Sleepover Night

When we lived in Tennessee, the boys had the entire top story of our house to themselves. Each one had a room on one end with a tiny bathroom in the middle.

Sometime around the end of summer between kindergarten and first grade, Morgan began to complain of nightmares. They really horrified him. The descriptions horrified us. His behaviors during the day had us all scared, too.

Somehow, I think Bay knew the solution before we did.

During Morgan's rough time in first grade, Bay's hero worship of his brother hit an all time high. Not only was Morgan the "bestest," but he had a super power called autism, too? Cool. But Morgan was having nightmares, still. He was being bullied.

I would come upstairs during the nights to check on them and find Bay snuggled up in his brother's bed across the hall. I knew it disturbed Morgan's sleep, so I would move him back to his own smaller bed. But by morning, I would find Morgan grumpy and complaining that his brother had not only crept back to his room, he had also staged an all night rager to boot and kept him up.

"Look," I told them, "only weekends are for sleepovers. Bay, you have to stay in your own bed and let Morgan sleep."

Morgan didn't like this idea. His bed was his bed. Why in the world would he share it with the ginger?

But we... did some test runs. First, it was that Fridays were "sleepover nights." I would allow Bay to bring "Oafie," named after his older brother's bear Oaf, and wiggle in beside his brother. They would watch a movie in bed, maybe eat some junk food and go to sleep. I would then move Bay back to his room.

After a couple of weeks, Morgan was looking forward to "sleepover night." Then Saturday was added as another sleepover night.

Morgan's nightmares, while they didn't stop, died down. I think knowing that Bay was there to help him slay the boogieman helped with that.

I would still hear the pitter patter of my youngest son's feet across the ceiling above as I laid in my bed during the week, but I would get up, redirect him, and wouldn't have to make so many trips back upstairs.

Morgan learned the days of the week because of sleepover nights, so did Bay. When we moved to Louisiana, we took a three bedroom apartment. We worried about them sharing a room, until the solution of bunk beds was pointed out.

Would sleepover nights be canceled since they shared a room? Oh no... they are still, after a year of living here, very much alive. The boys look forward to them- a lot. 

Sleepover, last night. Sometimes we make a fort, too. 

They are each other's best friends. I'm so thankful for that.

Surviving

I'm willing to bet that I am no different than your neighbor, one of your friends, or maybe even you.

I'm a survivor of domestic violence. 

October, in addition to being Breast Cancer Awareness Month, is also Domestic Violence Awareness Month. 

When I say that "I" am a survivor, I am not saying that my husband beats me. He is my life raft, my savior, my stability and the person I lean on the most for normality in a relationship, even when we both get it wrong. 

The current statistics on domestic violence are that one in four women and one in seven men are harmed by someone close to them, defined as an "intimate partner" in their lifetimes. 

I'm willing to bet my life that those numbers are higher because what is one's definition of violence is another's definition of normal. That was me, growing up. I knew that what we were experiencing as a family wasn't everyone else's normal, but I knew that this was our normal. And that our normal was to be kept quiet. To many, I think we might have even looked like a semi normal family. 

I'm not telling my family's story, however, I'm sort of telling my own. To exert power over a small child in a barbaric manner is nothing short of the most vile thing I can ever imagine. Once a child's innocence is stolen, that child cannot ever have that back, ever. That child must go through life choosing to either be crippled or defiant about his or her injuries. I refuse to be crippled. 

So, how to define domestic violence, exactly?

Violence isn't always explosive, though I always think of it as walking on eggshells. Sometimes it's quite covert, disguised as controlling behaviors with money, verbal bashing, constant digs, extremely controlling behavior, etc. It's a tear down of your soul. 

Maybe it looks a lot like an occasional "this rarely happens." But then it happens again. And again. And again. 

Domestic violence is not limited to hitting, kicking, or screaming. It includes rape, rape within marriage, incest, and molestation. As stated above, it is not limited to women. Domestic violence may touch women, men, and children. 

If you're human, and this doesn't apply to you, you read the statistics, the news, hear the stories, and recoil in horror. 

However, you might read those same statistics and feel shame if it does. Damn, that shame hurts nearly as badly as the violence itself. 

If you know someone who is experiencing this, you might try to help. And try. And try. And try some more. You wonder why in the hell he or she just won't leave their partner, especially when there are children involved. You feel played for a schmuck. Why wouldn't you?

But that's the thing about continuous violence. There develops an odd sort of co-dependency, especially if there are children involved. You might believe the lies you are told, even a little bit.

"You'll never leave me alive."

"You're crazy, this is all in your head."

"Stupid bitch. Fucking whore."

"This happens to bad little girls."

"I'll kill your dog if you tell."

You believe it all. And so, you stay. There is no way out, you think. You might be dependent because of finances, special needs, lack of a support system, or because you're utterly broken inside. 

If you're a child, you don't tell because you honestly believe that you deserve every damned thing that has happened to you and you believe every threat uttered. 

Maybe you do leave. Maybe you leave and never look back. But it's not that easy, is it? Scars never heal, do they? You might PTSD, nightmares, and triggers. You will likely have those the rest of your life whether your were the adult or the child. 

This isn't your fault. 

You have just witnessed brutality of the worst kind. Your spirit is shattered. If there are children who have witnessed this, or have experienced this, it's even worse; sometimes, because sometimes you can't even see past your own pain to care for their broken souls. So, now there are more shells of humans thanks to this breakdown in humanity. 

I was once one of those children. I was once even one of those women. 

I'm not a shell of a person, most of my pieces are intact. It's taken me well over a decade to heal and I'm still not sure where I am as a person sometimes. Having my own children and allowing them to teach me how to love something unconditionally has helped me in so many ways. I still have the nightmares and the triggers, but I'm not broken. 

I survived. 

But what about the others? The ones who are still victims? The children who are living under the thumbs of the monsters who don't just come out at night? How can we help them?

If you know someone in an abusive situation, let them know you are there for them. Yes, you are possibly risking your life by helping. But driving someone to a shelter, a safe home, some place, should not feel like a burden to you. For as hard as it is to watch a loved one be battered, imagine how hard it is to be that other person. 

If you are reading this are you are that person in that abusive situation, or that former child, you're not alone. You can crawl through Hell and come out. I don't have the answers as to how, but I do know that it can be done. You have to break the cycle of violence, because that's what this is, a cycle. 

Know the domestic violence laws in your states- are you living in a non aggressor state? Does DCS get involved any time there is a domestic violence related call? Do the women's shelters near you accept women and children? Do you have a safe place? Have you spoken up? Do you have 9-1-1 plugged into speed dial?

Most importantly, male or female, know that it's unacceptable for someone to violate your body, mind, or spirit.

Be a survivor. Please. 

Listed below are links for help and information on domestic violence.

• State Hotlines and Coalitions 
• Presidential Proclamation -- National Domestic Violence Awareness Month, 2013
• Voices Against Violence
• The National Domestic Violence Hotline
• Futures Without Violence
• RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network)
• National Coalition Against Domestic Violence
• National Council of Juvenile and Family Court Judges
• WomensLaw.org
• Feminist Majority Foundation 

Normalizing an Uncomfortable Discussion

This month is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

This post isn't actually about that. However, this this is, much like others before it, about taking care of you.

I have zero clue as to what the hell is going on with me. The doctors are trying to sort that out. I go in for a test that I didn't think I'd even need for another decade (I'm almost 31)- a colonoscopy. Apparently, I have a higher risk of fun things like colon and stomach cancer due to it running on my dad's side or something. I say "or something" because I don't really know much about my medical history on that side of my family other than my grandfather died from stomach cancer and colon cancer, and that my father has had stage one polyps or something to that effect.

I don't know much about my medical history on that side because I don't have contact with that side. I refer to that side as The Dark Side. 

So, why am I choosing to blog about this? Because, ladies (also known as general readership), it's time to take care of you. 

This isn't about your kids, but it is, it's about you. All this month, hospitals across the United States will be offering free mammograms. Go get one. Especially if you have a genetic risk. Or even if you don't.

Schedule a colonoscopy before you think you're of age to do so and, especially, if your insurance covers it. Most plans considers the latter a preventative health measure. Did you know that?

If you stand a genetic risk for either, getting one of these would be an excellent idea. If you don't, talk to your doctor. I did some Googling and found out that colon cancer is oftentimes not found until it's bad. Really bad.

Mammograms are outrageously expensive, I get that, hence me mentioning free mammograms.

The most important thing we can do, as moms, is to take care of us. This isn't something trivial like get a mental health break (though, that isn't trivial at all, really). I'm talking getting that yearly physical. Keeping at least a semi healthy diet (don't glare at me, I can feel the glares.. and, I love bacon, okay?), exercising (also hate), etc. I'm also talking about keeping up that yearly pap smear, something I've been guilty of allowing to fall by the wayside.

Women's health is important.

We need to openly talk about this stuff in order to normalize it so that it doesn't feel shameful or abnormal when a 30 year old mother of two has to get a colonoscopy. Or a hysterectomy. Or a mammogram.

This is about us being around long enough to raise our kids, and then see our grandkids, if we're lucky enough to be blessed with them.

We aren't infallible.

We aren't invincible.

We fall.

We need to fix that if we're going to be superwomen.

Our children need us and we need them. Let's get to work on all of this, shall we?

Jello Tastes Like Broken Dreams

So, if you've been keeping up with my medical bullshit, you know that I'm fasting right now for two tests that I was moronic enough to schedule back to back. Today, a cat scan with contrast dye (nothing in my stomach  past midnight the night before except water to take my medications) and then a <gulp> colonoscopy tomorrow.

Yeah, I love starting blog posts this way. It just really brings a certain something to them, doesn't it?

So anyways, I'm really freakin' hungry. I couldn't have anything with nuts, seeds, or beans all weekend. There goes any snack foods I love and I've been subsisting solely off of snacks for the past two weeks. Oh God, hummus, we will meet again. Soon. 

Basically, the only things I can eat today after the scan are Jello (see the post title in reference to how I feel about that crap) and something called beef consomme. Which is what I use to make beef stew. I make a killer beef stew. Sometimes I do a red wine reduction. Mmmmm.

I love food. I used to seriously hate it because food, it turns out, can make you fat when you don't exercise and guess what I hate to do? Yep.

Since moving to Louisiana, I've gained 40lbs. Forty freakin' pounds. Most of that has been this year alone. I have no shame.

I live outside of New Orleans, FFS! We are good food, people.

There is crawfish, shrimp (and, if you've ever watched the cinematic masterpiece, Forrest Gump, you know that there are hundreds of ways to cook them and most of them aren't that healthy- all are tasty), oysters with sauces... Oh God, the sauces. I make a mean gravy, I rock the hell out of sauce. Also, bread pudding. And screw you, Jim Walter! Bread pudding is why God created bread and white chocolate bourbon sauce!

Every two weeks, I grocery shop. That means I meal plan, usually very carefully.  As in, a whole chicken is carefully basted and roasted in the oven, then the leftovers are turned into Caribbean chicken. Or chicken and dumplins'. <that wasn't a typo, I'm Southern>

I like cooking, for the most part because I love eating. I'm a HELL of a cook, too.


But this morning, I'm writing a seriously stupid post because I can only eat the stuff that tastes like broken dreams and something that is stock for gravy. I want bread pudding. From Copeland's. Which is a block from my apartment. It'd still be hot by the time it gets here.

Oh God... I'm going to end up eating my hair.

*Editor's note: I fully intend on eating ALL THE DAMNED THINGS after Tuesday. We're talking binge eating like a mofo. And then, because I've been vomiting like crazy, I'll probably spew like a sorostitute during Rush Week. 

Ways I've Traumatized Children (Mostly Mine)

Here lately, I've been losing what little filter I have going on that whole brain to mouth thing. Granted, it wasn't a foolproof deal to begin with, but y'all, it's getting bad. We're talking bad. However, I thought I would put it into perspective for you. Also, I swear I'm not this mean to kids all the time. Swear. 

Also, I'm not a bad person... I think.

When Morgan was in the first grade, I once lost my ever lovin' crap and told him and his brother that, when they pitch fits (not meltdowns, fits), they make Jesus cry. Oh, and Santa and the angels weep. That was a fun letter home from the teacher. The phone call was even better. 

I accidentally (seriously, it just flew out) told Morgan, as a toddler, "Honey, don't eat out of the trashcan. Vagrants do that." I was on the phone with my cousin at the time. She won't let me live it down.

One year, Bay kept misbehaving- a lot- around Christmas. I mean, nonstop. So... Santa made a little midnight visit to his room... He trashed it with toilet paper, wrapping paper, and left a note, along with Santa's watchman (our version of Elf on the Shelf, much creepier), and a lump of real coal. 

I told Bay that if he doesn't stop the nose picking and eating, his teeth will turn green like the Grinch's. Not so bad, right? Well, then I had my friend, Sherie, who works in the dental field, back me up by going into full detail what dentists do to grinchy teeth. She pretty much rocks in my book. This really didn't stop Morgan, however, from doing the same. 

I've bacon shamed my child. He's never done it again and I put it on Facebook. 

He wasn't that sad, promise. I told him to look sadder. 

I publicly shame my children for the weird and bad crap they do on Facebook, especially when it's funny. Not so much anymore because now I can just snap my fingers and say, "I think this deserves a Facebook status." Then, I'll hear cries of "Nooooo! Please don't put this on Facebook!" See, they want y'all to think they're little angels and not hellions. They actually fall somewhere in between. 

I told Morgan once that there were no more Handy Manny shows in existence ever. That was around the same time that I had him go to the window to watch for Dora so I could pee alone or just with one child watching. I didn't know he was autistic then, okay? 

When my kids asked me where babies came from, I showed them a (cleanish) YouTube video of a woman giving birth. That might not have been well thought out. Morgan ran around yelling, "Turn that OFF! OFF! NOW! NOW! NOW!" Bay sat there, very quietly... then he asked, "But I thought I didn't come out of your vagina. Is there a video for that?" So I showed him a cesarean. That, apparently, is worse. He actually turned green when he figured out that he could have peed inside of my uterus. Whoops.

I once told someone's kid (who is a complete hell spawn) that the presents under the tree are probably from his parents pretending to be Santa, not the big guy himself because he's so damned nasty. This was after the kid had hit my kids over the head with God knows what, broken my stuff, and his mom did nothing. I can't imagine why that friendship didn't last. 

This is how I make Bay have a public timeout, complete with me setting my timer to go off the the nuclear holocaust alarm when the time runs out: 

Yes, I used sanitizer after this. Because, eww. 

Last year, we had a bitch of a neighbor in one of the buildings in our complex. So, when trick-or-treating rolled around, I told my kids (jokingly) that there was an evil witch in that apartment building. Morgan, being Morgan, has never forgotten that. And he wound up being really curious as to which of our neighbors was the evil witch. “Is that the evil witch, Mommy?” he’d ask, despite me telling him that I’d lied.

At one point, we were entering our apartment and another neighbor was coming up the stairs… Morgan blurted out to her, “I don’t care what Mommy says, I don’t think you’re an evil witch at all! I think you’re nice, you’re sweet, and you’re kind.” Well, hell. That’s another neighbor who wouldn’t talk to me after that.

Also, last night (I can blame the pain killers my doc has me on for this), I told a kid who was climbing on the outside of a stair well, second story, "You shouldn't do that. If you fall, you'll crack open your head. You'll probably die. And your mom is sitting right there, not watching you, so I'm not dialing 9-1-1."

Yep, filter is gone. It's a good thing I don't get out much. 

Expletive filled post

I was going to write about Morgan's EEG today.

Today, I was going to say, "To hell with this shit! I'm going to go buy pants. The boys need pants. I need pants. I'm their Mom. I'm going to buy the fucking pants."

And then I woke up and rediscovered that I'm still me. I'm still in pain. A lot of pain. So much fucking pain I can barely see straight unless I'm on enough Vicodin and Bentyl to render me to my couch for most of the day so that it wears off and I'm able to parent when my friend brings the kids home. And no, I don't get messed up. I only take enough to take the edge off. I hate being stoned, okay? Save any criticisms about pain killers use for someone who gives a shit today.

It's two weeks (nearly) into this crap and I'm so sick of being sick or whatever you call this. I'm done. I hate this. I feel like throwing a temper tantrum. Or screaming (which I just did, in my shower, when I fell over trying to shave my legs because of a muscle spasm. Stupid shower. Stupid legs.).

I just want to know, what the hell did I do to get myself into this? I know, I know... God's will. Well, you know what? I'm pretty fucking angry with God right now. Don't hate me for saying that. I feel like it's my right.

I have had moments stolen from me in the past several years because of my health being crappy. Moments like missing family excursions. Moments like field trips. Moments like hugging my kids. Or picking them up because of the abdominal pain from endo and adenomyosis. And then I get to add in RA and possible lupus (because my asshat doctor thinks the jury is out on this one, once again. Also, I'm looking for a new doctor).

This is not how I pictured parenthood. I never dreamed that I would miss out on things because of  me. That I would tell my husband I need him to take over, not because I've had a rough day due to autism, but because I've had a rough day because of me. 

I can't outrun my own body. How unfucking fair is that? I stay short tempered because of pain levels. I hate the medications which are essentially poison and are highly addictive, but sometimes the only damned things that work. And honestly, I don't even use the damned things until I'm in a situation like this. They scare me too badly.

I hate my body, so much. I hate having moments, chunks of time, stolen from me. I'll never get those back. I miss being spontaneous. I miss the old me. The adrenaline junkie who sailed. Who said, "Hell yes!" to life. Who skinny dipped at night around a coral reef in Mexico because "why not?"

I barely recognize this woman now.

This is temporary. I know that I'm usually not this morose, this pessimistic. I know that tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, I might have my funny back.

But dammit, I just wanted to get into my car, drive the mile down the road, and buy some fucking pants.

Asking for help

One of the hardest things for me to do, other than admit I'm wrong, is to ask for help. I hate doing this.

For me, admitting I need help is to acknowledge that I am failing to control, accomplish, or figure something out. I feel like I'm giving up.

Admitting I need help is akin to me crying. For me, both are signs that I'm cracking and have weaknesses which can be used against me. Silly, isn't it? There isn't any shame in either of those things. And yet, here I am.. being ashamed that I have been crying daily since last Sunday from both pain and worry.

I have no qualms comforting someone else when they cry. I am usually the first to jump in and help those in need. However, when it comes to me, I feel as though I am failing myself and, consequently, failing everyone else around me because I cannot do it on my own.

This is such a ridiculous thought process.

After asking some of my friends (all special needs moms), I found that I'm not the only one to feel this way, which made me feel less crazy.

Among the responses, I was told that they don't ask for help for fear of looking weak, incapable, being gossiped about, and the thought that no one can really do it like they can. And you know what? I can relate to every single response.

There's the reliability factor. Oftentimes, someone will say they will help and then not follow through. As a special needs parent (or, I suppose, any parent), this is a major issue. What if you're needing help watching special needs child #1 while you take special needs child #2 to the doctor and your respite worker or sitter cancels? Then you're screwed. If this happens even more than one time, you develop trust issues.

Avoiding pity is a big factor when not asking for assistance. We don't want your pity. We know when we're being pitied. It isn't pleasant, to say the least. And we know when there is condescension. We know when people see watching our children as a chore, and that hurts like hell.

For several of us, it has been drilled into our heads that the only people we can rely on are ourselves. Being taught independence is wonderful, but at what cost? When you're breaking down and needing to reach out for help, how do you go about that?

Trust seems to be the biggest key with all of us. How do we trust someone to help us? Trust that this person will do a job well enough that it's even worth us swallowing our pride and reaching out and asking for help? I know that, in the past, I've asked people for help and they've basically watched television while I did my everyday chores, chased kids down, and wound up more exhausted than I was when I started. I was asking for help, not to babysit someone else.

Also, who can we trust with our children? I know I can count on one hand the number of people I can trust to watch my boys.

We shouldn't be afraid to ask for help. 

We shouldn't fear recriminations for doing so. 

We shouldn't feel ashamed for needing help. 

We should follow the policy of "love thy neighbor" enough to want to help when we see someone in need.

We should, as human beings, not be afraid to ask for help. When we're at our breaking points, there should be no shame in asking. And yet, every time I've asked for help or received it in the past week, I've both thanked people profusely and then apologized to them. I feel shame in being "needy."

I've been messaged by people all over the world since Friday's post, asking how they could help my boys, my husband, and me. I've been told that I'm brave for speaking up and asking for help, but I'm not. I'm asking for something for my children, not myself. I can't stand asking for favors for me. All I might have done is be honest about feeling so steeped in my own pain that I can't do for my children what I normally do. I took a chance. That's all.

Asking for help shouldn't be this hard, but it is. I always feel like I'm failing myself and my family when I ask for it. It just shouldn't be this way.

If you see someone in need, someone struggling, or someone with their hands full, ask if you can lend a hand. Should they say "no," please assure them (and please mean this), that you are there for them should they need help.

Just the offer means more than you know, especially if they are a mom like me.


Contributors:
The Domestic Goddess
Jo Ashline-A Sweet Dose of Truth- The Blog
My Winter Butterflies
My Whac-A-Mole Life
Kelly, Military Special Needs Network
Pancakes Gone Awry
Jennyalice
Beyond the Dryer Vent