Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Two different stories, one hurting kid

I attend a support group for parents of 'difficult' adolescents. Which isn't really what it is at all, incidentally. All of the parents who attend this group have kids with some type of mental or emotional disorder. We have depressed kids, suicidal kids, bipolar kids, kids with rare genetic disorders, kids who just don't fit any mold. The thing all these kids have in common is that they've been hospitalized, many multiple times, because they were either a danger to themselves or a danger to others. Oh, and they all have parents who are tearing their hair out in frustration trying to figure out just what to do.

We're a fairly tight knit group of moms. We not only support each other in our quest to find the best care for each of our respective kids, we attend each other's school meetings, visits to special programs, and just to hang out and give each other hugs. In the short time I've been part of this group, I've made a good friend, and I've gotten a lot of great advice. It's really a fabulous support group.

So what's the but?

Today, for the first time, we had a dad come to our meeting. It wasn't a big deal that he was male, as we're all grown ups. He is a single dad and he introduced us to his daughter (figuratively) who is a hurting buckaroo for a variety of reasons. We all encouraged him to take certain types of actions, we listened to his story, we were more than supportive to him, we didn't scare him off, and he promised to return.

And the problem is?

Oy! Privacy. My favorite issue. His daughter and my son were in a program together. A program that encourages the kids to share their issues with the small group. What my son knows of this girl is not essentially what the father reported to our group. This makes me VERY uncomfortable. Because I know things about her that her father doesn't, from the things my son reported. But it gets even more uncomfortable. While my son was in this program, another friend of his who we'll call Dirty (because he is) was also at the program. Dirty and my son have known each other for years. Dirty and this man's daughter evidentially had it in for each other, and when Dirty came over during this time, he talked a lot about this particular girl. Now, I had no clue I'd EVER meet this girl's parent. They live hours away from us. Who would have thunk it? But damn... the girl who was a big topic of conversation in our house for weeks is this guy's daughter. Doesn't that suck?

I know I need to keep my mouth shut. I'm not completely idiotic. But I feel incredibly uncomfortable knowing some things that her father SHOULD know, but apparently doesn't. His daughter is in a lot of emotional pain for reasons totally unknown to him. But not to me. And if that doesn't bite, I don't know what does.

That's one of the problems with your kids being in programs. So much is shared, some of it the truth, some of it false, but a lot of it just plain painful. They're encouraged to get their pain out their, to acknowledge it and then move on. The groups help these kids to learn coping mechanisms, to recognize where their behavior comes from, and to be able to grow from their problems. Those are all good things. But the problem is that the kids gossip both amongst themselves, and they often come home and bitch about the other kids in the program. Which is exactly what happened here. My kid and Dirty weren't outing this girl. They were talking about how tough she was to deal with, and during those discussions, personal things were revealed.

So, here I am, brimming with information I wish I didn't have and not knowing what to do with it. Any advice?

SOUNDTRACKS by Jenny Gardiner

My teenaged son was hit by a car exactly one year ago today.

I was driving home after having dropped my youngest at a school right across the street from where my older ones attend, when I found out about it. Looking back I realize that probably right about the time I was dropping off one kid within shouting distance, the other was being launched across a parking lot by a Jeep Cherokee.

That morning, lost in thought, having no clue what I would soon learn, I almost didn't answer my cell phone in time when it rang, and luckily caught it before it bounced to voice mail.

"Look, Mom, don't worry, I'm fine," my son said, his voice jagged and hepped up with the high of adrenaline. "But they're loading me into the ambulance."

I've had my share of heart-stopping parental moments, including the time we put one of our kids to bed only to find her---out of nowhere---in the throes of a seizure twenty minutes later. That episode led to all sorts of eventual angst and trauma, things that have contributed to making me a stronger person, no doubt, albeit a stronger person with a more acute fear of all that could go wrong in my beloved children's lives.

The minute you hear such words uttered, what flashes before you is all that might be wrong that you don't know. That he won't make it to the hospital before he dies, and you'll never have the chance to impart those last important words, the I love you's, because who knows? Maybe there are internal injuries and then what?

Last week in our small town that's exactly what happened. A sweet, friendly, athletic 16-year old girl was leaving her neighborhood en route to school. She turned left when the light turned green onto a busy four-lane highway, not realizing that an 18-wheeler was barreling down on her, its driver in such a rush to make it to his destination that he ignored the laws and the fact that he was manning a moving missile and just kept on driving right through a red light shattering the lives of so many people instantaneously. They say this girl died in the blink of an eye, upon impact. Of course her parents and her twin brother will have all the time in the world to die slowly from the heartache hoisted upon them.

The tragedy of this story has revisited me again and again since last week. Perhaps more so because but for the grace of God, it could have been me getting that same phone call that child's parents received that morning. Those parents who, if they were lucky, only a few short minutes earlier had kissed their girl goodbye and wished her a good day.

It resonates too with me because this is the sixth such accident in our small town in half a year's time. Two teens we know were nearly killed right along that same road by red-light runners, in one case a drunk driver. And yet it keeps happening, no one seems able or willing to stop it.

We were so fortunate. While my son was pretty banged up, had lots of cuts, scrapes and bruises, and even ended up passing out in the ER once the adrenaline wore off, he did live to tell about it, even sort of becoming a legend for a few days at school: the boy who got hit then run over by a car (by a girl who was text-messaging and speeding and who has since had additional moving violations yet still has her license). He, at least, was able to garner a few laughs over it.

I, however, remain haunted knowing that he was all alone at that moment of impact, when the front end of that Jeep met his backpack--laden as always with 30 pounds worth of textbooks that probably absorbed some of the force and likely saved his life--and sent him flying. And he was alone precisely at that moment the car then drove over his foot, the added insult to injury. This knowledge just kills me: that he was there---and I was probably right across the street--- and I couldn’t help him in such a lonely hour.

These thoughts often plague me when I hear of others’ tragedies. Innocent victims, people just going about their lives when poof, it all changes. And all ultimately alone when they most needed someone---or something---to sooth them.

I realized something interesting shortly after my son’s accident, though.

We were at a party with several families, watching a slide show of our vacation on somebody’s laptop, with an iTunes playlist on as a backdrop, when the song Wonderwall by Oasis came on.

“Dude, that’s the song I was hit by!” My son blurted out to his friends with a chuckle. Because he was listening to his iPod when he was hit, he has a personal soundtrack--a theme song--to probably the worst thing to ever happen to him.

A soundtrack. We all have those songs in our lives that bring us back to good times: that first kiss, the prom, graduation, a wedding day. But in this iPod generation, where most everyone tunes in whenever and wherever they can, songs probably link to more and more unexpected occurrences in our lives.

That my son had a theme song to the accident sort of creeped me out at first, but it didn’t bother him. In fact he was happy to hear it playing that night, even though the last time he heard it was under, uh, less than ideal circumstances.

I can't help but wonder if that girl had a favorite song playing on the radio just before her life was snuffed out. If she was lost in happy thoughts, excited about a big game, or planning to shop for a Mother's Day gift after school. Was there something there that helped her when she needed it most?

I guess I’m glad that in his hour of need, music was there to comfort, and--like that backpack--to soften the blow a little bit for my son. For me, I don’t think I’ll ever hear that song again without my heart stopping for just a moment, recalling that most important time in which I couldn’t be there for him. But perhaps when he hears Wonderwall my son will remember to be happy he’s alive, comforted just a little bit by music.

Skin Hunger

by Laura Benedict

The year before Pom was born, I began writing my first novel. I finished it eight years later and called it SKIN HUNGER. It was never published, but I still love the title. Now there’s a YA novel of the same name that’s all about wizards and such, so it may be a while before I use it myself.

I picked up the title from a paragraph in a parenting book I’ve long forgotten. Skin hunger is such an evocative phrase, isn’t it? It’s exactly what it sounds like it might be: the elemental emotional and physiological need for human touch.

How we love to touch our babies. They seem to bloom at our touch—and they really do! When children are not touched, they suffer. If you know much at all about the history of WWII, you’ll remember the stories of the German children taken away by (or given to) the Nazis to be raised as Aryan exemplars: they were considered too precious to be sullied by the touch of other humans. Most of these children either died before adolescence or suffered severe emotional problems.

We need to be touched. We crave to be touched. We cannot live unless we are touched—frequently and lovingly.

The other night, Pom’s boyfriend, Ruger, was visiting. I think we were watching Pinky and the Brain or some other edifying cartoon on television. The two of them were sitting on the couch, and Ruger had his arm around her; she was completely relaxed with him, her head against the front of his shoulder, one of her feet up on the coffee table, and she was holding one of his hands. I had never seen her so physically close to a guy besides her father or grandfather ever before, and I was a little startled. (Bengal, my eight year-old son was scrunched companionably against Ruger’s other side, too.) But of course she’s going to eventually be physically close with people outside our family. It’s the healthy thing.

Pom is sixteen. We have very frank discussions about her father’s and my expectations for her dating behavior. Remember, this is the girl who called us last year when she got her first kiss. She told me just the other day that she laughs every time a doctor asks her if she’s sexually active, and says they always look at her like they don’t believe she isn’t. She takes her (Christian) faith commitment very seriously and it is essential to her attitude toward her sexuality.

Teenage sexual promiscuity is certainly nothing new. Our generation didn’t invent it. Our parents didn’t, and their parents didn’t. But I wonder how much teenage sexual activity isn’t simply a replacement for the touch these kids are craving, the touch they’re no longer getting from their families.

I touch my kids a lot. Pom still holds my hand sometimes when we’re at the mall, and now that Bengal is taller than he was even six months ago, I can rest my arm around his shoulders as we walk (I know this isn’t going to last long, so I’ll enjoy it while I can.). They still occasionally wander into our bedroom on a Saturday morning and pile onto our bed. I can’t pick them up anymore, but I can still be near them—for a while, anyway.

It’s appropriate for my kids to extend that touch outside our family. Pom is very physical with her girl friends, too. There are “no touching” rules for boys and girls at her school, but the girls are very cozy with one another. (Pom jokes that it would be a great school in which to be a lesbian, but, oh my, her little school is so not ready for that!) I’m glad that Pom is comfortable enough in her own skin to be appropriately close to other people.

I didn’t handle my own teenage skin hunger very well, which is what that first novel was all about. I’m very proud of the way Pom is handling hers. Bengal is more of a work in progress, and we’ll give him all the cuddling he needs for a long time to come—though given his comfortable attitude with Ruger, I’m not too worried.

Go hug your teenager. Go! Now!

Things That Go Crunch In The Morning

By Nina

One of the most pungent smells of Mommy-dom, at least to me, was the singular odor of soggy Cheerios.  One whiff of a swollen O floating in a sea of milk and like Marcel Proust, I'm time-machined back to the diaper years with visions of chubby toddler fingers putting Cheerios to mouth. 

I myself have never been much of a cold cereal eater. I don't like things that go crunch in the morning. Perhaps when in dieting mode I'll pour milk on some fibrous flake and call it breakfast, but generally I like my carbos steaming hot -- as in a nice big bowl of Cream of Wheat, oatmeal, or mashed potatoes.  And I like 'em with a pat of butter and a sprinkle of salt -- hold the sugar please.

But Grumble and Jaws, whoa! -- these boys consume cold cereal by the boxful. Always have. Grumble, I fear, is a walking Frosted Mini-Wheat. He drinks skim milk by the gallonful.  Both kids gave up the breast at 9 months and never looked back, working their way down from whole milk to 2% to skim.  They now declare whole milk "disgusting," "undrinkable."  Miraculously neither one got hooked on chocolate milk.

Nope, just hooked on Honey Nut Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Capn' Crunch, Cheerios, Cookie Crisp, and (gag me) Reese's cereal. The sugar content of these brands is hideous.  But I have always drawn my maternal line in the sand at Lucky Charms.

Not just because the Lucky Charms package is ghastly, and not just because of the sugar content. Newsflash: The nutrition stats for Lucky Charms are actually "better" than those for Frosted Mini Wheats. No, Lucky Charms are verboten in my house because of the green, pink, and blue marshmallow bits which turn milk into billious pastel swamp water. What kind of mother allows marshmallow bits for breakfast? Well, actually the same mother who allows cold pizza, Capn' Crunch, and Wal-Mart banana muffins, loaded with trans fat to be called breakfast.

So imagine my surprise when I found Grumble eating handfuls of dry Kashi 7 grain puffs right out of the box one day. I always have serious cereals like Kashi, Raisin Bran and organic granolas on hand for my bed and breakfast guests, who are often academics visiting Emory University.  "This is good," Grumble crunched. I think the stuff tastes like packing material.

As his 10th grade year moves into the final lap and our mornings grow even more hectic and rushed, Grumble and I are eating breakfast on the fly -- grabbing a banana to eat in the car, or stopping at Panera on the way to school.  It just doesn't feel good.  In fact, it kinda makes me yearn for a bowl of heart healthy Cheerios.

 

 

Show Daily Values

 

Illness doesn't have to be pandemic to matter.

The annual IEP (in Amigo's words, the I Eat Pizza) went reasonably well this year. Amigo at 16 has become much more self-confident in these meetings. He handled quite a bit of it himself, with support from us and from his teachers, where in the past we adults would have done the speaking and discussing with occasional input from him. He talked about the health class curriculum, explained what he was studying in science, and noted how much he enjoys speaking Spanish. He answered questions, responded honestly when quizzed on his progress, explained some of the white cane and public transportation skills in his Mobility lessons, and contributed thoughts to his goals and schedule for next year.

We went out for supper, decompressed, came home. Amigo did his homework, took his evening meds (for acne and for anxiety/tics), and went to bed. Almost exactly an hour later, he threw up.   

We are the type of parents who analyze, worry, and then analyze and worry some more on the way to our decisions.

Analysis: His IEP caused him stress and anxiety.

Worry: Maybe his stomach wasn't fully healed from its recent illness.

Analysis: The acne medicine upsets his stomach. He tossed his cookies about an hour after he took it.

Worry: We should call the doctor and ask for a change in meds.

Analysis: Being sick scares him. His Asperger's style logic doesn't let him calm down and heal.

Worry: This adds more anxiety, which upsets his stomach more. Again.

Analysis: He was exhausted and lacked appetite already on Sunday.

Worry: Was this a sign? And we missed it?

Decisions:

Keep him home for a day, let him rest, feed him bland foods, monitor (and analyze and worry) throughout the day.

Take him to the doctor. Ask for a change in meds.

Make plans at work in case this gets worse.

Analysis: He's sixteen, and we still worry about him.

Worry: When will this end?

Am I Blue?

by Judy Merrill Larsen

Being a mom means you're gonna make mistakes with your kids.  We all know that, right?  I freely admit lots of screw-ups and I am also very free with my apologies (saying "I'm sorry" also makes it harder for them to stay mad at me.).  Here are just a few mistakes:

~lack of vegetables.  Yes, I serve plenty of salad.  And fruit.  But I have never served peas (other than peapods) in my kitchen and I never will.  I hated them as a kid.  Yuck.  I also don't like many other cooked vegetables.  Too mushy. If I don't like 'em, I'm not cooking 'em.  Mushrooms are also on the list.

~lack of baby books/scrapbooks.  I took tons of pictures.  I saved report cards and "special" papers.  The pictures are in photo albums up until about age 8, the rest are in boxes up in my office.  But at least the boxes are labeled.  The scrapbooks are pristinely new and empty.

~um, I sometimes yelled.  Lost my temper when it wasn't really their fault.  Cursed in their presence.  Didn't always set a good example.  Might have been inconsistent.

~My #1 Son (dubbed "Earthworm" by his brother; "Greenboy" by me) complains that I still don't have a compost heap in my backyard.  Sorry, mea culpa, I'm just not a person who wants to trot out back with my egg shells and banana peels.  I do recycle though. 

But, you know what?  I can totally relax now because all these things (well, except for the compost heap.  And peas.) are reversible.  Correctible.  Unlike my cousin (distant cousin, I want to add) who turned his family blue.  Yes.  He really did.  And it's permanent.  Seriously.  It can't be undone. 

Now, it's not smurf blue.

It's not even as bad as that guy who was on the Today show a few weeks back who was really blue. 

But, there is a distinct blue undertone to their skin nonetheless.  And it won't fade or go away.  It's there.  Apparently, the rest of his family (but not him.  That's telling.) were advocates of some dietary supplement.  He felt it was too expensive.  So, rather than buy it from their handy dandy local drugstore, he figured he'd make his own version.  I mean, heck, why not?  He'd had a chemistry set as a kid. 

How complicated could it be?  So he sent away to some mail order place and ordered all the ingredients and mixed them up.  Look at all the money he was saving, he probably bragged to them.  But, oops, there was a glitch of sorts.  Rumor has it that he ordered a slightly different version of aluminum than people are supposed to ingest.  And a few weeks after they'd started taking his formula, somebody commented that they were all (except for him who didn't believe in the supplement) looking a tad blue.  Just a tinge, but noticeable.  Oh, and did I mention it's PERMANENT?!

So, when I'm reviewing my litany of parental offenses, I take great pride in knowing I've never changed the color of my children's skin.  Perhaps I'll still get that Mother-of-the-year award after all.

Now here is a cheery study

I just saw this study from CNN saying that one out of every four teenage girls will have an STD by the time she's 19 years old. The most common STD is the HPV virus, which causes cervical cancer. Of course there is an innoculation for this virus, but I'm amazed at how many parents are keeping their daughters from being immunized. My daughter's pediatrician gave her the shots, but she also told me that quite a few parents of teens didn't want their daughters to get the shots because they weren't sure if they were safe (which is a decent excuse in my book) or because they were sure their daughters weren't sexually active (which is an insane excuse). The fact is, most girls are sexually active by the time there are 15. Sex is occurring earlier and earlier and it's not uncommon to hear about 12 year old kids having some sort of sexual contact.

Children don't necessarily understand that oral sex can be just as dangerous as sexual intercourse. My children are very well informed about oral sex because my family just never kept anything having to do with sex from children. It's just the way we do it, and how I grew up. But I am finding more and more that our family is unusual and that many people do not discuss oral sex, or any sex for that matter, with their children. I think that is doing a terrible disservice to kids, especially with sex being so dangerous without the proper precautions.

The CDC recommends annual chlamydia screening for all sexually active women under age 25. It also recommends the three-dose HPV vaccine for girls aged 11-12 years, and catch-up shots for females aged 13 to 26. I wish that people would follow these recommendations. I don't really know how a mother could live with herself if her daughter developed cervical cancer because of a lack of vaccines.

Labels: Health, parenting, sex, teens