Snot Bubbles and Fun Dip Snorting

Sometimes, laughter is the best medicine. Sometimes, laughter just means that you're on the cusp of being certifiably loony. I'm pretty sure the latter is what applies to me tonight.

This has been a crazy week. We've all passed around varying degrees of the plague. Then, you can throw into the mix a "snow" day. And to cap the week off with nothing more than sheer insanity, tomorrow is Dasha's anticipated Night to Shine. (This is a prom for special needs kids sponsored by Tim Tebow and First Baptist Woodstock). Hmmmm.... I'm visualizing all of those events being thrown into one of those fancy silver shakers that you see bartenders using to shake up those expensive drinks and then spilling the contents all over the floor only to have me on all fours trying to lap up the remains. Ok. That was weird. What a horrible image. Maybe I should quit while I'm ahead. Or not.

So, the loose ends that need tying up at this point for the week all revolve around Dasha's prom. We really wanted to make this special for her. We ordered THE fancy dress with the hot pink ruffles and bedazzled and blinged accents. We ordered THE sliver sparkly shoes. Now, we just need THE hairdo and THE fancy nails.

I attempted to discuss with Dasha the options of checking her out early tomorrow in an attempt to gain some control of this week and get everything checked off of my list. As I was trying to have this conversation with her, Grant was in the front seat blowing snot bubbles. Yes, folks. I'm talking about snot bubbles like the kids in the toddler room blow before knowing how to blow their little noses. He thought it was hilarious. (Remember, I said we'd all had the plague. Grant was the last one to have it). Return to conversation with Dasha. Then, Grant grabbed Annie's Valentine's Day box from school and proceeded to do... Oh, I can't even begin to tell you what this normally subdued kid was doing with it. For pitty's sake! I just wanted to talk to Dasha. Before I knew what had happened, Grant had convinced Annie to snort Fun Dip powder. Yes, this is really my life. The drive from school to home takes just over twenty minutes. In that twenty minutes, two of the three kids transformed into absolute idiots. It must be something in the DNA - and NOT in the X chromosomes they got from me!

I guess you get a picture of how the afternoon went.

Somewhere along the way, Dasha and I engaged in battle, as well. I do try to pick my battles with her and remember that this is a marathon and not a sprint. However, there are some behaviors (obviously not snot bubble blowing, burping, farting, or snorting Fun Dip) that cause me to go into overdrive. Dasha exhibits classical signs of what "professionals" call Executive Processing Disorder. We don't have a formal diagnosis, and I really don't care what they call it. To me, it's ridiculous. I don't get it. And, it's so sad to say, but I have a really hard time extending grace in situations where these issues occur. Basically, what this whole "disorder" means is that Dasha doesn't see the big picture. She cannot connect actions and consequences. When we issue a consequence for something, she can usually only tell you that it's because we are angry or upset. She can't identify her OWN action. Folks, think about the ramifications of this sort of thought processing. Driving a car - rules are merely suggestions, being left alone - the rules were merely suggestions... the activities go on and on. While she is absolutely nothing shy of a perfect child when she's in public, when she's at home, we see the the impact of her limited ability to see the big picture. It's so hard to know if these attributes are part of her CP, her life in an orphanage, or being a teenager. Ultimately, it doesn't matter. We have to figure out how to help her be a productive part of this word and find what God has in store for her. The battle we engaged in had to do with a math test. During the snow day yesterday, I asked Dasha a million times if she had any homework. She retorted, "NO," to all million requests. Then, she told me she had a math test today, and they let her take two whole class periods to complete it - which she did not. I asked her if other kids had taken that long. She sassily replied, "No! They knew the answers to the problems!" Her plan was to come home, review the study guide, and go back tomorrow to complete the missing questions and redo those that she didn't know. I don't think so. My question was about telling me that she didn't have homework when she should have been studying for the test. She informed me that studying is not homework. Ugh. Now, I'm left with a dilemma. Do I email the teacher and tell her not to let Dasha finish the test? They already think we are demons based on Dasha's reports to them. Oh wait! Maybe I should show up at the school tomorrow to pick her up for her hair appointment wearing horns and a tail while holding a pitch fork? Maybe that's a bit dramatic. I'll just wear the horns.

So, that was sort of the backstory so you'll know why I'm still sitting here almost an hour later feeling like I had the wind knocked out of me. Did you know that when your child turns 18, they are responsible for their own academic decisions? Yep. Dasha can choose her own classes, advocate for her own IEP changes, and basically act as an adult. No one seems to notice that she doesn't have the skill sets to make those choices. They are letting a child who can't plan for next week make decisions that will impact her high school graduation. Am I the only one who thinks this is nuts? Dasha chose her own classes for next year, again, without having us, the responsible parents, ok the choices. And, no one at the school really gave her any support either. What are we supposed to do? Dasha fits into a very small gray area. Her intellect is too high to be part of the full time special needs group, but her intellect is too low to allow her to make informed choices. I'm not talking about choosing to have white milk or chocolate milk for lunch! I'm talking about having to make up classes during the summer at $250 per class if she didn't register for the correct classes!

That really wasn't the worst of it, though. As we sat at dinner, Dasha was telling us about watching some videos of the the presidential candidates today during her history class. Wait for it... then she said that she didn't know who SHE was going to vote for. I gave Ray THE eyes. I figured this was another discussion like the ones Dasha has with us about being able to drive and have her own house. But, Dasha added on to the conversation with, "Since I'm 18, I can vote." Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges... Lamaze breathing wasn't cutting it, so I resorting to naming the books of the Bible. She is 18. She can legally vote. How can she vote when she can't even keep up with her own homework? Is this really legal? Aren't there some sort of rules? Oh my. That sure wasn't the dart to the head that I was ready for tonight.

Like I said, we have LOTS of messy conversations in this house. I guess tonight Ray and I will add the "Dasha voting" conversation to the agenda. Have you seen the presidential candidates? I guess it really wouldn't matter if Dasha voted or not. (OK. That was horrible, but I'm not sure about any of those folks)!

Please don't read this and think horrid thoughts of me. Every day we struggle to help Dasha succeed in a world that enables her to feel helpless while empowering her to take control of her own life. It's a tightrope act. We are standing below her with the net stretched out and ready to catch her fall. With most kids, you know that you need to let them hit the ground once or twice for them to learn to balance and stay on the rope. With Dasha, the falls continue. They don't seem to phase her. What do you do then as parents?

So, I still don't know how I'm going to juggle getting Dasha's hair and nails done tomorrow. (Or where I'll find those horns and that pitchfork). I've painted nails before, and I can use a can of hairspray and a curling iron. (Those skills have been minimally honed, but I haven't done unnecessary damage with those tools, either). Worst case scenaio, I guess we have our own little salon party here at home.

Meanwhile, if you see Gigantor blowing snot bubbles or Annie snorting Fun Dip, please just know that we choose our battles carefully here at the Rudd-olph Asylum, and those activities just fell below the line of delineation of importance here tonight. I'm sure Annie could teach some of her classmates how to snort Fun Dip (or crushed up Altoids as Grant later tried). That's a pretty unique skill set! That would look great on a college application!

Amen

When your past, present, and future keep colliding

Oh my. It has been over a year since I updated this blog. I’m not even sure where to begin. The last post I wrote was a piece about blending vomit. While the majority of the vomit has finally homogenized, there are still some curdled chunks that keep rising to the top. It’s the same chunky pieces that fester up. Again, and again, and again.

When Ray and I said those blissful words, “I do,” almost three years ago, we knew that blending a bachelor, three kids, and a control obsessed woman would be challenging. Neither one of us “adults” quite realized how challenging things would be.

I guess part of the reason that I haven’t blogged in so long is because I feel like I’m giving the details of some intimately fragile being. I’m still afraid of breaking something. Ray continues to laugh at my fears of him running out of the house screaming while Annie is running around naked asking for someone to wipe her butt, Dasha is talking to herself about an episode of some Disney soap opera, and Grant is hanging lifelessly in his darkened room in his hammock. As for me, I’m usually rendered helpless at those moments. It’s amazing how your past can continue to pop up in your future. I know there are all sorts of verses and sayings about not letting your past determine your future. Bull crap. Yes, I’m an adult. I only said crap – that time. I know the verses. I know the sayings. But, sometimes life is messy and you can’t just clean it up. You need a HAZMAT team, and you need them on stand-by because the mess will reappear at unplanned intervals.

Going into marriage for a second time, I didn’t realize how unprepared I was. If Ray didn’t have the character and integrity of a saint, I think I can say with confidence that I’d be a single mother again. Yes. I know that is a really bold statement. However, folks just don’t realize the baggage that divorce leaves. You can pack the bags up and stow them in the closet, but eventually they are going to tumble out. All of the unmentionables are going to spill into the middle of the room. That’s just how it works.
So, dealing with the idea of Ray heading for the border has been something that I’ve dealt with a lot. Ray does not like it when I compare him to folks in my past, and he wants a clean slate. I truly try to give him that, but… Let’s face it. There are plenty of days when I don’t want to be here with two teenagers and a high maintenance six year old. That’s harsh, but I think most mamas get to that point. I get tired of being a responsible adult. But, I’m bound to be here by those maternal instincts that drive mama bears to protect their cubs at any and all cost (even when the cub seems to have lost it's ever loving mind). He, admittedly, doesn’t have that bond. The girls both love Ray beyond measure, but many times, they still will look toward me when he asks them to do something. They still see me as the Alpha. As for the relationship with Grant, honestly, that’s just too fragile to be putting out in print. Our prayer is that one day he will understand and accept.

For nearly three years, we have worked so diligently to become part of one of those Norman Rockwell pictures. Well, maybe not Norman Rockwell. I think we might have been aspiring for something closer to the Simpsons. Doh! But, the road has not been easy. We have had to have some really tough and messy conversations. But, some of the most loving and growth-filled moments are when emotions are raw and naked and spilled all of the floor. (Visualize a butcher's shop after he just had the busiest day of his life). Ray has seen me at some of the lowest moments in my entire life. He has seen the bile that I had been holding in for so long spattered from floor to ceiling. And, somehow, he never flinches. Many of the discussions have revolved around what we are beginning to accept with Dasha and that she will most likely never live independently, and we will always be responsible for her. Talk about having to revisit your bucket list. The discussions that surround Grant always end up with me being nearly hysterical. Yes. I can be dramatic and hysterical. It’s not a pretty sight. Grant will forever be my “baby boy.” I just wish Ray could have known him when he was so sweet and compliant. Now, Grant doesn’t even speak to Ray. He has no use for any of us in this house. Those words came from his mouth. I’m sure they were motivated by other things, but hearing your baby boy say that he doesn’t really care for you or have anything in common with you is heartbreaking. And, then there’s Annie. Annie. Annie. Annie. This girl is something else. She loves Ray like nothing else. She asks to watch techie shows with him, and her personality reflects so much of what Ray has invested in her over the last three years. Maybe that’s why I struggle with her. It’s like having a mini version of Alton Brown and Albert Einstein mixed together with a dash of Selena Gomez running around the house. She has such a tender heart, but her brain and mouth NEVER stop.

What’s my point? I don’t know. I think I chased a squirrel back in the second paragraph. However, I had a friend recently tell me that I should blog about the challenges that have come with a second marriage. She said that folks appreciated my honesty. Well, I’m not sure that I call all of this mess honesty. It’s called a messy life. It’s called real life. I do absolutely love this season of my life, but I am learning that I have to be very intentional about my attitude, feelings, and communication. I’m not really good at any of those. I prefer to slap on the “I’m fine” face and walk it off.

The thought of posting this rambling out on the web for others to see does sort of terrify me. I’ve moved on in my life. Most of the folks who read the details of my divorce and upheaval have moved out of my circle of friends. In fact, I was thinking about the folks that are still in my life who could walk you through the events of the birth of two kids, the death of one, the adoption of one, the birth of another, a divorce, and a remarriage and they are very few. (That does sort of make me sound like a high maintenance friend, doesn’t it)? But, I’m ready for this. Folks need to realize that a second marriage will NOT fix what ailed in the first marriage. Those issues are still going to be waiting for you – more like haunting you. If the person who you’re choosing to “do life with” can’t put on some gloves and clean up a LOT of vomit, duck chairs, ignore dirty words said in heated moments, accept that you have a past, and not retaliate, then you need to rethink marriage with that person or seek some serious counsel (not Dr. Phil style – someone who will dump the dirty laundry on the floor and force you to work through the stale undies, stiff socks, and whatever else you might have been stowing there).

For those who are reading this and don’t find yourself anywhere near this ballfield called “remarriage,” just be mindful of the enormous adventure that marriage is and don’t take it lightly.

Amen
(Not the kind of Amen that you hear muttered in reverence, but the kind that a Pentecostal would yell out in the middle of a sermon)