Did that knock the wind out of you? Just me?

I don’t even know where to start. I go from being okay, doing housework, taking care of the kids, cooking, being a normal mom, to a complete full-on breathlessness and messy, ugly sobbing that I can’t stop. I can’t stop crying. I start crying all the time. This morning I had to get gas and the attendant was polite and I started bawling.

Over the past five years we’ve had so many problems with James. Over and over again, the same things, steadily escalating until they exploded this weekend.

Not normal issues, we’re starting to learn as we take a break from the constant chaos and unrest and strife he brought into our home. As we’re finally able to start seeing the forest for the trees, pieces are coming together that we weren’t able to see while we were in the midst of Just. Surviving.

Every teenager flips their parents shit. It’s a normal phase of life. And we were totally prepared to deal with that. But what James has pulled over the last several years has been anything but normal. I won’t go into it here because I want to protect his privacy and frankly I’m weary of talking about it.

Let me say this: abnormal becomes normal really fast. And no matter what we did, what activity we signed him up for, what church we went to, what people we tried to connect him with, what talks we had, what outings we took him on, it still happened. I still had to sign him into a locked facility where people are watching him 24 hours a day so he doesn’t hurt himself or other people.

It came down to safety. Sunday he did some things that finally took my blinders off that I’ve been wearing for so long. The ones that told me that I’m his MOTHER. I can FIX IT.

But when those blinders came off, and I saw what he was, what he was doing, and what it could do to our family, I had to act. I am not the mother of one, I am the mother of three, and when your children are in danger, you act. That’s just what you do.

No matter how much it rips your heart out.

We don’t really know what’s going to happen at this point. James is officially “severely disturbed”, which both breaks my heart and encourages me; encourages because it’s not just me being a failure. Well, actually, THAT little guilt trip is starting to gain steam and I believe it’s settling down for a nice long stay, but we’ll address that some other time.

Because the situation is so acute, he gets what amounts to a mental health Golden Ticket, which basically means that at this point, what happens is out of our hands. We can’t just show up to bring him cookies or a blanket and frankly at this point we don’t want to. Bad mother, right? Please, you can’t throw anything at me that I haven’t thrown myself.

We meet with the therapist next week to see what the next steps are. And all I can do is just take it minute by minute, praying for mercy and gasping for air.

God, dear, benevolent, merciful, God. Grant me the mother-freaking serenity to accept the fact that teenage boys will someday grow into young men away at college dorms who will only come home on the weekends with massive loads of laundry.

Seriously, God. Give me the courage to confront him when he’s screwing up and not back down because I don’t like confrontation. Give me the nerve, the chutzpah, the BALLS to Not Have That Shit. Don’t let me turn into one of those parents who lets their kids do anything they want because it’s easier. Because You know, it’s so much easier. But easy doesn’t mean right.

I’d love some wisdom. Anytime you want to sprinkle some of that parenting guru stuff, you know, the kind that people that don’t actually HAVE kids have? I would like some of that. Wisdom with a side order of eyes in the back of my head as well as on the Interwebs, in the cell phone, and in the park after school where he’s been smoking with friends every day for a month. Plus a large police officer with a really scary police dog that will just scare the living shiznit out of every one of those little punks, so help me You.

Help me to live one day at a time and not keep record of all the eye rollings, the out with who knows who, the illicit You Know What. Help me to forgive but not forget because that would be pretty freaking stupid.

Help me to enjoy him. The little moments that seem to be parceled out fewer and far-er between. Help me to see the child he was and the man he’s becoming without throttling the monstrous turd that is currently in front of me.

I hate the hardships that we’ve had with him. I hate that there have been words that have spoken, insults screamed, tears cried that can’t be taken back. These are things that I never thought would happen in that perfect parenting life I had planned out when I was first embarking on this whole deal. But they have, and they probably will again. Help me accept these things as brief stopovers to a peaceful, close relationship. Thank you that we care about each other to thrash things out, no matter how messy.

Damn it. This is not what I wanted. I didn’t want a son who steals booze, who tokes up after school, who hurts himself. I didn’t want to fight over every little thing. I didn’t want any of this.

I’m guessing you probably didn’t either.

Help me to surrender, not to his shenanigans, not to mushiness, not to love that looks the other way or turns the other cheek, but to the Tiger Mother that absolutely REFUSES to let her child fuck himself over. Make me a fierce warrior for this kid. Don’t let me give up after he’s yelled at me to “stay out of my life!” one too many times. Help me to recover from the lies, the screw-ups, and the fights. Help me to take a deep breath and get right back in his face and never, ever, ever, ever, give up. Ever.

That’s pretty much it. Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God.

Love, Redheadmama

So we got home from a really fun night, and lo and behold, he’s not up in the living room playing video games like he usually is. He’s nervous and flushed. I didn’t think anything of it, and then I got this weird vibe that told me to look out the window (mind you, it’s 9 PM. Why would I be looking out the window.). There goes his ex-girlfriend up the street in the pouring rain.

I turned to him and asked him what kind of backpack she carried. He started being very helpful, telling me she had a little dog backpack and how cute it was. I said well, she’s going up the street. BIG surprise face! Oh my goodness! I should call her and ask her if she wants a ride! I just stood there thinking “he’s really thinking I’m going to buy this bullshit?”

So I sit down and asked him why she was over here while were gone. He spins a big story and I just listened until he finally wound down and admitted that she had been over here but “nothing had happened!” Yeah, right. I was so mad that I just told him to go to his room for the rest of the night so I could figure it out.

The next morning, we make him go to church, aka Forcing Religion Down My Throat. He’s texting like mad during the service so we take away his phone. When we get home DH has an email from ex-girlfriend begging us not to tell her uncle (who she lives with) what they had been up to. Seriously? Oh, and she also was worried that Son was “beating himself up about it”. Well, cry me a river. Of course we called him, and we had to tell him that we didn’t think our son was a good influence for his niece.

Boy, that sure felt good! Stellar parenting moment, to warn another family about OUR CHILD.

But it doesn’t stop there. We kept getting weird vibes from him, so when he went to the bathroom, I started searching his backpack. He came back and initially I stopped, but then I was like ” you know what? I’m the parent here and if I’m going to find something I’m going to find it right in front of him.” First, I found our missing lighter that we had been looking for in order to light the BBQ that he told us he had accidentally broken. I asked him why he had a lighter in his backpack and he shrugged his shoulders.

Then I had the privilege of finding multiple condom wrappers in his backpack. But that’s not all! Nope. THEN, I found an empty pill bottle with pot residue. Come to find out, Son has been toking up for several weeks, every day after school.

More condoms in his room. More stolen food. Several bottles of alcohol hidden in an old suitcase.

We called the police and they told us we can’t do anything unless he has actual pot; since he’s already smoked it all, we don’t have diddly squat.

I’m not really proud of what happened next, but it needed to happen. We screamed at each other for a few hours. Turns out he’s depressed and anxious and still trying to get over girlfriend so he’s been using drugs and sex to numb away the hurt.

I told him that life sucks. And you can’t use drugs and sex to dull the pain. You have to face it head on and get through it and man up and stop being such a coward.

Not very loving or motherly, probably. But he needed to hear it. I’m tired of molly-coddling him and trying to talk him through things. Bringing illegal drugs into my house and having sex with anything that moves doesn’t earn my respect or tenderness.

So we made a chart of sorts, based on prison standards (kind of). Since he’s busted every rule imaginable, basically he’s in solitary confinement. No friends, TV, or phone. Home by 4 PM. Bed by 8:30. Not allowed to stay home without us. No house key. In order to earn each of these privileges back, he has to earn points. One point possible a day, and that’s with all rules followed. 30 points required to get to the next level. So, for example, to get  his phone back? At least a month of good behavior. Each privilege must be earned back. In order to stay home without us? He’ll have to go at least 5 months without incidents. And I HATE CHARTS, but I need something to point to and write down and check off because DAMN IT. I need to feel like we’re accomplishing something here.

It sounds strict and it is. His actions DEMAND IT. I can’t wait around and hope that he will eventually get his shit together because that’s not going to happen. Surprisingly he seemed very impressed by the Chart and is eager to earn privileges back. He thrives on structure, which is something I’ve forgotten in the mad rush to parent a severely disabled child, work, keep house, and do everything else. He also starts counseling on Wednesday.

Am I doing this right? I don’t know. Half the time I feel like I’m drowning. J. is severely depressed and abusing alcohol, drugs, and sex. H. is severely mentally and physically disabled. E. needs my attention and focus and most of the time she just doesn’t get it because I’m putting out one fire or the other.

If I had known that parenting was going to be this hard, you couldn’t have gotten me to do it for a billion dollars. Sometimes I think what my life would be like without kids. I know it’s politically correct to say “but I just couldn’t get through the day without their love! They’ve taught me so many lessons” bla bla bla. Usually I’m so thankful for my kids and I can’t imagine life without them, but then there are weekends like this.

It will get better, I’m sure. There are flashes of light in this very dark tunnel. But right now…….I’m just so tired.

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1) When I wake up in the middle of the night and look at the clock and realize that I have several more hours of which to do Sleepy Time, it is absolutely delicious. DELICIOUS.

2) Yardwork. I know. It’s weird, but I love working in our huge yard. I did two hours of weed-whacking yesterday and my arms feel like spaghetti but it was so worth it. Well, except for when I whacked those huge weeds and the weed guts flew into my eyes, like blood spatters from a CSI crime scene. Gross.

3) That first sip of coffee in the morning. GLORIOUS.

4) Hugging my husband and snuggling into his neck.

5) Hugging my kids and snuggling into their necks.

6) Listening to my cat George snore. It’s super cute.

7) Pretending I can sing as well as Idina Menzel and belting out songs from “Wicked”. I also have been known to warble a few “Glee” related songs, especially anything Mercedes or Rachel sing. It’s quite an ego trip to pretend that I sound like these ladies.

8. Going to garden stores. Garden stores are my Rodeo Drive. I could easily spend thousands of dollars in there and not even blink an eye. I would have absolutely ZERO guilt.

9) I love listening to Henry play by himself because he tends to make up the most interesting scenarios. For example, the other day he was playing with his Hot Wheels and sending them zooming off a precipice and it all had something to do with having to go with the bathroom. No idea what was going on there, but it was hilarious.

10) Getting my hair brushed or cut sends me instantly into a trance-like state. I always feel bad when I go to get my hair done because the nice ladies are trying to chat me up and I’m all “can’t talk in a trance MGHHHHHHH”. I seriously get all glassy-eyed and can’t move my arms or legs. It’s weird. If I had a million dollars I would pay someone to brush my hair for two hours a day. Any takers?

What are your things that make you silly happy?

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So the past couple of weeks, I discovered that Netflix has placed the entire compendium of Ally McBeal seasons on Instant. I watched Ally McBeal back in the day for a few months, I found her vacuous, irritating, and the show itself to be completely nonsensical.

I haven’t really changed my mind. The show is irritating, vacuous, and irritating.

And yet, I’ve been watching the HAY-EL out of it the past two weeks. I write for a living, and lately, my writing tasks have been quite, erm, monotonous. So I’ve been watching Ally have nervous breakdowns several times a day while re-vamping meta titles. LIVING THE DREAM.

Here’s the deal, though. I want to totally slap Ally at least a couple times per episode. WHY does she have to fall down all the time? Didn’t the show’s writers think about how stupid that looks? It’s hard to take someone seriously who falls down after being startled, to get out of something, to avoid a confrontation. She falls down ALL THE TIME.

Most people who fall down all the time at the drop of a hat come to understand that maybe, just maybe, they have a medical problem and should go to the doctor and get checked out. They don’t ignore it and think to themselves “oh look how ADORABLE I am, falling flat on my face for what – the third time today? I’m so cute I just want to dunk myself in my coffee! TRA LA LA LA!”

Maybe I’m just not getting something about the whole falling down thing. Maybe it’s a metaphor for something more meaningful, like Ally is falling because she’s just making her way through life today takes everything you got…..wait, is that the theme from Cheers? Damn you Netflix and your instant 90′s TV crack! DAMN YOU TO HELL.

My mind starts wandering, unfortunately, and of course, I’m thinking about the actress who plays Ally McBeal, Calista Flockhart, who is now married to my secret husband Indiana Jones, aka Harrison Ford. If I were Harrison, not only would I entwine my fingers in the naughty chest hairs all the live-long day, I would also ask Calista how in the world she was able to trip and fall and generally make a complete ass of herself for that many years without being too embarrassed to get out of bed in the morning. Then I would make myself wear a fedora, leather jacket, and khakis, throw her over my shoulder, and say at least once “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” before hopping into a puddle-jumper and following the dotted lines across 1940′s maps as I made my way to my next archaeology dig. BECAUSE THAT’S HOW INDY WOULD ROLL.

(I fully realize that I’m typing in all caps. It’s because I’m appalled and excited and whatever, you know. ALL CAPS! SQWEEEEE!!!!!)

Thursday we were up at OHSU doing his cardiac MRI. Everything seems to be normal, as far as having your aorta on the wrong side of your body can be, don’t you know. He did very well in the big machine, and actually went to sleep. I have no idea how he could have fallen asleep in there; it’s like a washing machine with 3 tennis shoes and a Mazda car alarm going off for two hours right next to your ear.

Afterwards he seemed kind of stressed out. I knew this because he kept saying “I love you Mommy” about every three seconds, and wouldn’t let go of my hand. He says this a lot anyway, but when he says it that often it’s a sign that his stress levels are reaching critical level. I just kept telling him I loved him back and made sure I kept touching him and rubbing his back.

Friday we went to the doctor for his rash, and after four days of being there it was all very anti-climatic. We ended up getting out of there in a record two hours instead of 14, and we all went home and took a nap. WHICH WAS WELL DESERVED.

This week, we’ve got a genetics check-up and a cardiac check-up, and then I think we’re done for a while. At least we’d better be >>>shakes her fist at the medical profession<<<.

Once again, we’re going through something with Henry. This time we’re not sure what, quite yet. Yesterday I was at the doctor’s for nearly four hours, today, a measly three. Blood work, hushed consultations with other medical professionals, puzzled looks. That’s what we’re getting this time.

This is something that we all do with him pretty much at least a couple times  a year, so I’m  not wringing my hands in panic quite yet. We’ll know more on Friday when we go back for more tests. Oh! And we get to do a stool sample at home. Wanna come over?

Funny story: when they were draining him of massive blood yesterday (six vials!!!!), I, um. I kind of got a little woozy and well. I basically semi-passed out. It was very embarrassing. And that is the last time we shall talk of THAT.

I must say it is incredibly tricky to be at the doctor’s all day and get any kind of meaningful work done, let alone the all-important perusing of gossip sites and staring into space and watchin’ mah stories. TRICKY. But I manage to get it done.

I shall update more on this latest malady soon, whatever it is.

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Dear Hot Wheels Movies Packaging Team:

Why, for the love of Tom Selleck, did you feel the need to stuff EVERY SINGLE ONE of your Hot Wheels movies with music that sounds like a cross between Daft Punk and New Jack City? You do realize, don’t you, that the main people watching your movies are kids between the ages of 3 and 10 and their mothers probably aren’t going to be that excited about their widdle babies walking around flashing gang signs and mumbling “hey hey hey ready for ACTION yo yo yo”.

I’m just sayin’.

Also, why are all your movies SO DAMN LONG. I mean, seriously. We’re not exploring major themes of life here. It’s not freaking Tolstoy. We’re watching about twenty cars race around a frigging race track for….oh my goodness. Two and a half hours? That can’t be right.

Please, from someone who has literally THOUSANDS of your products in her house, including at least two in the couch cushions beneath her (ow), reconsider your marketing tactics.

Love,

Redheadmama

P.S. The characters in your movies seem to have some major anger issues. Perhaps a new “Dr. Phil” themed car might be appropriate?

P.P.S. I call royalties if you actually make that car. DIBS ON THE DR. PHIL CAR!

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So last night, we’re getting ready for the weekly engorging on Chinese and pizza for the kinder with a movie (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1…..sqweeee!!!), and Henry comes out of the bathroom and says those words that moms all over the world just love to hear when they’re sitting their butts down on the cozy couch with a plateful of Chinese food nom nom nom:

“Mom! I have red spots all over my legs!”

I get up and casually walk in to the bathroom, emphasis on CASUAL, since we are not going to panic, oh, no, we are NOT. He takes down his pants and pulls up his shirt:

Well.

Hmm.

CRAP.

The child has red bumps all over his legs, and as I watch, there are more blithely making their way up his back, stomach, arms, even one on his forehead. OUTSTANDING.

So, just like other moms in this situation, I simultaneously text The Hubs and call the doctor, aka Google, for various maladies that he could have. You know, because Google is so reliable and trustworthy. Personally, I believe they should put an extra search filter on there called “Panicky Mothers Who Should Really Know Better” and automatically exclude images that cause hyperventilating, low moaning, or, you know, sobbing. NOT THAT I WAS DOING ANY OF THOSE THINGS.

I called the advice nurse after watching his rash/plague climb up his leg like a frapp-fueled anaconda, and she informed me that a)no, he didn’t have chicken pox, b)no, he didn’t have measles, and c)it was probably just a viral rash and I should dope him up with Benadryl and call it a day.

Yes, surprisingly anti-climatic for Mr. Henry, whose health issues usually result in some kind of fist-clenching excitement.

Then again, I did have an interesting dream last night where he was literally covered, head to toe, in oozing blisters. DAMN YOU GOOGLE!