Family Night

     Monday night. A time of togetherness, a time of learning, a time of love. And perhaps the most painful night ever endured by mothers. Last week I watched a Supernanny re-run and decided to use one of her object lessons for family home evening. It was perfect. A fun and simple way to try and rid my children of their potty mouths. I prepared in advance, gathering my supplies and buying donuts for a fun treat. I even had a scripture to add an element of spirituality, thus enhancing my lesson.
     Ian was very excited for family night. He had his scriptures ready immediately following dinner and kept pestering me and Scott. He wanted home evening now, even though we were still eating. Finally it was time. I had him pass out paper towels to each person as we sat around the kitchen table. I then said, "Let's have an opening prayer. Ian? Will you say it?"
     He very importantly uttered his standard two second recitation. "Heanwy Fadda tank you for dis day Cheesus ist amen."
     "Ian has a scripture for us, too." I nodded at him. "You can read it now."
     With Scott's help, Ian read Mosiah 4:14-15. It took a while. When he came to the part about not suffering the children to go naked, he succumbed to a sudden case of giggles. Upon finishing the comedic scripture, I asked my rebel offspring what King Benjamin commanded the parents to do.
     Tawni knew the answer. "He told them to teach their children not to fight and quarrel."
     "Right. What about the next verse?"
     Tawni continued, "You need to teach us to love one another."
     "Okay." I then took a lemon and cut it into slices. I passed a slice to everyone. "Go ahead and suck on your lemon."
     Ian wasted no time. His little face contorted and his body shivered from head to toe. I wasn't much better. Zack barely licked his, over-dramatizing so that we would all see how cool he was. Beka pointed out that she didn't even pucker. Scott said his tasted good and proceeded to eat it. Tawni suffered from sore afflictions, known as cankers, and would not participate.
    Filled with great wisdom, I pointed out that name-calling, mean talk, and crude words were like the lemon. They left a bitter taste in our mouths and in the mouths of those we hurt. Then I had everyone lick a finger and dip it into a sugar bowl. The sugar represented the sweetness that comes from love and kindness. Wouldn't we rather sweeten our spirits with good words than make them bitter with lemon words?
     Ian piped in, "Can we have donuts?"
     While we feasted on dessert, I informed the kids that there were certain words I didn't want them using anymore. Ian smiled, "Like naked?"
     That got everyone else laughing. "No. Naked is fine. I don't want you to say suck, dumb, stupid, hate, or," I looked directly at Zack, "freak."
     "Oh man! Freak is awesome!"
     "It's not nice."
     Once the donuts began digesting, it was time for family prayer. Scott asked Tawni to say it. Ian reached down to the floor and picked up his Clone helmet. He put it on his head right as Tawni started to pray. She barely got past the opening when Ian said, in a muffled voice, "Hey! Who's in here?" Tawni started laughing so hard she had to cut the prayer short. Ian was smiling, delighted with himself and his ability to cause mayhem. Trying to restore order, I told Zack to get in the shower and Ian to put on jammies. That's when everything changed.
     "No!" Ian shouted, running from the room.
     For the next twenty minutes, I battled with him, pleading, coaxing, threatening. "If you want friends tomorrow, what do you need to do?"
     "I don't want to play with friends. I want a shower."
     "It's Zack's turn for a shower. You can have one tomorrow."
     "NO! NOW!"
     I don't remember when he finally put his pajamas on, it's all a blur, but I remember what he said to me.
     "I hate you!" "You're mean!" "Want Daddy!"
     There went my Supernanny inspired lesson.
     Getting Ian to take all his medicine after that was torture. He fought me the whole way, screaming for Daddy.
     "Fine. Go get Daddy. I'm done."
     Daddy came. Daddy gave him his amoxicillin. Daddy did it too fast. Daddy made Ian throw up all over the floor.
     Mommy looked at Ian smugly and asked, "Who does your medicine better? Mom or Dad?"
     Ian, looking just as smug replied, "Daddy."
     After all that, being the good mom I am, I read my child a story. We cuddled, we laughed, and when the book closed I said, "Time for bed, sweetie."
     The devil returned, leaping off my lap, running down the hall screaming for Daddy.
     Instead of chasing after him, I reached for my computer and the comfort of a blog.

Unfair

     Not only does Ian suffer from fetal alcohol effects, he also suffers from asthma. Severe asthma.  Last May he was hospitalized after contracting a simple cold that triggered a massive attack. He spent three days in the hospital, the first being Mother's Day--yes, now is the time to feel my pain and express sympathy--thank you. Last Saturday Scott and I were on date with his crew from the fire station and their wives. We were having a delicious meal at Market Street Grill, courtesy of Captain Kirk. (That is not a typo.) Luckily we'd finished the meal and were awaiting dessert when the call came. It was Tawni. Ian couldn't breathe. She'd given him his medication, but it didn't help.
     Prior to this, Ian had a stuffy nose for about two weeks. Nothing major. Just snot. But on Friday, he developed a cough. Saturday it got a little worse. By the time we arrived home after our date, he was throwing up every time he coughed. On my bed, and all over the freshly cleaned carpets. I know it's shallow to mention it, but hey, it's frustrating. After emptying his stomach, he then began to cough up thick mucous. Scott put his paramedic skills to good use and listened to his lungs. The tops were wheezy and there was no air flow in the bottoms. We administered a breathing treatment with the nebulizer, but it didn't help. We decided to take him to the emergency room.
     Luckily, Ian didn't need to be admitted. With another breathing treatment and oral steroids, his lungs cleared, although the terrible cough remained. It is now Wednesday night. He has not been to school. This is the third week of school he has missed since it started in late August. I just can't keep the kid well.
     We had a follow-up appointment with the pediatrician yesterday. She increased Ian's maintenance medication from 44mcg 2X/day to 110mcg 2X/day. He also gets three Decadron tablets every night this week, Albuterol every four hours, nasal spray, Benadryl, and 2 tsp of Amoxicillin 2X/day. The poor kid is a walking pharmacy. And every medication Ian has to swallow triggers his gag reflex. It takes me twenty minutes to get the Amoxicillin into his body. Every puff of Albuterol is straight adrenalin. You couple that with a kid who has major ADHD, poor impulse control, and no understanding of consequences, and you end up with something like a mean alcoholic on speed.
     He and I have been together none stop since Saturday night. I am tired.
     But I shouldn't complain. He's the real one who suffers. A few weeks ago, Ian was battling another cold. He lay in his bed, miserable, while I attempted to settle him for the night. He asked me one simple question.
     "Will my ashthma go away?"
     I had to be honest. "No, honey. It doesn't go away. It will always be there, but you won't always be this sick."
     His bottom lip trembled right before he burst into tears.
     Ian is seven. He's beginning to notice the differences between himself and other kids. He wants desperately to be well. He wants to play, have pets, play with other people's pets, run without coughing, have skin that doesn't itch constantly, and he doesn't want to take medicine.
     Life isn't fair. This little guy's been given a double whammy. He has a lot of illness and issues to overcome. I worry about him constantly, I ache for him daily, and I love him fiercely.

Coolness

     Every now and then my kids seem more likeable to me than at other times. I like hearing their voices, seeing their faces, and I don't mind their noisy friends who drink the sodas and eat all my food. During these times, I also pay close attention to the things they say. The last two days, Ian has been down right hilarious without even trying to be. It started at school yesterday, when he lost a tooth. His teacher put it in an envelope for him to take home. He was so excited to show me, he took it out of the envelope as soon as he got in the car, and promptly dropped it between the seats. Recovery efforts were in vain. Scott, being an inventive dad, made Ian a fake tooth out of paper and told him he could fool the tooth fairy with it. He of course said this loudly, in my prescence. Ian was delighted. Conning the tooth fairy is right up his alley. This morning, as I was making pancakes in the kitchen, I heard his exultant cry from the bedroom. "It worked!"
     Also last night, Scott and Ian sat on the couch together, viewing UFC. The guys came out to fight, wearing some tight, revealing shorts, not unlike a Speedo. Ian took one look and said, "That is very inappropriate."
     I made a double batch of pumpkin-chocolate chip cookies yesterday. Ian had some with his pancakes this morning, and after school, he wolfed down at least eight before I commented.
     "Those are your favorite cookie aren't they?"
     "Yup," he said with crumbly drool on his chin.
     "You're sure eating a lot of them."
     He reached for another, "Well--I want a healthy body with strong bones--Duh."
     I couldn't have said it better myself. I hope all that pumpkin will help to loosen what's been sitting in his colon for three days.
     I got a late start getting ready for the day this morning. Which meant I put my make-up on at 2:00 this afternoon. Here's what happened.
     Ian's aunt, Jeni, has been in town for the past week. Ian informed her that she forgot his birthday and wanted to know when he could open his present. He's called Grandma and Grandpa's house--which is where Jeni stayed--every day. Last night he called again.
     "Gwampa? Can I come over and hang out or somthin'?"
     Right after school today, he called again. "Can I come over there?"
     Ian's grandma answered. "Yes. There is something here for you."
     "My present?"
     "Yes. Jeni left it here for you before she went back home."
     He eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and he almost hung up without saying goodbye. This was at two o'clock. I told him I needed to put on my make-up. He followed me into the bathroom and retrieved my make-up bag for me. He then proceeded to take out all the things I needed. Mascara, powder, eye shadow, lip gloss, etc... After each item he asked me, "You need this?"
     "I do. Thank you for helping."
     He peered at me intently while I made myself presentable. Then he said, "Boys have mohawks and coolness. Girls have make-up and prettiness."
     "Am I pretty?" I asked.
     "Psh." He shrugged.
     Good enough. I'll take it. The poor kid had to wait another twenty minutes so that we could do the junior high carpool. He sat patiently while we made three different stops. After nearly an hour, it was finally time to go to Grandma's.
     "When we get there, I'm going to build my Legos."
     "What if Jeni didn't get you Legos?"
     "She did. I just know it."
     And guess what? She got him Legos.
     Thanks, Jen.

Supermom

     How do you gain control over an unruly child? Or any child for that matter? I've watched a few episodes of Supernanny. Jo has wonderful insight and great ideas. Not sure they'll work for my mentally challenged child. In desperate times, I've employed techniques from the Dog Whisperer in trying to manage Ian.
     "Ian," I say in my calm assertive tone, "Sit."
     "Stay."
     "Come here."
     "Drop it."
     "Please play dead."
     I've even made the "schuutt" noise, while administering a fake bite to the flank. Julie thought I was kidding one day when I asked her if a shock collar might work.
     I think gaining control has more to do with yourself than it does with your child. If you aren't in control, you can't expect your children to be.
     Today--I gained control.
     I woke up this morning knowing I needed to clean the house, because my foster care licensor is coming tomorrow to do a home inspection. They always do one once a year when it's time to relicense. So I cleaned like Jesus was coming for dinner. I swept, mopped, dusted, organized, threw out, picked up, scrubbed, and Julie vacuumed. Thanks, Julie. When the kids got home from school, I put them to work too. They did bathrooms, emptied trash, washed clothing, and anything else I felt inspired to burden them with. Tomorrow I will continue, this time focusing on locking away medicines, cleaning products, hazardous chemicals, and covering the window wells. The house must be child proof and safe to inhabit, if such a thing is possible.
      In my fury of cleanliness, I decided it was time to organize Ian's school work. How sad is that? Not that I did it, but that there was enough that I had to do it! He's in first grade for crying out loud. He has spelling words and a dictation sentence, six sight words, one daily bit of busy work off his calendar, his interactive home journal, and five reading books. Shame, shame, shame. When is a kid supposed to be a kid? Pardon me. I digress.
     With Ian's work all orgainized, I decided to make him a helping hand. One for morning and one for afternoon. When we saw Dr. Rope last week, and I informed him that Ian's problems mostly manifested at home, he told me that was my clue. He said that the regular routine of school was helpful to a child who cannot organize his/her own thoughts. So I decided to organize his day for him. If I can enforce it, we just might make some progress. On his morning hand, he gets dressed, eats breakfast, washes hands and face, brushes teeth and hair, and makes his bed. On the afternoon hand, he has a snack and TV time, then homework, then friend time, then pick up toys, and finally get ready for bed. I decided to include some fun items in the afternoon so that he would know that he wasn't getting jipped. He would get his friend time and his play time. And I, hopefully, will have less chaos, and the neighbors won't need to call and complain about "the roamer."
     I am happy to report that the afternoon routine worked flawlessly today. No problems. Ian did try to sneak out of the house a few times after dinner, like eight or ten. He even took the trailer keys to try and start the car. I've learned, from experience, to keep the car keys with me. But because my house was organized and I was still cleaning, I was right there and aware of his every move. He seemed surprised at my newfound speed. He never made it past the driveway.
     When Tawni came home from school, she obviously noticed how clean the kitchen was, because she cooked for herself and--hold on to your butts--washed the dishes! Wow! It's amazing how a motivated mother can telepathically motivate her children. I love it!
     I guess you can tell I'm feeling pretty good about myself today. My house is clean, children obedient and cooperative, lives organized, nobody called me a poopyhead--what a feeling of empowerment. Now, would someone please show me to my bed? I'm too tired to find it on my own.

Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders

     Yesterday was eventful for me. It was a day I'd been looking forward to for seven months. It was the day Ian and I met with Dr. Allan Rope at the Department of Medical Genetics next to PCMC. Dr. Rope specializes in Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.
     Before the appointment, I was convinced that I needed and wanted the definite, once-and-for-all, diagnosis of FAS. After the appointment, I was so grateful for a lesser diagnosis. I knew that children with FAS had tons of neurological and behavior problems, what I didn't know, was that a true FAS child will have facial deformities, making them as recognizable as someone with Down Syndrome.
     In diagnosing FAS, there are certain guidelines to follow. A doctor will look at abnormal facial features, growth, and problems with the central nervous system. In Ian's case, the space between his upper lip and nose is slightly flat and he has a thin upper lip. These are signs. His throat is short, which is another sign. His pinky fingers are curved slightly inward, and he has a very hairy back, both of which are signs. However, he didn't meet enough of the abnormal features to qualify for FAS. His head is an average size, his height and weight are on the low end but still within normal limits, his cheekbones and nose are not flat, and his eyes are spaced appropriately.
      As a baby, Ian did have sucking and feeding problems and still struggles, never chewing his food and often choking to the point of vomiting. Ian does suffer from poor impulse control--I think there is no control--poor social cues, hyperactivity, attention deficits, lack of empathy--which he is slowly learning--and cause and effect discipline. He also has speech problems and poor motor skills along with vision impairments.
     And with all that, he still isn't bad enough for the FAS diagnosis. Which I can thank God for.
     Dr. Rope taught me a lot in the two hours I spent with him. He reassured me that while some kids who suffer from fetal alcohol exposure have low intelligence, it was clear Ian wasn't one of them. He is a very bright and clever little boy who "probably knows very well how to manipulate his world." So true. Because of Ian's intelligence, he is capable of learning, capable of being taught right from wrong, and developing a conscience. There's hope! It will just take a long, long, long, long time.
     At the end of our visit, Dr. Rope told me that while he couldn't give me the FAS diagnosis, he did know that Ian definitely suffers from his exposure to addictive substances in utero. Unfortunately there isn't a label for that. The CDC is currently working on it, so that children who don't meet the full criteria will still be recognized and can receive help for their disabilities.  They are working on Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders. In the meantime, he told me to throw around the term "Fetal Alcohol Effects" when dealing with school personnel and (gulp) correctional officers.
     Children like Ian will never be normal. There is no cure for substance abuse exposure. They will be impulsive, using poor judgment, and will often be in trouble. Teachers, friends, family members, and community members need to be aware of this. These little ones don't misbehave on purpose. They do it because they can't help it. But, like Dr. Rope said, they can be taught. It will take time, patience, and knowledge. But I've always believed that it truly does take a community to raise a child.
     Mine is doing a great job.

Personal Jesus

     All children are curious about life, death, heaven and hell. Ian is no different. Several years ago he began to learn about the Holy Ghost. He learned that this particular Spirit can be found in reverent places. Like church. And like most children, he wanted contact. He took it upon himself to find this elusive being, without telling anyone where he was going. After searching the neighborhood for nearly an hour, my husband and children, along with several neighbors, were feeling a bit frazzled. I can't remember who finally found Ian, but I do remember his explanation for disappearing.
     "Ian, what were you doing at the church?"
     "I was looking for the Holy Ghost."
     He continued his unsupervised quest for another year, causing much worry and stress to his family.
     Along with his knowledge of Godliness, he also developed a knowledge of...things not so holy. He learned that just as sure as there was Jesus, there was also a supreme bad guy, aka Satan. Zackary, in a valiant effort to encourage good behavior from his younger brother, would often ask Ian, "Who's team are you on? Jesus' or Satan's?"
     "Satan's!"
     I am happy to report, that with maturity and a few more primary lessons, Ian is now on Jesus' team. He doesn't want to "get arrested, like Satan" or "live down in the sewer." Not sure where the latter came from. It wasn't from me.
     Lately, Ian's new religious fixation is on the second coming of Christ.
     "When all the people are dead, will Jesus come down?"
     "Is Jesus coming to kill the bad guys?"
     "Will I come back to life like Jesus?"
     It's very difficult to explain the finer points of doctrine to a child. It was easier when he just wanted to find the Holy Ghost.
     Last Friday Scott noticed a burned out lightbulb in the family room. He unscrewed it while Ian's eyes followed every movement. The little guy spoke.
     "Jesus is in the lightbulbs."
     Tawni, Scott, and I intstantly looked at him, eyes wide, hands covering the grins on our faces. Tawni asked, "Is He in all the lightbulbs?"
     "Yup."
     Scott, mature enough to sense a teaching moment said, "He's the light, isn't He?"
     "Uh-huh."
     I was very proud of my little boy. While incredibly humorous, this was evidence that he listens in church. Speaking of which, last Sunday his new primary teachers found me in the hall.
     "Are you Ian's mom?"
     "I am."
     "I'm Brother Fairbanks, his teacher."
     "I'm so sorry," I replied.
     He chuckled and asked, "Is Ian ADHD?"
     I am very grateful to the brave men and women who volunteer their time, talents, and sanity to teach my child. Thank you! There's a mansion of valium waiting for you in heaven.
     Arround the dinner table last night, I announced to my family that we were going to start having family home evenings every week. And that we would take turns with the lessons. These efforts have been hit or miss in the past and Beka let us know how unacceptable this was.
     "I'm the only one in seminary that doesn't have anything to share about family night. It's embarrassing."
     So, to kick off this tremendous achievement, we all went to Frogurt to celebrate. On the way, we listened to the radio. A Depeche Mode song came on and when it ended the D.J. announced, "Personal Jesus, Depeche Mode."
     From the back of the car, Ian screamed the perfect punctuation to our evening.
     "Yeah, Jesus!"
   

Story Time

     I'm back from the land of the surgically stoned. I survived, in spite of Zack and his dire predictions. And with my head cleared of pain meds, I can resume blogging. Did ya miss me? Never mind. Don't answer that. Let's get this post under way.
     Books are a huge part of my life. As you may have noticed, I added a spot for good books on my blog. I'm always on the lookout for something that can transport me from the mundane world of motherhood into a delicious realm of fantasy--even if it is urban. I love youth fiction. I find that after a hard day, my brain feels like oatmeal that's sat on the kitchen counter for several hours. I bet it looks similar as well. Adult books usually have deep themes and gigantic words, complicated issues my mushy head cannot absorb. But youth fiction--it's just right. Not too hot, not too cold, the perfect temperature and consistency, easily digested.            
     Picture books are every bit as delicious as youth books and I have the good fortune of feasting on them every evening, at bed time. There is nothing better than a comfy chair, a fun story, and a small warm body nestled against mine. My arm is always draped across his shoulders, pulling him deeper into myself. I hold one side of the book, while he holds the other. We turn the pages together. First, we look at the pictures, because they tell the story without any words. We take turns guessing about the plot, wondering if we can figure it out. Then the magic happens. My voice is not my own. It becomes that of a frog who is making a valentine for his mommy. Then it changes again, and I'm a shark trying not to eat my teacher. The metamorphosis continues, night after night, story after story. Ian is part of the magic.
     I don't know how many of you have ever tried snuggling a child that can't hold still. And when I say can't hold still--I mean it. Ian's brain does not ever allow his body to stop moving. Even in his sleep, he bangs his head against the mattress so hard it shakes the bed. As a tiny newborn, he hated being swaddled. He hated being cuddled or held. Bonding was difficult because his body rebelled. But I could see in his eyes that his soul craved it. I started rocking him at night. The back-and-forth motion soothed him, although he still wiggled and struggled to be free. Then I started singing to  him. The motion combined with my voice is how we bonded. I got to hold my boy, and he got to snuggle with his mommy. Night after night his muscles learned to accept this routine and after a year, he didn't wiggle as much.
     Ian is seven now. We celebrated his birthday last week. Our rocking time morphed into story time. His body is growing--so is mine--we will have to change chairs soon. But with him against my side, I smell his hair and feel it fuzzy against my cheek. I listen to his questions about the story which always lead to questions about life, and I answer him the best I can. We talk, we read, we snuggle, we bond. And Ian holds still... almost.