The trouble with psychiatric evaluation

I think I have hit a wall and I'm not sure I can ever get around it. I had to be linguist so that I wouldn't be able to answer simple questions...

Every so often, before I see my therapist, I have to fill out a battery of questions about how I feel, how my sleep is, do I feel sad or anxious, and a bunch of other stuff she would care about while treating me. The answers required are always on some sort of a Likert scale, like this:

In the past 2 weeks, have you been able to see the funny side of things?

• As much as I ever could
• Not quite so much now
• Definitely not so much now
• Not at all

Sounds easy enough, right? Well, here's where I hit a wall:

Try to characterize your mood in the last two weeks:
"I was always worrying about something."

• never
• very rarely
• rarely
• sometimes
• often
• very often
• almost constantly

How am I supposed to answer that if I was worried a couple times on a few days? What does it mean to say "I was always worrying about something sometimes" ?!?!???!!!?

Sheesh.

And just for kicks, here's my favorite question that I get to answer:

Have you felt peaceful and calm?

• all of the time
• most of the time
• a good bit of the time
• some of the time
• a little of the time
• none of the time

Have YOU felt peaceful and calm during the last two weeks? I feel like if I answer "all of the time" that I should walk into my therapist's office and say, "I'm cured! I'm outta here!"

Defying ethnic boundaries

Back when Stella was three weeks old, we had a photography session with a local photographer, Lorissa Farr. She posted a couple of the best ones to her blog. We ordered some too. One of our favorites is this:


In this image, Lorissa perfectly captured one of our favorite of Stella's features that make her unique: the birthmark on her lower back. It's not unusual, a patch of skin on her lower back that appears darker than the rest of her skin. When she was born, we thought it was a bruise and asked the pediatrician about it. She assured us it was perfectly normal. It's called a mongolian spot and it is most commonly found in children of black or latin descent. Check, Stella is both of those via her father's heritage. Perfectly normal.

At the same time, we asked the pediatrician about another mark on the back of her neck that we had noticed and were concerned about. Here's a picture of that:


The pediatrician explained, it's another birthmark, called a stork bite. Nothing to worry about. It is most common in babies of caucasian descent. Check, Stella is of caucasian decent via me. Nothing to worry about.

Stella's diverse ethnic heritage is nothing unusual; I'd guess from all the families and children I've interacted with since Grace was born that most kids in this younger generation have the benefit of a rich genetic background. Yet, apparently there are still people in our society who don't understand it, don't accept it, and don't want to see it at all.

A few weeks ago we watched Rabbit-Proof Fence together as a family. It is the true story of three girls in Australia in the 1930s. You can watch the trailer here. The three girls are forcibly removed from their mothers, Aborigine, because they are biracial -- their fathers are white. Though it's rated PG, it's not exactly a movie for children unless they are mature enough to deal with difficult topics. For instance, until 1970, Australia still had a law on the books that "half-caste" children, the children who are biracially white and aborigine, are substandard. For that matter, aborigines are substandard humans. At one point in the film, I was so appalled I spit out, "what the fuck!" I was glad that Grace was old enough to understand my righteous anger. How could a government do something so awful, so unthinkable, so hateful and evil? I believe Kenneth Branagh's character in Rabbit-Proof Fence puts it most succinctly: "Are we to allow the creation of an unwanted race?" An industrialized, 20th century government did it because those in power believed children of interracial couples were substandard and should not exist.

Lest we think for a moment that this is barbarian and behind those of us in the US and in our distant past, the gross and despicable reality of the present hits us right between the eyes. Enter Keith Bardwell, a justice of the peace in Tangipahoa Parish, Louisiana. On Friday, the story hit national news media outlets: Judge Bardwell refused to issue a marriage license to an interracial couple. He explained his action by saying that such marriages do not stand the test of time and that children of such a couple would suffer due to not fitting into either culture. He maintains that he is not a racist for making such a decision, that he issues marriage licenses to black couples all the time. And he said, "It's kind of hard to apologize for something that you really and truly feel down in your heart you haven't done wrong." WHAT??!?!?!?!?? I react to this with the same righteous outrage that I did to the content of Rabbit-Proof Fence. But I must be explicitly clear about how outrageous this situation is. The judge does not approve of the marriage because he feels that the children of such a marriage would suffer due to their very existence and lack of identity with the culture of either parent. In short, multiethnic children are a problem. We as a society should do everything we can to prevent their existence in the first place. If they come to exist, we'll have a horrible problem on our hands.

I'm getting to the point where I believe that people in the world who suffer the worst racial discrimination are those who are multiethnic. Contrary to this, I have a rather different viewpoint. Rather than being a hindrance, I believe having a diverse heritage actually gives one an advantage in understanding the world and coping with its various social problems. Having the benefit of more than one vantage points enables a person to realize that the world is not black and white (no pun intended).

I guess these ideas of mine shouldn't come as a surprise since I am part of a multiethnic, bi-national family. But I'd be dishonest if I led you to believe that I came to this perspective without any influence. I heard a piece on NPR's Talk of the Nation a few weeks ago about a new production of Shakespeare's Othello, produced for stage in Washington, DC. and directed by Peter Sellars (no, not the one who died more than 20 years ago, a different one by the same name). In his interview with Neal Conan, Sellars addresses the obvious talking point of Othello, that being the ethnic identity of the title character. He's a Moor, traditionally portrayed by an actor of African or Arabic descent. "Moor" does not refer to any specific ethnic group, but rather someone who is dark-skinned and from the Iberian Peninsula. In other words, someone who is likely of mixed race. He is a successful and liked military leader. The poignancy of putting on this production to Washington, DC now is directly connected to Barack Obama and Justice Sonia Sotomayor. Whatever you think of the president's work so far, it is worth considering in what ways his heritage enables him to be a good leader, or at least, in what ways he is able to lead differently than all of his predecessors. Sellars addresses this point directly in the interview, at about 10:22:

We live in the age of Barack Obama and Tiger Woods. You know, what box are you gonna check? You know, the fact is, we're all more than one box. None of us fit into those boxes anymore.

It's that last line that got me. None of us fit into those boxes anymore. How many of us can neatly fit ourselves into a racial demographic? How about our children? I remember that when Grace was a little girl we went to American Girl Place in Chicago. We both looked to see if we could find a Just Like You girl that looked like each of us. Neither of us succeeded. Apparently American Girl still thought that blue eyes only go with blond hair and green eyes only go with light skin. We had difficulty fitting into an American Girl "box" despite the fact that both of us check off the box "caucasian, not hispanic." Stella doesn't check off one box on those surveys, so what luck does she have finding an American Girl that is Just Like Her?

If you find yourself recoiling at the suggestion that the "boxes" in demographic surveys are going the way of the buffalo, why is that? Is it the idea that our comfort zones are dissolving? If we can't presuppose things about people based on their appearance, maybe that makes us feel unsure and a little nervous. We might have to let go of our assumptions, the ones that make us feel knowledgeable and informed. Not all Spanish speakers are immigrants. Not all immigrants are poor and/or stupid. Not all blacks like rap. Nor do they all speak the same dialect of English. Not all whites like camping and corn bread. Nor Eddie Bauer. Need I go on?

As I have been thinking about Grace's friends throughout her childhood, I am struck by how few of them can clearly identify with one and only one ethnic group. This generation of children is, by their very DNA, more ethnically diverse. In a world that is quickly shrinking, a world in which it is an advantage to be not just tolerant of differences, but appreciative and enthusiastic, it seems that these kids undoubtedly are able to understand that world better.

Instead of focusing our energies of making lines and dividing up people into discrete groups that supposedly matter, wouldn't it be more fruitful to think of ourselves as citizens of the earth? Members of the human race? We have more in common with people once we stop and focus on the similarities rather than the differences. I, for one, am tired of the labels.

ADD in our lives

It's been quite awhile since I said anything about ADD. Would you all believe me if I told you that's because it's not something that we deal with anymore? I didn't think so.

Grey at Second Verse has posted some entries lately that have hit so close to my heart. Her son has ADHD and they are struggling with finding a medication that will help him deal with the behavioral symptoms of the disorder. What's really hitting me about her writing is the raw emotions, the frustration and the helplessness, that she expresses as a mother. Like me, she writes that she feels as if educators don't understand that the behavior problems her son is having in school are a direct result of his ADHD and something he cannot just will into changing. The links to two of her most poignant posts are here and here.

As I have read Grey's words these last couple weeks, I felt as if I was reading my own words.

My journey as the parent of a child with ADD has been a difficult one. Not especially difficult, just difficult. In other words, being the parent of a child with AD(H)D is difficult. The disorder is not physically visible for all to see so that the child's challenges are understood. Rather, the symptoms of AD(H)D look like a typical bad kid. In my deepest moments of despair, I have wished that my daughter had a different disability, one that evoked more compassion and understanding from her educators, teachers, girl scout troop leaders, ballet instructors, babysitters, music teachers, family and friends, and on and on the list goes. With AD(H)D, I as a parent have heard a lifetime's worth of pejorative adjectives describing my daughter and more patronizing pep talks from others than I can count. If this is how I as the parent feels, imagine what the child hears and how she feels.

Serial Mommy published an essay by Emily Pearl Kingsley this past June, an essay about what it feels like to parent a child with a disability. When I read it, I felt like my feelings had been captured perfectly. Check out the link when you have time.

This school year is going well. Yes, Grace still deals with ADD. It's with her every day. Her friends comment all the time that she is the energetic and hyper one. But she's doing much better with her studies (all As and Bs since last March) and she's much better at coping with symptoms and advocating for herself now. By conversing with her teachers and guidance counselors, her pediatrician and other professionals, she has become much more aware of who she is and how she can accomplish everything she wants to -- with ADD. In the last six months, I discovered that two of Grace's closest childhood friends also have been diagnosed and that their respective mothers have gone through the same roller coaster ride I have. By no coincidence, the mothers are two of my closest friends. One of the things I wanted to accomplish by starting this blog was to find people who could support me and advise me on the struggle I had in parenting Grace. Thank goodness I found some.

More about me than you ever wanted to know

Right after Stella was born, Heather of Cool Zebras sent me and some other bloggers in the Midwest an email. She was curious to find out if the collective blog Midwest Parents (which Heather created) could be reinvented, rebooted, revived in a sense. She wanted to know who was in.

I thought about it long and hard. If I committed, I was really committing. How much extra time did I have? And there was a new baby...

She sent out details on how the blog was going to be reorganized. I'll admit, I was intimidated. Each contributor would have a week of their own, five straight days of blogging. And not just blogging anything, there were daily themes. Like, I'd have to come up with something for "Foodie Friday" and I'd have to write up something about my personal reading.

But I'll also admit, it looked pretty cool. The stuff Heather* wanted to include in the new and improved Midwest Parents was stuff I don't do here. I don't do Wordless Wednesday or give parenting tips. Here...well, here I mostly lament. More importantly, I was not only intrigued by how this would stretch myself as a blogger, I was interested to see what the other contributors would dish up for me to chew on. Eager to be part of a renewed project, I decided to jump in.

The re-launch of Midwest Parents officially began last Friday when Heather introduced herself to the readers of Midwest Parents. Since then, the contributors have been posting their own introduction each day. And today? Who posted their introduction today? Why, me, of course! So check it out, ok? And check back every single weekday for something new at Midwest Parents!

* When I was a kid, there were always a ton of other girls with my name. Now? Now we're all bloggers, apparently. Evidence? The ones I can think of off the the top of my head are this woman, this woman, Heather at Cool Zebras and me. Lemme know if you know of others (or if you're a Heather too!). I think I'm gonna have to do a genuine Heathers post one of these days. Because despite being Heather, I was so much of a Veronica.

Abercrombie goes for the kids

OK, first off, I say up front that by posting this I may indeed be branding myself as too cynical of a middle-aged mom. That being said...

Yesterday, while visiting with a friend and her family, I heard the first mention of Abercrombie Kids. Yes, that's right. Our children's favorite teen and college age clothing vendor, Abercrombie and Fitch, has opened its doors to the younger clientele, grade school age children and tweens.



I'll just wait right here while you take that in for a second or two.




OK, I'm guessing you're ready to go on now.




I thought it was a joke. I mean, wouldn't it make a great SNL skit?

I'm not stupid, I understand the logic. Get a young kid hooked on the brand and then they will be even more loyal as teens and young adults. But this is a little different than Gap Kids. Gap Kids sells clothing kind of like what they sell at the adults store -- t-shirts, jeans, khakis...clothes that don't look like you've just come off the beach or out of bed.

I was in college during grunge and I understand the appeal of the look. You give off the aura that you don't care about your appearance and you have bigger things on your mind. You don't have the time or energy (or money) to put towards fashion. Grunge is the ultimate exemplar of function before fashion...which becomes a fashion statement in and of itself. But now it's acceptable to pay top dollar for this. Every time I see stores that carry this look, I think that I've got to teach all these kids how to shop at Goodwill, wash their clothes in the wrong temperature and then overstuff the dryer and leave all the laundry in there for a day.

It's like Grace wearing big faux diamond stud earrings and a pearl bracelet paired with a wrinkly flannel and jeans with holes in them. No. No, no, no. This is all wrong.

Back to the point. We're now selling this look to children? Grade school age children? I presume because it has become so acceptable to obtain the look of "I didn't pay much for this and I don't care what I look like" via a credit card that we forgot the attitude and message that was what was behind the look. And now we want to put that look on children? Huh?

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE WORLD OF FASHION OUT THERE?

I suppose this is how the baby boomers feel when they see a woman wearing a couture item with the words "Power to the People" emblazoned across the front in purple and green sequins. That cost over $1,000. Oh my.

One last dig at abercrombie kids and then I'll drop it, I promise. It's the image on the gift cards available online. A shirtless tween boy flanked by a cute girl wrapped around his arm. All I can think of is the ad campaign by Abercrombie (for adults) with the Adonic guys. Not bad to look at...unless the models are under the age of 13. Then it's just wrong, you know?

Please help our children...

Facing your demons: Part 2

The first half of the story is here. And now we continue our story...

...And so it came about at 4:30p on the afternoon of Saturday, July 25th that Grace's father came by to pick her up. It's a month later and I cannot remember anything about the actual picking up. She was home on time at 7:30p.

The on-time pickup and the on-time return are something that hasn't happened, well, ever, I don't think. So what's a woman to complain about? And I was already feeling like an ass for hating my ex-mother-in-law for relatively minor offenses. I felt...unevolved...unrealized...emotionally immature.

After Grace had gotten in from the evening out and had had a few minutes to collect herself and relax, she came downstairs to the den. I asked her how dinner was. She said it was nice. I asked her where they went for dinner and what else had happened.

Grace told me that first they went by the hospital to visit Amy, her stepmother.



[insert the sound of screeching brakes here]



I involuntarily interrupted Grace. 'You went to the hospital to visit Amy?'

She explained, Amy was there for at least a week. She had been admitted a few days earlier because she was feeling down. A few seconds of explanation later, I understood. Her stepmother had been admitted to the psych ward for a week, probably because she attempted suicide again or told someone she was considering it.

It's not the first time it's happened. When Grace was 9, just after we moved away from her dad in Michigan and moved to the DC area, her father had planned a trip to come see her. He wanted to do it within a few months of us moving because he felt it was important to be part of Grace's life right away. He also had proposed marriage to Grace's soon-to-be-stepmother a few weeks earlier. They were deeply in the midst of planning a wedding.

He arrived in town as scheduled and called our house to let us know they would be coming by soon. Or rather, he would be coming by soon...alone. Because his girlfriend wasn't with him. Because she had attempted suicide and had been admitted to the psych ward for at least a week. Grace's father wanted to tell me this because he wanted to clear it with me. See, he wanted to explain to Grace over dinner what was really going on.

Good lord. I was still reeling from my divorce from the guy and poor decisions on his and his girlfriend's part. I thought they weren't wise in their parenting choices. (For more details, you can read this, this, and this.) And then, my worst fears were confirmed. This woman that Grace's father had hooked up with was psychologically unstable. To the point where she would take her own life. The only silver lining I could see was that if this guy ever sought joint or sole physical custody of Grace, this episode would be a severe dent in the whole 'happy family' picture he had been trying to create thus far. Worse, I was faced with entrusting my ex-husband to explain suicide to my 9-year-old daughter. In terms of someone in her family. Whoa.

I just took a deep breath and told him fine. I can't remember whether I asked Grace about it when she came home.

Fast forward to Grace's recent pre-dinner visit to the psych ward at the hospital. When you're 15 and your stepmother is admitted to the hospital for psychiatric evaluation, what do you say? What is appropriate to say? When this is the second time it's happened in your childhood, how do you react to this person in the long run? How do have a relationship with them? WHAT IS MY CHILD FACING?

She explained to me that her stepmother is sick and that sickness requires her to stay at the hospital sometimes. When I looked confused, she insisted, 'No, really mom, she has a serious illness, it's not funny.'

THAT'S what my daughter is facing and how she's dealing with it.




Talk about something that causes me to introspect. My kid is fine. She knows what is up with her stepmother and she can deal with it fine. Her stepmother is not ok. I've been expecting she and her husband to act like responsible, active parents and take good care of my daughter when she is in their care. During that week, Grace's stepmother couldn't take care of herself, much less her own kids or her stepdaughter. Under what pretense would it make sense for me to expect her to live up to all the high standards I have laid on her in my mind?

Grace's father called me a week ago to set up visitation for her now that the school year is starting. He said it would be too difficult to have weekly visitation with Grace. He's just going to have her to his house every other weekend now. I presume that holidays are also times he wants to have her at his house. I suspect life is getting heavy on his shoulders. So what can I do other than have compassion? His life is stressful, as is the life of every member of his immediate family. He's cutting things out that he thinks he can in order to get a handle on the logistics of daily life. How can I react any way other than to be understanding and compliant?

So there you go. I still regret that Grace's biography includes a scattered relationship with her father. She doesn't get to see him much and it's unclear that they have ever gotten past a level of superficiality in their relationship. But at least she has a father who likes her. She's learned to accept his limitations, both emotional and logistical; I can accept them too.

An honest post about depression during pregnancy

As I've mentioned in passing in the last few months, while I was pregnant with Stella I was diagnosed with clinical depression. This was a big step for me, the going through with seeing someone for diagnosis and treatment. The story of my depression does not begin with pregnancy, though; it begins way, way back long ago in my life.

Very few people who know me would believe I suffer from depression. I have a public persona that is chatty and accommodating. Things have to get very, very bad for me before my public self starts deteriorating and my somber side shows up. That's one of the issues I deal with: how to be "the real me" in public. I also have a quirky problem in that I know what depression looks like and how it gets diagnosed. If I had to sum up the major hindrance to my getting help for my psychological health, it would be to say that I am too metacognitive regarding my own psyche. I usually have a pretty good handle on how I'm doing psychologically, even when I'm not doing so well. Unfortunately, if there's one way to make people believe you are healthy enough not to need help, it's having the ability to accurately describe your own condition and its severity.

Anyways, about halfway through my pregnancy, it became clear that I was having a more difficult time dealing with my own depression in public and in private. And suddenly it became relevant that crying a lot and feeling a lot of anxiety and being unsure of who I really was undoubtedly was not helping Stella in utero. Thus it came to pass that I sought out professional help.

The whole thing was and is a little strange for me. Experiencing depression during pregnancy put me at a 60-80% chance of experiencing postpartum depression. That information was a bit sobering. For the first time in my life I took everything off the table except for my health. That was a VERY strange. I feel better able to cope with things, but wow, suddenly I had time and space to feel some things that otherwise were routinely scooted to the side.

Yesterday I came across this article about depression during pregnancy and some discussion of the effects of various treatments. I emailed the link to my husband. After he got a chance to look at it, he asked me if I really wanted to consider going through a pregnancy ever again. Unbelievably, I have no doubt that it was all worth it. Stella is an amazing gift and she makes my heart melt every time I spy her. The possibility of getting to do it again is almost too wonderful for me to imagine. But you can imagine that from my husband's perspective, he's trying to make sure I'm ok. He's protective like that.

What the source of my depression is I still don't know. Yeah, there's the current trend that depression is largely biological. And then there's my own opinion that one's genetic predisposition to any psychological disorder is exacerbated by past and present stress. I have a BA in psychology, which is enough to know that I don't know much and that I should refrain from any speculation on the mental health of myself or anyone else around me.

FYI, postpartum depression seems not to be my problem. In what seems to me to be some kind of a strange blessing, I know that I feel no worse now than I have at any other point in my life. So it feels like pinning the source on being postpartum would be misguided. I haven't yet checked with my therapist on that conclusion, however.

I figure that at this point in my life, coping with depression is part of who I am. Sure, I'm a lot of other things. But I am finding that if I conceptualize of myself in a more integrated way, it helps me understand myself better and approach problems I face in a more effective way.

So there you go. Journey on...

Witches

Have you ever seen Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine? If you haven't, you really should try to do so. At this point, the musical has not only had an original Broadway and original London cast, it's been reprised on Broadway in the early 2000s and toured extensively. Now it's become the ambitious show of choice for high theatre departments to put on. I had the joy of being 16 years old when I saw it the first time, when the Broadway production opened its first tour in Fort Lauderdale at Parker Playhouse. I'm afraid that first exposure spoiled me for anything less. It was perfect, amazing, and unforgettable.

The plot? Take a bunch of tradition fairy tales, give three-dimensional humanity to the characters and then intertwine their stories in a believable way. It's far too well done for me to even begin to summarize here, so I'll stick to the lead role, originally written for Sondheim's female diva and muse of choice, Bernadette Peters. The character? The Witch.

Now I know that through various artistic genres like musical theatre (Wicked!), contemporary fiction (Wicked: The True Story of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire) and children's literature (The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs!), we have become accustomed to seeing a traditionally evil character reframed in a different light. The new take on the antagonist is that they are grossly misunderstood by society and in the end are revealed to actually be virtuous and good. Sondheim and Lapine are far more creative and realistic than this. The Witch in Into The Woods is not good. She is not wholesome. She is somewhat misunderstood. But really, she's taking in the world around her and calling it the way she sees it. Her way of coping is brutal honesty and confrontation, whether that's with those seeking her help or with those who have tried to take advantage of her or with her own daughter.

Oh, did I forget to mention that detail? That The Witch has a daughter? Well, yes, yes she does. A daughter she dearly loves and protects. And this is a big part of her identity as a person.

Her daughter, as it turns out, is Rapunzel. You know, the witch who keeps Rapunzel locked away in a tower and won't let her see anyone else? Yeah, that witch is Rapunzel's mother in Into The Woods. I'll leave the rest of the origins of that relationship to those interested in looking into the whole plot of the story. She's keeping her daughter in a tower to protect her from the world. There comes a point where a prince comes to the tower and tried to steal the daughter away. Seeing a potential danger to her daughter, the witch hacks off the daughter's locks, tricks the prince, then knocks him to the ground below after blinding him. The daughter becomes hysterical and starts screaming. These are the lyrics to the dialogue that follows between mother and daughter:

"Stay With Me"

[WITCH]
What did I clearly say?
Children must listen.

[RAPUNZEL]
No, no, please!

[WITCH]
What were you not to do?
Children must see-

[RAPUNZEL]
No!

[WITCH]
And learn.

Why could you not obey?
Children should listen.
What have I been to you?
What would you have me be?
Handsome like a Prince?

Ah, but I am old.
I am ugly.
I embarass you.

[RAPUNZEL]
No!

[WITCH]
You are ashamed of me.

[RAPUNZEL]
No!

[WITCH]
You are ashamed.
You don't understand.

[RAPUNZEL]
It was lonely atop that tower.

[WITCH]
I was not company enough?

[RAPUNZEL]
I am no longer a child. I wish to see the world.

[WITCH]
Don't you know what's out there in the world?
Someone has to shield you from the world.
Stay with me.

Princes wait there in the world, it's true.
Princes, yes, but wolves and humans, too.
Stay at home.
I am home.

Who out there could love you more than I?
What out there that I cannot supply?
Stay with me.

Stay with me,
The world is dark and wild.
Stay a child while you can be a child.
With me.

The song makes me cry. I think it gets to the heart of it. This mother is trying so hard to cope with the best way to raise her child, and her child misunderstands. The mother lashes out and acts out of her own hurt and her own struggles. And she shares these feelings with her daughter. As it turns out, the irony of the story is that The Witch is right. The world IS dark and wild. In a moment of chaos in the kingdom, the prince who has married Rapunzel cheats on her while she is suffering from postpartum depression. She flees to the woods, never to be seen again. Not a good end to the story. It's not entirely clear that the daughter would have been any better off with her mother, who, partially out of her sorrow of watching her daughter suffer and mostly out of disgust at the pervasive evil disguised in the world around her, abandons the kingdom in their moment of need. But I think the person of The Witch as a mother and as a person is far too touching to simply write her off as a selfish quack.

I have, at different points these past few days, felt like The Witch. I have also felt like her daughter. I've spent the last week with my mother in town. Grace has also been here with me. I've been both a mother and a daughter since last Wednesday. It is an understatement to say that it has been confusing and emotional. It brings me right back to the root of why I started this blog: to explore my own childhood in the midst of being a mother and living through my daughter's childhood.

How can a single woman cope with loving her mother and trying to make her comfortable and happy while simultaneously needing to stand up for her own needs and dignity? How can one woman simultaneously love her teenage daughter and try to meet her needs while also feeling so weak and human and incompetent at the same time?

I will cut this short as the day is drawing to a close. My daughter is an amazing young woman. She is able to balance her emotions and respond maturely to difficult situations in a fashion far beyond her years. I am in awe of her.

I'm signing off until tomorrow...

Could you give me your opinion?

To any and all readers who find themselves at this, my personal blog:

I am having some time in my life to introspect lately. I know, you're thinking, 'Heather, isn't that all you do given how this blog reads?' Well, not exactly. I mean, sure, I try to think through things and make sense of them in a way that makes the facts around me and my emotions come together. But I don't always feel like I get to an 'a-ha' moment. You know, like when you see things in a way that you never saw before?

I rant about God a lot. I also rant about politics sometimes. And, as the title of my blog reveals quite transparently, I ruminate over my childhood. I got some issues with my self esteem. And now, NOW, I find myself able to reflect on this stuff more. It's coming together in ways I didn't see before.

Here's the controversial part I find myself unsure how to deal with, the part that I need your input on. I could easily write days and days of posts on what is on my mind re: self-actualization. But (and it's a big 'but'), that would require me to dish out some details about people I love. No it's not my husband or my daughter, but it is other people who really matter. Several of my bloggy friends out there (hi, bloggy friends!) have recently had the experience of having someone find their personal blog and go a little ballistic on them. I'd like for that not to happen. Still, something inside of me is tempted to dish out all this stuff because I think it would help me reason through all of it.

Can you give me you advice, and can you vote in my poll on the right, about whether or not you think I should delve into these issues and risk some emotional outbursts should the relevant parties ever find and read this blog?

Thank you, all.

The Weekly Slug: 31 weeks

We have a date, a scheduled date for cesarean, that is. August 7th. If you're suddenly finding yourself doing the math, let me save you the time: 36 weeks, 2 days. We'll do a couple shots of steroids 24 hours before delivery and one last sonogram to get an idea of how big she'll be. The obstetrician who's doing the surgery feels confident that all will go well, given her development thus far.

Today I am officially 31 weeks pregnant. There are good days and there are bad days. Really, I'm just looking forward to seeing my baby and not being pregnant anymore. I know, once the baby is born I will have her to take care of and I won't feel so great because I'll be recovering from a surgery. But the amount of negative effects to my body that I either can't treat well because I'm pregnant or that are induced because I'm pregnant is getting a little much.

Last night I was out shopping with my husband. I was pushing the shopping cart and I felt tired. When we stopped in an aisle, I squatted down and took the weight off my legs, while holding on the handle of the cart. It felt so good. I thought, I wonder if I could just push this girl out right here. I'd been having hard contractions all day, so the idea didn't seem too far fetched...

I got my bathing suit, and wow, what a big difference that makes! It makes me feel beautiful. Better than that, I never imagined how good it would feel to get in the pool. I feel completely weightless and I can actually move around. I can even swim a lap or two in shallow water. It feels so incredible to exercise my arms and legs without feeling heavy or getting sweaty! I love it!

I went to a summer swim meet with Grace on Saturday. After the meet, we were visiting with other families from the community team. A woman there asked me when I was due. I told her in August and that we had our feet in both worlds with a high schooler and a soon-to-be-newborn. Her son who was with her and on the swim team was 8. Turns out, her children span in age from 4 to 28. Her oldest grandchild is older than her youngest child. I suddenly felt normal, like my life wasn't so extraordinary. Beyond that, the meet is filled with families with young kids. I realized that I was enjoying myself and that I fit in with the parents of little kids, even more with my teenage girl there with me.

I think up until now I've been trying to figure out how to be two people at once. Like, how do I be the doting, nurturing mom of a baby while also being the hip, mature mom of a teenager? You'd think I'd have figured out sooner that I can be both at once. But really, it wasn't until Saturday that I realized that being exactly who I am is what both of my daughters need.

Hey, anyone out there use cloth diapers recently and have advice for me? Because I could use some first-hand help and coaching.

The Weekly Slug: 25 weeks

I need some help, y'all. Those of you who read my blog are a pretty smart bunch. Clever, witty, far more entertaining than I'll ever be. So here goes.

We are stumped for a second name for our girl-to-be coming sometime in mid-August. We have gone through more names than you can imagine. It's getting ridiculous. So I'm charging you all with the challenge to help me think of a name. Generally speaking, your choices are broad. You can go for English/Irish/Scottish names or venture into names from any of the Romance languages (e.g., French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Latin). German names are up for consideration too. But we're not stopping there. If you think of a Russian name or Swahili name that you think is just groovy, send it along to me. Really the only parameter I can definitely throw out there is that we're not wanting to go for something too exotic or outside of our cultures, so Barack (or Baracka?) isn't really something we'd consider.

I know this would easier if you had all the other names this girl will get (first, mom's and dad's surnames), but my good bloggy friend Baby? Maybe. (Or Maybe Not.) strictly admonished me in comments a few weeks back to keep the first name hush-hush. So I'm on the down low with that 411. But I could be persuaded over email to reveal the first name just as long as you don't post it here in comments.

Below are listed names that are taboo due to unfortunate people in the past associated with them. My apologies if one of the names listed is your own. I promise you, it's not on the list because of you, but rather because it belongs to someone else who is yucky and who's only good quality is sharing a name with you.

Janine, Jeannie, Janet, Jenna, etc
Amy
Rebekah/Rebecca
Ruth
Michaela/Mikayla
Francis/Francisca

We also don't want names that are too overused, like:

Emma
Emily
Hannah
Anna
Sophia/Sofia

One other consideration. Generally speaking, there's a ton of names that start with "L" that we really like. Unfortunately none of them work due to the tongue-twister they create when combined with the first name. So no Lori, Lauren, Lana, Lucifer...hey, how did that one get in there?

I think that gives you enough ideas. Please send me your ideas. I don't care how many you send. I'm just so sick of googling "baby name meaning 'not a troublemaker' starting with B" and then bombarding my husband with, "Barbara? Barbie? Beatrice? Belinda? Belissima? Benita? Bernadette?..."

Thank you, thank you all. I appreciate you very much. I appreciate you helping me keep my sanity on this one.

The Weekly Slug: 22 or 23 weeks, depending on how you count it

No, I won't tell you her name. But everyone in our family refers to her by her name now, not Slug. I feel like I should rename the segment "The Weekly INSERT-BABY'S-FIRST-NAME-HERE." It wouldn't be so bad because her first name starts with an S. OK, that's all I'm telling you. We're back to debating a middle name anyway, two different possibilities now. There's a third alternative that I've soundly rejected. My husband is stuck on wanting to give the child my mother's maiden name as a middle name. My mom comes from deep German American roots. You know, where there's a Meyer on every corner and people cook meat and potatoes and carrots and peas frequently and put radishes in salads and everyone is very outspoken? So her maiden name, like all surnames in her family before she married my Scotch-Irish Dad, is very recognizably German. If we gave the Slug this middle name, her full name would go first name, German-name, English-name, Latin-name. I think that's too much to do to any kid. Another thing we've rejected in the baby-naming category is my middle name Lee. It comes from my grandaddy who died three years ago. He was Robert Lee. Yes, he is named after the general. In fact, I would be the last of many generations in my family who is named after Robert E. Lee. I would like to give a child one of the names, either Robert or Lee, but it just doesn't seem right just now. I guess you could say this makes me optimistic that there will be a third child to give the name to.

Now, on to me. I won't complain, really. Most of what I could tell you is so damn typical of the kinds of things women complain about when they are pregnant. Back pain, tiredness, feeling heavy, constant physical adjustment, having trouble getting comfortable in bed...you get the idea. One thing that has reared its ugly head is fibroids. If you've been following this blog for a bit, you know I had two surgeries last summer to remove a few biggies. When I had my first ultrasound to confirm this pregnancy in January, three more could be seen. They were bigger 10 weeks later. And now? Now I can tell you where they are. I don't need an ultrasound, I can feel them. There's nothing that can be done about them right now. But here's the very short narrative a fun scare I had a week ago. I realized last Saturday that I was having contractions. They had been going on for three days, but by Saturday I was having them every time I wasn't laying down, and I was having to breathe through them. I called labor and delivery triage at the hospital. They said to lay down and drink lots of fluid and juice. I did, and the contractions slowed. And then I started thinking, what's causing this? The only red hot source would be the fibroids. I read somewhere online that 8% of women without fibroids have real-live preterm labor and 20% of those with fibroids do. Regardless of the odds, real-live labor at any point in my pregnancy would be bad due to my surgeries last summer and other factors. And I find myself realizing, the odds really don't matter at all unless it's you. So we hope I beat the odds and that the Slug does too.

On a very wonderful note, I am loving this pregnancy. The contrast between my emotions 15 years ago and now are stark. When I was pregnant with Grace, it was completely unplanned and the entire pregnancy was surrounded with shame and I-told-you-sos from people who thought I was too young and shouldn't have been having sex while not married. That definitely had an effect on my view of the pregnancy. Worse? I think it had an effect on my parenting all along the way. I have a feeling I'm going to write more about this in the coming weeks. I don't think I would have ever realized any of this had I not had the experience of this pregnancy.

The day after the contractions-that-wouldn't-stop episode, I sat on my bedroom floor and went through the contents of five or six big boxes that had been in storage for over a decade. They were filled with everything from a lock from Grace's first haircut and the cards of congratulations we received when she was born to a schnazzy light blue coat I bought for her in Berlin on a trip to visit her godparents when she was seven-years-old. In between were scores of tailor-made outfits my mother had stitched together for Grace, baby clothing from my own infancy, blankets, cloth diapers, and other baby linens. I felt the crash of emotions. I was excited for the possibility of having another girl to use these items, while simultaneously realizing that I didn't have such joy and anticipation when I was expecting Grace.

This pregnancy is completely different than when I was expecting Grace. It is amazing to watch the every day growth and development of this baby within my body. I love looking at my body. I love feeling this little girl kick and kick, and I can't wait to see her. Last night, for the first time, my husband felt her kick. She was really active and was giving one good kick after another. So as we were laying in bed, I just laid his hand over my belly. Sure enough, within a few seconds, he felt it. His eyes flew open and a huge grin came across his face. There were three more episodes like this during the evening and overnight. The bottom line is, I am loving every minute of her life, anticipating her arrival with joy. The apprehension of being the mother of a baby again has almost completely dissipated. I'm doing things like eagerly thinking about what kind of diapers would be the best choice for our family and what color curtains I'd like in our nursery (Mom's coming next week and maybe I can go to the fabric store with her and get some custom-made ones :-) ).

All these feelings are good, but they bring up so much in me that I didn't know was there. I don't think these are things you share with children. That you were apprehensive about them being born. That you cried the day your milk came in because your body looked so, well, motherly. That you didn't know how to cope and balance your youthful wants and desires with her youth. I'll think on that a bit more.

Our children, or more specifically, our daughters

I found this article about young girls and awareness of their beauty at Newsweek.com yesterday. Yawn. The idea that girls are getting sucked into beauty treatments and being sexy and generally becoming obsessed with their appearance is nothing new. Heck, Club Libby Lu opened their first store almost a decade ago and the whole enterprise has already gone kaput as of this January. But don't you be fooled; this isn't a sign that girls don't want this kind of product and service. Another aspiring capitalist will swoop in to sweep up this market and fill the voided niche just as soon as this recession is over. It might even be Club Libby Lu reinvented by its parent company, Saks Incorporated.

We found out on Monday that we're adding another girl to our family. Of course, this is great. We know how to do girls. Our family is overrun with girls. Boys are not worse, just different, and we have no experience. But the news brings to my mind all the things you have to worry about with girls.

This morning when Grace walked out the front door for the bus, I walked to my bedroom window and watched her cross the lawn. There's so much inside of her, so much history, yet in that moment of her crossing the lawn with her backpack on the way to school, all you see is another typical teen. And I said out loud, "I wonder if I'll worry about this new baby girl as much as I worry about Grace." That about sums it up. Though I've never parented a boy, and though I have no practical idea how that would be different than parenting a girl, I know that with a girl my mind works overtime on all the influences about her.

The Newsweek article brought up one thing that makes me crazy. Tons on ink is spilled on the topic of the oversexualization of girls. Somewhere in each story is a line about how girls are growing up too fast. Yet my mind wanders to another place when I read these diatribes. When do we talk about girls and women as perhaps never being "old enough" for this much emphasis on appearance? So...rearing young girls in a way that makes them grow up too fast is the main issue? That we don't want girls to do these kinds of things until they are older? And when do the tiny women-to-be get time to go to the science museum and find out about law and debate and discover the value of investing and compound interest? Try never. That's what's missing from this story. It endorses the idea that excessive attention to appearance in the female gender is fine, the problem is really that the girls are too young. So smack that to your boys. The next time they talk about entering the science fair in 4th grade or going camping when they're 6 or learning how to shoot a gun or helping out with the oil change or trying to solve a hard logic problem, tell them that they shouldn't do it because they're growing up too fast. They should stick to action figures and tag until they're at least ten.

My husband's consistent comment regarding his soon-to-be-born daughter is, "this girl never wears pink." He even told Grace. Grace laughed. I told him I had no idea where it starts. With Grace, I was like every good-intentioned mother -- pink was just another color of the rainbow. The nursery was blue and yellow, and she was just as likely to be seen in jeans and a white t-shirt as she was in a pink outfit. But somewhere in childhood, the obsession with pink began. By the time she was 10 or 11, she owned tons of pink clothing. Her room now is BRIGHT PINK. Yeah, there's some orange and yellow and red mixed in, but make no mistake about it, her room is PINK. Since she was the one requesting these things, I let her do it. After all, what is worse for a girl's sense of empowerment, her love and desire for the color pink or her mother telling her that she can't make her own decisions?

When I was with family over Christmas holiday, my nieces and nephews were all watching WALL-E. When Eve first enters the story, my youngest nephew (5 years old) started explaining to me how WALL-E is starting to fall in love with her. I asked him (innocently enough), how do you know that WALL-E is a boy and this other robot is a girl? At first he said they sounded like a boy and a girl. I told them I didn't think so, they just sounded like robots to me. Then he explained that it becomes clear later in the movie. I left it at that. A little while later I asked the grown-ups the same question -- how do the children know that WALL-E is a boy and Eve is a girl? There were a few theories. Eve looks like an egg. (And 5-year-olds pick up on this gender-specific referent?) Eve is smooth, shiny, and clean, and WALL-E is rough and dirty. (Interesting gender-specific assignment of personality traits, there.) Then I noted that Eve was a pretty powerful little beast, basically spending her first few minutes on camera blowing up things and whizzing around. No comments. (Apparently those are not traits associated with girls.)

So whether you like it not, kids get messages about who they should be based on their gender. You can try to block it. Unplug the tv, monitor the clothing, watch the way people address kids and the talk they hear, read the right books, note the inconsistent messages, and on and on it goes. But sooner or later kids notice the world around them.

In light of this, I wonder how I can do anything more other than hope that my children's minds can think outside of the traditional gender role assignment box.

Some advice needed regarding semantics

All appears to be doing well in the land of ADD and medication. For those of you who have been through it either yourself or with a child, you know it can be a bumpy road. For now, things are stable and as I wrote a few days ago, Grace seems to be benefiting both academically as well as socially from using medication for ADD. That's good.

Grace has even changed a lot of the way she views herself with respect to having ADD. She wants to find out more about the disorder. She has read a couple books about the ways it can affect her and the ways in which she can overcome the symptoms she has. She's also looked up some websites and read some of the information available on them. And as a surprise to me, she told me that she doesn't mind her peers having knowledge of this information now. All of this is good too.

A few weeks ago, she said something casually that concerned me. She referred to the medicine she was taking as her "meds," and going on, said they were her "crazy pills." I don't have to think hard to imagine where the reference came from. For well over 15 years now, Grace's father has worked with people who have serious mental illness and he uses both of these terms to refer to the medicine that his clients take for their various disorders. I also have a professional background in dealing with people who have mental disorders. Though I think it's good for a person to be aware of a disorder they suffer from and have as much information about that condition as is helpful to them, I'm very sensitive to terms like "crazy." And "crazy pills," though I know it's a term that people use during staffing meetings, is not exactly a term I would feel comfortable using around the person taking a psychotropic medication.

When Grace called the medication her "crazy pills," I said that wasn't a term she should use. I explained that we both knew the medicine was to help alleviate some of the less desirable symptoms of ADD, not to prevent her from becoming crazy. And I left it at that.

The issue didn't really worry me again until last Friday. Since Grace has started taking her medicine for ADD, we've had to change the way she gets picked up and dropped off when she has an overnight stay with her father. She can't just take the medicine with her, throw it in a duffel bag with other overnight stuff and then meet her father. No, I have to give the medicine to her father personally, and he gives it back to me when she returns home. Though it seems simple enough, it actually caused quite a change in our habits. Grace's father doesn't plan ahead and in the past, often times we didn't know when or how he would pick her up. So a lot of times I wasn't at the house when he showed up. Consequently, communication broke down because there was no requirement for us to be in the same place at the same time. But all that has had to change. A good change, I think. Last Friday was when she was scheduled to be picked up by her father and spend the weekend with him. We waited for him and eventually he showed up at the house to take her to his house.

Earlier in the afternoon I had put Grace's medicine for the weekend in an overnight pill container in the kitchen. When her father arrived, she scurried to gather her things about her. I and her father were standing by the front door and she called to me to ask where her medicine was. Since she was close to the kitchen, I told her where the container was and told her to grab it and bring it to her father. Then he called out, "Yeah, make sure you gimme your meds." So, I get the idea that this medicine is always referred to using some kind of a slang term from the field of those dealing with the mentally ill.

There is no point in me addressing this with Grace's father. In the few months that she's been taking the medicine, I'm sure she's heard these terms over a hundred times. And if he's not aware of why it would be best not to use these slang terms with the actual person taking the medicine, I'm sure not the one to start educating him. He's the one with the degree in social work, not me. But still, I don't want Grace to incorporate into her identity of herself the notion that she takes medicine to keep her from going berserk. I just have a bad feeling about it.

So I ask those out there who either (1) have dealt with AD(H)D personally, (2) have had a child with AD(H)D, (3) work in a field that deals with mental illness, (4) have some other experience with taking psychotropic medication or another controlled substance, or (5) have had a similar situation with a family member or friend...what is your take on this? What would you do if you were me? Given the drastic contrast in Grace's behavior and school performance with and without medication, it may be the case that some kind of medicine would help her in the long term. I want to make sure that if that is the case, there aren't unnecessary social influences that would cloud her reasoning on whether she makes that choice in the future. Also, I'd like to detract from the emphasis on this medicine being a controlled substance. She's a teen, after all. I don't want her to have any unnecessary negative issues of thinking she's taking a drug every day. Yeah, she knows what a controlled substance is now, but I was careful to explain that this was only important insomuch as she be careful with letting other teens know about it. Every kind of medication can be beneficial or abused in certain doses, and she just needed to know that this medicine was one that teens often obtained for the wrong reasons and abused. She's a good kid with respect to substance abuse, both in her actions and in her words, so I don't worry too much about the likelihood of her abusing the medicine. But I wanted to make sure she was aware of the situation so as not to get in trouble over her naiveity.

I just want to be wise in my words on this one.

Another way for me to flip the tables

I know, I know, you have all heard about these events. What events, you ask? Well, they go by several different names, but the central concept is still the same. These formal father-daughter events in which a girl pledges her purity and her father pledges to protect her until marriage. I've read a lot about these things, really, and I have heard every angle by which this could be scoffed. If you're unfamiliar with the phenomenon, here's the most recent story I read, published last fall at abc.com.

As I read about the idea again, I found myself not incensed, but asking what seemed like the most obvious question. Why aren't the mothers taking their sons to these kinds of events?

You know, it's not that hard to imagine. She would use the event to proclaim how she has nurtured and cared and protected him since his very existence and how she intended to continue that protection until his marriage, and he would pledge to her that he wouldn't go spreading his seed around unless he first cleared it with his mom. You could even say he needed to go to her about any decisions he was considering regarding marriage.

Is that too radical? Maybe it has to do with the reversal of roles and the idea that people are uncomfortable with a mother lording over her son until he's married. Especially when it comes to his sexuality. OK, so let's see if we can accommodate that.

The fathers should bring their sons to such an event, and the sons should pledge their virginity to their fathers until they are married.

Still seems weird?

Right, that's what I thought. It's a double standard. The little girls are protected and they are little princesses because that's noble and godly, but to do so to a son would be weird and freaky. I think I'll feel better about this whole thing when I see Father-Son purity camping weekends. Still takes moms completely out of the picture as caregivers and protectors, a strange omission, but at least the sons would be overtly held to the same constraints as the daughters regarding their behavior.

More hair updates

I got my hair cut a couple weeks back. Everyone keeps saying in looks great. I feel ashamed, thinking that all these people around me actually thought I chose to have my hair looking the way it did before the haircut. I feel like I must have been walking around town with people looking at me wondering why a woman of my age would let herself get so far gone. But that's just the way it goes.

It's longer than it has been in the past when I had short haircuts. A typical example was the below photograph, which I posted a few weeks back.


This is what is looks like now:


So hurray for me. I did something good for me. Maybe in a couple weeks I'll do something about my attempts to relax, like seriously do some deep breathing every day for at least 5 minutes. Or maybe attend at least the first free class at a close by yoga place.

In perhaps the weirdest twist to this whole story, Grace came to me last night and asked if she could get her hair cut short. Now, this may seem like no big deal, but I haven't really talked about Grace and her hair in any real depth here before. She has hair, ladies and gentlemen. It is thick and wavy/curly, and she likes to have it long. Right now I would estimate it is halfway down her back. She has refused to have it so much as trimmed since before the current recession began. Every day she washes and conditions it, towel dries it, pulls it back into a ponytail (a HUGE ponytail that really looks like a pony's tail), and then puts in a handband around the front. If she wants to straighten it, which she does occasionally, the task requires a ceramic plated flat-iron and takes about an hour to complete at the shortest. It takes at least 90 minutes if she really wants it all flat. Needless to say, she only does this for very special occasions. Here's a sample:


I have no idea where she got this hair from. Mine is flat, straight, and ash blonde. Hers is like her dad's, more or less. But where he got it from is another mystery. Grace's dad hails from roots like mine, English and German mostly. And the Germans in his clan don't have that wavy type. My husband says it's latin hair. But to go into that speculation would be a whole other blog altogether...

Anyways, Grace is really into Audrey Hepburn. Here would be a typical look of Audrey that she loves:


Grace would love to get this look. I realize that Audrey most likely had her locks pulled back in this photo, but nonetheless, the best way to achieve this pixie look is to indeed have your hair cut short. So Grace asked me please if we could schedule a hair appointment for her. At first she was worried that cutting her hair short would make her ears stick out and make them look big. I told her no worries; if they didn't stick out and look big when she has it in a ponytail constantly, they definitely won't get this from having the hair actually fall around them.

I feel like I've been a bad hair role model for my daughter. Such a shame, really.

Joy in Music

If you've ever played a stringed instrument or had a child who did, and that student spent any amount of time at solo festivals or interacting with other strings students, you probably know the prelude from Bach's Suite #1 in G major for unaccompanied cello. In case the name of the short piece isn't ringing a bell, here is a video I found on youtube set to the recording Yo-Yo Ma made about 10 years ago.



I started playing cello when I finished 6th grade. I took lessons during the summer, then I joined the school orchestra in the fall of my 7th grade year. I played for three years and then left the orchestra for other artistic pursuits that had to do with writing, directing, and acting. I never hacked this song. I tried it, but I never got it even close to sounding like a song.

Piano was a different story. I played piano from the time I was 8 years old on. My piano teacher had been giving my older sisters lessons for several years and I was playing around on the piano at home more and more. See, I had learned how to read music at choir practice at church, and my sisters' beginner books were pretty easy to figure out. So I started trying to play piano on my own. My teacher had a policy not to start teaching children until they were 9 or 10. But in my case, she told my mother when I was in 2nd grade to set me up for summer lessons since otherwise I would develop bad habits that she'd only have to undo later. I loved playing piano. I got it. A song wasn't just notes and tempo and a few changes in dynamics. It was an expression of you, a way to communicate without ever using your voice. Once I got the notes down, suddenly I could take a piece and make it mine. It's not like I got everything right, and I have plenty of shortcomings when it comes to playing piano. But I knew what a song was supposed to sound like and when I made it sound the way I wanted, it was like being in heaven.

When I played the cello, I never felt like that. I knew what it was supposed to sound like, I just couldn't make it sound like that. I think after a few years, I gave it up because I just got tired of hearing bad music. My mom will say it's because I didn't practice, which is mostly true, but there was also a part of giving up that had to do with not having joy in the task.

The prelude from Bach's Suite #1 in G major is sort of a test to pass for strings students. It's a complex melody that doesn't come out if you just play the notes. If you don't believe me, watch this:



I mean, kudos to the pianist for mastering a fingering for the piece, but when you hear this after seeing what Yo-Yo Ma does with the exact same composition, you have to admit that this is not exactly an inspiring rendition, right?

Back to the test for strings students. Every single person who would judge a performance of this piece has heard it many, many, many times. They can practically sing it measure by measure in the shower. They've probably played it themselves. It's like Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata -- if you're going to perform it, you'd better get it right, because anyone who knows anything will hear every single mistake you make. The challenge for the student is not just to get the notes right and give it a suitable tempo and dynamics, but also to give the composition a piece of themselves. They want to give a unique rendition. It has to be their own unique expression of the piece, a moment in which the instrument becomes part of themselves and they completely control it in order to bring out the beauty that they hear in their heads before they even pick up the instrument.

This is the time of year when Grace has to audition for several orchestras, scholarships, and competitions on viola. She's usually pretty good at these things, knocking 'em dead. In fact, she usually gets placed in some very high chair in the section, only to get bumped back later because she doesn't practice enough or goofs off during rehearsals. This year she's been struggling with what to choose as a solo piece. It has to be something she can really master, but something that is equally challenging to her and demonstrates the full spectrum of her abilities. She has the music for all six of Bach's suites for unaccompanied cello transposed for viola. A few weeks back I suggested to her, why don't you try the prelude in the first suite?

When she began tackling the piece, she started the way she always does -- just pick up the instrument, play the notes on the page, and stop when you get to a part that is hard. After only a few minutes she realized that the notes were hard, so she put down the bow and started plucking through them. Then a few days later she started bowing through the piece. As far as I know, she's never heard a recording of the song. But there's something in her that recognized the passages that were the key points in the flow, the ones you really want to grab hold of and make powerful. Little by little, the song is sounding more and more like her own.

It is such a joy for me to hear her working through something and making it a personal part of her artistic expression. For me it is such a part of my human experience. To have her go through the same process and understand music is so dear to me.

Another moment of raw emotion

I'm sick of building a stepfamily. It's hard, and it feels like we're not getting anywhere. I just want to have everyone in my family like each. Just a little bit. Just a tiny bit. But as it is, I feel trapped between two people who love me and yet would rather do without each other.

I did this stepfamily thing by the book. I read every single thing I could find out there on entering into a relationship when you also have a child. I was careful to protect Grace and to guard her from premature attachment. While we were dating, my husband was respectful of Grace and of my relationship with her as a mother. He didn't force himself on her or do things that were intended to get her to like him superficially. We walked through this thing of putting us all together in one family in a careful step-by-step process where nothing was rushed.

When we were dating, my husband didn't go out of his way to spoil her. He brought her small gifts sometimes, and we all went out as a threesome and did things together. But we didn't do things that would have been exceptional just because he was around. As a single parent, I didn't take her out to some festive kid place just because; we only did it for special occasions. Yeah, sometimes we'd get some fun dessert if we went out to eat. But we didn't go out to eat at Chuck E. Cheese just because she asked. So when my husband was with us, we did the same thing. In other words, together we didn't give Grace the expectation that her mom's boyfriend was nothing but fun and games for her. He was an adult, like her mom, and together we did, well, ordinary family things. Like going to Denny's or Cracker Barrel. Once we went to a theme park with roller coasters with some other families we knew. We took her to NYC for her 12th birthday and saw Wicked. But you get the idea -- these things were for special times, not just because we wanted to make her happy at any cost.

The first year after we got married was bad. Really bad. Grace was in the habit of screaming "I hate you!" at me. My husband said that had to stop. She also liked to slam doors when she got mad. She seemed to be mad a lot more often when we were first married. He put a stop to that too. He told her she should be ashamed of herself for treating her mother so badly. He said that he would not stand by and watch her hurt me like that. Grace moved to throwing fits of rudeness that, after hours of storming and tirade, ended with the tearful explanation "I miss my dad!" After several episodes of this and my extending some compassion and talking through this with her, I finally just told her I had had enough. If she didn't have a great relationship with her dad, that was not my fault or her stepdad's. I told her she couldn't keep being disrespectful and rude just because she was mad about her father not being around as often as she liked.

That echoes to this day. She craves her relationship with her father, will do anything to get it no matter how little he puts into it, and soundly rejects her stepfather simultaneously. It's as if she feels like if, for even a second, she lets her stepfather be part of her life, she will lose all the effort she's put into getting her father to be in a close relationship with her. And rejecting her stepdad entirely is worth the tiniest morsel of attention her father gives her.

I have a philosophy of parenting that goes something like this: you must discipline a child in order for them to learn what is right and wrong in life. But the amount of time you discipline and talk sternly and the degree to which you are strict must be offset by the amount of time and the degree to which that child knows you love them and care for them. Seems simple enough when you're in an intact family -- of course the child knows their parent loves them. But a stepfamily is a whole other story. You can't leave all the discipline to the biological parent alone, but balancing unpleasant moments of correction with knowing that the child is assured of the step-parent's affection and care for them is not easy either. Especially when you're not taking shortcuts.

To the point. My husband and Grace don't really have a relationship. Grace sort of shut the door on expanding their relationship beyond him providing her basic daily needs, and he gave up on trying to have a deeper relationship with her. I know the teen years are not exactly a time when girls bond with their fathers, but still!

So I'm caught. I have a family with rifts. It feels like a stone ball shattered into pieces that I'm trying to keep together by wrapping string around it. But the pieces keep shifting and grinding against each other. They don't want to hold together as a unit; they want to fall apart from each other. When we have a falling out at our household, I just feel like giving up. I so much want this whole thing to gel, but as each day passes and I watch everything happen, I realize that we will never be a cohesive unit. Sometimes I wish I had just done things on impulse. I wish I had spoiled her and let her associate her stepdad with nothing but pleasure and joy. I wish I had made our home one of gifts and indulgences. I wish we had never even worried about her schoolwork and let her live in ignorant bliss. At least I would feel like people weren't so glum all the time, suffering through living with one another.

I guess I still believe that my doing the right thing will prevail eventually, that at some point when Grace is grown, she will look back and start building the bridges back to us again, and that we will have a family. But my fear deep down is that Grace will have no family with which she is truly intimate. She'll have a relationship with my husband and I that is full of friction, and she'll have a relationship with her father and his wife that is mostly based on lavish gift receiving, spoiling, and gushy compliments.

And I will have lost the one thing I've been fighting so hard for. Where did it all go wrong?

Here we go again on the ADHD cycle

I've been holding off on writing about this because we have had one hell of a roller coaster ride for the last couple months. Tomorrow Grace and I are officially having an appointment with her pediatrician for evaluation of ADHD. The pediatrician has all the paperwork from the school and me in order for this evaluation to go through. We may, indeed, get to the bottom of all this.

"Why now?" you may ask. Great question.

Since Grace was in preschool, she was not quite like the other kids. She was easily distracted and overly talkative. Often she didn't join in what the group was doing. And she had a very difficult time holding still. But she was bright. She was able to keep up with her peers. Sure, her teachers always said she could do more, but that would come in time as she matured.

About the time she was in second grade, she couldn't keep up with what was average in the classroom. It was clear, despite the fact that she seemed bright, that she was doing less than what she could. There was evaluation, intervention, concern, discussion, all sorts of lingo.

Her parents got divorced; maybe this contributed to her symptoms. She moved to a new state and school; maybe that was an interfering factor. She changed schools again where she was in a very different culture (arts magnet school, she was the only white student of 150 students in her grade); maybe that was something she'd have to adjust to. She moved again; she seemed not very disciplined, but she could keep up if her parents made her.

The bottom line is, she was never diagnosed with ADHD and as she grew older, I wasn't sure that a diagnosis would do any good even if she had it. She intentionally threw an evaluation with a school psychologist in 6th grade just because she was mad at being pulled out of class without her consent. And the intervention she got at school didn't seem to help anything since she was still failing math and barely passing science.

We're on year 11 of formal education now. At the end of every school year, she looks about like the typical kid of that grade. But at the start of the next year, she looks very immature and can't really adjust to the demands being put on her. New teachers, new classes, new schedule, new classrooms, new grading systems, it takes months to get used to. Just about the time she gets used to it, the school year is over and all that work of adjustment is lost.

And then came high school. We started the year with a bang. I thought. But slowly it came to light that Grace.....was Grace. Her algebra teacher is very worried. She didn't pass the first term of algebra. Now halfway through the second term, she is failing science and algebra. And all, I repeat all, of her teachers are concerned. Her guidance counselor said, you see all the kids coming down the hall and when you spot her you think, she's hyperactive.

Here's the catch: no amount of intervention, no amount of evaluation, no amount of concern, effort and care, no amount of any of it matters one iota unless the kid wants it and is bought into it. All these school faculty and administration, me and her stepdad, and the lord almighty himself could agree that she needs help, but it does no good if she doesn't want it. So the goal for me in communication with her at this point was, get Grace to realize that everyone is trying to help her. Get her to be involved. Get her to be in power in the situation. Make her understand that she can be completely informed and call all the shots if she wants.

By age 12, Grace had already decided she'd had enough of the system and didn't care if she failed, just as long as she would never have to be singled out as "special" and "needing help" again. How do you convince that kid that it doesn't have to be that way? How do you sell her on the idea of giving it one more chance?

First I promised her, and I made her teachers swear to holding this promise, that all information on her ADHD (or other diagnosis and intervention) would be completely confidential. And then I told her she could come to all the planning meetings and told her what to expect. And the bottom line is, somewhere in this whole situation, I am finding it essential to balance the wishes and will of an almost-adult against what I think is best for her.

In truth, she can choose to completely check out of school. Yeah, I wouldn't be happy about it, but there's really nothing I could do to stop it if that's absolutely what she chose to do. I don't think that's what's going on; I think she genuinely is facing difficulties and she really needs the help of the available specialists in the school and in the medical community. But nonetheless, if she decides that she doesn't want the help, that it's too risky and too high of a cost to be identified as having a disability, I really can't override her choice at this point. I could in practice, but in reality, my override would be impotent and useless.

I am hoping, wishing, dreaming, holding my breath, for the results of all this. Is it possible that she could start taking some medication and in a month she would look like herself sans all the behavior problems? Is it possible that by having all her teachers and administrators on the same page that she could be supported through her school day and be able to stay on track?

I can't believe that she's almost 15 and I haven't even gotten past this stage yet.

More bourbon balls

I started this blog a year ago today. Not knowing much about blogging, I jumped in without thinking too much about my first post. I wrote what was going on that day.

Actually, that's making it a little too simple. I had been thinking about starting a blog for a long time. There were a lot of ideas that were rolling around in my head, but I found that one recurring theme kept me up at night -- why can't I understand my daughter better, and why do my concerns about this always lead back to my recollection of my own childhood and adolescence.

And thus Comparative Childhood was born.

A year ago I was worried about bourbon balls. Grace had eaten a lot of them, despite the fact that there was a big note in the tin that said "DO NOT TOUCH."

Today I rolled bourbon balls again. I was going to have rolled them a few days ago and sent them to school along with fudge for Grace's teachers on Friday. But it was clear on Thursday that Friday would be a snow day, thus no teacher gifts were necessary. And besides, I've been thinking this year that by the time your child reaches high school, aren't holiday baked goods for teachers a little over the top?

As I sat there rolling the bourbon balls, it occurred to me that Grace would see them in the fridge again this year and not be able to control herself. And unlike last year, these bourbon balls have no special designation. No teachers to give them to, no family coming in town, just three dozen bourbon balls for us here at home. There's the issue of the bourbon, but it's really not that much. 2 ounces for 3 dozen balls = 1/4 teaspoon for each ball.

If she eats them this year, I don't think I'll worry about it. In fact, I may even tell her she can eat them...slowly. One at a time. No more than two an hour.

Today I find myself reflective over whether my writing on this blog and the comments that everyone has made are helping me figure out me and figure out why I react so badly to my teen daughter. I think it has. So I'll continue on and write more; it can only get better, right?

Next year maybe I'll give out the recipe for the bourbon balls. Maybe.

And since I can't stop thinking of this sketch, I link it here for you all to have a little holiday laughter.

Stay tuned for more.