Friday, March 09, 2012

Dropping That D


The amount of sabotage, or self-sabotage, that goes on in and around traumatized children, no matter if they're grown up or not, can be shocking. Another mom'd recently told me she knew better than to overly praise her 18 year old son for incremental progress, as she knew he'd only melt down in response.

This is where she (we) need competent therapists who understand the lifelong ramifications of trauma upon one's psyche.

Yesterday we averted it all, showing up to support CJ in his first grade school musical, Sarah bringing the best camera and getting some 75 shots of one song in which he danced up a storm as a cow.

Chuck, Yolie, Mae, Sarah, Ray, Hazel, Marcela, Marissa and I all watched so very proudly for the morning performance. Tabby, Nando and Kortney all in the elementary school audience looking on.

This school's been open now for 10 years, I don't think either Sarah nor Yolie has missed a single performance of any of my many children over the years, as this school is very big on both art and music, of course alongside of academics.

I took Nando straight over to the pediatric office afterwards, concerned as he'd been complaining about neck and head pain. This viral meningitis of Chuy's gave me a subsequent and concurrent dose of paranoia, which must've seemed amusing to the staff there who all know I tend to let nature run its course, avoiding medications if at all possible, knowing the human body is a wondrous self-healing mechanism.

Fortunately, Nando's aches were muscular, not related to anything else. He is so active that he couldn't possible remember straining himself at any one point. He has no clue if he'd been injured or had twisted his neck and shoulder muscles in any recess game at school.

Chuy's missed this entire week of school after his dismissal from the hospital, he's tired with a capital T, slowly recovering.

This morning there is no school, and I'm gonna take Sabrina to the orthopedic doctor for her consultation regarding upcoming knee surgery. Lord knows we need something else to focus upon? Tabby's liable to nut up a bit, she'll be overly worried about her dearly loved Memaw, a residual effect of the traumatized kid being overly parentified. I'm taking her with us this morning so she won't be in the dark about anything.

And this is a big weekend for me, Daylight Savings Time kicking in. I'd only reluctantly come inside last night at dark, so far behind in weeding and planting, I desperately need the extra evening hours. I'm bored from four months of cold darkness such as it's been, a super mild winter that's likely to evolve into a mosquito-ridden summer. Mosquitoes don't bother me that much, I'd long ago read that folks who eat onions, garlic and nutritional yeast don't taste very good to blood suckers.

Hazel helped me late yesterday afternoon, dragging cute little wagon loads of wood chips, accompanying and copying my every move. This is how one learns to plant strawberries and revel in the juicy rewards later, exactly like Sarah used to do. Nando subverted all our efforts though, pulling Hazel in her wagon and playing King of the Mountain on the wood chip pile, as I weeded 25 feet away from them cavorting like billy goats.

"Tell me more Mommy stories," Hazel ordered, after I detailed the story in which Sarah once accidentally brought me a snake in the wood chip bucket. Hazel looked around nervously. Me too, Chile, this is when the little buggers start to come out and make their dominance known.

Southerners drop the D in Child, a slow, lazy language maybe, but the heat gets to us all eventually.

I can enunciate or pronounce Ds, or I can use the saved time to ponder stories y'all have told me via emails and comments. I was thinking about one of y'all who'd had a grown child find and return to a birth parent, rejecting all they'd known and learned in their adoptive home. Choosing alcohol and drugs instead, preferring the no-feeling anesthesia of self-medication via narcotics only to find themselves in jail on a drug charge.

Wow.

Who're we gonna blame? The adoptive parent was an old school, clean living, church member who abhorred lackadaisical and piss poor behavior choices. The birth parent had stayed high for decades, unemployed and irresponsible, thus oh so cool in the eyes of the grown child.

I can't hardly blame anyone at all, as I know that these problems are so dang generational, that addictive behaviors are literally a disease that I don't really understand at all, no matter how many episodes of Intervention I tape, no matter how closely I listen to, or read about, interventionists. I just don't understand giving over control of one's body to chemicals or to alcohol.

That said I do hope that my own children observe me functioning just fine on good food, prayer, a good night's sleep, and a very rock solid faith in a God that hears and helps us along.

So what's the answer?

Dadgum if I know. I only explore the issues, sadly unable to cure 'em.