The ADHD Puzzle

We have set my 7 year old up with therapy appointments.

I’m pretty sure, at this point, that the ADHD comes from both sides of my family, having had the time to reflect on things.

The woman doing my son’s psychological evaluation called me out on my potential affliction because of the way I speak and the way I jump from subject to subject simply by sidetracking myself with a simple, meaningless, comment.

He explained it to me the other day perfectly: “I hate when I’m trying to listen or think and then my eyes get all blurry and I’m just staring somewhere.”

His focus is gone, no matter how much he wants to (or knows he should) listen (or think). And by the time he gets back to the subject at hand, he has no idea what he was even thinking about that distracted him.

It sucks. Trust me, I know.

And I know how much more frustrating it has to be for a kid.

He wanted to go back on his Focalin about 3 weeks ago after the teacher moved the kids’ seats around and he was placed next to other second graders who were already working on multiplication (!!); he said it would “make him smarter.” I let him because I wanted to see how he would do in a new grade, a new school, with a pill on which his former teacher at his former school had said she noticed no change.

I see some changes. Some good. Some just a badly magnified version of what we were already dealing with simply because of fatigue at the end of the day.

There is no easy answer in this ADHD puzzle, and I wish there was.

There are pieces to it that have the same image as the rest of the pieces around it, but the shape is slightly different.

And I can’t force them in.

All I can do is sit and wait for them to reshape themselves through the proper channels of therapy and medication and pray that, someday, they will fit the way they were meant.

The way that will make him happier than he is. More focused. More self-assured.

We will get there.

We have to.

Posted in Life, My Babies | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Autocorrect Fails: They’re Blazing Tasty

Anyone who has seen my Twitter rants knows that I was less than pleased with the phones that we had purchased last year. coughSamsungAcclaimcough

Finally someone listened and helped us along with a trade-in for two new phones… which are a vast improvement over the old ones, but which also come with the lovely autocorrect feature.

I thought it would be fun to post a collection of all of our massive autocorrect fails here. Enjoy!


As I’m getting ready to renew my driver’s license:

Jeff: Getting ready for your big test this afternoon?

Me: Test???? There’s a TEST?? Tell me you only mean of the eye variety. And, yes, psychedelic OUT! LOL

Me: Whoa.

Me: Psyched, not psychedelic. That’d probably duck with the vision test.

Me: Dammit. I CALL FOWL!

Me: Haha.. see what I did there?

After I sent a picture of a pile of plaster chunks on the garage floor that I had dumped out of a vaporizer.

Me: That was all the crap that fell out when I turned it upside down to get one of the kid’s toys out of it.

Jeff: Wow!

Me: The whole inside is just faked in plaster dust. =/

Me: And by faked, I mean caked. Stupid autocorrect.

Jeff: LOL Nut gross.

Jeff: Damnit!

Me: LMAO What was that???

Jeff: Should have been but gross not nut gross.

Jeff: Spent 45 minister trying to put music on my phone this morning with no luck…..

Me: Minister eh? That’s what you get for always misspelling minutes. =P

Me: Holy crap. Netflix has a streaming app and it actually works!


Jeff: No likking!

Me: Um. Ok.

Jeff: Damnit! That was supposed to be no kidding.

Me: What the help is GeekBuddy?

Me: Hell, not help.

Me: Stupid phone. Why would hell not be a saved word already??

Jeff: Geek buddy was something that came with cpmpdo.

Me: WHAT…?

After Jeff had spent 45 minutes (or minister, whatever) fixing all the duplicates in his contacts list:

Jeff: BTW my contacts are all ducked up again. Grrrrr

Me: Quack…

Jeff: Damnit

Regarding the phone’s speed both on and off the WiFi:

Jeff: Hadn’t really tried it before but these things are blazing tasty even off the wireless.

Me: I can see where this autocorrect feature is going to keep me amused for a long time.

Jeff: Ah fuck.


Posted in Autocorrect Fails | Tagged , , | 9 Comments

Wordless Wednesday: Myth vs. Reality

The Myth


The Reality


I guess at least no one was punching, kicking or hitting anyone.

Posted in My Babies, Wordless Wednesday | Tagged , , , , | 10 Comments

Loud and Clear

I watch as the water runs in a compilation of rapid rivers from the kitchen faucet.

My wrist reveals what I’d already known from the thousand times I had checked it before: not too hot; not too cold.

The tiny bundle in my other arm peers up at me, forehead wrinkled in the questioning calm that running water never fails to bring. His eyes are a deep granite with slivers of blue cutting through to his pupils. I always feel, looking into them, that eyes as deep as his must know something that I do not, especially now.

He simply stares at me, never doubting or questioning me as I remove his diaper and place him gently in the swirling liquid. The sound of water parting as petite baby flesh is placed within captures me and I watch him as he absorbs his new environment, awaiting the cries of angst I had heard from many a previous sibling.

He is, instead, silent. Complacent. Observant.

Tiny toes, skin still peeling from their adjustment to a much less liquid environment, flex and curl above the water as I run a shampoo-covered hand through dark hair, my other placed beneath him to keep him from sliding on the white porcelain. The clean scent of his baby bath reaches my nostrils as I lather him.

I watch as the bubbles form in the water, surrounding and clinging to his skin. He stretches within my hand and I can’t help but marvel at how someone so tiny can still show the telltale signs of cellulite when flexing his thin limbs.

I smile at him while he looks up at me, bubbles etching patterns around him that he won’t begin to notice for many months. His fingers flex and fan in the space between us as his water begins to cool.

Making sure I have his towel ready, I reach beneath him to pull the drain from the bottom of the sink. His fingers grasp at one another, locked together in their exploratory struggle, as the water drains below.

The moment I begin to lift him from the sink, his silence starts to dissipate. There is no longer trust on his face; no longer calm in his eyes.

Anger reddens him as cooler air hits his wet skin and his mouth forms a perfect oval of disdain.

At first, there is still silence.

And then… his opinion is heard.

Loud and clear.


This post was written in response to a prompt from Write On Edge.

Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breathe the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.

Let’s keep the word count to 500.

Posted in My Babies, RemembeRED, Write on Edge | Tagged , , , | 32 Comments

For My Youngest Miracle, on His First Birthday

My Dearest Little Boy,

It is about 10:30 in the morning on the day of your first birthday.

One year ago today, at exactly this time, I was sitting in the emergency room, my hands clasped across an enormous belly, terrified that we would lose you. You see, you weren’t supposed to be here until October 16th. Instead, due to circumstances beyond anyone’s control, your safe haven had suddenly become a place that was threatening your very existence.

We were so unprepared for this early debut that we didn’t even have a name for you until your second day of life. But I’m thankful, in the grand scheme of things, that you showed up when you did. Had it been any later… I don’t like to think about how differently things could have gone. We were and are truly blessed to have you as a part of our family.

I will never forget those initial moments of fear and heartache, just as I will never forget the flood of love and relief when you defied the odds that had been set against you.

Despite everything, you made it here safely. And you were beautiful and so very perfect. You still are. Even in all of your frustrating moments, you are you… and there is nothing more perfect than that.

My sweet boy, may your first birthday be filled with all of the happiness and joy that you have brought to us all over this past year. And may you never forget how very much you are loved.


Posted in My Babies | Tagged | 4 Comments

September 11, 2011

I’m not going to sit and write up an elaborate, heart-wrenching post about the events that occurred 10 years ago today. We all are well aware of the devastation that that day caused, so I don’t feel that a lengthy verbal post is necessary.

Instead, I would just like to share some photographs taken during the local parade here in town this morning.









Thank you… both to those who have given their lives and to those who have defended, and who continue to defend, this great country of ours.

Posted in General, Photography | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

This is When You Know it’s Time

Today, my son scared the holy living shit out of me. Not once, but twice. And for very different things.

Scare #1

He leaves for the bus at around 7:15 so that he can meander in the painful slowness of a child to the bus stop at the corner. I walked him down there the first morning and have been watching him every morning since because I can not only see the entire length of the road from the back porch, but I can also see the bus stop and when the bus arrives. Granted, I can’t watch for every second because of the other two children, but I can see him get safely to the corner and will check every couple of minutes until I no longer see any of the children waiting at that stop.

The bus gets there between 7:25 and 7:30, which is exactly the time it is supposed to get there; a much-needed improvement over last year. Although we were at a different school, it was the same bus company. The first day of school revealed them to be 20 minutes earlier than the bus notice stated. You have never seen so many children scrambling from their houses and running to the bus stop.

Anyways, school starts here at 8:10. If students are not in their classrooms at that time, they are marked absent and if a parent has not already called to confirm this, the school will check with the bus company (for those that ride the bus) and then parents will be called.

My phone rang at 8:11. It was the bus company. And they wanted to know if my son was with me.

“No.. I sent him to the bus stop this morning. I saw him walk down there. Did he not get on the bus?!”

“No. The driver said he saw him walking back down the road towards home. He tried to get his attention, but he wouldn’t come back to the bus. He isn’t there?”

“No! Um, ok, I have to go find him now.”

Now? I was panicking.

I thanked him for calling and quickly grabbed my shoes. Braeden had no clue what was going on and was jabbering on about what seemed like some sort of Brother Scavenger Hunt.

Just as I reached for the back door, I heard a noise at the front door. Just a small click, like the noise the door makes with the air pressure caused by opening or closing the screen door. I ran to the front door, thinking maybe Donovan was there and it was locked.

It was not locked.

But when I opened the main door, I saw that the screen door was locked open. I looked down to find Donovan’s tennis shoes, his socks and his backpack scattered on the porch. But no Donovan.

My mind and my heart were now going approximately 100 miles per hour.

I walked off the porch, looking towards the back yard and across the front yard.

Where was he?

Then I heard it: a small noise to my right, like a shuffling. When I turned, I saw him. Hiding behind the garbage can.

“Donovan! What are you doing back there?”

He looked at me, like I had just transported from the mother ship and he had no idea who I was or what I could possibly mean by asking such a question.

“I’m playing.”

My brain was officially shooting flames and doing somersaults at the same time by that point.

“Why did you not get on the bus?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You have to know why you came back home! Why aren’t you at school?”

“I don’t know.” His face was completely blank, with only a hint that maybe he saw my panic and disbelief and was more concerned about me spontaneously combusting than answering the question honestly.

“Get your shoes and your socks and get in the house now. I’m driving you to school.”

Once we were inside, I asked him again, over and over, why he hadn’t gotten on the bus. I told him that I had been petrified that something had happened to him. That others were afraid something had happened to him. That you just don’t do things like that.

What it all boiled down to was that he didn’t want to go to school. He hasn’t wanted to since Day One, and it has gotten progressively worse as time goes on. Yesterday was the first good day he had, according to his teacher (and I noticed the difference as well in his behavior after school during homework). Every morning has been filled with tears because he says he misses me. They can last either an hour or several hours, always to the point of classroom disruption.

I explained to him that I knew it was rough. I don’t have a job now, which I have had his entire life. There was no need for day care or a sitter this summer, so he was home all the time with me. A new school. New teachers. New bus stop. New everything. Combine it with whatever issues he was already having while in a familiar routine and you have the recipe for chaos in this child’s mind.

I honestly think he was expecting that I would not take him to school today. But I did. After getting the baby out of bed and getting the younger boys dressed, I drove him to school and got him signed in at the office. We walked together down to his classroom.

It was there that things fell completely apart.

He was already in tears when we got there, despite all my explanations that I couldn’t keep him home from school even if I wanted to and that he had to be here. There are some things in life that we just don’t get to choose.

His teacher came out to find out what had happened, which I explained briefly and quietly, and then she put her arm around him to lead him into the classroom.

Scare #2??


He started sobbing and twisting away from her, eyes wide, trying to shove past her and back out into the hallway in what I could only imagine to be the fashion of a child having a panic attack.

She gave up and let him go, walking into the classroom without him so that I could speak to him alone. Or as alone as it gets with two small children in tow.

“Donovan, you have to go to school. You need to get into that classroom and I will see you when school is over. You cannot stay home.”

“No. I don’t want to.”

“I understand that you don’t want to, but you have to.”


I was losing my cool at that point.

I had a baby who was starving and angry because he didn’t get to eat when he was pulled from bed and put into the car.

I had a toddler who thought he needed to visit with every classroom nearby while I was trying to talk sense into my second grader.

And there was a teacher in there that was expecting that I would know how to manage my child.. and I. Do. Not. At all. Because when he gets to this level of emotional instability, he doesn’t respond to anything.

Except people losing their cool.

I pulled out the low-volume, angry Mom voice. “You are not going to pull this today, Donovan. You will get into that classroom and you will get in there NOW.”

He cringed, tears pouring down his face and started walking into the classroom.

Great. Now I felt like a total asshole.

I grabbed his backpack and pulled him back.

“Donovan. I’m sorry, ok? I can’t keep you home. You need to go to school. It’s just one of those things you have to do. I know it’s hard, but you’re going to have so many new friends here if you just give it a chance.”

“Ok,” he sobbed.

I pulled him in and hugged him.

“Alright, now go give your tardy slip to your teacher and put your backpack away and then sit down and try to relax, ok?”


He turned the corner in the classroom to put his backpack into his locker. I didn’t wait for him to get to his seat to see me walking away. If years of day care taught me anything it was that the lingering parents of children with separation anxiety only help to fuel that fire.

His teacher later informed me via email that he had cried for a total of an hour this morning, but that by lunch he was smiling and talking to people. I hope that means he was in a better mood, but sometimes I know, from personal experience, that it can just mean accepting defeat and carrying on with life.

I want him to be happy, not pretending that he is or simply forgetting for a moment that he isn’t.

Truly happy.. I mean, that’s the whole premise of being allowed to just be a kid, for crying out loud. I wish I could pinpoint where everything started to fall apart for him, because he is not a (generally) happy child.

I made an appointment this afternoon for an evaluation with a child therapist two weeks from now.

Days like today are when you know it’s time.

Posted in My Babies | Tagged , , , , | 28 Comments