Another blogging mom posted the following link http://www.plosone.org/article/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0008169 to a study comparing institutionally raised orphans with community-raised orphans. The main outcome of this study is, according to the writers, a finding that children in institutional care actually had (slightly) higher ratings of emotional, physical and mental health than their community-raised peers.
I have a major problem with this study, and it is this - that 55% of the children in the community-raised "orphans" sample were actually in the care of one biological parent.
This completely throws off the results of the study, in my opinion. To compare children in an institutional (no biological caregiver) setting with children in, essentially, a single parent home is to compare apples and oranges. It is, to put a fine point on it, completely ignoring your main sample criteria.
Reading the methodology section leads me to believe that the reason for this is that they couldn't find a comparable sample size of true orphans in the community, so they expanded that group to include single-parent homes (under the very loose justification that the child was "abandoned" by one of their parents) in order to reach their required sample size. But that's not good science. You don't just change your parameters in order to make your quota. You especially do not change the parameters of one sample group while not making a comparable change to the other.
The study authors attempt to compensate for this massive flaw (which they somehow fail to mention in their study limitations) by conducting comparisons of the institutional care group with the true community-living orphans subgroup. The numbers, at first wag, appear to uphold the general correlations but there's a huge problem here as well. You are comparing groups of radically uneven size. Your institutional sample is more than double the size of the community living sample. That completely skews any statistical results.
Never mind the fact that all of the sample groups are extremely small in size. 1,500 kids is a very small sample when you consider that the current world orphan population is about 150 million. That's 0.001% in your sample. Making larger extrapolations to the full population based on 0.001% is nigh impossible. Hell, even if you total every child involved in this study (including the ones who shouldn't have been) you still have a ridiculously small population... from which the authors draw sweeping conclusions.
This study points to the fact that their samples are pulled from varying geographic areas as a strength. They state that the study cross-cuts cultural differences to provide more broadly applicable data. If you are going to do this, though, then there is no excuse for using pathetically small samples. Considering the fact that the majority of the world's orphans are from less economically developed nations, you should be able to find a very large sample across shared economic conditions. Expanding such a study to include nations that have a foster system, or a higher incidence of non-parental familial caregivers, should be fairly straightforward. That this was not done is mind-boggling.
In my opinion, this is just shoddy science. But it's a great idea to compare the effects of institutional care (in various cultures) to the effects of community-based care across specific age groups. It's an even better idea to compare the end results - adult "graduates" of both care models. This study takes a great idea and hoses it.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
For Pete's Sake...
What is it about our little Mera? I mean, I know she's cute. I'm biased as all hell, sure, but it seems like I'm not the only one who thinks she is flat out adorable. Yet I still wonder, why is she like catnip to people with no sense of boundaries?
Today we took the kiddos to the Cave of the Winds. TJ has been absolutely begging to go all week, and we figured why not. Even though I'm sick as a dog, I was determined to take him. After nap time, we rounded up all the kids and hopped in the SUV and headed out for the Cave Exploration tour.
The caves were awesome, seriously gorgeous and just awe inspiring. There were a lot of stairs involved, and we had to carry the girls for pretty much the whole tour, but it was a lot of fun. Unfortunately, about 2/3 of the way through Mera started to get antsy. She wanted to get down and run around, but I wouldn't let her because we had been thoroughly warned about touching any of the formations. Not to mention that having her bolt out of my reach in a cave (lots of sudden dropoffs, loose ground, steep slopes and stairs) was a terrifying thought. The railings along the path weren't going to be stopping her, that's for certain. So she was in my arms, screaming and struggling to be put down because she is allergic to the word "no." Especially when I say it.
We all head into a rather dimly lit room on the tour (dimly lit except for the spotlights on the amazing stalactites and stalagmites) and Mera is pitching a fit. She wants down, but when I put her down she heads straight for the railing and starts trying to get under it, so I am not even going there. Cry all you want, kiddo, I'm not losing you down a sink hole. And then this complete stranger standing next to me, an older woman, turns to me and holds her arms out and says "Want me to take her?"
What I said was "no thanks" but what I was thinking was "ARE YOU INSANE?? Do you actually think I'm going to hand my toddler over to a total stranger in a dark cave?! Or ever, for that matter?"
This is an improvement from our last encounter with a total stranger, in which an elderly lady waited until I went to the bathroom (leaving the kids with a close friend) and then tried to scoop Mera up. Seriously, you can read the whole sordid tale here.
Am I crazy, or is it totally unacceptable to try to hold a total stranger's kid? I especially like the absurd idea that my daughter will calm down when handed over to a complete rando in a dark place. Bonus crazy points for that one.
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| Crazy ladies can't resist the cute... |
Today we took the kiddos to the Cave of the Winds. TJ has been absolutely begging to go all week, and we figured why not. Even though I'm sick as a dog, I was determined to take him. After nap time, we rounded up all the kids and hopped in the SUV and headed out for the Cave Exploration tour.
The caves were awesome, seriously gorgeous and just awe inspiring. There were a lot of stairs involved, and we had to carry the girls for pretty much the whole tour, but it was a lot of fun. Unfortunately, about 2/3 of the way through Mera started to get antsy. She wanted to get down and run around, but I wouldn't let her because we had been thoroughly warned about touching any of the formations. Not to mention that having her bolt out of my reach in a cave (lots of sudden dropoffs, loose ground, steep slopes and stairs) was a terrifying thought. The railings along the path weren't going to be stopping her, that's for certain. So she was in my arms, screaming and struggling to be put down because she is allergic to the word "no." Especially when I say it.
We all head into a rather dimly lit room on the tour (dimly lit except for the spotlights on the amazing stalactites and stalagmites) and Mera is pitching a fit. She wants down, but when I put her down she heads straight for the railing and starts trying to get under it, so I am not even going there. Cry all you want, kiddo, I'm not losing you down a sink hole. And then this complete stranger standing next to me, an older woman, turns to me and holds her arms out and says "Want me to take her?"
What I said was "no thanks" but what I was thinking was "ARE YOU INSANE?? Do you actually think I'm going to hand my toddler over to a total stranger in a dark cave?! Or ever, for that matter?"
This is an improvement from our last encounter with a total stranger, in which an elderly lady waited until I went to the bathroom (leaving the kids with a close friend) and then tried to scoop Mera up. Seriously, you can read the whole sordid tale here.
Am I crazy, or is it totally unacceptable to try to hold a total stranger's kid? I especially like the absurd idea that my daughter will calm down when handed over to a complete rando in a dark place. Bonus crazy points for that one.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Progress, Indeed
This week, Miss Geri decided to scare the ever-loving SNOT out of me by mastering the slide at her brother's school. This slide, for the record, is about 7 foot tall.
I wish I could adequately describe the way my heart stopped when she sat down on her butt and pushed herself over the edge of the precipice without me that first time. We had been practicing this new skill on the little kid slide, the one that's maybe 3 feet off the ground. She got it down pat in about three tries and just loved it, so I went down the giant slide with her in my arms for a little fun. When we went around for another go, she went before I could get ready!
It was kinda comical, in retrospect, how she flew off the end of the slide, legs sticking straight out in front, and landed on her butt. I was so startled that I jumped from the top of the climbing wall (this is a pretty elaborate playset for older kids) to get to her, convinced she was going to be a wreck. I picked her up and tried to contain myself somewhat so I wouldn't scare her with my fear and said "Are you okay?"
"Agai peee," was her answer. She wanted to go again.
We repeated this twice, but on the third time I managed to get to the bottom while she was still at the top by using the spiral slide (it's a really nice playset, seriously) so that I could catch her. As soon as she realized I wasn't next to her, she got scared and tried to chicken out. At this point she was sitting at the top, scooted to the edge. I was calling her, she was fidgeting, she scooted back, she scooted to the edge again. She was torn. So her sister edged up behind her and pushed her. Thanks, Mera. Geri's third trip down was decidedly sloppy and now she won't even use the little slide. Sisters- they give you a helping hand. *sigh*
We've hit a huge burst of development. In the past week, Geri has started saying her own versions of "again please", " up please" and "down please." She figured out how to sit in a big girl swing and hold on to the chains for me to push her, and she loves to kick her feet while swinging. She is pushing her shopping cart all over the house, backing up and turning it when she gets stuck. She has figured out all of the switches on her little "switchbox" (you know, the one with the animals in the little boxes and when you turn the key or flip the switch it pops up, and each switch is different? that thing?) and she drinks from a cup independently. She's playing with spoons and self-feeding again. I find that I have a hard time remembering all the new skills she's racking up... what else did she learn in the last couple of weeks?
Oh, right... she also learned to use a slide. :)
I wish I could adequately describe the way my heart stopped when she sat down on her butt and pushed herself over the edge of the precipice without me that first time. We had been practicing this new skill on the little kid slide, the one that's maybe 3 feet off the ground. She got it down pat in about three tries and just loved it, so I went down the giant slide with her in my arms for a little fun. When we went around for another go, she went before I could get ready!
It was kinda comical, in retrospect, how she flew off the end of the slide, legs sticking straight out in front, and landed on her butt. I was so startled that I jumped from the top of the climbing wall (this is a pretty elaborate playset for older kids) to get to her, convinced she was going to be a wreck. I picked her up and tried to contain myself somewhat so I wouldn't scare her with my fear and said "Are you okay?"
"Agai peee," was her answer. She wanted to go again.
We repeated this twice, but on the third time I managed to get to the bottom while she was still at the top by using the spiral slide (it's a really nice playset, seriously) so that I could catch her. As soon as she realized I wasn't next to her, she got scared and tried to chicken out. At this point she was sitting at the top, scooted to the edge. I was calling her, she was fidgeting, she scooted back, she scooted to the edge again. She was torn. So her sister edged up behind her and pushed her. Thanks, Mera. Geri's third trip down was decidedly sloppy and now she won't even use the little slide. Sisters- they give you a helping hand. *sigh*
We've hit a huge burst of development. In the past week, Geri has started saying her own versions of "again please", " up please" and "down please." She figured out how to sit in a big girl swing and hold on to the chains for me to push her, and she loves to kick her feet while swinging. She is pushing her shopping cart all over the house, backing up and turning it when she gets stuck. She has figured out all of the switches on her little "switchbox" (you know, the one with the animals in the little boxes and when you turn the key or flip the switch it pops up, and each switch is different? that thing?) and she drinks from a cup independently. She's playing with spoons and self-feeding again. I find that I have a hard time remembering all the new skills she's racking up... what else did she learn in the last couple of weeks?
Oh, right... she also learned to use a slide. :)
Friday, March 2, 2012
Books I Hate
As a mom, I read a LOT. My kids love books, which is a good thing if I don't mind losing my voice almost daily. I've decided that reading is a lot like dating... you get out there enough and you're going to encounter some real "duds." So here they are, my least favorite children's books.
1. "Love You Forever" This is the creepy, skeezy, cringe-inducing story of a hover-mom who progresses to the point of insanity. The story begins with mom holding her new baby and singing him a little rhyme about how much she loves him that includes the line "as long as you're living my baby you'll be." Aww, that's sweet. Then he's a toddler and he's driving her up the wall, but at night she picks him up while he's sleeping and rocks him while singing that little song. Still cute. Then he's 9 years old and he's a pain in the butt and rude, but at night she sneaks into his room and rocks him and sings the song. Huh? Well, that's a bit weird but I guess it's still okay. Next he's a teenager and he acts like a total weirdo and she doesn't get him at all, and then at night she sneaks into his room and rocks him and sings to him while he's sleeping.
And now, it's just fricking creepy. Seriously, sneaking into your teen's room at night to rock him and sing him a little ditty while he's sound asleep? That's weird.
Unfortunately, it continues with him growing up and moving across town (escaping, maybe?) and his mom driving across town to climb a ladder into this window and rock him and sing to him while he's asleep. Eventually she gets old and calls him on the phone and says "You'd better come visit me." When he shows up she tries to sing the song but she can't because she's too old and weak so he picks her up and sings a similar song that says "As long as I'm living my mommy you'll be." Then he goes home and picks up his brand new baby daughter and sings the song to her. And the cycle of obsessive coddling begins anew.
Every time I read this I want to bathe in bleach. Mom needs a life, or a hobby, or something. I always picture her climbing into his window as an adult and the woman in his bed with him screaming and then he calls the cops and they arrest mom - again - for violating the restraining order.
There are so many ways this theme of enduring love as represented by the repeated singing of the cute little song could have been done WITHOUT the creepiness or the breaking and entering. Why go for the Norman Bates version of the story? shudder
2."Rainbow Fish" Perhaps it's because I only have the abridged, bath book version of this story that I hate it so. Maybe all the character development and nuances keep it from sucking so bad, and it's the watered down nature of this waterproof edition that ruins a truly sweet story. I hate this book so much.
Rainbow fish is the most beautiful fish in the sea because of his beautiful shining scales. Another fish asks for a scale and rainbow fish says no. The other fish stop hanging out with him. Rainbow fish is lonely so he goes to the octopus who lives in the cave who tells him to give away his scales. He won't be as beautiful, but he will be happy. Rainbow fish goes back and gives all the other fish a shining scale until he has one left. Now everyone is friends with him, and he is happy because he has someone to play with.
Moral of the story: you must give away pieces of yourself in order to be accepted by others.
Nick thinks I'm over-analyzing this one, but that's what I take away from it. If you are special, no one will like you because they'll all be jealous so you have to stop being special in order to make friends.
Here's my analogous bedtime story. Susy had beautiful, long, shiny hair. One day another little girl asked to have a lock of Susy's hair. Susy said no, so the other girls all decided she was a snob and wouldn't play with her. Susy went to the homeless guy who hung out by the playground for advice and he told her to cut off chunks of her hair and hand it out. "You won't be as pretty," he wheezed, "but it's better than being alone." Susy cut off her hair and gave it to all of the other girls and they made clip-on extensions from it and everyone had a long, beautiful chunk of hair. They all played with her again, oddly unaware that they were running around with another girl's hair stuck to their heads and that such a thing is truly creepy. The end.
Oh, and the sequel is about a whale that stares at rainbow fish and his friends because he thinks their shining scales are so pretty. When one of the fish calls him a total creeper he gets mad and attacks them. Rainbow fish smooths the whole thing over and everyone has a laugh about how much trouble all the fish get into because of being beautiful.
Pulling off pieces of yourself to hand out? A creeper who attacks you? What the hell kind of subject matter is this for children??? What's next? Rainbow fish and the squid with a van full of candy who needs help finding his lost dogfish?
3. "The Holes in Your Nose" This was a gift. A gift with odd, overly detailed anatomical descriptions and non-sequitors about picking your nose until it bleeds. Oh, and it ends with a picture of two naked kids because your body has lots of holes and the book advises you to keep them all clean. Bonus points for mentioning poop and flatulence and eating boogers.
4. "The Gas We Pass" Another gift. More overly detailed anatomical information and disturbing graphics. The biggest problem with this one is that we are trying very hard right now to get TJ to stop talking about farts and poop when it's not appropriate. So reading him a farts and poop story practically guarantees that he'll talk about those things. At the dinner table. Or at church. At the top of his lungs.
5. "Two Hearts" This is from a princess story three-pack. It's about Snow White and her prince celebrating their first anniversary, so Snow White rolls over to the dwarfs' house and says "Hey, can you guys clear out tomorrow so I can have dinner with my husband here? Oh, and get into the mine and get me a diamond. The best way I can show him I care is by displacing you for an evening and using slave labor to get him a bit of bling." It's ok, because her husband had the same idea. So the dwarfs are now in the mines with less than 24 hours to find not one, but two perfect diamonds for the entitled couple. Hop to, dwarfs. Hilarity ensues, with a lesson about true love. Even without the diamond demands, what kind of jerk goes to a friends house and says "Hey, can you go hang out somewhere else for a few hours so I can use your house to impress my significant other?"I keep picturing all the dwarfs out in the woods somewhere in the rain saying "you think it's okay if we go home now?" And I bet you Snow White didn't even clean up afterwards, so the dwarfs finally get their house back at 11:30 or something and it's trashed and they're up until midnight cleaning it. After a long day in the mines finding freebie diamonds for a couple who, not for nothing, have the entire kingdom at their disposal so they should have been able to have a romantic evening without bumming their friends' cottage. I'm just saying, is all.
1. "Love You Forever" This is the creepy, skeezy, cringe-inducing story of a hover-mom who progresses to the point of insanity. The story begins with mom holding her new baby and singing him a little rhyme about how much she loves him that includes the line "as long as you're living my baby you'll be." Aww, that's sweet. Then he's a toddler and he's driving her up the wall, but at night she picks him up while he's sleeping and rocks him while singing that little song. Still cute. Then he's 9 years old and he's a pain in the butt and rude, but at night she sneaks into his room and rocks him and sings the song. Huh? Well, that's a bit weird but I guess it's still okay. Next he's a teenager and he acts like a total weirdo and she doesn't get him at all, and then at night she sneaks into his room and rocks him and sings to him while he's sleeping.
And now, it's just fricking creepy. Seriously, sneaking into your teen's room at night to rock him and sing him a little ditty while he's sound asleep? That's weird.
Unfortunately, it continues with him growing up and moving across town (escaping, maybe?) and his mom driving across town to climb a ladder into this window and rock him and sing to him while he's asleep. Eventually she gets old and calls him on the phone and says "You'd better come visit me." When he shows up she tries to sing the song but she can't because she's too old and weak so he picks her up and sings a similar song that says "As long as I'm living my mommy you'll be." Then he goes home and picks up his brand new baby daughter and sings the song to her. And the cycle of obsessive coddling begins anew.
Every time I read this I want to bathe in bleach. Mom needs a life, or a hobby, or something. I always picture her climbing into his window as an adult and the woman in his bed with him screaming and then he calls the cops and they arrest mom - again - for violating the restraining order.
There are so many ways this theme of enduring love as represented by the repeated singing of the cute little song could have been done WITHOUT the creepiness or the breaking and entering. Why go for the Norman Bates version of the story? shudder
2."Rainbow Fish" Perhaps it's because I only have the abridged, bath book version of this story that I hate it so. Maybe all the character development and nuances keep it from sucking so bad, and it's the watered down nature of this waterproof edition that ruins a truly sweet story. I hate this book so much.
Rainbow fish is the most beautiful fish in the sea because of his beautiful shining scales. Another fish asks for a scale and rainbow fish says no. The other fish stop hanging out with him. Rainbow fish is lonely so he goes to the octopus who lives in the cave who tells him to give away his scales. He won't be as beautiful, but he will be happy. Rainbow fish goes back and gives all the other fish a shining scale until he has one left. Now everyone is friends with him, and he is happy because he has someone to play with.
Moral of the story: you must give away pieces of yourself in order to be accepted by others.
Nick thinks I'm over-analyzing this one, but that's what I take away from it. If you are special, no one will like you because they'll all be jealous so you have to stop being special in order to make friends.
Here's my analogous bedtime story. Susy had beautiful, long, shiny hair. One day another little girl asked to have a lock of Susy's hair. Susy said no, so the other girls all decided she was a snob and wouldn't play with her. Susy went to the homeless guy who hung out by the playground for advice and he told her to cut off chunks of her hair and hand it out. "You won't be as pretty," he wheezed, "but it's better than being alone." Susy cut off her hair and gave it to all of the other girls and they made clip-on extensions from it and everyone had a long, beautiful chunk of hair. They all played with her again, oddly unaware that they were running around with another girl's hair stuck to their heads and that such a thing is truly creepy. The end.
Oh, and the sequel is about a whale that stares at rainbow fish and his friends because he thinks their shining scales are so pretty. When one of the fish calls him a total creeper he gets mad and attacks them. Rainbow fish smooths the whole thing over and everyone has a laugh about how much trouble all the fish get into because of being beautiful.
Pulling off pieces of yourself to hand out? A creeper who attacks you? What the hell kind of subject matter is this for children??? What's next? Rainbow fish and the squid with a van full of candy who needs help finding his lost dogfish?
3. "The Holes in Your Nose" This was a gift. A gift with odd, overly detailed anatomical descriptions and non-sequitors about picking your nose until it bleeds. Oh, and it ends with a picture of two naked kids because your body has lots of holes and the book advises you to keep them all clean. Bonus points for mentioning poop and flatulence and eating boogers.
4. "The Gas We Pass" Another gift. More overly detailed anatomical information and disturbing graphics. The biggest problem with this one is that we are trying very hard right now to get TJ to stop talking about farts and poop when it's not appropriate. So reading him a farts and poop story practically guarantees that he'll talk about those things. At the dinner table. Or at church. At the top of his lungs.
5. "Two Hearts" This is from a princess story three-pack. It's about Snow White and her prince celebrating their first anniversary, so Snow White rolls over to the dwarfs' house and says "Hey, can you guys clear out tomorrow so I can have dinner with my husband here? Oh, and get into the mine and get me a diamond. The best way I can show him I care is by displacing you for an evening and using slave labor to get him a bit of bling." It's ok, because her husband had the same idea. So the dwarfs are now in the mines with less than 24 hours to find not one, but two perfect diamonds for the entitled couple. Hop to, dwarfs. Hilarity ensues, with a lesson about true love. Even without the diamond demands, what kind of jerk goes to a friends house and says "Hey, can you go hang out somewhere else for a few hours so I can use your house to impress my significant other?"I keep picturing all the dwarfs out in the woods somewhere in the rain saying "you think it's okay if we go home now?" And I bet you Snow White didn't even clean up afterwards, so the dwarfs finally get their house back at 11:30 or something and it's trashed and they're up until midnight cleaning it. After a long day in the mines finding freebie diamonds for a couple who, not for nothing, have the entire kingdom at their disposal so they should have been able to have a romantic evening without bumming their friends' cottage. I'm just saying, is all.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Anchors Away!
At some point, I think just after her first surgery, Geri's ophthalmologist mentioned the Anchor Center for Blind Children in Denver. He was thinking we could have her vision tested there in a method that would not require her to speak or otherwise provide feedback for a diagnosis. That way, we could get this girl some glasses and help her see a bit better sometime in the near future. I tucked that little piece of info away in my brain and moved on with the other bazillion medical requirements we were slogging through.
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| Anchor Center at Night |
A bit later I finally researched the Anchor Center online and found out that they are SO MUCH MORE than eye exams. I immediately contacted them to find out what they could do for our little Geri. I was told that she is too old to enter the infant or toddler program, and that their preschool program is only available to children "graduating" from the toddler program, but that they didn't want to leave me high and dry so they would perform a functional vision assessment (FVA) on her and give me recommendations for things we can do to help her at home. I was elated that they wanted to help in what way they could, and jumped at the chance for the FVA because it would help me get Geri's IEP process started so we could get services from the school district.
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| The "light walk" and "trail rail" help kids navigate |
Monday was the big FVA day, and it went about a bazillion times better than I'd hoped or dreamed. Geri was in a horrible mood, but the teacher of the visually impaired (TVI), Cathy, was very patient and persistent. She gave me all sorts of good information about visually impaired kiddos, and the reassurance was great.
Lately, we've been getting a lot of diagnoses and medically stuff thrown our way. It was hitting me hard, and I wasn't sure why. After talking with Cathy I realized what was happening - all those test results were robbing me of my hope. It seemed that every day brought a new problem, a new hurdle, a new syndrome. When we had met Geri, I remember looking at Nick and saying "She's still in there. I know it. I can feel it. Her mind is intact." But getting all this bad news heaped on bad news was making me doubt. Was she really in there? Was she capable of learning? Of growing? Would she ever be able to have any level of independence or quality of life? Would the rest of us ever have any quality of life, or would we be caring for the same child until our dying day, bequeathing her to some other caregiver when we passed? Only a few nights ago, Nick and I wept together as he said to me "It's not going to get better. We were too late."
Cathy said to me what no doctor would. Everyone else was so cautious, but she looked at me and said "Lauren, I don't think she's mentally disabled. Maybe a tiny bit, but not significantly. I see visually impaired kids all day. I also see kids who are visually and mentally impaired. What I'm seeing here is a visual impairment, not a mental one." I told her that our greatest hope is for her to someday reach even a partial level of independence, maybe to have a little apartment and a simple job and some assistance with her day-to-day, but it was starting to feel as if that wasn't going to happen. Cathy said, "I think that's the least you can expect for her."
She explained that rocking is extremely common in visually impaired kids. Yeah, it's very common among institutionalized kiddos as well, but if her rocking doesn't go away it doesn't mean she's still coping. It might mean she's looking for sensory input that her eyes don't give. Visually impaired kids tend to use their parents as "puppets" in the way Geri does. They tend to mouth everything, often this behavior persists into adulthood (although it later becomes a private thing). It's a means of compensating for lost sensory input. Eating and swallowing problems are very common among the visually impaired, too.
After the evaluation was almost entirely finished she said, "I know Geri is a bit old, technically, for the program but would you like to have her join our toddler group? We have room, and I think that Geri's development makes it a good fit. It's a parent-participation group, so you would be with her. We have sibling care, too, for Mera." I told her that I had been informed that Geri was too old for the program and she said "We're not bound by law. We can make exceptions."
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| The gross motor room... sans play equipment. |
On the way out of the building their physical therapist stopped me and said "Hey, we're about to have a gross motor session but only one child is here. Would Geri be up to joining us?" She got a full half hour of PT, one-on-one with their PT assistant. On the way out, Cathy gave me an intake packet and told me that Geri could start the toddler group on Wednesday.
I cried the whole way home. I wept with relief and joy. Finally, for the first time in months, I felt real hope. Someone believed my daughter has potential! Someone was trying to help! After three months of not being able to start therapies because of wait lists and insurance crap and missed scripts, she'd had her first PT session within just a couple of hours of walking in the doors of the Anchor Center. In that half hour, she pushed a toy shopping cart for the first time and learned to ride a spring horse all by herself. She walked back and forth between me and Meg, the PT assistant.
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| Outside play area... not pictured is the "sensory garden" |
Today, we attended our first session of toddler time and it was great. Everyone was so nice. She got to go back to the gross motor room, and we got a repeat of the spring horse and the shopping cart. Their lead occupational therapist talked with me for about 15 minutes and gave me recommendations for home. She gave me the name of a private therapy group in the Springs who might be able to help us. We sang songs in circle and she LOVED it. She participated happily, clapping her hands and laughing. She had a great time with sensory toys at the literacy room, explored Braile writing, and had an absolute blast playing at the big light table in the light room. She also picked up an admirer. A little boy with Albinism was following her around the whole time, and his mom said he seemed quite taken with her! First day of school and she already has a boyfriend.
It was great, for me, to be able to be in a group of parents with kids like mine. It gets really old having people stare at you in play areas (a tall 4-yr-old with bulging eyes who can't walk or talk draws attention, I have found). I could rant for days about how people feel the need to give me these condescending compliments about how "good I am with her." When the little kids stare, I don't mind. When they ask questions, I am very direct and honest with them because it helps them to be accepting if they have some chance to see kids that are different. But when the grownups ogle us and politely look away I get frustrated. Today, every kid was "different" and when the parents looked at me it was because they were reading my name tag. They wanted to welcome us, they were friendly, and they weren't casing my weird child as if she were some scientific oddity. We fit in, and it felt kinda nice.
I am so excited for what the Anchor Center can do to help us. Already, they've given us hope. I'm looking at Geri and seeing potential again. I'm seeing a girl who WILL walk and talk and go to school and have friends and play. I can't even begin to relate how good that feels. It's worth the drive, that's for sure!
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Thank God you are God and I'm not...
The two nights before last were really really tough for Nick and I. I'm sure everyone has caught on now to my semi-fragile mental state. I was at my wit's end, and I think Nick was getting there two. Then, two sleepless nights with our little Geri put us both on the brink.
I was mad as hell at God. When she refused to fall asleep I was angry with Him, wondering why He wouldn't just fix this. As usual, I asked "Why does this have to be so hard?? Why can't doing Your work at least be a little bit smoother??" By night two of the sleeplessness, I was at the point of raging against Him. Not just questioning His ways, but heaping my judgement on Him. "Why did you do this to us??" I wailed. "Is this what we get for following You? Is this how You treat Your servants? I hand You my family and You #*%& is all up??"
Oh, I was up on my horse and that little filly was very high, indeed. I thought I knew it all, knew what was best. As per usual, I was wrong.
It occurred to me, as all this was unfolding (or unraveling, as it felt at the time) that the real reason that I was feeling so overdone, so drained, so angry, so frustrated, so irritated, etc. etc. was because I didn't actually love my daughter.
There, I said it. For the longest time I swore up and down that I wouldn't feel differently about Geri. She was going to be every bit as "mine" as the others. When she had her seizure I was convinced that I felt no differently for her than the bio kids, and at that moment it was true. Truth be told, though, I do feel differently towards her. My love for her has been less patient than for the other kids. I've been less willing to overlook the stress, less comfortable in my role as her mom, less convinced of the bond. Perhaps it's because she's so much more demanding, but in my heart I know that I would have more patience for TJ and Mera if they stressed me out like Geri does. I feel less pressure with them, because the fact that I'm not trying to overcome years of neglect gives me a sense of some leeway. They're happy and well adjusted. If I put them down from time to time, they ought to survive it. I can hire a sitter. My friends can hold them. With Geri, it feels as if there's no wiggle room, no margin. If I don't respond to everything, pronto, and keep her only in my arms then she will explode. Or grow up to be on Jerry Springer.
The bio kids feel like a comfy sweater of maternal love and affection. Geri feels, often, like a pressure-cooker of responsibility and catch-up. It's hard to love in that environment. It's easy to get overwhelmed.
Yet the other night, while I was telling God how to do His job, a voice seemed to whisper "Where were you when I laid the foundation for the Earth?" Ouch. I felt immediately humbled. Oh yeah, that's right... You are God and You sort of created everything and it was Your plan that brought me every good thing I've had in my life so far. That God. The one who saved me from sin. The one who brought me out of my own hell and gave me this beautiful life that, even when upended as it is now, is still pretty awesome in the grand scheme of it all. The one who protected me during my years of stupidity, so that I never drove drunk into a post or turned up HIV positive or got myself good and murdered by some weirdo. Yeah, that God. My bad.
The more I thought about it, I was reminded of something our pastor said on Sunday. He said, in essence, "If you are doing something out of obligation, you will always do the bare minimum and probably with a bad attitude. If you do it out of love, you'll gladly go above and beyond." it hit me like a ton of bricks - what needed to change was not my daughter, but my love for my daughter.
I was infatuated with Geri. I fell in love with her, sight unseen, and built a pretty picture of her in my head. When she turned out to be different from that picture, I decided that she needed to change to keep my love. True love is built on the reality of the other person, though, and it is only increased by learning more about them. There is no desire to change someone if you truly love them, because then they would no longer be the person you love.
I had misled myself, and when the mirage began to fray around the edges I figured God was to blame.
By is grace, He has put a new prayer on my heart and lips and it has changed a lot for me. I prayed to God to make me truly love my daughter. I prayed for Him to make her as if she had come from my flesh, to make me feel as if she had grown inside me. I prayed to Him to finalize the adoption.
See, we have a legal adoption. Much like you can go to a judge and get a legal marriage. But only in God's sacrament of marriage do two become one. It's a holy miracle that a legal contract cannot replicate. It's a sacred mystery, the spiritual union of God's sacrament of marriage. (I say that, btw, having had two legal marriages and one sacrament. It's different.) In the same way, I believe that God can conduct a spiritual adoption, one that goes above and beyond the legal adoption by making her flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone, rather than just a legal charge. I took responsibility for her in the judicial system, signed all the papers and such, but I never vowed to God to care for her and love her as my own flesh and blood. I finally did that the other night, and I'm finding I look at her a little differently.
Maybe it's the Catholic upbringing in me (we love ceremonies, and if you can burn a pound and a half of incense in the process then we are ecstatic), but I'm tossing around the idea of asking our pastor to do up a small ceremony along this vein, more than a dedication and along the lines of almost a wedding. Something in which we make vows before God to raise and love this child. I'm not certain, because it feels a tad corny, but it feels appropriate in a way.
At any rate, I'm glad He's God and I'm not. I'm too damned fickle and weak. A god who is just like me would cut and run at the first sign of trouble, apply the rules inconsistently, hold grudges and carry tallies, make mistakes all the time, and generally booger the whole works up. I'd be worse off with that sort of deity.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Transparency
I'm fighting a bad bug right now, and it's making me feel utterly crummy. It's called "depression."
Ever since the big bad epilepsy news, and all the harrowing decisions around it, I feel as though I've hit a threshold of my patience. I have very little left, it seems. Every time Geri starts crying (which is about a billion times a day) I feel like I just want to run away and hide somewhere. I sometimes feel that way about Mera and TJ, too. I just want to check out, be vacant, hide out, pull the covers over my head and not have to take care of anyone.
This adoption is, without a doubt, the hardest and most humbling thing I've ever done in my life. See, I've been very proud of my parenting. I have thought, probably all my life, that I would someday be a Great Mom, and then when I became a mom I became convinced of my greatness all the more. Every time someone told me how cute the kids were, I felt like the Great Mom. Every time someone told me how smart TJ is, how cute Mera is, how polite TJ was, how sweet Mera seemed, I felt like this was not a compliment for them, but for me. They were cute and sweet and polite and smart because I was making them that way. Because I'm a Great Mom. Because I'm a goddess among women, able to raise perfect children who ace every test and help little old ladies cross streets and still put an amazing dinner on the clean table when my husband comes home from winning our bread. I'm a Great Mom, look at my happy family and my clean home with pretty throw pillows that I sewed the covers for myself. (That sewing part is true, btw. I miss having hobbies...)
Suddenly, I have a very different kid and the other kids are changing and I am the Great Mom no more. The house is a sty. The meals are less elaborate (and we eat out more). TJ is having issues at school, issues that I can't just fix for him because I'm too tall to blend in with his classmates. "What, I'm not his Mom! I'm a 5 year old girl!" *Pees her pants.* "See?!" Mera is throwing tantrums that you wouldn't believe, and she loves to do this in public. Because it's not fun unless Mom is embarrassed, right? And Geri is disabled. Permanently. No matter what I do about it. She will always be visually impaired. She may never have the cognitive powers of her peers. She might not move out, get married, make babies and play concert piano. I can't fix her. No matter how hard I try. I can't "fix" any of my kids, really. All I can do is my best, and lately my best is feeling like a bandaid on a broken leg.
All of this leaves me feeling totally isolated. I'm convinced that no one knows what it's like to walk in my shoes. No one knows how hard this is, and if I told them, they would think I was mean for not loving my kids more. Because if I loved my kids more, then they wouldn't ever feel like a burden. When Mera throws her fits I should smile and say "She's at that age!" When TJ has a bad day at school I should give him an amazing pep talk and some tutoring at home to turn him around. When Geri throws a tantrum or refuses to eat or sleep I should be saying "The poor dear, think of all she's been through!" instead of growling through my teeth, "Oh, come ON!" I should never lose my patience, snap at someone, let a child sit on the floor and cry, or otherwise be ... well, human.
I am human. Painfully human. I'm aware that, in my humanity, I can't fix everything about my kids. I can't make them, their life, or their home perfect. I want to, but I can't.
Can I share the worst part of it? I feel like a liar. When I take the kids out and people tell me how far Geri is coming and how great the kids are doing, I feel like they would never say that if they had seen us getting ready to leave the house. When I blog about stuff here and people tell me I'm such a Great Mom, I feel like I must have written that all skewed. Did I lie about something, or leave something out? I must have. When everyone tells me what a great thing we're doing for Geri, I feel so fake because this great thing is so hard and I mess it up all the time... not very great. Plus my temptation to feel prideful about this great thing we're doing is always lurking in the background, and I doubt anyone would compliment me if they knew what a hero/martyr I'm making myself out to be.
I'm not a Great Mom. I don't have all the answers. I'm stumbling through about 90% of this stuff, and until the kids are much older we won't know if I'm raising them right or screwing things up. Oh, and did I mention I have a husband, too? Yeah, it's not all on my head only. I'm not the only one working here. Go figure. I forget that most of the time, myself.
I'm not trying to be ungrateful to everyone who just wants to encourage me. I really appreciate all the voices trying to lift me up. But I want to be lifted up by people who know how screwy I am and still think I'm doing my best. I don't want applause from a faceless audience who doesn't see what happens behind the elaborate set design. I want people who know me, and love me, to see my struggles and tell me "you're doing fine, keep going, we're rooting for you and we're here if you need us."
I have a feeling I'm not the only mom who feels this way. And it's not just adoptive moms I'm talking about, either. How amazing would it be if we could all stand together, cry together, ache together, and just be completely real with each other? What if our playdates and mom groups weren't about impressing each other, but about understanding each other? What if we stopped competing and started helping? What if we stopped judging and started really truly caring? What if we stopped hiding and started being right there in each others' messes?
Well, I'm a mess. A real, hot mess. I'm not a Great Mom. I'm a mom who does the best she can with what she has, and who often feels like she's not getting very far with it. But I bet you're a bit of a mess, too, when you think about it. How about we start loving each other's messiness?
Ever since the big bad epilepsy news, and all the harrowing decisions around it, I feel as though I've hit a threshold of my patience. I have very little left, it seems. Every time Geri starts crying (which is about a billion times a day) I feel like I just want to run away and hide somewhere. I sometimes feel that way about Mera and TJ, too. I just want to check out, be vacant, hide out, pull the covers over my head and not have to take care of anyone.
This adoption is, without a doubt, the hardest and most humbling thing I've ever done in my life. See, I've been very proud of my parenting. I have thought, probably all my life, that I would someday be a Great Mom, and then when I became a mom I became convinced of my greatness all the more. Every time someone told me how cute the kids were, I felt like the Great Mom. Every time someone told me how smart TJ is, how cute Mera is, how polite TJ was, how sweet Mera seemed, I felt like this was not a compliment for them, but for me. They were cute and sweet and polite and smart because I was making them that way. Because I'm a Great Mom. Because I'm a goddess among women, able to raise perfect children who ace every test and help little old ladies cross streets and still put an amazing dinner on the clean table when my husband comes home from winning our bread. I'm a Great Mom, look at my happy family and my clean home with pretty throw pillows that I sewed the covers for myself. (That sewing part is true, btw. I miss having hobbies...)
Suddenly, I have a very different kid and the other kids are changing and I am the Great Mom no more. The house is a sty. The meals are less elaborate (and we eat out more). TJ is having issues at school, issues that I can't just fix for him because I'm too tall to blend in with his classmates. "What, I'm not his Mom! I'm a 5 year old girl!" *Pees her pants.* "See?!" Mera is throwing tantrums that you wouldn't believe, and she loves to do this in public. Because it's not fun unless Mom is embarrassed, right? And Geri is disabled. Permanently. No matter what I do about it. She will always be visually impaired. She may never have the cognitive powers of her peers. She might not move out, get married, make babies and play concert piano. I can't fix her. No matter how hard I try. I can't "fix" any of my kids, really. All I can do is my best, and lately my best is feeling like a bandaid on a broken leg.
All of this leaves me feeling totally isolated. I'm convinced that no one knows what it's like to walk in my shoes. No one knows how hard this is, and if I told them, they would think I was mean for not loving my kids more. Because if I loved my kids more, then they wouldn't ever feel like a burden. When Mera throws her fits I should smile and say "She's at that age!" When TJ has a bad day at school I should give him an amazing pep talk and some tutoring at home to turn him around. When Geri throws a tantrum or refuses to eat or sleep I should be saying "The poor dear, think of all she's been through!" instead of growling through my teeth, "Oh, come ON!" I should never lose my patience, snap at someone, let a child sit on the floor and cry, or otherwise be ... well, human.
I am human. Painfully human. I'm aware that, in my humanity, I can't fix everything about my kids. I can't make them, their life, or their home perfect. I want to, but I can't.
Can I share the worst part of it? I feel like a liar. When I take the kids out and people tell me how far Geri is coming and how great the kids are doing, I feel like they would never say that if they had seen us getting ready to leave the house. When I blog about stuff here and people tell me I'm such a Great Mom, I feel like I must have written that all skewed. Did I lie about something, or leave something out? I must have. When everyone tells me what a great thing we're doing for Geri, I feel so fake because this great thing is so hard and I mess it up all the time... not very great. Plus my temptation to feel prideful about this great thing we're doing is always lurking in the background, and I doubt anyone would compliment me if they knew what a hero/martyr I'm making myself out to be.
I'm not a Great Mom. I don't have all the answers. I'm stumbling through about 90% of this stuff, and until the kids are much older we won't know if I'm raising them right or screwing things up. Oh, and did I mention I have a husband, too? Yeah, it's not all on my head only. I'm not the only one working here. Go figure. I forget that most of the time, myself.
I'm not trying to be ungrateful to everyone who just wants to encourage me. I really appreciate all the voices trying to lift me up. But I want to be lifted up by people who know how screwy I am and still think I'm doing my best. I don't want applause from a faceless audience who doesn't see what happens behind the elaborate set design. I want people who know me, and love me, to see my struggles and tell me "you're doing fine, keep going, we're rooting for you and we're here if you need us."
I have a feeling I'm not the only mom who feels this way. And it's not just adoptive moms I'm talking about, either. How amazing would it be if we could all stand together, cry together, ache together, and just be completely real with each other? What if our playdates and mom groups weren't about impressing each other, but about understanding each other? What if we stopped competing and started helping? What if we stopped judging and started really truly caring? What if we stopped hiding and started being right there in each others' messes?
Well, I'm a mess. A real, hot mess. I'm not a Great Mom. I'm a mom who does the best she can with what she has, and who often feels like she's not getting very far with it. But I bet you're a bit of a mess, too, when you think about it. How about we start loving each other's messiness?
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