I took a test at https://high5test.com/ for my public speaking course. Our first speech, week after next, will be prompted by the results of this test. We are to introduce ourselves and explain an aspect of our lives or career goals in terms of at least three of our top five strengths. Mine are:
Problem Solver -- This is fairly self explanatory.
Believer -- Note that this means that I'm motivated more by ethics than personal gain -- not that I go around believing in things. Although I still insist fairies are real.
Philomath -- I'll get to that.
Thinker -- Mental exercise is, to me, something to do for fun or sport rather than a chore required to complete work/school tasks. I question things for the sake of questioning things.
Deliverer -- Note that this does not mean that I am the Messiah, but rather I take my commitments seriously and value my reputation for reliability.
A philomath is, simply put, one who loves learning for the sake of learning. The fact that I immediately latched onto this word because I'd never heard it before is evidence that my assessment results are correct. I have a natural curiosity of the world around me. I need to know all of the things. Well, until that thing bores me and then I move on to the next thing I need to know everything about. According to my test assessment results a philomath craves novelty.
My speech is going to be centered around career goals -- ABA therapy; why I want to be an ABA therapist; what turned me onto it; why I think it plays to my strengths.
I know it's been a minute since I blogged. Quick catch up.
I lost my job. My agency assigned a new position. I started back to school. That position ended, even though it was supposed to be temp-to-hire. I decided I was done with temping. I found my new forever job and got fired within 4 months because of bullshit. (I know it sounds like I'm not taking responsibility, but even my direct supervisors at the last two places agreed it was bullshit.) Now I'm unemployed and focusing on school. I'm taking 18 hours this semester and most of it on campus, taking advantage of the free time I have due to unemployment.
Oh, and the D&D thing never panned out. We couldn't find a group that we fit into to join because apparently we don't geek properly. Whatever. Elitist geek fuckheads.
Okay, all caught up.
So I want to be an ABA or Applied Behavioral Analysis therapist. I can start now as an ABA tech with a high school diploma, a clean record, and 40 hours on online learning. I *might* have a part time job soon at an agency I applied at back in June. They are expanding and hiring new techs, but their timeline hasn't been going to plan. They wanted things to be swinging by early July and here it is almost September and they still haven't launched the expansion. Cross fingers for me. If I get this job I can grow with them, climbing their ladder as my education progresses through and beyond a master's degree.
And now I know I'm a philomath and that totally made my day.
Thursday, August 29, 2019
Monday, August 26, 2019
I Promised You Squash Two Years Ago
So.....I haven't written a blog entry in a damn long time. This is a thing I should be doing more often.
Also, it's the first day of school and I should DEFINITELY be blogging instead of getting a jump on homework, yes?
Yes. I thought so too.
I've been promising my squash casserole recipe forever, and I have one in the oven now so it seems like the time to make good. Remember, before we start -- this isn't the food blog where you get a long, annoying narrative followed by a nice, easy to follow recipe. I'm only here for the long, annoying narrative. There will be no nice, easy recipe at the end.
Squash casserole has been my favorite thing since forever. When I was a tot it was part of my mother's regular dinner rotation. I remember one time when she made it I asked for seconds. She gave me a choice between seconds or dessert. I chose seconds. And that's back when I actually liked sweets.
When I was a newlywed I asked my mom for her recipe and she gave me the basic rundown. She forgot to tell me to cook the squash first. Fuck you mom. Cooking the squash first -- indeed, HOW you cook the squash first -- is half the key to the whole thing. Well, 3/4ths of the key. Okay, maybe 7/8th of the key. The sriracha is just the kicker but I digress. (I digress a lot. Have you noticed?)
It took years but I took my mom's outline, as well as bits of ideas gleaned from various cookbooks (this was before the age of Google) and flat out perfected the recipe. And now that we live in the age of Google, I can't find a recipe like mine. Like I said -- it's the HOW you cook the squash. Every recipe I've seen calls for boiling or steaming the squash and then draining it and that's just nonsense. Boiling or steaming the squash leaves all of the flavor in the water and then you have mushy, flavorless nothing to put in your casserole. Fuck that. Sautee is the only way to go. When you sautee the moisture from the squash evaporates and the flavors concentrate and caramelize and it also involves a bunch of butter and butter makes everything better so put your damn steamer away and get out your biggest sautee pan.
I used to make this casserole for a very hungry family of 5. Now I make it for 3 and we have far more moderate appetites (no more growing boys). I'm giving you the smaller version. The larger version has an embarassing amount of butter, but you can double it.
Start by melting half a stick of butter over medium heat in that big ass saute pan while you chop your onions. If you're of the (correct) idea that onions make food taste like food use one big ass onion here or two small onions. If you're meh about onions, use one small onion. If you're allergic to onions (*ahem* you know who you are) mercy on your poor soul, not being able to eat food that tastes like food. You can either dice or slice your onions -- this will depend on how you prep your squash. If, like me, you appreciate the squashy texture of squash, you want to slice the squash potato chip thin -- in which case slice your onions as thin as you can. I have an antique slicer thing, but the slicing side of a box grater works too. If you have a mandolin that works, but also fuck you because I've always wanted one and they're stupid expensive. If you (or your squash-phobic family) aren't into the glorious squashiness of squash, grate it and dice your onions.
Once you get the onions into the melted butter, salt generously. This helps to draw out the moisture. Slice (or grate) 3 pounds of yellow summer squash. (Dammit. Why didn't I take a picture of my pile of summer squash?) You can just dump each squash into the pan as you finish. Otherwise you're going to end up with so much squash on your work surface that have no place to work. You'll end up with a big ass pile of squash in your pan. (Imagine what a pile 6 pounds of squash makes!)
Salt generously again and stir until the squash and onions are incorporated and all coated with butter. You don't have to stir constantly, but do give it a toss every so often. As that sizzles away, steaming and smelling lovely, start working on the casserole part of the squash casserole. Grate about a pound or so (if you're going to or-so, or-so on the more side rather than the less) of the sharpest cheddar you can find. If it can cut a bitch, you're going in the right direction. Reserve a handful of cheese in a separate bowl for the topping. I usually eyeball this stuff, but if I had to guess I'd say I use a half cup each of FULL FAT (if I catch you trying to low-fat this mother fucker we're gonna have words) cottage cheese and sour cream. Then 2 or 3 eggs, depending on how eggy you feel and/or how many eggs you've got. Add to that a little squirt of sriracha -- but just a little. We are going for personality here, not heat. Lastly, smash an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers. Putting them in a freezer bag and whacking them with a wine bottle works for this. Add a small bit of cracker crumbs to the dairy mixture to tighten it up a bit.
After you've done all of this, melt the other half of that stick of butter in a small sauce pan. Pay attention to it. Don't get distracted by Twitter and forget about it and almost burn it, like I totally didn't just do. (We're going to call it "browned butter" and consider ourselves gourmands. Shut up.) Add the crumbs to the melted butter to cool them so you don't pour hot butter onto your reserved cheese and melt it. Not that I've ever done that. (Shut up.) Mix the buttery crumbs with the cheese and set aside.
Keep an eye on your squash. It should be reduced by a lot by now, but you want it to be all the way reduced. You want the bottom of the pan to be completely dry and the squash and onions start to caramelize. You want it more than good and dead.
This looks pretty dead but we aren't scraping browned bits off the bottom of the pan yet. Keep going. Now would be a good time to play on Twitter because you've gotta wait this shit out. I probably should have mentioned before now that you need to preheat your oven to 350. (That's 176.667 if you're European. Weirdos.)
Now we're scraping browned bits off the bottom and may proceed to the next step. Turn the squash out of the sautee pan and into the dairy slop. Scrape every last bit of the browned bits in. This is pure flavor y'all. I forgot to tell you to add a very generous amount of freshly ground black pepper. Rich dairy dishes just scream for copious amounts of black pepper in my opinion. Mix the squash and the dairy slop up thoroughly. Check the mix for seasoning. No, a little bite of raw egg won't kill you. Shut up.
Turn the mix into a casserole dish and sprinkle the cheesy, buttery crumbs on top. I found this casserole dish at Goodwill for $3 and did a happy happy dance. I love red kitchen things. I also love casserole dishes. I especially love casserole dishes with handles. Admire my dish.
Bake for about 40-45 minutes. You want a browned, crispy top, bubbly sides, browned around the edges, and it should set like very firm jello. It should be gorgeous. Admire.
Let it set for 15-20 minutes before eating it. Play on Twitter and bask in the smell of deliciousness. I'll be serving it up later with greens and fresh sliced tomato from my garden. Be jealous.
Also, it's the first day of school and I should DEFINITELY be blogging instead of getting a jump on homework, yes?
Yes. I thought so too.
I've been promising my squash casserole recipe forever, and I have one in the oven now so it seems like the time to make good. Remember, before we start -- this isn't the food blog where you get a long, annoying narrative followed by a nice, easy to follow recipe. I'm only here for the long, annoying narrative. There will be no nice, easy recipe at the end.
Squash casserole has been my favorite thing since forever. When I was a tot it was part of my mother's regular dinner rotation. I remember one time when she made it I asked for seconds. She gave me a choice between seconds or dessert. I chose seconds. And that's back when I actually liked sweets.
When I was a newlywed I asked my mom for her recipe and she gave me the basic rundown. She forgot to tell me to cook the squash first. Fuck you mom. Cooking the squash first -- indeed, HOW you cook the squash first -- is half the key to the whole thing. Well, 3/4ths of the key. Okay, maybe 7/8th of the key. The sriracha is just the kicker but I digress. (I digress a lot. Have you noticed?)
It took years but I took my mom's outline, as well as bits of ideas gleaned from various cookbooks (this was before the age of Google) and flat out perfected the recipe. And now that we live in the age of Google, I can't find a recipe like mine. Like I said -- it's the HOW you cook the squash. Every recipe I've seen calls for boiling or steaming the squash and then draining it and that's just nonsense. Boiling or steaming the squash leaves all of the flavor in the water and then you have mushy, flavorless nothing to put in your casserole. Fuck that. Sautee is the only way to go. When you sautee the moisture from the squash evaporates and the flavors concentrate and caramelize and it also involves a bunch of butter and butter makes everything better so put your damn steamer away and get out your biggest sautee pan.
I used to make this casserole for a very hungry family of 5. Now I make it for 3 and we have far more moderate appetites (no more growing boys). I'm giving you the smaller version. The larger version has an embarassing amount of butter, but you can double it.
Start by melting half a stick of butter over medium heat in that big ass saute pan while you chop your onions. If you're of the (correct) idea that onions make food taste like food use one big ass onion here or two small onions. If you're meh about onions, use one small onion. If you're allergic to onions (*ahem* you know who you are) mercy on your poor soul, not being able to eat food that tastes like food. You can either dice or slice your onions -- this will depend on how you prep your squash. If, like me, you appreciate the squashy texture of squash, you want to slice the squash potato chip thin -- in which case slice your onions as thin as you can. I have an antique slicer thing, but the slicing side of a box grater works too. If you have a mandolin that works, but also fuck you because I've always wanted one and they're stupid expensive. If you (or your squash-phobic family) aren't into the glorious squashiness of squash, grate it and dice your onions.
Once you get the onions into the melted butter, salt generously. This helps to draw out the moisture. Slice (or grate) 3 pounds of yellow summer squash. (Dammit. Why didn't I take a picture of my pile of summer squash?) You can just dump each squash into the pan as you finish. Otherwise you're going to end up with so much squash on your work surface that have no place to work. You'll end up with a big ass pile of squash in your pan. (Imagine what a pile 6 pounds of squash makes!)
Salt generously again and stir until the squash and onions are incorporated and all coated with butter. You don't have to stir constantly, but do give it a toss every so often. As that sizzles away, steaming and smelling lovely, start working on the casserole part of the squash casserole. Grate about a pound or so (if you're going to or-so, or-so on the more side rather than the less) of the sharpest cheddar you can find. If it can cut a bitch, you're going in the right direction. Reserve a handful of cheese in a separate bowl for the topping. I usually eyeball this stuff, but if I had to guess I'd say I use a half cup each of FULL FAT (if I catch you trying to low-fat this mother fucker we're gonna have words) cottage cheese and sour cream. Then 2 or 3 eggs, depending on how eggy you feel and/or how many eggs you've got. Add to that a little squirt of sriracha -- but just a little. We are going for personality here, not heat. Lastly, smash an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers. Putting them in a freezer bag and whacking them with a wine bottle works for this. Add a small bit of cracker crumbs to the dairy mixture to tighten it up a bit.
After you've done all of this, melt the other half of that stick of butter in a small sauce pan. Pay attention to it. Don't get distracted by Twitter and forget about it and almost burn it, like I totally didn't just do. (We're going to call it "browned butter" and consider ourselves gourmands. Shut up.) Add the crumbs to the melted butter to cool them so you don't pour hot butter onto your reserved cheese and melt it. Not that I've ever done that. (Shut up.) Mix the buttery crumbs with the cheese and set aside.
Keep an eye on your squash. It should be reduced by a lot by now, but you want it to be all the way reduced. You want the bottom of the pan to be completely dry and the squash and onions start to caramelize. You want it more than good and dead.
This looks pretty dead but we aren't scraping browned bits off the bottom of the pan yet. Keep going. Now would be a good time to play on Twitter because you've gotta wait this shit out. I probably should have mentioned before now that you need to preheat your oven to 350. (That's 176.667 if you're European. Weirdos.)
Now we're scraping browned bits off the bottom and may proceed to the next step. Turn the squash out of the sautee pan and into the dairy slop. Scrape every last bit of the browned bits in. This is pure flavor y'all. I forgot to tell you to add a very generous amount of freshly ground black pepper. Rich dairy dishes just scream for copious amounts of black pepper in my opinion. Mix the squash and the dairy slop up thoroughly. Check the mix for seasoning. No, a little bite of raw egg won't kill you. Shut up.
Turn the mix into a casserole dish and sprinkle the cheesy, buttery crumbs on top. I found this casserole dish at Goodwill for $3 and did a happy happy dance. I love red kitchen things. I also love casserole dishes. I especially love casserole dishes with handles. Admire my dish.
Bake for about 40-45 minutes. You want a browned, crispy top, bubbly sides, browned around the edges, and it should set like very firm jello. It should be gorgeous. Admire.
Let it set for 15-20 minutes before eating it. Play on Twitter and bask in the smell of deliciousness. I'll be serving it up later with greens and fresh sliced tomato from my garden. Be jealous.
Thursday, August 9, 2018
Becoming a Gamer Girl
I mentioned before that the girlchild asked for therapy. One of the issues we are working on is social anxiety paired with a need for social activity. The therapist suggested getting involved in age-appropriate social activity groups. I know from experience that the normal routes to finding social peers won't work for someone as odd as she is. They certainly never worked for me. I never gelled with the other moms at playgroup and I didn't book club very well. I learned to go where the other weird people gather. For me it was the Open Mic scene, art and music festivals, and a knitting group. Knitters are weird, weird folk.
Her thing is gaming. Today she took public transportation downtown for the first time and will be going to the main library for a scheduled Gaming Unplugged (organized board games) activity listed on the library teen activities calendar. Her last text said she'd gotten downtown and was a little lost looking for her lunch destination, which is very close to the library. I think Sgt. is on the phone with her talking her through it as they've both gone radio silent in text. He works near downtown, takes the bus, and is very familiar with the area she's at. He is also in easy rescue distance.
(I was right. He talked her to her lunch destination. He's going to talk her to the library as well. The GPS on her phone isn't working for some reason.)
Another thing we are going to try as a family is Dungeons and Dragons. I've always been interested but was raised being told it was a path to Satanism, and though I didn't believe that, I still never got the chance to play. I found a local Meetup group that is having a beginner-friendly event at a gaming store on Saturday.
I've had the past couple of days off work because work is incredibly slow (yay tariffs! forced unpaid vacation!) so I've been spending my time developing my character and Sgt's character. To make it easy for Sarge I'm creating a character that is basically him in a parallel universe. He is a male human ranger. He is a member of the Watchers, which is a small private semi-military group paid for by local land owners. Their job is to roam the lands looking for and stopping poachers and highwaymen. He was raised as an only child by his father because his mother died in childbirth. This is significant because I have a strong distaste for both my mother in law and brother in law. I killed her off and he never got born. So take that!
My character is a halfling young woman who is a rogue. She left her little village on the eve of her wedding day and makes her way to a village on the border of the halfling homeland on a major road where people of all races travel. She gets a job as a bartender and learns how to cuss and drink like a sailor.
Her backstory is full of Benedict Cumberbatch references. Her name is Berthala Bramblecreek (one of our family games is mangling his name) but she is referred to as Bert. Her home village is Otter Creek (because Otterbatch memes) and the town where she settles is Bakerston at mile marker 221 and her establishment is The Bee. (Get it? 221B Baker St? Yeah. I'm a geek.)
Her bestie is a human male named Finnigan which is the Girlchild's character. He's a fighter and rather large. And he tends to throw her around a lot. And as she hasn't even started creating his character yet, we just know they meet when her drunk mouth gets her into a fight with another large male thing. They become traveling companions and eventually she becomes a con artist, but never takes anything from someone who needs it. Kind of Robin Hoodish.
I can't keep writing past where he saves her from a barfight without her input and she isn't here to input. So boo.
I'm fully expecting a text from the boss not to come in tomorrow. If so I'm going to ask if I should start looking for another job. I can't afford a job that repeated forces unpaid vacay days on me. I can't afford it either financially or mentally. I'm losing my mind today trying to occupy it with D&D and a couple of other stories I've been working on.
Maybe I'll keep writing Bert's story and edit it as necessary to fit Finnigan's narrative.
I'm going to be extremely disappointed if I end up having to go job hunting again. I'm ten days from what should have been my perm hire date. I'm sick of this trumpfuckery and really so, so tired of all the winning.
Her thing is gaming. Today she took public transportation downtown for the first time and will be going to the main library for a scheduled Gaming Unplugged (organized board games) activity listed on the library teen activities calendar. Her last text said she'd gotten downtown and was a little lost looking for her lunch destination, which is very close to the library. I think Sgt. is on the phone with her talking her through it as they've both gone radio silent in text. He works near downtown, takes the bus, and is very familiar with the area she's at. He is also in easy rescue distance.
(I was right. He talked her to her lunch destination. He's going to talk her to the library as well. The GPS on her phone isn't working for some reason.)
Another thing we are going to try as a family is Dungeons and Dragons. I've always been interested but was raised being told it was a path to Satanism, and though I didn't believe that, I still never got the chance to play. I found a local Meetup group that is having a beginner-friendly event at a gaming store on Saturday.
I've had the past couple of days off work because work is incredibly slow (yay tariffs! forced unpaid vacation!) so I've been spending my time developing my character and Sgt's character. To make it easy for Sarge I'm creating a character that is basically him in a parallel universe. He is a male human ranger. He is a member of the Watchers, which is a small private semi-military group paid for by local land owners. Their job is to roam the lands looking for and stopping poachers and highwaymen. He was raised as an only child by his father because his mother died in childbirth. This is significant because I have a strong distaste for both my mother in law and brother in law. I killed her off and he never got born. So take that!
My character is a halfling young woman who is a rogue. She left her little village on the eve of her wedding day and makes her way to a village on the border of the halfling homeland on a major road where people of all races travel. She gets a job as a bartender and learns how to cuss and drink like a sailor.
Her backstory is full of Benedict Cumberbatch references. Her name is Berthala Bramblecreek (one of our family games is mangling his name) but she is referred to as Bert. Her home village is Otter Creek (because Otterbatch memes) and the town where she settles is Bakerston at mile marker 221 and her establishment is The Bee. (Get it? 221B Baker St? Yeah. I'm a geek.)
Her bestie is a human male named Finnigan which is the Girlchild's character. He's a fighter and rather large. And he tends to throw her around a lot. And as she hasn't even started creating his character yet, we just know they meet when her drunk mouth gets her into a fight with another large male thing. They become traveling companions and eventually she becomes a con artist, but never takes anything from someone who needs it. Kind of Robin Hoodish.
I can't keep writing past where he saves her from a barfight without her input and she isn't here to input. So boo.
I'm fully expecting a text from the boss not to come in tomorrow. If so I'm going to ask if I should start looking for another job. I can't afford a job that repeated forces unpaid vacay days on me. I can't afford it either financially or mentally. I'm losing my mind today trying to occupy it with D&D and a couple of other stories I've been working on.
Maybe I'll keep writing Bert's story and edit it as necessary to fit Finnigan's narrative.
I'm going to be extremely disappointed if I end up having to go job hunting again. I'm ten days from what should have been my perm hire date. I'm sick of this trumpfuckery and really so, so tired of all the winning.
Sunday, August 5, 2018
Bittersweet
Yesterday we went for quite a ramble. We drove Hwy 52 along the Ohio River, stopping at interesting places to take pictures to share in an ongoing Twitter thread. The kids call this live tweeting I think?
We stopped at the Meldahl dam just in time to watch a tugboat push four barges piled with coal through the lock. The river is high enough that the dam was open so we didn't get to see the lock in action. We stopped in Ripley, which was a major stop on the Underground Railroad, and nearby Shawnee State Park for some pretty shots of nature. We followed the winding river up into the Appalachain foothills to Plymouth where we ate amazing pizza at a funky little pie joint.
From there we caught Hwy 23 north to Chillicothe. We stopped at a rest stop hoping to get a good panoramic view of the rolling hills, but the tree line was in the way. Rude. There, Sgt. Hubby reminded me that this was the same Hwy 23 that runs down to Johnson City, Tennessee (said with Wagon Wheel inflection, of course), which reminded me that it's also the highway that continues to Asheville, where I was born. (And hence my affinity for the Appys,)
I am very proud to be from Asheville. Even though I didn't grow up there, I always told everyone I was from Asheville. Both my mom's mom and my dad's parents lived there so I spent summers and Christmases and Thanksgivings there. I moved back after high school to attend UNCA. It is a wonderfully funky, hippy-dippy, artsy-fartsy town and the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains are the most gorgeous backdrop.
When Sgt. went overseas, I moved back to the area with my sons, then 2 and newborn. I say the area because I didn't actually move back to Asheville. I moved to the tiny town where my paternal grandmother was born and raised. My family history goes back several generations in that town.
But my Granny was a ballsy lady. She left town when she graduated high school and moved to the DC area of Virginia to attend secretarial college while serving as domestic help for a cousin. That's where she met and married a Department of the Treasury accountant who went on to join the Secret Service. They moved back to the area -- and by that I mean actually Asheville -- upon retirement. I practically grew up in that house on Hillview Circle.
They sold that house and bought a house in Granny's little hometown when I was 13. I think Grandaddy knew he wouldn't outlive her and wanted her to be near family. He died a week or so before I graduated high school and I went to live with her while I was at UNCA, but I was still an Asheville girl.
Eventually I left North Carolina to follow my soldier and while I was pregnant with Nut 1 Granny died suddenly in her sleep. My parents inherited the house and a few months later -- when Nut 1 was a newborn, Daddy died after a long battle with liver disease. When Sgt. went overseas, that is the house I moved to with the boys.
My mom stuck around for awhile to "help" with the boys (she wasn't much help, actually) but we were too much for her and she moved to Tennessee to be near her mother and brother. And that's when things fell apart. The boys were taken into foster care about a year and a half into Sgt's 2-year tour. I fell into a deep depression. I did stupid things. I already told this story and I don't care to revisit.
I know that the unfolding of my life wasn't actually my fault and I really did the best I could parenting three non-neurotypical children, and I know that even if that weren't the case, I can't change history, but I can't seem to let go of the guilt and shame of having my children taken into custody, of being a failed parent, of losing my sons. (They aren't dead - they're living down south and failing at adulting. They just aren't a part of my life, mostly by their own choice,) I don't know how to do that.
So, realizing I was on Hwy 23 in my beloved Appys was bittersweet. Can I go home again? Can I ever unpack this? Will I ever be able to go back to Asheville without stirring up all that pain? I haven't been back since I left to move to Ft. Bumfuck, so I don't know. If I turned right to go south instead of north to circle back home, would I be okay with that?
We went north, of course. I found my panoramic view. I took more pretty pictures and posted them to my Twitter thread. I came home to a bottle of chilled dry white, put my feet up on the porch, and did some Saturday porch drankin' with Sgt.
I have a good little life here. And I think the Girlchild is going to be okay -- she's actually in therapy now by her own request. I also will be okay. But I don't know if I'll ever be able to really unpack that bitter from the sweet.
We stopped at the Meldahl dam just in time to watch a tugboat push four barges piled with coal through the lock. The river is high enough that the dam was open so we didn't get to see the lock in action. We stopped in Ripley, which was a major stop on the Underground Railroad, and nearby Shawnee State Park for some pretty shots of nature. We followed the winding river up into the Appalachain foothills to Plymouth where we ate amazing pizza at a funky little pie joint.
From there we caught Hwy 23 north to Chillicothe. We stopped at a rest stop hoping to get a good panoramic view of the rolling hills, but the tree line was in the way. Rude. There, Sgt. Hubby reminded me that this was the same Hwy 23 that runs down to Johnson City, Tennessee (said with Wagon Wheel inflection, of course), which reminded me that it's also the highway that continues to Asheville, where I was born. (And hence my affinity for the Appys,)
I am very proud to be from Asheville. Even though I didn't grow up there, I always told everyone I was from Asheville. Both my mom's mom and my dad's parents lived there so I spent summers and Christmases and Thanksgivings there. I moved back after high school to attend UNCA. It is a wonderfully funky, hippy-dippy, artsy-fartsy town and the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains are the most gorgeous backdrop.
When Sgt. went overseas, I moved back to the area with my sons, then 2 and newborn. I say the area because I didn't actually move back to Asheville. I moved to the tiny town where my paternal grandmother was born and raised. My family history goes back several generations in that town.
But my Granny was a ballsy lady. She left town when she graduated high school and moved to the DC area of Virginia to attend secretarial college while serving as domestic help for a cousin. That's where she met and married a Department of the Treasury accountant who went on to join the Secret Service. They moved back to the area -- and by that I mean actually Asheville -- upon retirement. I practically grew up in that house on Hillview Circle.
They sold that house and bought a house in Granny's little hometown when I was 13. I think Grandaddy knew he wouldn't outlive her and wanted her to be near family. He died a week or so before I graduated high school and I went to live with her while I was at UNCA, but I was still an Asheville girl.
Eventually I left North Carolina to follow my soldier and while I was pregnant with Nut 1 Granny died suddenly in her sleep. My parents inherited the house and a few months later -- when Nut 1 was a newborn, Daddy died after a long battle with liver disease. When Sgt. went overseas, that is the house I moved to with the boys.
My mom stuck around for awhile to "help" with the boys (she wasn't much help, actually) but we were too much for her and she moved to Tennessee to be near her mother and brother. And that's when things fell apart. The boys were taken into foster care about a year and a half into Sgt's 2-year tour. I fell into a deep depression. I did stupid things. I already told this story and I don't care to revisit.
I know that the unfolding of my life wasn't actually my fault and I really did the best I could parenting three non-neurotypical children, and I know that even if that weren't the case, I can't change history, but I can't seem to let go of the guilt and shame of having my children taken into custody, of being a failed parent, of losing my sons. (They aren't dead - they're living down south and failing at adulting. They just aren't a part of my life, mostly by their own choice,) I don't know how to do that.
So, realizing I was on Hwy 23 in my beloved Appys was bittersweet. Can I go home again? Can I ever unpack this? Will I ever be able to go back to Asheville without stirring up all that pain? I haven't been back since I left to move to Ft. Bumfuck, so I don't know. If I turned right to go south instead of north to circle back home, would I be okay with that?
We went north, of course. I found my panoramic view. I took more pretty pictures and posted them to my Twitter thread. I came home to a bottle of chilled dry white, put my feet up on the porch, and did some Saturday porch drankin' with Sgt.
I have a good little life here. And I think the Girlchild is going to be okay -- she's actually in therapy now by her own request. I also will be okay. But I don't know if I'll ever be able to really unpack that bitter from the sweet.
Thursday, August 2, 2018
Lots of New News
Well, one new thing, I got a new laptop so I can blog regularly again. But it has been quite a week of news. I got new sheets. They have sloths on them and I love them. I got a new duvet cover. (Previously I just had an extremely dingy duvet that has been well dogged.) My bedroom looks a million times more inviting. But the biggest new new is this past weekend.
The Girlchild, Sgt. Nutty, and I went on a weekend adventure and really had fun. Like, the Girlchild wasn't off in headphone/smartphone land tuning us out. She was actually interacting. And Sgt. N and I didn't quibble at all. We just laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.
We drove the long way -- about four hours -- through eastern KY to Red River Gorge yelling COW! every time we say a cow and HAAAAAAAAY! (in our best southern accent) every time we saw bales of hay and HORSE! every time we saw a horse. We cracked jokes and made horrifyingly bad puns. We interacted like... like... a happy little family.
The Gorge puts the gorge in gorgeous. I'm originally from the NC mountains and the rolling Appalachians felt like home. It was a perfect day. Mid 70's in mid July with low humidity.
We chose a short hike -- mile and a half -- but I was verging on hangry so we stopped at the first possible food, which was Subway, where Girlchild licked my face and said I tasted like sadness. I think sometimes this child isn't right.
Our short hike started out through an enchanted forest and lead to a very steep downhill rock scramble and cliffs and climbs and amazing views where we could see those gorgeous mountains for miles and miles and miles. And then a slow uphill climb with two massive sets of stairs that killed both me and the Girl. Sgt acted like it was nothing and had no idea why we were losing our enthusiasm for the woods. (Protip - if you're going to do the Gray's Arch/Daniel Boone Cabin loop, start by going left so you go DOWN the stairs and slow inclines and scramble UP the rocks.)
The ride home was quiet. The short route -- interstate the whole way.
We were exhausted. But happy. All of us. So very happy.
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
Losing My Kids
This is a hard story to write, and a long one, but bare with me. My kids were put into foster care three times within about 4 years or so. I'm hoping they were young enough that it's just kind of a distant memory and didn't do them lasting harm. I know it was a nightmare that almost killed me.
The first time was in a dinky town in the NC mountains. Sgt, Hubby was 19 months into a Germany/Kosovo tour. When I tell people I didn't go to Germany I usually say it was because I had a toddler and a newborn and he would be spending most of his time in Kosovo and I did not want to try to single parent in a foreign country. That's a lie. I didn't even know he would be going to Kosovo. I didn't go to Germany because I wanted out of my marriage.
He was, at the time, a mean drunk, terribly verbally abusive, and a passive-aggressive gaslighter. His nightly habit was to come home -- usually late. Often he'd stay at work past business hours and knock back a few beers. It was his "me" time. Then once he got home he would complain about how the house wasn't clean enough. He'd refuse to eat the dinner I had made him, opting instead for a stack of ham sandwiches and knock back a few more -- average about a half case nightly. Then he'd pick a fight for no reason. Just poke at me. Poke and poke and poke until all resolve to stay calm and not let myself be provoked was worn down and I would LOSE MY SHIT on him. Then he'd call me a crazy, out of control bitch and calmly go to bed (happy now that he had succeeded in proving that *I* was the crazy one) while I would sit in the living room crying so hard it made me nauseous.
When he got orders for Germany, they fucked something up (big surprise the Army fucked something up, yeah?) and we did not receive concurrent travel orders. He had to go ahead without me and wait for housing to open up for us. So I took the boys -- the oldest just barely two and the baby only 6 weeks -- and went to my mom's in a tiny little town outside of Asheville, NC.
After about a month or so of not being constantly insulted and yelled at, I decided I kind of liked it that way and told him I wasn't following. I didn't tell him I wanted to leave altogether because I needed his paycheck to survive. I suggested he switch his status to unaccompanied to shorten to tour to two years instead of four and use that time to get his shit together.
During the 19 months between his departure and the boys' departure, life was pretty unstable. We moved several times. When I decided to stay in NC I moved out of my mom's house and into my own little apartment. I spent months doing nothing but caring for the boys and staring at walls. (This was the time period I laid in the bathtub staring down a bottle of percocet wanting so badly to swallow them all, but couldn't bring myself to it knowing there would be nobody to make breakfast for the boys in the morning.)
I knew something had to change. I went to the local social services office and got approved for childcare vouchers. I applied to the community college 45 minutes away in Asheville, did all the financial paperwork and got in-state tuition status so a Pell grant would fully fund my return to school, and registered for classes. Things were going well and I finally felt like maybe I was really a person.
Then a series of unbelievable things happened. I got evicted from that apartment because the neighbor stole my ATM card and drained my account and bounced my rent and bailed on hers -- same landlord -- so he was already pissed off. Moved back in with mom.
On my way into school one morning I slipped on some ice and hurt my knee pretty badly. I could barely walk on it but I still kept going to class. Then the baby got sick. He was croupy and running a fever so I took him to the local clinic. He had pneumonia and RSV, which in younger babies is often fatal. At the same office visit the doc offered to x-ray my knee -- I'd cracked my patella.
Then the brakes went out on my truck. Sick baby. Broken knee. No transportation. Mom guilt tripping me about leaving the boys in daycare in the first place -- I mean if you're not going to stay home and raise your kids why even have them? I quit school.
The next several months were chaotic. My mom lost HER lease so we found another place to live. She decided she needed to live with me because I needed her help. (She wasn't much help, but she was fairly financially dependant on me.) Then the people renting the house she owned (inherited from my father's parents) moved out so we all moved there and she made me pay rent, while still mostly supporting her.
During this time she was in and out quite a bit. She'd take long trips to Tennessee to see her own ailing mother. And to get away from me. She told me I was a taker -- an emotional drain -- and she couldn't handle living with me. The movie Girl, Interrupted had recently made its big splash and she decided I had borderline personality disorder. My mom loves an armchair diagnosis.
It was while she was in Tennessee that a neighbor reported me to DSS because the toddler was playing outside by himself (we had a really nice yard and it was a lovely, safe neighborhood) and my car -- which was in the shop for clutch repair -- was gone. She thought I'd left the kids alone.
So the DSS lady shows up at my door and obviously I'm there because I answer the door, so the kids hadn't been left alone. She got all motherly on me and asked me how I was really doing. Like an idiot I told her. She used all of it against me and a few days later my kids were in custody.
They came for them just after I'd settled them down for bed. They brought cops. I screamed and cried and begged while the cops held me back. A pair of social workers carried my barely awake, crying, confused babies out to their waiting car.
It was a long summer. I really, really, REALLY wanted to die. Two things comprised my identity -- being a wife and being a mother. My marriage had failed so there was that gone. And now here was the state telling me my soul remaining reason for existing was a fail. I had no purpose, no identity. I had no job, no friends, no social support system. Because I was the only responsible adult 24/7 I had absolutely no life outside of parenting. I drove really fast without a seatbelt all summer hoping I'd crash and die. I fantasized about driving off of overpasses.
I got to visit the boys weekly. I met often with my court appointed lawyer and jumped through all of their hoops -- parenting classes, therapy, I eventually got a job a Subway just to say I had a job. I'd go to my court hearing every month and same result every time -- I am an unfit mother.
Sgt Hubby came home in August. The judge who'd been presiding over the case went against DSS recommendations and gave the kids back with the agreement that we seek help when we arrived at our next duty station. It still fucking gets me that *I* was the bad parent -- me, the victim of severe emotional abuse. They gave the kids back when the brave hero (abusive alcoholic) who'd come back to take control of the little lady who had obviously lost it.
So we go to next duty station. Fort Fucking Polk, Louisiana. I don't leave him as I'd planned because staying with him was the only way I could keep my kids. Nothing changes. He works long hours to avoid coming home. He either shuts me out or gets drunk and yells at me on a nightly basis. I find out I'm pregnant again and so sick that for a month all I can keep down is lime sherbet and Sprite. The nausea doesn't let up after the first trimester. (It didn't with the boys either. I threw up daily throughout all three pregnancies.)
Still though, I reach out for help. I have an appointment with psyche services before we are even out of temporary housing. I call the parish (Louisiana doesn't have counties and that's just weird) office for child development and try to get my oldest assessed because I know something isn't right. They say the waiting list is months long but they can put the two year old in an early intervention program that meets one morning a week. I take him when I am unsick enough to drive. The oldest is such a behavioral issue that after our first session, he isn't allowed to attend with his brother and I have to leave the baby there by himself.
It's a matter of weeks before DCWS (every state has their own acronym) gets a call -- FROM THE TEACHER AT THE EARLY INTERVENTION PROGRAM WHERE I WENT FOR HELP -- because the four year old had a black eye and a bloody nose (he used to run around with a blanket on his head pretending he was a monster and he ran into the door frame, and his nose used to bleed constantly because he'd pick it) and alleging that I had no demonstrable parenting skills because of the 4 year old's behavior.
We are instructed to take the boys in for a physical exam. I throw a fit because IT CONFLICTS WITH THE FOLLOW UP PSYCHE APPOINTMENT I'D BEEN WAITING MONTHS FOR. The doctor does not find any evidence to conclude physical abuse. Notes that the oldest has a history of nose bleeds already in his medical records. DCWS calls DSS in NC and gets THEIR side of the story.
The boys are taken from us at the hospital. Two MP's have to hold me back because I lunge across the desk at the social worker.
The DCWS lady tells the judge that I'd been told in NC to seek help and had failed to do so (the case was reported by the early intervention lady BECAUSE I ASKED FOR HELP and the lying DCWS bitch had access to the kids' medical records showing that we'd made an appointment with behavioral health before we'd even moved out of temporary housing and KNEW the physical exam conflicted with the follow up). THE FUCK PEOPLE???
We go to the adjudication hearing that's supposed to take place within 24 hours but takes a week because of system backlog. My lawyer recommends I don't take the stand in case I say something that contradicts something I say at a later hearing. (Which would be a thing if I planned on lying, which I didn't.) He knew there'd be a later hearing because, well, if the state wants your kids they'll keep them.
Our first real hearing was supposed to be 30 days but it was more like 3 months because of system backlog, again. Between the nausea from the pregnancy and the depression from having the boys gone, I was pretty much catatonic unless Sgt Hubby, during the times he was sober and caring, made me get out of the house to go for a drive or take a walk or have a picnic or something. Mostly I slept or stared at walls. We couldn't afford cable and didn't have a TV.
Again we jumped through the hoops. I went to therapy. For some reason HE wasn't required to go to therapy, just me. We went through three different parenting classes. We had weekly supervised visits with the kids. The oldest would have nothing to do with me. (He was angry that I'd abandoned him.) It was noted that I had a cold relationship with my son.
We got the kids back -- again against the recommendation of DCWS -- at the first real hearing because the judge said he didn't see that there was any more help that we could get. But we stayed under their supervision the entire four years we were there. We kept trying to get help through military psyche services. Both boys were diagnosed with garden variety ADHD and put on medication that set them on a daily cycle of zombie/monster -- zombie when it kicked in and monster when it wore off.
We had trouble with the school the entire time. Both boys had behavior issues and were repeatedly disciplined. The state of Lousisana as late as 2006 still condoned corporal punishment. I don't know if they still do or not. I begged to have the boys reassessed but all they would do was affirm a combination of ADHD and bad parenting.
In July of we got news that in September we were moving to Georgia. In the midst of outprocessing, the younger boy had a really bad day. He lost his flipflops (which he was told not to take off) in the car on the way to the outprocessing center. He wass not allowed to go with daddy into the outprocessing center because he had no shoes. I stayed in the car with him. He screamed and raged and kicked. He was not allowed to go with daddy into our next stop -- the bank -- because he was in the middle of a rage fit, causing further rage fit.
Daddy drops us off at home and goes back to work, leaving me with this raging monster -- 99th percentile for height and weight at 5 years old, (he is 6'6" now at 18 with size 18 feet), strong as an ox and wanting to fight.
I do everything I can think of. I try to sit him in a timeout. Nope. I send him to his room for a nap. He throws furniture. (I'm telling you, this was a STRONG child). My very last resort is to spank him. I've run out of options. I get daddy's belt because I'm afraid I will miss or hit too hard or somehow lose control of my hands. I try to hold him down to get a good swat at his butt but he twists just so the belt hits his neck and leaves a big fucking welt.
I call our caseworker immediately to report what happened. I'm in tears. He comes over and assesses things. Helps me calm the kid down and tells me it's gonna be okay. (Not all social workers are evil.)
Of course his teacher reports the mark and the same lying bitch that took them the first time gets the case. Our caseworker begs her not to take them. Tries to explain the situation. She's not having it.
Even though it was just the one who had the mark and the physical exam concluded no evidence of any other physical abuse, all three kids are removed. I don't fight this time. I know there's no point. I double over, sobbing, aching, empty as hell, sick to my stomach.
We get in the car and drive so far we end up miles into Texas. We drive until after midnight. We find an open Dairy Queen, get ice cream cones, and head back home.
It's another week until our 24 hour hearing. I spend the entire week crying and don't get out of bed. This time I don't follow the advice of THE SAME DAMN COURT APPOINTED LAWYER and insist I take the stand. We leave court with the kids. The judge -- the same judge as before -- was an old southern boy who knew about being taken behind the woodshed and he believed my story.
So we move to Georgia. To the big city. I mean, they have a Target and ethnic food and an actual downtown and multiple grocery stores that aren't WalMart. Both boys are noted as behavioral problems within the first days of starting their new school. The school psychologist, who hasn't actually met the child, thinks my 2nd grader fits the profile for Autism.
We immediately seek out civilian psyche services. The psychiatrist arranges comprehensive testing. We find out just weeks before his 9th birthday that he is way up on the spectrum. Eventually all three kids end up with a diagnosis. The oldest, Autism. The other two severe ADHD and Intermittent Explosive Disorder. (The 5 year old who threw that fit ended up breaking my knee during another violent tantrum when he was 15.)
DFAS (more acronyms) is involved on and off for most of the next 8 years.
I found out later that ASD families are almost always involved with child services at some point and having undiagnosed kids put in custody isn't uncommon. If your family doesn't look right -- if your kids don't act right -- something must be wrong, and if you don't have that doctor's note, you MUST be what's wrong.
So, I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids. I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids while I am doing everything I can to advocate for them and give them the best life possible. Which is what these parents seeking asylum are doing -- they're coming here to find safety and give their kids a shot at life.
I got to see my kids. I knew they were safe. I knew I would get them back. I still wanted to die. It was often a hard fight not to give in. I can only imagine how much worse it is for these parents having their kids ripped away at the border, not knowing where they are, or if they're safe, or if they will ever even see them again. And my heart is breaking for them.
I know this was a long, hard read. Thank you for sticking with it. And fight like hell to stop this atrocity. Families belong together.
The first time was in a dinky town in the NC mountains. Sgt, Hubby was 19 months into a Germany/Kosovo tour. When I tell people I didn't go to Germany I usually say it was because I had a toddler and a newborn and he would be spending most of his time in Kosovo and I did not want to try to single parent in a foreign country. That's a lie. I didn't even know he would be going to Kosovo. I didn't go to Germany because I wanted out of my marriage.
He was, at the time, a mean drunk, terribly verbally abusive, and a passive-aggressive gaslighter. His nightly habit was to come home -- usually late. Often he'd stay at work past business hours and knock back a few beers. It was his "me" time. Then once he got home he would complain about how the house wasn't clean enough. He'd refuse to eat the dinner I had made him, opting instead for a stack of ham sandwiches and knock back a few more -- average about a half case nightly. Then he'd pick a fight for no reason. Just poke at me. Poke and poke and poke until all resolve to stay calm and not let myself be provoked was worn down and I would LOSE MY SHIT on him. Then he'd call me a crazy, out of control bitch and calmly go to bed (happy now that he had succeeded in proving that *I* was the crazy one) while I would sit in the living room crying so hard it made me nauseous.
When he got orders for Germany, they fucked something up (big surprise the Army fucked something up, yeah?) and we did not receive concurrent travel orders. He had to go ahead without me and wait for housing to open up for us. So I took the boys -- the oldest just barely two and the baby only 6 weeks -- and went to my mom's in a tiny little town outside of Asheville, NC.
After about a month or so of not being constantly insulted and yelled at, I decided I kind of liked it that way and told him I wasn't following. I didn't tell him I wanted to leave altogether because I needed his paycheck to survive. I suggested he switch his status to unaccompanied to shorten to tour to two years instead of four and use that time to get his shit together.
During the 19 months between his departure and the boys' departure, life was pretty unstable. We moved several times. When I decided to stay in NC I moved out of my mom's house and into my own little apartment. I spent months doing nothing but caring for the boys and staring at walls. (This was the time period I laid in the bathtub staring down a bottle of percocet wanting so badly to swallow them all, but couldn't bring myself to it knowing there would be nobody to make breakfast for the boys in the morning.)
I knew something had to change. I went to the local social services office and got approved for childcare vouchers. I applied to the community college 45 minutes away in Asheville, did all the financial paperwork and got in-state tuition status so a Pell grant would fully fund my return to school, and registered for classes. Things were going well and I finally felt like maybe I was really a person.
Then a series of unbelievable things happened. I got evicted from that apartment because the neighbor stole my ATM card and drained my account and bounced my rent and bailed on hers -- same landlord -- so he was already pissed off. Moved back in with mom.
On my way into school one morning I slipped on some ice and hurt my knee pretty badly. I could barely walk on it but I still kept going to class. Then the baby got sick. He was croupy and running a fever so I took him to the local clinic. He had pneumonia and RSV, which in younger babies is often fatal. At the same office visit the doc offered to x-ray my knee -- I'd cracked my patella.
Then the brakes went out on my truck. Sick baby. Broken knee. No transportation. Mom guilt tripping me about leaving the boys in daycare in the first place -- I mean if you're not going to stay home and raise your kids why even have them? I quit school.
The next several months were chaotic. My mom lost HER lease so we found another place to live. She decided she needed to live with me because I needed her help. (She wasn't much help, but she was fairly financially dependant on me.) Then the people renting the house she owned (inherited from my father's parents) moved out so we all moved there and she made me pay rent, while still mostly supporting her.
During this time she was in and out quite a bit. She'd take long trips to Tennessee to see her own ailing mother. And to get away from me. She told me I was a taker -- an emotional drain -- and she couldn't handle living with me. The movie Girl, Interrupted had recently made its big splash and she decided I had borderline personality disorder. My mom loves an armchair diagnosis.
It was while she was in Tennessee that a neighbor reported me to DSS because the toddler was playing outside by himself (we had a really nice yard and it was a lovely, safe neighborhood) and my car -- which was in the shop for clutch repair -- was gone. She thought I'd left the kids alone.
So the DSS lady shows up at my door and obviously I'm there because I answer the door, so the kids hadn't been left alone. She got all motherly on me and asked me how I was really doing. Like an idiot I told her. She used all of it against me and a few days later my kids were in custody.
They came for them just after I'd settled them down for bed. They brought cops. I screamed and cried and begged while the cops held me back. A pair of social workers carried my barely awake, crying, confused babies out to their waiting car.
It was a long summer. I really, really, REALLY wanted to die. Two things comprised my identity -- being a wife and being a mother. My marriage had failed so there was that gone. And now here was the state telling me my soul remaining reason for existing was a fail. I had no purpose, no identity. I had no job, no friends, no social support system. Because I was the only responsible adult 24/7 I had absolutely no life outside of parenting. I drove really fast without a seatbelt all summer hoping I'd crash and die. I fantasized about driving off of overpasses.
I got to visit the boys weekly. I met often with my court appointed lawyer and jumped through all of their hoops -- parenting classes, therapy, I eventually got a job a Subway just to say I had a job. I'd go to my court hearing every month and same result every time -- I am an unfit mother.
Sgt Hubby came home in August. The judge who'd been presiding over the case went against DSS recommendations and gave the kids back with the agreement that we seek help when we arrived at our next duty station. It still fucking gets me that *I* was the bad parent -- me, the victim of severe emotional abuse. They gave the kids back when the brave hero (abusive alcoholic) who'd come back to take control of the little lady who had obviously lost it.
So we go to next duty station. Fort Fucking Polk, Louisiana. I don't leave him as I'd planned because staying with him was the only way I could keep my kids. Nothing changes. He works long hours to avoid coming home. He either shuts me out or gets drunk and yells at me on a nightly basis. I find out I'm pregnant again and so sick that for a month all I can keep down is lime sherbet and Sprite. The nausea doesn't let up after the first trimester. (It didn't with the boys either. I threw up daily throughout all three pregnancies.)
Still though, I reach out for help. I have an appointment with psyche services before we are even out of temporary housing. I call the parish (Louisiana doesn't have counties and that's just weird) office for child development and try to get my oldest assessed because I know something isn't right. They say the waiting list is months long but they can put the two year old in an early intervention program that meets one morning a week. I take him when I am unsick enough to drive. The oldest is such a behavioral issue that after our first session, he isn't allowed to attend with his brother and I have to leave the baby there by himself.
It's a matter of weeks before DCWS (every state has their own acronym) gets a call -- FROM THE TEACHER AT THE EARLY INTERVENTION PROGRAM WHERE I WENT FOR HELP -- because the four year old had a black eye and a bloody nose (he used to run around with a blanket on his head pretending he was a monster and he ran into the door frame, and his nose used to bleed constantly because he'd pick it) and alleging that I had no demonstrable parenting skills because of the 4 year old's behavior.
We are instructed to take the boys in for a physical exam. I throw a fit because IT CONFLICTS WITH THE FOLLOW UP PSYCHE APPOINTMENT I'D BEEN WAITING MONTHS FOR. The doctor does not find any evidence to conclude physical abuse. Notes that the oldest has a history of nose bleeds already in his medical records. DCWS calls DSS in NC and gets THEIR side of the story.
The boys are taken from us at the hospital. Two MP's have to hold me back because I lunge across the desk at the social worker.
The DCWS lady tells the judge that I'd been told in NC to seek help and had failed to do so (the case was reported by the early intervention lady BECAUSE I ASKED FOR HELP and the lying DCWS bitch had access to the kids' medical records showing that we'd made an appointment with behavioral health before we'd even moved out of temporary housing and KNEW the physical exam conflicted with the follow up). THE FUCK PEOPLE???
We go to the adjudication hearing that's supposed to take place within 24 hours but takes a week because of system backlog. My lawyer recommends I don't take the stand in case I say something that contradicts something I say at a later hearing. (Which would be a thing if I planned on lying, which I didn't.) He knew there'd be a later hearing because, well, if the state wants your kids they'll keep them.
Our first real hearing was supposed to be 30 days but it was more like 3 months because of system backlog, again. Between the nausea from the pregnancy and the depression from having the boys gone, I was pretty much catatonic unless Sgt Hubby, during the times he was sober and caring, made me get out of the house to go for a drive or take a walk or have a picnic or something. Mostly I slept or stared at walls. We couldn't afford cable and didn't have a TV.
Again we jumped through the hoops. I went to therapy. For some reason HE wasn't required to go to therapy, just me. We went through three different parenting classes. We had weekly supervised visits with the kids. The oldest would have nothing to do with me. (He was angry that I'd abandoned him.) It was noted that I had a cold relationship with my son.
We got the kids back -- again against the recommendation of DCWS -- at the first real hearing because the judge said he didn't see that there was any more help that we could get. But we stayed under their supervision the entire four years we were there. We kept trying to get help through military psyche services. Both boys were diagnosed with garden variety ADHD and put on medication that set them on a daily cycle of zombie/monster -- zombie when it kicked in and monster when it wore off.
We had trouble with the school the entire time. Both boys had behavior issues and were repeatedly disciplined. The state of Lousisana as late as 2006 still condoned corporal punishment. I don't know if they still do or not. I begged to have the boys reassessed but all they would do was affirm a combination of ADHD and bad parenting.
In July of we got news that in September we were moving to Georgia. In the midst of outprocessing, the younger boy had a really bad day. He lost his flipflops (which he was told not to take off) in the car on the way to the outprocessing center. He wass not allowed to go with daddy into the outprocessing center because he had no shoes. I stayed in the car with him. He screamed and raged and kicked. He was not allowed to go with daddy into our next stop -- the bank -- because he was in the middle of a rage fit, causing further rage fit.
Daddy drops us off at home and goes back to work, leaving me with this raging monster -- 99th percentile for height and weight at 5 years old, (he is 6'6" now at 18 with size 18 feet), strong as an ox and wanting to fight.
I do everything I can think of. I try to sit him in a timeout. Nope. I send him to his room for a nap. He throws furniture. (I'm telling you, this was a STRONG child). My very last resort is to spank him. I've run out of options. I get daddy's belt because I'm afraid I will miss or hit too hard or somehow lose control of my hands. I try to hold him down to get a good swat at his butt but he twists just so the belt hits his neck and leaves a big fucking welt.
I call our caseworker immediately to report what happened. I'm in tears. He comes over and assesses things. Helps me calm the kid down and tells me it's gonna be okay. (Not all social workers are evil.)
Of course his teacher reports the mark and the same lying bitch that took them the first time gets the case. Our caseworker begs her not to take them. Tries to explain the situation. She's not having it.
Even though it was just the one who had the mark and the physical exam concluded no evidence of any other physical abuse, all three kids are removed. I don't fight this time. I know there's no point. I double over, sobbing, aching, empty as hell, sick to my stomach.
We get in the car and drive so far we end up miles into Texas. We drive until after midnight. We find an open Dairy Queen, get ice cream cones, and head back home.
It's another week until our 24 hour hearing. I spend the entire week crying and don't get out of bed. This time I don't follow the advice of THE SAME DAMN COURT APPOINTED LAWYER and insist I take the stand. We leave court with the kids. The judge -- the same judge as before -- was an old southern boy who knew about being taken behind the woodshed and he believed my story.
So we move to Georgia. To the big city. I mean, they have a Target and ethnic food and an actual downtown and multiple grocery stores that aren't WalMart. Both boys are noted as behavioral problems within the first days of starting their new school. The school psychologist, who hasn't actually met the child, thinks my 2nd grader fits the profile for Autism.
We immediately seek out civilian psyche services. The psychiatrist arranges comprehensive testing. We find out just weeks before his 9th birthday that he is way up on the spectrum. Eventually all three kids end up with a diagnosis. The oldest, Autism. The other two severe ADHD and Intermittent Explosive Disorder. (The 5 year old who threw that fit ended up breaking my knee during another violent tantrum when he was 15.)
DFAS (more acronyms) is involved on and off for most of the next 8 years.
I found out later that ASD families are almost always involved with child services at some point and having undiagnosed kids put in custody isn't uncommon. If your family doesn't look right -- if your kids don't act right -- something must be wrong, and if you don't have that doctor's note, you MUST be what's wrong.
So, I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids. I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids while I am doing everything I can to advocate for them and give them the best life possible. Which is what these parents seeking asylum are doing -- they're coming here to find safety and give their kids a shot at life.
I got to see my kids. I knew they were safe. I knew I would get them back. I still wanted to die. It was often a hard fight not to give in. I can only imagine how much worse it is for these parents having their kids ripped away at the border, not knowing where they are, or if they're safe, or if they will ever even see them again. And my heart is breaking for them.
I know this was a long, hard read. Thank you for sticking with it. And fight like hell to stop this atrocity. Families belong together.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Checking In
Hey Y'all
I know it's been forever since I posted -- almost a month. And I have so many thoughts rolling around in my head that I would like to write about. I am working on getting a laptop. I think my priority should, however, be telling the landlord about the dog and paying the pet deposit because the hot water heater is broken so we can't shower and I don't want to chance the maintenance guy tattling about the dog.
(We do have a Y membership and we ARE getting bathed, just so you know, if you were worried.)
I have this new job that is keeping me far too busy at work to blog. I am loving this new job. I doubt I will ever get fired for talking shit about my boss in my blog because I really, really like her. And no, I'm not cheesing because she doesn't know about my blog. (And I would like to keep it that way, but just in case, nice non-word-murdering-lady, I will never talk shit about you in my blog because I've no need to!)
I don't think I've ever worked anywhere before that didn't have a toxic work environment. There's always been competition, personal drama, general stress, sniping, back stabbing, under-bus-throwing, snarky criticism, that one person everyone trashes behind their back -- there's none of that here. We have a pretty high level of cultural and political diversity but it doesn't seem to cause tension. There's one dude who is a staunch Trump supporter who tries to bait me but I don't let him. Otherwise, nobody discusses politics because that's just not work appropriate chatter.
We all seem to share family as a priority, and the ability to leave work at work. On one particularly busy day when it would have benefitted work production had I skipped or shortened lunch, my boss told me that I should go ahead and take my full hour since that lunch hour is the only time I get to spend with Grumpy during the week. Family comes first. This business isn't life or death and it's all gonna get done eventually.
How often do you find a boss like that?
Yesterday officially marked my first month. I'm counting down the next five until I am officially on the company payroll and off the agency payroll. I'm pretty sure this is going to be my big girl job.
Also, I am really enjoying aqua fitness classes and am thinking about becoming an instructor because how awsome would it be to be a professional mermaid?
Yeah, so aqua aerobics tonight. I'm off the company clock but on the company computer and it is time for me to run away home.
Have a good night!
Maybe I will check in like this after work more often.
I know it's been forever since I posted -- almost a month. And I have so many thoughts rolling around in my head that I would like to write about. I am working on getting a laptop. I think my priority should, however, be telling the landlord about the dog and paying the pet deposit because the hot water heater is broken so we can't shower and I don't want to chance the maintenance guy tattling about the dog.
(We do have a Y membership and we ARE getting bathed, just so you know, if you were worried.)
I have this new job that is keeping me far too busy at work to blog. I am loving this new job. I doubt I will ever get fired for talking shit about my boss in my blog because I really, really like her. And no, I'm not cheesing because she doesn't know about my blog. (And I would like to keep it that way, but just in case, nice non-word-murdering-lady, I will never talk shit about you in my blog because I've no need to!)
I don't think I've ever worked anywhere before that didn't have a toxic work environment. There's always been competition, personal drama, general stress, sniping, back stabbing, under-bus-throwing, snarky criticism, that one person everyone trashes behind their back -- there's none of that here. We have a pretty high level of cultural and political diversity but it doesn't seem to cause tension. There's one dude who is a staunch Trump supporter who tries to bait me but I don't let him. Otherwise, nobody discusses politics because that's just not work appropriate chatter.
We all seem to share family as a priority, and the ability to leave work at work. On one particularly busy day when it would have benefitted work production had I skipped or shortened lunch, my boss told me that I should go ahead and take my full hour since that lunch hour is the only time I get to spend with Grumpy during the week. Family comes first. This business isn't life or death and it's all gonna get done eventually.
How often do you find a boss like that?
Yesterday officially marked my first month. I'm counting down the next five until I am officially on the company payroll and off the agency payroll. I'm pretty sure this is going to be my big girl job.
Also, I am really enjoying aqua fitness classes and am thinking about becoming an instructor because how awsome would it be to be a professional mermaid?
Yeah, so aqua aerobics tonight. I'm off the company clock but on the company computer and it is time for me to run away home.
Have a good night!
Maybe I will check in like this after work more often.
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