anxiety

grumpy about parenting (how to fail 101)

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After a horrendous spring and summer, during which I’ve lost my voice several times from screaming so much at Jesse, and gained 10 stress pounds and 200 linear feet of stress wrinkles on my face, I have had an epiphany.

I know I know, I have a lot of stupid epiphanies. But this one is less stupid than usual.

I had been thinking that I’ve been on the edge of a parental nervous breakdown for several months. But I realized some time in the last 48 hours that I’m in the midst of a nervous breakdown. In fact, I’m thinking I achieved full breakdown some months ago. Instead of being on the edge of a nervous breakdown, I’ve been on the edge of reason.

The threat of putting Jesse on meds has moved me past insanity to reason. Anthony is taking her to see a psychiatrist next week. I’m not going. I realized after we started considering meds that I really, really, really don’t want Jesse on them, especially in these critical years when she heads into puberty and massive body and brain changes.  I understand the argument that anxiety-style meds may be positive – they may bring her down to a place where she can more effectively participate in behavior modification strategies and cognitive behavior therapy. But the same anxiety that makes her crazy also heightens her perceptiveness and imagination, and it lays some of the groundwork for her beautiful poetry, her insight into people, and her quirky humor. What would I feel like if meds take that away from her?

So the threat of it has made me come to my senses. I got down to practical business a couple days ago, which is to say I googled shit and bought some books. On the parenting front, I got “the opposite of worry,” by Lawrence J. Cohen, Ph.D. It’s “The Playful Parenting Approach to Childhood Anxieties and Fears.”

I don’t know why the title uses no caps, but the sub-caption uses initial caps. Why? WHY?? You’d think that with a doctorate, Dr. Cohen could do something about that. Or at least afford a better editor. Who decided it would be cute to mix up upper and lower case like this? What, this guy is the ee cummings of child psychology?

What? Oh. It’s an okay book. I started reading it and it’s mostly about normal anxiety and fear, but stuff like this can be a refresher to help get my own parenting ideas flowing anew for Jesse’s more extreme needs.

I also ordered “The Explosive Child” by Ross Greene. No, rude reader, it’s not about poop and gas. It is, rather, “A New Approach for Understanding and Parenting Easily Frustrated, Chronically Inflexible Children.” Right up my need alley. I’m sure I’ll read several chapters.

I have a theory about how books like this work, at least for me. The fact that they’re in major paperback publication, and sold on Amazon, tells me that there are a significant number of people who believe they have kids just like mine. That’s what these books actually do for me — their mere existence is much more important than their content. No one wants to be alone; solidarity engenders relief. I’m relieved I’m not the only parent with a jackass child. In fact, the Explosive book’s cover declares that it is “The Classic Parenting Guide–More Than 500,000 Copies Sold.”

In the 21st century does “than” get capitalized in that phrase? What the fuck is happening to my world?

Shit shit shit. I’m engaging in classic avoidance, and my long-beaten inner grammar nazi is raising its ugly head from the P-trap of my brain’s toilet. Wait a second while I flush it back down.

Right, I’m back. So I’m going to read The Explosive Child, because I need something out of the norm. And also, Jesse is explosive. From both ends, frankly, especially since we allowed her to be poisoned by a giant chewy egg-bearing Sweet Tart on our drive home last week. Two weeks’ of safe vacation, and on the very last day she gets exposed to eggs. How did I let that happen?

Speaking of eggs, I had to go to Home Depot tonight. I still hate Home Depot. 40 Home Depot employees wandering around the aisles like lobotomized cast members in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and only ONE — EXACTLY ONE — checkout stand is open, with 12 people lined up and waiting to get out of that shit hole.

Hold on. I need to flush again.

I bought Jesse some books too. Best to flood her as much as me with too much information and no innate ability to organize it. I discovered a “What to Do When…” series, written for kids (but not by kids). Pictures, simple talk, ideas for practicing and helping your grown-ups do a better job of parenting you. These books do a better job with capitalization, sort of. I got Jesse What to Do When…

-Good Enough Isn’t Good Enough. The Real Deal on Perfectionism.
-Your Temper Flares. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Problems with Anger.
-You Worry Too Much. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Anxiety.
-You Grumble too Much. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Negativity.
-Bad Habits Take Hold. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming Nail Biting and More.
-Your Brain Gets Stuck. A Kid’s Guide to Overcoming OCD.

Do you think it’s too much?

I encouraged her to start with Grumbling. It’s actually really well done. It talks about being naturally pessimistic versus optimistic, and flexible versus inflexible. It describes pessimism as having a magnifying glass that makes bad things seem bigger, but a kid doesn’t know it’s the magnifying glass. The kid thinks it’s how the world actually is. And so on. There are exercises to help you be more flexible and optimistic. All good.

Jesse got through the first two chapters and started screaming.

Jesse is more interested in the OCD book. I don’t think she’s severely OCD, but she’s attracted to this book because the first exercise in it asks her to look in the garbage can and draw three things she sees in there. What kid could walk away from that? i may have to hide it. Avoidance seems to be a thing with Jesse too.

Anyway, bottom line, bottom line, here’s the thing. I’m fucking this parenting thing up big time. Right now, I’m getting the sense that this is the lineup of my major problems:

One. I have been yelling at Jesse too much when she’s really naughty, instead of properly separating and ignoring her.

Two. I have been shame-talking Jesse too much when she does really mean things, instead of properly separating and ignoring her.

Three. I have been nattering at and arguing with Jesse too much about stuff, instead of properly separating and ignoring her.

Four. I have been showing too much emotion, instead of properly separating and ignoring Jesse.

Five, I have been making idle threats. A lot of them. Instead of… you know.

ALTERNATIVELY, replace “properly… etc.” with “expressing understanding and compassion for Jesse’s feelings” in all of the above. But we’ve tried this model for many years, and it’s all used up.

So today I implemented drastic measures involving ignoring Jesse. A lot. I figure she got about two-plus hours of exclusion time today, based on 10-minutes-per-kick-or-hit and 5-minutes-per-threat and also 5-minutes-for-too-much-penis-talk. She had to sit on the stairs or go somewhere by herself, and she had to sit out a playground for 25 minutes while Nick and I played contentedly. Then she joined us and we had a great time.

It was exhausting and I felt awful. The hardest moment was when Jesse interrupted her “IGNORE JESSE” time by saying to me sweetly, “I love you, mommy.” And I had to wait 1 minutes 40 seconds before I could answer her. That sucked so bad.

But overall, at the end of the day Jesse and I agreed: today didn’t suck as bad as yesterday. So we may have to continue on this path for a while.

Until I discover that, instead of doing the right thing as a parent, I’ve been ignoring Jesse too much.

I’m headed for the bottom

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We’re on our last day of a two week trip. We have four more hours to drive and then we’ll be home, where construction rages on. Our built-in amenities when we arrive will include a basement bathroom, laundry, hot water, and a single bedroom we’ll all continue to share. Possibly internet access. Our makeshift kitchen will hypothetically still be there, and I’m praying to any Thing any sentient being in any Galaxy has ever believed in, in the entire history of the entire universe, that the construction crew didn’t hit our liquor stash. Because I need some numb time. 

Jesse mostly kept it together in the in-between moments she shared with other people, but whenever we were alone together, Jesse made us miserable. She screamed, whined, tic’ed, and abused Anthony, Nick, and me both verbally and physically. It has been noisy and brutal, especially on the long-drive days when we’re trapped in the car together for hours. Unless you’ve experienced it, there’s no understanding how persistent and relentless Jesse is. There’s no humor to be found in the details, just heartache and a desolate sadness.  

The past few months have been rocky for Jesse, but really all we’ve seen is a continuation of behaviors she’s displayed her whole life, ramping up for one reason or another. This trip took her to a whole new level, and we see no way out of the tunnel anymore. 

From a safe distance, things would no doubt appear clearer. Why are her tics so bad right now, and why is she so abusive? Because of her anxiety. Why is her anxiety so bad right now? Because of the home construction, anticipation of middle school, a noisy brother, vacation stress, food allergies. Maybe she’s pre-pubescent. It’s all so obvious. 

Better parenting would no doubt solve a lot of these issues. Sticker charts! Reward systems! Spanking! Food denial! Firm discipline and clear boundaries! Lock her in her room! Set her free! Exercise! Outdoor time! Give her more love and patience! No electronics!

Blah blah blah. Anthony and I are at the end of all parenting roads that we can travel, and we see no hope. Our only remaining tool is one we’ve hoped to avoid; but I no longer see how Jesse can do anything — like start a new school — without some big changes in her behavior. So the dirty word raises its head: meds. 

I can’t even think about it without falling to weeping. It was one thing I wanted for Jesse so badly: to find a way to avoid dependencies until she was older and her brain and body had more time to develop. Maybe, I fantasized, I could hold her hand and walk with her out of the dark place where her mind resides, and she would never have to rely on meds to get through her life. 

So this moment, when we will almost certainly turn to meds, is the most profound failure for me as a parent. I have failed Jesse in letting her get to this incredibly miserable state. I could do no worse by her. 

I’ve also failed Nick, who watches the melting-down interactions of sister, mother, and father in fear, huddling in distant corners and taking deep breaths with his eyes closed, using tools to calm himself that are well beyond his six years of experience. I haven’t protected him from anything that matters. 

We managed to get Jesse calm enough to drive today. After a hellish beginning, she was actually really good for 2 hours. She only threatened to hit Nick twice, tic words only came out a handful of times, and she didn’t scream or whine at all. So when we stopped for lunch, we let the kids pick some candy in the gas station shop. 

Jesse selected some giant sweet tart thing. Sweet tarts don’t contain eggs, so I said yes without a second thought. As we drove off, she ripped into her treat. A moment later she announced, “this is disgusting!” I resignedly put my hand back and she spit it out, a gooey mess of half-chewed giant sweet tart. 

A few minutes later, Jesse was coughing with a sound I’ve heard before. I looked back and her face was a little splotchy. I quickly checked the label on the sweet tarts, which I hadn’t bothered to read before. Sure enough: EGGS. 

We pulled over at the next exit and gave her a double dose of Zyrtec. Ten minutes later, as we continued down the highway, Jesse emptied her stomach in the back seat. 

Sigh. 

Add it to the list of my parenting fails. 

On the up side, we have further corroboration that Jesse’s egg allergy is still serious business. And all that puking and Zyrtec has sapped enough energy to quiet Jesse for a time. Also, a lady cop stopped to help us as we tried to work through the mess. She gave the kids each a stuffed animal for their troubles. How cool is that?

I threatened to take Jesse to a police station yesterday. As we headed down the road after cleaning up all the vomit today, Anthony pointed out cheerfully that Jesse did get to meet a cop after all! Only she was puking, not screaming or beating someone up, when it happened. 

Well that’s something, eh? Maybe things aren’t as bad as I think they are. Especially if I never ever ever have to go on a vacation with Jesse again. Everrrrrr. 

Grumpy about the tics

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Jesse has had a new word tic for the past 5 or 6 months. We call it Penis. 

Not to be confused with *** Is Fat or I Hate *** (insert any name of someone she loves), Feet on the Table, Kick You, Punch Punch, Lick It, or Touch It Touch It, which are well-established tics that wax and wane. 

It is the nature of Jesse’s tics to seek forbidden terrain. Penis is a new adventure in Jesse’s mental and spiritual journey, and Penis is with us in the car as we make a physical three-day journey from Wisconsin to the Atlantic Ocean. 

Jesse says it at all manner of odd times, a curious expression of her stress. She wakes up and rolls over. “Good morning penis penis penis.” She goes to sleep saying it too, and in the dark she mixes it with loud, reverberating yawps that sound like jungle monkeys heading into territorial battle — or like a miserable child struggling to get a grip on something in her brain that none of us yet understand. 

When times are tough (in her mind), Jesse wanders a room twitching like she’s getting electric shocks. “PP! PPPPHPPHH! PPE PE PE PEE!! PE PENIS!!” She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself, fails and then croons quietly in her sweet, high-pitched little girl voice. “Penis penis. Penis.”

She mutters it sometimes at taekwondo during stretching. Even as it humiliates her, she seems powerless to control the blurts. Everyone ignores her masterfully there, but at home where we endure it on and on, trying and trying to ignore it and not reward it with attention, it drives us mad and shreds away any remaining armor of patience. All that’s left is a collective raw nerve. 

I’ve suggested different words, like “peanuts.” But apparently not even that packs the right punch for her.

We’ve also tried reverse psychology. One morning we woke up to Penis. I said to Nick, let’s just only say penis to Jesse today. He looked at me in concern and then said hesitantly, “mommy… Nooo…”

We were silent a moment and then Nick spoke. “Jesse?”

“What, Nick?”

“Penis.”

For a while Penis manifested in phrases. One day as I took a shower, Jesse popped her head into the bathroom and spoke cheerfully. “Hello hairy penis lady!”

On her third visitation, I snarled, “say it to me one more time and I will take your iPad away for the entire summer!”

She didn’t come back. Shit shit shit, I thought, as I pondered the weight of idle threats. I found her in the bedroom. She looked at me and spoke mildly. “Hairy penis lady.”

I had to send Anthony to her to undo my idle threat and impose a more rational consequence.

Penis shows itself in physical behaviors too, which are very disturbing. Jesse puts her hands to her crotch and mimes as though she’s spraying pee everywhere with what appears to be an absolutely enormous penis. Or she tries to punch or kick Anthony’s privates. 

We’re driving to a beach house that we’ll share for a week with a handful of families. Jesse has expressed a lot of concern that Penis tic will rear its ugly head. She knows peeps will think she’s strange. Maybe they’ll get pissed off. Odds are good that if she gets going, kids won’t want to play with her. Worrying about this ramps up her stress, increasing the probability of Penis taking over her mind. 

This morning, the topic of imaginary friends came up. It occurred to me that Penis is much like an imaginary friend, a mysterious presence in Jesse’s mind that follows her everywhere and manifests in our real world. I suggested Jesse say good bye to her imaginary friend, much like Anthony once did long ago (more on that another day). Maybe Penis doesn’t have to come to the beach house with us. 

Jesse didn’t answer but I knew she heard me. I could tell she was thinking. 

We drove three hours and found a DQ for lunch, in the prosperous hills of West Virginia.  We walked in and Penis started right up as we waited for our food. I asked Jesse to go say good bye to Penis, just go open that door and send Penis out. Penis can wait outside, and you can spend time with her later if you have to, when you’re not with us. 

Jesse glared at me and slowly walked to the door. She opened it and, after a long look at me, stepped outside. I waited a few seconds and realized Jesse was staying outside. 

I stuck my head out the door. “Jesse, you’re not Penis. Penis is imaginary. Leave her outside, and you come back in.” 

“Oh!” Said the relieved look on Jesse’s face. She sat down at the table with me and we had a peaceful few minutes. 

Penis did not re-enter the premises, and then I re-learned a lesson I always forget, perhaps as a survival mechanism. Jesse’s tics are tag-teamers. Before we left, Jesse had put her feet on the table repeatedly, started whining, and also she kicked me incessantly until I was livid. I didn’t have any space in me to praise her for letting go of Penis, and I was filled with the rage of impotence and failure, having watched my supposedly brilliant ploy defeated soundly by Jesse’s issues. 

I snapped at her one last time, my shins and knees aching from her kicks, “stop kicking me!!”

“Why?” She sounded insolent to me.

“This is why,” I answered grimly as I shoved a foot up on her thigh under the table and dug my shoe in. 

“Ooow,” she grunted quietly. She kicked me again under the table and I kicked her hard a second time. I was so pissed off I wasn’t even thinking about child protective services. 

She stopped kicking me.

Still full of impotent rage, I yelled and shrieked at her in a full fit of Snarla when we got back in the car. When she threatened to hit Nick, I snarled, “do it! DO IT SO I CAN PUNCH YOU BACK! Let me show you what it feels like to live with you!!”

I said to my ten-year-old daughter. 

I went on, though the words are a blur in my memory. I’ve never in my entire life let anyone treat me like you do! You hurt our bodies every day, and you put Nick down constantly! I don’t care why anymore! It has to stop! I don’t care why you abuse the people who love you most! Whatever you do to us, I’m going to do to you WORSE!!

My child, my love, my little offspring, for whom I would rip off my own arm if I had to, cringed away from me in fear. And I didn’t feel even a little bit bad about it. 

At least, not until I calmed down about ten minutes later. But her behavior has definitely improved in the 5 hours since. Not perfect, but better. Not as many P-bombs. 

And so I’ve learned a bad lesson. There has to be a better path to helping Jesse overcome her challenges — something better than just being more fucking crazy than her. 

Grumpy about my daughter (Good lord, she’s ten)

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I don’t understand how ten years have passed since Jesse was born. I’ve looked at photos. I’ve aged at least 20 years in that time. Maybe it’s because I’ve lost so much sleep; maybe I’ve been awake during the gone decade as much as normal people are awake in 20 years.

Motherhood has been a challenging, emotionally exhausting journey with Jesse, a climb made tougher by our mutual self-loathing and cynicism, her developmental quirks and tics. Some days it feels hopeless, what with the keening and whining issuing from both our mouths. I wonder sometimes if she’ll ever be happy. 

Jesse struggled through her green belt testing for tae kwon do last night; it was preceded by hours of extreme performance anxiety, expressed in pretty extreme  ways. Anthony reported that after Jesse messed up some moves a little during testing, she started crying. She kept crying, and she kept going. So I was proud. But I wish she could have had more fun, like most other kids, and felt more pride.

When this tae kwon do studio gives a child their new belt, the instructor always asks: now that you’re a higher belt, what do you plan to change and improve in yourself? I asked Jesse to consider this answer for when she receives her green belt and has to announce to the class what she wants to change: “cry less, have more fun, and take things less seriously.” She looked at me sidelong with a  contemplative green eye and said nothing.

On Jesse’s birthday, after she and Nick went to sleep, I pulled out the external hard drive and rummaged through a decade of photographs. They tell a different story of Jesse than I tend to remember, one filled less with sadness and more with joy. Maybe I’m the one who needs to cry less, have more fun, and take things less seriously. (I’m looking at myself sidelong right now, with a contemplative brown eye.) Maybe all the unhappiness Jesse experiences is just on the surface. Maybe under it is something deeper and stronger than the bitter pills of Jesse’s anxiety and miserable self-esteem, something more abiding.

Jesse was born just 5 pounds and 14 ounces, a diminutive doll with porcelain skin, eyes of violet and a passionate temperament that could move her from raw rage to uncontrolled glee in a blink of her enormous puddly eyes.

one hour into life

one hour into life

Dang, she was a cute wee thing.

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Her eyes eventually turned to green

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but not much else has changed.

The photos I looked at showed me a little girl with an abiding love of the outdoors.

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A little girl with loving and connected relationships with her parents.

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A little girl who’s sweet on her baby brother.

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A little girl who’s not afraid of a little magic.

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A little girl comfortable with silliness and individuality.

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A little girl made of strength and sass.

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A little girl who experiences stress, to be sure.

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But who also has courage enough to take risks and partake of triumphs.

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A little girl who knows how to revel in simple happiness.

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And in recent pictures, I can see shadows of the woman she’ll someday be.

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I love so much about Jesse. She has courage without boundaries, and I know this because she soldiers on despite her endless parade of fears and anxieties. She’s passionately altruistic, generous, introspective, intuitive, critical. She has an artist’s eye and soul. She sees what’s beautiful as readily as she sees what’s ugly. She strives. It’s practically trite to say that I’m blessed to have her as my daughter, that she embodies so many qualities that I cherish.

But I can also say this. Even if Jesse was a coward, selfish, shallow, emotionally blind, vapid, unkind, lazy, ugly — even if she was all those things, I would still love her. Because I’m her mother. And that’s good enough for me in this life.

Grumpy at the swim meet (another hour gone and I’m still a moron)

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Yes, it RHYMES. I have TIMES for that. 

I whined to the swim team coach about why Jesse was only in one heat. I determined that fact by poring carefully (no really, I did) through 12 pages that look like this:



Uuuugh. 

Coach said gee let me see if I can get her in a breast stroke heat.

He came back a few minutes later. “She’s already in two heats.” He showed me the line item I missed.

So we only have to wait two more hours until Jesse swims, not three.  Excellent news. 

Now I’m bored AND embarrassed. I hate when I whine for no reason. 

Grumpy about separation anxiety

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My kids were born with terrible cases of separation anxiety. All they wanted to do as babies was hang onto Anthony or me 24-7 like little monkeys. What’s up with that? I read everywhere that my babies would sleep through the night for 14 hours by the time they were three months old, and also they’d enjoy hanging out by themselves in bassinets and face down on carpets, staring blankly at bright red-and-black plastic toys that make analog noises. Obviously, my children have some significant disorder that caused their reality to veer hard from the life of ease that’s allegedly available to all other parents and babies. Or I have a parenting disorder.

Jesse used to have terrible, terrible separation issues when she was a really wee one, and of course eventually we learned that she does have a disorder in the form of general anxiety. So it’s a good thing we ignored all the books and refused to make her scream her way alone through the nights. Even Grand Sleep Master Ferber acknowledged that a child with anxiety and separation issues shouldn’t be subjected to cry-it-out sleep-training, but he never offered a lick of advice on how a parent goes about determining if a 6-month-old infant has such issues. I found Ferber’s omission outrageous and irresponsible. What was I supposed to do — ask the baby? “Hi sweet pea, woo-joo-boo-jooooo. Do you feel abnormal anxiety about things, my little peanut? Tell me about your deepest fears and nightmares. Woo-joo-boo-jooo.”

Jesse used to cling to me desperately when I dropped her off at school. Sometimes she still does. The only time she consistently didn’t turn back to reach for me was during the 7 months she spent in a Montessori prison, at the tender age of 5. She would get out of the car and never look back as she walked away, her body set, her step resigned as she prepared to face 3.5 hours of emotional abuse from the nasty piece of work who called herself a teacher and pretended to care about Jesse. I still look back on all that with shame, and I’m grateful the memories finally seem to be fading from Jesse’s mind. Why did it take me so long to see that Jesse’s behavior was an indictment of my failure to protect her from something terrible? I suppose I could look back on it with pride. At least I didn’t mistake her depressed walk-away as something positive, hey-look-at-how-independent-she-is-now!

Hm. Nah. Better to feel guilty about it.

Anyway, on the rare occasions when Jesse still needs to cling to me at the schoolhouse doors, I let her cling. I’d rather fill her cup than put another crack in it. Plus it leaves me less grumpy.

Nick also has a lot of separation anxiety, but the last couple months it’s gotten all wacky. He can be sitting in a room with me, not five feet away, wrapped up in some form of play or staring into his iPad. Suddenly he’ll cry out in terror. “MOMMY?? WHERE ARE YOU???”

Every time he screams out like this, I feel goosed. He does it when I’m on the can. He does it when I walk out of the room to get a kleenex. He does it when I go downstairs to do some laundry. Frequently when I head out with a bag of garbage, he’ll race out the kitchen door after me. “MOMMY?? WHERE ARE YOU GOING???” Sometimes he’ll let me walk the dog down the street by myself while he stays in the house. I have to promise to stay without eye-shot of the driveway. Even so, at least half the time he’ll come out to the street in his bare feet to hunt me down. Announcing where I’m going and what I’m about to do makes no difference, because he apparently has the short-term memory of a small-brained dog.

One day he did it while I was playing the piano loudly and badly. Nick was sitting on the floor just a few feet away while I generated some serious decibels. A Chopin ballade, I think. “MOMMY??? WHERE ARE YOU????” I was irate, and I chewed him out. “WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?? I’M RIGHT HERE! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU???”

He was visibly relieved as he answered sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh. I forgot.”

My kids follow me around the house like little comet trails. Last week we were snuggling in bed in the morning, and then I decided to get up. I made the mistake of announcing my intent. Suddenly Nick and Jesse were on top of me. I struggled for a full five minutes, in a quiet and desperate battle to get them off me without hurting them or myself. It was like having two tiny zombies after me. They were relentless and unbelievably strong. They wanted a piece of me. I suppose one could argue it was sweet and loving and all that, and I confess it was… but on a demented level. I was exhausted when I finally broke free, and thankful to make a break for the bathroom. I need some space from my kids’ separation issues.

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Today we did something new. Jesse is nine now. Notwithstanding social norms that appear to require that I not leave my kids alone until they’re 19 or 20, I feel that she’s old enough and responsible enough to be home alone for short periods of time, like if I have to run out for 15 minutes. With the doors locked and a phone and the dog by her side, she’s fine until I return. I’ve proposed this to her on many occasions to no avail. Her separation anxiety kicks in, and she always follows me out the door. But today she was home sick (again), and I needed to pick Nick up from school, and she was tired out from running errands with me. She decided to stay home for the 15 minutes it took me to retrieve Nick.

I wasn’t sure how it would go. I showed her again how to call my cell phone. We practiced. She said she was fine. I headed out the door. Sure enough, her anxiety acted right up. I was still in the garage when the first telephone call came through.

Oh wait, that was me calling her. I just wanted to make sure she was okay and wasn’t going to run out behind the car as I backed out so that I could run her over.

Jesse was fine. So I drove off. My stomach was feeling kind of funny so I thought I might need to run back home to go to the bathroom and check in on Jesse, but I decided to wait it out. The second call came as I pulled into the school parking lot. Now I was really worried I would have to run back home to grab Jesse.

Wait. I actually think I made that call too.

After I got Nick, we hustled back to the car. He was in a real hurry to get back to Jesse, I tell you, probably because he wanted to make sure she wasn’t losing her mind to fear. In fact, he almost fell over from rushing back to the car so fast, so it was a good thing I had him by the shoulder of his coat to help drag him in the right direction.

Okay okay, I’ll just go ahead and admit that I placed the third call too, as Nick and I drove back home. By then, Jesse was completely exasperated with me. I was obviously interrupting something.

I started to worry on a whole different level. Would the house still be standing when I got home? Would Jesse still be inside? Was she planning to take the dog on a walk without me? What if she got lost?

Meanwhile, my stomach kept churning. It was probably from all the pickles I ate at lunch. Also I was feeling a little short of breath. Sometimes that happens when the days are really, really cold like today.

When Nick and I got home, Jesse was running around the living room taking photos of Madeline with her iPad. There was a kitchen chair next to the fridge. Huh. Jesse explained that she had gotten some treats for Madeline. I think she might have also snuck some treats for herself. Jesse was relaxed and cheerful, completely at ease, and a little disappointed we got back so quickly.

I was so happy for her. It’s a good thing I don’t have separation anxiety. I’m obviously helping Jesse get over her own anxiety by being a great role model.

Grumpy about pool pee

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Jesse has a swim meet tomorrow. She’s been having an anxiety attack about it for about a week. Yesterday and today she woke up making noises that were somewhere between yodeling, whining and keening.

This morning she flopped into bed with me and Nick, and as she wheedled I finally remembered an old lesson from therapy: the unknown danger is more debilitating than the one you can see and understand. That’s what makes an anxiety disorder so disruptive sometimes. Your body says something terrible is going to happen, but you just don’t know what — it’s a shadow lurking around every bend, and you can never really name it. Accepting that it’s only in your imagination sometimes just makes it worse, because then you feel bat-shit crazy.

I asked Jesse, “What exactly is making you so anxious about the swim meet?”

“I dunnooooo.”

So we set about putting a face on the monster in the closet.

Jesse has the ordinary fears — I’ll suck at the meet, I’ll let the team down, I’ll swim the wrong stroke. And also one more. She worries she’ll pee in the pool while she’s competing because when she’s nervous she feels like she needs to pee. This is what she’s most afraid of today.

I said aloud what none of us really wants to think about: every competitive swimmer pees in the pool at some point. I guarantee it. It’s the dirty secret. Pool pee. It’s not something Jesse needs to worry about. If she pees, she pees. No one ever has to know.

Jesse’s swim coach went there with me today. “I see maybe 400 people in this pool every day. I PROMISE you, at least a hundred of them pee in the pool.”

Uuuugh. Head. Spinning.

Jesse is having trouble finding a balance between her anxiety about the swim meet and her OCD reaction to pool pee.

As for me, I find that knowing the face of this particular monster has made things worse. I was fine before. Now all I’ll be thinking about at the swim meet tomorrow is pool pee.

Grumpy about the tic list

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Jesse is hitting the ropes. As I type, she’s screeching at her beloved swim teacher Sarah and refusing to swim, and also whining and ululating — noises I haven’t heard in a long while. Every face in the swimming pool area is watching her, mostly in shock. It’s a busy time at the JCC pool, so at least 60 or 70 peeps are being forced to listen to my horrible child. There’s a lot of parent judging going on, probably based on two false assumptions: 1. I haven’t worked really hard for years to help Jesse control this stuff, and 2. I have the power to fix the situation here and now. It’s why I’m thumb-typing a blog on this iPhone from a distant spot in the arena, instead of paying much attention. I’m cooool as a sea cucumber.

This used to be a constant phenomenon a few years ago when we still embraced the probability that Jesse was autistic. That was upsetting in a different way. We talked about trust funds, schooling alternatives, acceptance, and social cues training. Now we’ve wrapped our heads around the notion that we’re more likely talking about mental illness than developmental disability, and more specifically, behavioral problems that Jesse ought someday to be able to control. So now I just get pissed off at her instead of doing what I should, which is talk about trust funds, schooling alternatives, acceptance, and social cues training.

Oh screw this. It’s been 15 minutes of screaming. I’m calling it. I’m going to grab Jesse out of the pool and move on. I’ll be back later to finish this.

It’s later. It’s tomorrow actually. I have a cut on my thumb and had to put a bandaid on, so then the thumb-typing doesn’t work and this is the first chance I’ve had to turn on the computer. Does anyone produce touch-screen compatible bandaids? Also I went out with some moms last night. The timing was terrible. I was so fried by Jesse’s behavior that I was destined to drink too much, but the girlie pink martini drinks were sooo delicious.

Um… So back to the pool: I marched over and told Jesse, get out of the pool, we’re leaving. She acted shocked. What, she thinks it’s okay to act like this? Much begging and bawling ensued as she quickly showered, dressed, and followed Nick and me to the car. I was grim. More bawling emanated from her room after I sent her there and told her to write down what she thinks Sarah feels like when Jesse goes apeshit on her. When I went to check on Jesse 20 minutes later, all she had written down was “I don’t know.” I could have sworn she’s shown more empathy than this succinct sentence suggests. (Just say those three words over and over again for a while. Fun times.)

Sarah and I chatted briefly while Jesse showered. Sarah had used a pat adult tactic on Jesse, along the lines of “I can’t hear you when you’re screaming and whining at me.” In response, Jesse leaned in close and yelled in Sarah’s ear, “What, YOUR EARS ARE DEAD???” Classic. It’s why we love Jesse anyway.

All of this is part of a cycle, I know. Just like me during the past month, Jesse’s in a valley, and eventually we’ll help her climb out of it. The tics are coming back too — still not as bad as they used to be, but they are so damn annoying! So I think it would be a useful exercise – in the quest for sanity – to catalog Jesse’s major tics and OCD compulsions through the years, for a little perspective. I do mean tics — not just bad habits or annoying choices, but repetitive compulsive behaviors that feel impossible to control, that sometimes happen before you even notice you’re doing them, over and over again. She’s overcome or grown out of many of these, but once in a while they return for encore performances. It’s always frustrating and disappointing when a long-gone tic returns, but we have to soldier on.

One of the most wonderfully strange things about Jesse’s tics is that she announces them. As a result, they have names. For instance, “feet on the table” (see below, meal category) is what she says as she puts her feet on the table at meals. She’s very prosaic. I used to think the announcing was attentional and combative, but that’s not right. She didn’t get the kind of feedback that would make a normal child continue the behaviors for gain. Now we understand that the announcements are cries for help, a sort of “oh no here we go again I can’t stop this crazy shit help me!” I suppose I’m glad that she’s communicating, but there’s something surreal about it at times.

Anyway here’s the tic/OCD list, for my personal gratification, categorized for my convenience. I’m not including the common OCD stuff Jesse deals with, like the constant hand-washing, the various sensory issues relating to clothing, and her deep commitment to perfection. If you’re bored with this post, now is a good time to bug out and move on to more interesting stuff; but if you’re sticking with me…

Meal-related

“Feet on the table.” Jesse sits down and puts her feet up on the table alongside all the food. Ew.

“Cough on it.” Jesse comes to dinner and carefully coughs once on each of the communal plates of food. Ew. Also WTF.

“Punch the window. ” Just what it sounds like. The window next to her chair at the kitchen table.

“Spill my drink.” Yup. Just what it sounds like. Every meal. This one was very messy, but we solved it by only giving her water to drink, so then bonus! A clean table after wipe-down.

The finger-lickers

Touch public toilet seat, “lick my finger.” (usually followed by a curious lilting whine, “eh-eeeeh, eh-eeeeh”)

Touch dirty surfaces in gym locker room, “lick my finger.”

Touch bottom of dirty shoe, “lick my finger.”

Touch bakery products at grocery store, “lick my finger.” This could also go in the injury category, because she knows baked goods usually contain eggs and she’s severely allergic to eggs.

Something is Sticky/Smelly/Wet

Touch crotch or butthole, stick fingers in mommy’s face, “smell my fingers.” Gag-worthy. Ever grateful this one is gone. For now.

“Eh-eeeh, eh-eeeh, my sleeve is sticky,” while fidgeting madly with her sleeve end. It’s not sticky. Why I used to wash 3 or 4 shirts a day for her.

“My hair is sticky, my hair is sticky,” while rummaging in her hair for whatever she thinks is there.

Play with the fat seam at the crotch of her pants, while curling her back into a fantastically flexible c-shape so her head is down in her crotch area. “My fingers are stinky.” Really?

“Eh-eeeh, eh-eeeh, my shirt is wet,” while hunting madly for a wet spot on her shirt.

“My shoes are dirty,” while checking the bottoms of her shoes incessantly.

Mean words

“I hate [insert name of friend or family member].” We’ve never been sure why on this one. These days she tends to run away with her hands over her mouth to try to stop it.

“[insert name of anyone] is fat.” Hands over mouth, or muttering it under her breath like a weirdo.

Injury

“Take my hands off.” Of the bicyle handlebar while pedaling at full speed. Very painful results every single time. We had to put her bike away for half a year because she was getting so badly hurt. We all cried the next spring when she finally was able to ride it without taking her hands off the handlebar. It was a profound victory over a sucky compulsion.

“Choke you.” Plainly stated, painfully applied.

“Punch daddy.” More specifically, his balls.

“Diddle your boobies.” Mine.

Snuggle… “Head butt you.” This would have been a rear head blow to my chin while spooning sweetly.

Anti-authority (aka, I’m not supposed to, so I really feel the need to)

Yawping when she’s supposed to be quiet. This was probably one of the main symptoms that made Jesse’s early ed teachers think she was autistic. “AAAAWP!” She would hurl it into silence, a bold burst of sound rising in pitch from beginning to end, causing all the other little kiddies to jump in terror. My favorite reaction was from Jesse’s K5 teacher, Mrs. DLP, who one day realized nothing was going to stop Jesse’s yawp. So instead she invited all the other students to join Jesse in a group yawp, and they had a little yawping party. I could have cried for loving Mrs. DLP when I learned of this.

“Pull down my pants.” And underwear. In public. Normal for a 2 year old, not for a 6 year old.

“Pull up my shirt.” Full frontal exposure. Same story as pants.

* * * *

That’s all that comes to mind off the top of my head, and wow. I do feel better. No wonder I’m bat-shit crazy after almost 9 years with Jesse.

I’m grumpy again, aka can you take my child to school for me?

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If you have issues with cursing just walk away now because I have to unleash some feelings and I don’t think I’ll edit.

Today, as we geared up for the first day back to school after winter break, I remembered that I fucking hate taking Jesse to school. I hate it in an irrational, tantrumy, 5- year-old-facing-down-broccoli way. I’m so fucking tired of it. Counting preschool and Jesse’s traumatic, PTSD-inducing 7-month stint in the most evil Montessori school ever, I’ve been taking Jesse to school for 5 and a half years now. I want a new job.

First, I have to make her lunch because of her egg allergy. It’s a ball and chain in my life. Jesse doesn’t eat packaged or normal so it’s either some crazy home made taco array with fresh tortillas, or fresh bread. Fresh as in I have to make it and bake it, otherwise she won’t bother to eat, and then her blood sugar and her mood go all haywire. Bad. When well-meaning (or maybe not) people suggest I send something easier in her lunch and she can take it or leave it, I say things like “yeeeah I don’t think that’ll work…” and I try to sound like a hippy. But inside I’m thinking mature, constructive things like, “why don’t you shut the fuck up, you patronizing asshole, or I will beat the shit out of you, and don’t think for a minute that you can take me because under this blub I am CHISELED.”

Next, I have to get Jesse fed and dressed in the morning, via some random combination of threats and promises. I used to have action plans and sticker charts, but they made no difference so I just live in the moment now. It’s all pulling teeth, and most of the time it involves a great deal of whining and dissent. Jesse often joins me in the noise-making. Getting out to the car involves more threats, more promises, more grim waiting. On the worst days, Jesse screams during most of the 5-minute drive to school.  If she knew how to curse, she would curse me to hell all the way. Picture Charlton Heston on a beach.

The battle continues when we get to school. Usually I end up standing next to her open car door in the parking lot, bent over with my hands on my knees, insanely muttering “God I hate this I hate this, this is the worst part of my day” while she sits glumly, refusing to get out of the car.  By now, the promises have been used up and it’s all threats. Eventually she dawdles her way to the school doors. When she starts with the whining noises, I think things like, “oh my dear lord, you little shit, get your ass through that door or I will drag you by the ankle to your classroom and good riddance.”

Then comes the worst part of all, when I sit on the bench outside the entrance and help Jesse put on her backpack. As other children straggle past, she turns to me with those enormous, puddly green eyes, sad and scared, leans in on me and murmurs intensely, earnestly, “Mommy I don’t want to go to school, I just want to stay with you.”

I can’t even say it makes me feel guilty; it’s worse than that. I feel broken and useless. After 5 and a half years, how come I haven’t figured this out yet? Why is it so hard? But Jesse and I have to keep moving before the emotional shale slips out from under our feet and flattens us. We hold each other, touch foreheads and lock eyes, ignore sweet-and-easy Nick for a moment. I whisper sweet nothings to her. You’re an awesome kid, have a great day, go with the flow, let yourself be ish, see you at the end of the day, I love you. She nods and takes a breath for courage, puts on her backpack and grabs her lunch. We fake smiles for each other. We tuck our broken hearts away and step forward into a new day. More often than not, she takes one last look at me as she walks through the door, but then she trudges on without a glance back, a diminutive 46-pound soldier walking to her schoolroom doom.

Do over tomorrow.

That's my girl

That’s my girl

My first blog post EVER

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Last week I was sitting in the waiting room while my daughter had her weekly session with her psychologist, whom I will call Dr. Abrams (because that’s actually his name).  Jesse is 8 years old and she has issues.  She’s pretty darn functional, but she’s definitely got a severe anxiety disorder and OCD, and then also she’s sort-of-Aspergers and on a tic spectrum somewhere, and there are some social cue issues, and a lot of rigidity and self-loathing.  And maybe it’s all related to anxiety, or maybe it’s not.  In other words, she’s got PITA (Pain In The Ass syndrome).  Also she has severe egg allergies, which doesn’t sit well with anxiety and OCD, since we have to be rigidly careful about food exposures, and there’s a lot of hand washing involved in moving around the world.  A perfect storm.

So I was sitting and listening to the usual assortment of strange noises issuing from behind the closed door of Dr. Abrams’s office, and ignoring my 4-year-old boy Nick because he had the iPad and didn’t need me.  Jesse puts on good demos, giving Dr. Abrams an accurate glimpse of the type of ululating, whining, noisy complaining, and yelling that accompany this little tortured soul through her days.  I spied a book on the coffee table, Love for no Reason, said cover of which references a prequel, Happy for no Reason. I peered at the photo of the author, Marci Shimoff, trying to take my mind off the Sounds of Jesse.  Airbrushed, made-up, plucked, perfect white smile, the works.  Marci’s eyebrows seemed to be sitting unnaturally high, in a way that said “botox” to me.  I flipped through the Love book and quickly identified the seven love chakras I need to open so I can love for no reason.  I began to seethe about Marci’s no-reason lifestyle, as I continued to hear Jesse sounding off to Dr. Abrams.  What really would help me, I thought, is a book called Grumpy for no Reason.  (Hence this blog.)

I couldn’t get those stupid no-reason books out of my head.  I visited the web page for the no-reason lady.  I discovered that she’s the bestselling author of a series of books about chicken soup.  Very famous and rich, speaking tours, etc.  I’ve never heard of her.  I’m a little out of touch.  But now I know what she’s selling, because it says so in big red letters on her webpage.  “Be happy, wealthy, and well…Learn the secret to getting what you want.”  This made me seethe even more.  She’s not happy or loving for no reason.  She does it for money.  Love and happiness are profit-making enterprises.

If it was me, I would choose a different motto. This is my motto:  “be grumpy, cheeky and well… Learn the secret to living with what you’ve got.”  It ought to be enough.

Recently I was extremely grumpy with the kids in the evening; I snapped and grumbled and yelled my way through our evening routine.

Oh wait, that’s almost every night.

Anyway, on this particular evening, we snuggled up in bed together (aka, they smothered me with their tiny little bodies).  Through the muff of their hair, I mumbled these words.  “You guys have really irritated me today.  I’m grumpy.  But I love you, and I’m so happy to be here with you, even though you drive me crazy.  I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”  We hugged all over each other and went to sleep content.

I’m thinking I’ve got the no-reason thing going on.