Teen Talk

Here's my new approach:

When listening to my teen's continually rude and grating, know-it-all, how-dare-you-even-consider-disturbing-me tone of voice, I will attempt to hear it like I would hear a foreigner's thick accent. And I will attempt to respond with the patience and care I would gladly extend to a foreigner I was having a difficult time understanding.

Because I'm pretty sure I don't contemplate strangling heavily-accented foreigners every time they open their mouths.

Treat me like I'm...

AlmostGrownChild*: I'm going to stay late and then I'll be home.

ManyMom: Actually, I'd like you to please be on the next bus home. You broke curfew yesterday and then were sneaky today by waiting until I had left the house to leave, when you were on restriction and I had specifically said no to you going to your meeting early. You need to come home now.

AlmostGrownChild: Hmph! I wish you'd stop treating me like a 16 year old and start treating me like a 17 year old!
*slams down telephone, hanging up on me*


chuckle, snort, giggle. hahahahahahahaha!

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*This is my current fosterteen. He turned 17 a couple weeks ago. He's lovely, and has been with us since August, and I really enjoy him.

What else does she have to do?

So, one might suppose that because I'm on bedrest I would have nothing better to do than sit around and blog. But One would be wrong! There is so much more to do. Here is a list of my daily activities that prevent me from blogging (not necessarily in order):

1. obsession with Surrogate Mothers Online forums
2. Facebook
3. Staring at the dirty door frames, cupboards, etc in my house
4. disrupting my cat's need to slumber right where I am laying
5. obsessing about how I'm not tangoing
6. feeling guilty for having a faulty cervix


In all seriousness, I will be on bedrest until the babies come. If you look alllllll the way down at the bottom of my blog, there's a ticker that will tell you exactly how long that is supposed to be.

I'm bored. I'm slightly depressed. I'm NOT lonely (thanks to wonderful friends, and my lovely children) and I miss being able to just do regular everyday things without thinking if I am jeopardizing anyone.

My children soon got over the novelty of having my undivided attention (maybe they could sense my desperateness?) and have gone back to their surprisingly uneffected routines. They are wonderful and have really been sweet about picking up where I have stepped away, and I am continually amazed and honored to have these kids in my life.

And, underneath all this bedridden angst is the really sweet reminders when Baby Boy kicks and moves, and Baby Girl does her little floaty thing that makes me feel like she's a dolphin in there, that I am bringing them into the world and being part of building this family is still one of the most special things I've ever been part of.

Man to be

My 12 year old amazes me. He is this crazy blending of physical traits, motions, thinkings...some I recognize, some I see are completely his own.

Sometimes he gives me glimpses into the man he'll be and they leave me breathless. The other day I was laying on my bed, reading a book, and he comes into my room with a glass of water. He sets it on my bedside table.

12 yr old: Mom, are you thirsty?
ManyMom: no?
12 yr old: I brought you some water.

I thanked him, but he stood there waiting.

ManyMom: Sweetie, do you need something?
12 yr old: Mom, you should drink some water. Pregnant women need to drink lots of water.

Now, that in and of itself is amazing, but what is really amazing is that when I was pregnant with Tor two years ago, I offhandedly mentioned to him that he should remember that pregnant and nursing women need to drink lots of water, and that if he ever has children to not ask the mom if she wants it but to just bring it to her and remind her to drink.

He remembered.

For Sunshine

Ok, so I picked Child A up from his weekly D&D game at a friend's house and we were talking about Ozzie Osbourne (I don't remember how it came up) and I asked him if he even knew who Ozzy Osbourne is. And he said no, except that he is old.

Which led to a conversation of what constitutes old.

Apparently 60 is old.

A few beats later,

"Mom, that means you are half old."

A few beats later,

"Actually, you are over half old."

and I think, really I think, that there was a bit of a self-satisfied smirk on his pre-teen face.

DHS RANT

Please feel free to bypass this rant.
It's part of the reason I am C R A N K Y.

Tomorrow is the first day of school. For everyone except my foster son, because at this juncture we don't know WHERE he will be going to school.

For those of you that don't know the system, by the time they become teens, most kids have been in and out of foster homes, have some kind of history of bad stuff (abuse, violence, drugs, stealing, etc.), and don't go to regular public schools, blah blah. Maybe this isn't true about all foster teens, but I only take the hard to place teens, which means there will be some significant back history that makes schooling challenging.

When I took this teen in (mid-way through July), I said that I wanted schooling addressed as soon as possible, to be able to work on creating a success story before he even walked in the door. Knowing where he would be, visiting, meeting teachers before, helping them understand how to manage his behaviours, giving him an early idea of what to expect. Mental preparation. But in August we got switched to a new case worker, we can't sort out who his prescriber for meds is (so he's out), his special care nurse has not called to make an appointment, AND WE STILL DON'T KNOW WHERE HE WILL GO TO SCHOOL! Because of his situation, we can't just walk in and enroll him in a school. His records need to be gone through, multiple meetings need to happen to determine the best placement, etc.

So, what this means is that we are starting out in the red. Negative Balance, here. No meds, no mental preparation, and lots of stress and anxiety.

His case worker is wonderful. Really. And doing the best he can, but he has over 200 kids on his case load, and he's supposed to be caring for ALL of them. It's no wonder nothing gets accomplished.

Sigh.

It's my job to help this kid be successful, but I can only go so far, and the State is not supporting me. Not because they are bad, or because it's personal. It's not. But this system, our foster care system, is BAD. It's diseased. It's amazing it works at all.

this morning.

This morning I started my day shushing my newly-20 yr old. awwwwww....... I got to be irritated with my 20 yr. old way too early this morning. It's totally made my day.

Yesterday, 19-yr-old turned 20.

I hadn't talked to him in about a week. I came home from work, and my 12 year old says, "Mom, call 20-yr-old." So I do, at the provided number, one I don't recognize.

20-yr-old: Mom*, I'm stranded in Springfield.
ManyMom: Happy Birthday!
20-yr-old: Thanks. Mom, I'm stranded in Springfield.

[...]

Long story short, he wants me to come rescue him. so i do.

******

At midnight, as I am bleary eyed and going to bed, he is chirpily making impromptu plans for a party the next day. AT MY HOUSE. clever child. I missed all the details, warm and fuzzy in loving him; who says no?

At 7:22 am, I suddenly bolt out of bed, remembering no one put out the garbage.
"20-yr-old, go put the garbage out." Which he does, good lad.

20-yr-old: Mom, can you like, get up and clean a little?
ManyMom: What? What? 20-yr-old, no. I'm not up. You're seeing things"
[pause]
20-yr-old: Mom, they're gonna be here at 9.
ManyMom: WHAT?!? You knowingly invited people to be here, at my house, at 9 IN THE MORNING? Why? Why would you do that?
20-yr-old: [flipping explanation deleted, because it was not even remotely a good enough reason]
ManyMom: WHY did you think that would be a good idea?
20-yr-old: Well, at 3:42am, when we decided this, it seemed like a good idea.
ManyMom: sigh, yes, I guess it would.

I remember those days.

So, I remind him that NO ONE gets to talk to me until I've had coffee and he'd better go meet his friend at the bus stop and NOT bring him home at 9 am. In exchange, I will cook for them, get snacks and promise not to embarrass him too much in front of his friends when they return LATE in the afternoon.

20-yr-old: Mom, um, can I, like, have some money...for bus fare?
ManyMom: I don't have any money right now. You have to plan ahead. I haven't been to the bank yet. I have no money. Hey, where's your money?
20-yr-old: Well, can't you just, like, write me a check or something?
ManyMom: For bus fare?
20-yr-old: Mom, can I make you some coffee or something?

Goodness, but I love being his Mom.

UPDATE: They showed up at 10am. TEN. /exasperation!
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*Last week, 20-year-old, after emptying my entire refrigerator, sidles up to me and stares over my shoulder while I'm catching up on your blogs, until I turn around with eyes wide as dinner plates to tell him to STTOOOOOPPPPP IT.

"um, can I like, call you my mom? Will you be my mom? Like, can I tell my friends that's who you are?"

/melt, melt, melt

"of course, i would love if you called me mom. now go put the dishes away."

Parenting & Tango

My dear friend and an inspiration, Johanna, asked "Have you found that Tango has had any effect on your parenting, either good or bad?"

I think of this a lot. Tango came into my life at a time when I was crawling out of survival mode. I was releasing the mantle of sacrifice, asturity, and anger that had dogged me my entire parenting experience. It was the thing I was finally doing for myself.

This also coincided with my children growing a bit, old enough to be home together for a couple hours. Old enough to allow me to go be a grown up beyond a parent.

And so tango has become part of my life, and that of my kids. They tolerate it.

Mom, didn't we listen to this cd, like, 8 times yesterday? I can't hear that one song one more time. I am going to scream. Yes, mom, we can all tap out the beat. Yes, mom, we can all hear the delicate melodies. We want to listen to Weird Al now.

It was only 4 times. I want it in their souls. Tango is good for them. The music; it will make them ....more.

Mom, don't you have tango tonight? You should go dance. You're beautiful when you dance. You always look so happy when you come home. Go dance tonight. Can we have ice cream while you're gone?

Really?, you think I'm beautiful? Ok, I'll go dance. Ice cream? uh, do we have any? sure, go for it. beautiful, really?

No, mom, we won't dance with you. Go find some old guy to dance with. Mom, stop. You're embarrassing me. I won't move. I'm not gonna move. You can't make me. I don't care if all I have to do is walk. Mom, get away from me!

But it couldn't be sweeter to have a dance with my own son! The girls will think it's hot. It will make you interesting! Hey, where are you going?

Tango has become part of the very core of my being, and I know my boys feel it. I know they see it as the thing I love for myself, the thing that keeps me happy, the thing that fills me up. I was worried they would feel jealous when they began to know the passion I have for tango, but I think they don't mind sharing me.

I think they like that I leave them home 3 or 4 nights a week to play video games while I dance my heart out.

So, Johanna, yes, it has effected my parenting, but not in any different way than it's effected everything else in my life.

Love your children

What I do shouldn't be considered extraordinary. It should be the minimum that each and every child gets from each and every parent. It's not right that the wonderful boy I have in my home is being told he is lucky to have someone see the good in him. What's wrong with our society that it is a "lucky" thing to be loved, to be appreciated, to be seen, to have someone see you for the miracle you are?

And you know what? I'm not even the "good" mom. If I were the mom I wish I were, I'd actually LOVE game night, not just tolerate it. I wouldn't skip out on my kids to go dance tango. I would be eternally patient and truly value each little thing that they do, rather than wish they would hurry hurry hurry up. I wouldn't rush them through the bedtime ritual because I wanted alone time. I would love that my 8 year old still wants to sleep with me, so I could noozle his little boy head that is growing too fast.

but instead, I do the minimum of at least LOVING them. so why can't everyone else?

Foster Kids

Today I have one moving out and one moving in.

The one moving on is the one that pushed me to the Tipping Point, the one that I had for Respite and fell in love with, the one that has finally made a decision for himself for maybe the first time in 19 years, and has decided to move out. I'm not crazy about how he did it, and I'm worried sick for where he will be in 2 months. But, at least he's making a decision for himself, and (for right now) feels really good about it.

I've had him since February, and the perseverance it has taken to let him know that he is wanted and loved and respected is exhausting. I can't tell you how many times we've had soul wrenching chats, where I think that all the plaque is flaking off, only to wake up the next morning and see that, actually, it's all still there. Which is ok. We start over. "Foster child, I'm not going away. I will still be here no matter what the problem is. I will still like you, and love you, and want you to be part of my family. You are part of my family." Over and over. And I don't think he believes it. I don't know if he can believe it. But I mean it with my complete being.

So last night he calls me from the place he hangs out, and I tell him he has an appointment today with his case worker, and I remind him he needs to move his stuff out of the bedroom. And I can hear in his voice that that tidbit went in one ear and out the other. So I say it again. "I need you to come clean and pack your room. There's another kid coming in, so I need you to plan on being here all day on Friday to take care of it." His response: "Well, do you have boxes yet?" At the same time I am pulling my hair out, I totally love the teenage sense of entitlement. Part of me wants to scream, "No! You are ditching my family in a yucky way. You don't call, you won't tell me where you are living, you break agreements, you blow me off. And you expect me to have boxes for you? Nuh uh, buddy. Figure it out yourself!" The other part of me just wants to hug him really really close.

I hope this isn't the last I see of him. I hope he comes by to do his laundry, to have dinner once in a while, to borrow some money, or just for a hug.

Tipping Point

I reached my tipping point yesterday. Now, I have been gifted withpatience and a genuine joy of teenagers. And I enjoy the dance between being a kid and an adult, and I find them endlessly entertaining. But we reached the tipping point*. And let me tell you, my tipping point is slight. There's no plateau there. I came right up to it, and he shoved me over in the time it took him to utter:

"Well, you have a vehicle, don't you?"

And it is c a v e r n o u s down here. There's no visible way back up. He'll be building a ladder out of whatever he can find and lowering it down with chocolates and roses on every rung. Then, and only then, is there a possibility of finding his way back into my good graces. And if I climb back up, I will be precariously balanced on the edge of that point indefinitely. There are no more second chances, no more excuses, no more omissions.

And, this is why I love teens. Prior to this event, I didn't even know that I had a tipping point.

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*I was so angry that I cleaned out and rearranged the garage, rearranged my patio, completely cleaned the refrigerator, and scoured the kitchen floor and hallways on my hands and knees.

While I was away...

ManyMom: Stupendous Child, I will be in in a moment to tuck you in.

a moment goes by

ManyMom: (mid tuck) Stupendous Child, What is on the wall?

silence, with an air of wide eyed innocence,

ManyMom: What is it?

Stupendous Child: I was really mad.

ManyMom: Ok, but what is on the wall?

Stupendous Child: I was really mad.

ManyMom: Right, but WHAT IS IT?

Stupendous Child: I got really mad and threw my hamburger.

ManyMom: *exasperated sigh* Stupendous Child, clean it up

Stupendous Child: Well, I already tried to pick up the crumbs.

ManyMom leaves the room

* 2 seconds later*

Stupendous Child: Mo-oomm, I picked up all the crumbs now.


deeeeeeep breath

In the Garden of his Dreams...

A very charming friend of mine suggested that this year I allow my 8 year old to put in the garden to lessen my load.

If given the chance, half the garden would be a well manicured small critter garden filled with dandelions and other edible greens, cute topiaries, singing birds and bird seed strewn everywhere, with cats that NEVER ever even thought of harming such a cutesy-wootsey wittle birdy...


And the other would be covered in giant carnivorous plants grown tall to hide the
velociraptor he had imported through his secret spy connections that he met by the mail box the other day. There would be ninjas hiding amongst the grasses and a pirate ship sailing on a sea of wheat (for his mother though, because he really thinks that in pirates v. ninjas, ninjas win hands down. They have throwing stars after all, but isn't it kind that he'd think of me?)and they would all be contained by a circulating demon that he controlled by a special whistle with a frequency only the demon could hear. And it would have spots. The demon that is.

I think, perhaps, I will put in the garden this year.

(Of course, now that I think about it, that velociraptor may just keep the deer out!)