have an appointment to see a doctor this week. It concerns me that perhaps it isn't behavioral and I'm just now getting to exploring that possibility. Even though this problem has always been intermittent, I'm pretty certain it should have been addressed medically before now. I'm sure the stress of our lives is taking it's toll on Twig, too. And I'm feeling really shitty about myself, my behavior, the situation. All of the good that does happen doesn't cancel out the fact that I've behaved badly too.

Tonight, I missed dinner prepared by my favorite Chef. It's really my loss.

FIF

Most people say TGIF. I said it this morning and shortly afterward, changed my exclamation to: Fuck, It's Friday!

Once upon a time, Friday meant the beginning of the weekend. Slowing down a bit from the frenetic feel of the work week. Of hanging out with friends. Of taking a day to sit at home and re-connect with the family. Lately, Friday means getting out of work earlier than most and getting a head start on the things that we didn't or can't get to during the week.

Meal planning, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning the toilet, laundry, paying bills.

It's harder than ever for me to get these 'regular' things done because Grammie needs a fair amount of attention. In addition to the day to day cooking for her, organizing her days and such, there's the other things that she needs and has every right to want taken care of. Things like nail care, hair care, church, going out to eat. I never expected I'd ever say I didn't want to go out to eat... I don't really want to go out to eat. She wants to do it all of the time. I like it to be a treat. And she can't really do those things on her own anymore.

Anyway, a fourth person in the house has an impact I'd never really appreciated - or had to appreciate - before now. There is another person's needs/desires around food to take into consideration. There are safety concerns around her cooking on her own especially when we're not home. The bathroom, kitchen and floors get dirtier when there's a fourth person here so I can't fudge on doing things like cleaning the toilet when I could when it was just the three of us. Certainly, the fact that both Twig and Grammie aren't exactly aware of or care about how messy they are adds to the mix a bit. Sometimes I get really frustrated. Most times I try to come up with a solution that will make things easier for everyone. And I always remind myself that while some things are personality driven and extremely annoying I can't change who another person is. And that the reason she's here is because of her disease process.

Truth be told, Wood and I seem to be adjusting to this new life of nightly trading of sleeping spots (I'm on the living room futon, he's on the bed with Twig or he's on the futon and I'm in the bed) whilst Grammie is in Twig's bed. Twig seems to be adjusting to it okay. And I'm trying to let him check out if he needs to (e.g. Grammie and Wood went to dinner without us tonight - what a treat!). We all are sort of figuring out how 4 people shower and pee in the mornings with only one bathroom. And we keep communicating about day to day activities like who needs to be where and by when, who will drop off and who will pick up, where we will meet in between. We are trying to carve out individual time and family time. And hopefully we'll find sex time. Given that last statement, you'd imagine that we haven't had the time to even think about looking for a new place. We are doing well working as a team but we aren't getting used to the pace that we have to keep to ensure things are working well.

Hence, Fuck, It's Friday! No time to slow down. Ballet, groceries, nails, hair, pharmacy, play date, church, cleaning, cooking, laundry. Exercise needs to get in there too. We'll find our sea legs one day soon. And hopefully, Friday will take on it's "it's almost time to relax" meaning, someday real soon.

Thanks for reading. And thanks for commenting. :)

Daddy's Back

And that presents its own set of challenges. Navigating his emotions in the context of everyone else's is rather hard for me. The boy has been extra shitty. And I'm no perfect role model. Bad role model, actually. Wood's learned mantra is when you walk past the dishwasher and its loaded all wrong, remember, no one is gonna die". And while I subscribe to the concept, I find myself perseverating on mundane tasks that aren't really worth pushing about. And are the things that are: Twig's nasty tone, disrespectful back talk, willful disregard for any request we make of him. Nothing works. And after a while I get enraged and want to physically hurt him.

I blame Wood. At times he's disrespectful toward me. Even when he's kidding it's not good. And Twig sees it and thinks it's okay. Then again, other parents of kids his age are having very similar challenges. Maybe it's the fact that it's summer, that grammie is living with us, that I'm working full time... Or that he lost his two front teeth. Or something.

All I know is I'm headed to kick boxing tomorrow. Cause if I don't beat the shit outta something I'm gonna beT the.shit outta someone and that should be avoided at all costs.