Chewymom

I am trying to figure out why God has brought about a gazillion people into my life in the past few years who have children with OCD. I suppose a small part of it might be the fact that once you have a child with a disability–any kind of disability–you begin to meet more and more people who are walking a similar path. But several of these are friends I already had who down the road learned that their child has OCD. And it makes me wonder if the numbers are on the rise, just as they are with autism.

Growing up, did you know anyone with OCD? Oh, I mean we all had friends that we said had OCD. People like my mom, who could not go to bed unless the dishwasher was emptied and every dish put away, or who reminded me about five times each day to get my school books OFF of her counter already. Or like my friend who keeps a spotless house and has to rearrange the sofa cushions whenever anyone gets up off of the sofa. You know, the “ha-ha” kind of OCD. Yeah, these people are a little compulsive, but their life is not adversely affected by it.

That’s not what I’m talking about. These friends of mine have children who wash their hands until the skin is peeling off, and then they try to force their siblings to follow the same behavior patterns. They fear thunderstorms and sharks to the point that they are debilitated and cannot go to sleep. They rage when they cannot force others to comply with their obsession. These are children whose brains are literally wired differently. They do not have the filters that allow them to STOP the obsessive thoughts like most of us do. Their obsessions disrupt the entire family, and the mom has to spend hours each day working with the one child.

Interestingly in a few of these families, one of the parents had the “other” kind of OCD. One of them cleans out his wife’s car before he enters the house when he gets home from work each day. Another one keeps the house completely clean, and yet another worries about her children even more than most moms.

So what is the difference? Why is it that my generation of people with OCD, while maybe a bit quirky, were not debilitated? And yet their children are? I don’t have the answers. I have no doubt there are as many theories about this as there are about autism or early puberty or whatever other generational changes we are seeing. Too much tv? Hormones in milk? Genetics? More lenient parenting styles? Chemicals in foods and in the environment?

Do any of you readers have thoughts about this? Have you observed the same phenomenon?

Folks, I’m surrounded by cats. We have four as pets, along with two dogs. Thankfully so far we have not ventured into the reptile and rodent category of pets, unless you include Mr. Darcy, who still is not much bigger than a large squirrel. And is currently entertaining himself in the usual way–pulling Max’s tail, and then running for cover and then starting the process all over again.

Cats are so different than dogs. My cats busy themselves doing their own thing. They will sometimes follow me from room to room, but they keep a safe distance. I can coax them to come if I walk into the laundry room and rattle their food bowl. Occasionally a couple of them will approach me to be petted. Of course, Serafina still prefers to sleep practically on my face for at least part of the night, and to purr and sharpen her claws on my back. She is not normal. But the others are typical cats–keeping their distance, waiting for me to offer them something, and then going on with their own busy lives of sleeping and grooming.
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And lately that has felt like my life. You knew this post wasn’t just going to be about cats! Do you ever feel that way? Maybe it is the life of a busy woman–wife, friend, mother, lover. Right now it feels like I am surrounded by cats–people who go on about their own lives, which are legitimately busy, and who come around at feeding time. Or whatever. It feels like I have to dangle a carrot–er some catnip, in keeping with my theme–like I have to offer something others want before they come around. I feel this need to always have the right catnip on hand, and I have an intense fear that if I run out, the cats will no longer want to come around. And it isn’t that I’m surrounded by bad cats people. They’re just busy people, like me, overwhelmed with their own lives, and probably feeling rather like they, too, are surrounded by cats.

Sometimes I just want a Mr. Darcy. Someone who adores me. Who follows me around, waiting to see what I need or what I want. Who waits for the moment that I sit down so he can just hop in my lap and lick my face like he hasn’t seen me in a week, when in fact it has only been about five minutes. I want to be pursued from room to room in my life.
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I want the Hound of Heaven! And that is Jesus. He pursues me when I am weary, sad, tired, running from Him. He is not a Mr. Darcy who loves on me for a while, but who is then distracted by more entertaining things like Max’s tail! No, his focus is all on me, and he does not rest until he has found me and brought me back before the father. And actually, even then he does not rest, because he knows I will again and again need to pursued and loved relentlessly.

This morning I am praying for the strength and love to continue to be a cat-herder. And I can only do it because ultimately, a hound is after me.

Brig is convinced that he is famous. He has been on tv (in the background), in the paper (lots of people in our town are in the paper), and he hopes to someday be on Ellen. He sees no problem with calling Ellen up and inviting himself to be a guest on her show because she is famous just like he is. They understand each other.

Delusions of grandeur.

So, a couple of weeks ago, his Special Olympics swim coach called me and asked me if Brig would participate in the Torch Run this year. The police officers in our city run the torch from City Hall to Walmart, where they gather on top of the Walmart and solicit donations for Special Olympics. I said, “SURE!” knowing Brig would love an excuse to miss a little bit of school.

I showed up yesterday morning at 8:00 at City Hall, expecting to drop Brig off and leave. I had a busy day with it being Ben’s birthday and all. There were little things like driver’s licenses to get and birthday cakes to buy. When Brig and I walked over to the small crowd gathering I realized that Brig wasn’t one of the Special Olympics runners. He was the runner. The torch bearer, in fact.

Meaning he spoke to the mayor. Had his picture made in front of the sign. Started the race with all of the police officers following him (many of whom he knew, because he is famous, of course).

So the race started, Brig enjoyed the attention, and I left. And a couple of hours later, his swim team coach called and said, “Tune in to xyz radio station! They’re about to interview Brig!” I was in the drive-up line at a local coffee shop, and I tuned it in, and just as the man asked for my order, here came Brig’s voice over the airwaves, not just of our city but of the whole surrounding area, because this was a station out of Huntsville! Surreal. I had called Chewydad who ran out to his car with a tape recorder and managed to record the interview. Click on the arrow to hear it (they talk to another person in the middle, but if you keep listening, they talk to Brig again at the end).
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 Brig on the Radio [2:41m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

That night we tuned in to the local television news because I had noticed some video cameras present when Brig started the run. He wasn’t on, so we headed on out for dinner to celebrate Ben’s birthday. As we were finishing our meal, a friend called and said, “I just saw Brig on the news! They said his name and age and everything!” Dang it–we missed it! We’re working on getting a copy of the report.

So this morning I am awake before the rest of the family, except for Sam who has always had an internal alarm for 0-dark-thirty. I walked out to get the paper, opened it up, and found Brig on the front page!

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Hey Ellen, Brig is awaiting your call.

Dear Ben,

Today you are sixteen, and I am terribly excited! I finally have the driving help I have waited for for years! After I take you to hopefully pass your driver’s exam, I will send you off into the world in the old 1994 Honda Accord. With fear and trembling.

I know that over the next days, weeks, months, I will annoy you to pieces.

I will say things like, “Be sure you drive the speed limit!”

Which really means, “I am really afraid that if you get a ticket, I won’t be able to afford the insurance any more!”

And, “Don’t get distracted by the radio or a/c.”

Meaning, “People make sudden moves in front of you. If you aren’t aware, you could rear-end someone. And get hurt. And I really, really don’t want you to get hurt.”

I’ll also say, “Never talk on your cell phone and NEVER text while driving!”

And in my head I’m thinking, “If you have a wreck while using your cell phone and someone is injured, you could be doing jail time.”

I’m sure I’ll nag, “Watch out for school zones!”

Meaning, “Whatever you do, don’t hit a kid! Talk about ruining lives…his, yours….”

And I’ll ask, “When will you be home?”

Meaning, “I worry when my little chickies aren’t all safe in the nest. Hurry back so I can breathe a sigh of relief and go to sleep at night.”

And I’ll definitely say, “NEVER drink and drive.”

Meaning, “NEVER drink and drive.”

And I’m sure I’ll say, “Be careful.”

Which means, “I love you.”

I’m sure I’ll say all sorts of other things, and they’ll all annoy you. You will roll your eyes. You will think I don’t trust you or that I assume that you are a bad driver.

It isn’t that, dear Ben. I’m just being your mom, trying to adjust to your new freedoms. I’m frightened and worried, and I’m not so good at this letting go thing. So bear with me. And be careful. Okay?

My parents were married back in 1949. I was their first-born in 1966. You do the math. Yep, seventeen childless years, many spent trying to have a baby. A while back I did some reading up on Clomid, and I realized based on the timing of its release, that my mom was probably on that when she conceived me. I know she took something. (Interestingly, Clomid was initially supposed to be a birth control pill. Imagine the surprise of the women and their doctors who thought THAT!)

I don’t remember being rebellious as a preschooler. When I was 4-1/2 and my brother was born, my grandmother came to stay with us to help out. The story goes that I got irritated with my grandmother who would NOT meet my breakfast demands, and I put my little hands on my then-little-hips and declared, “YOU’RE JUST TRYING YOURSELF THIS MORNING!” Maybe not rebellious, but I certainly had a smart mouth!

When I was in first grade, my teacher had been a student of my father’s. Great. That meant I got away with nothing, because she occasionally came over for dinner. Not that I was a bad kid–actually the thought of getting in trouble horrified me, and when Anne and I were caught talking, and Miss Majors practically slung our desks, with us in them, in opposite directions across the room…well, I never forgot that and was traumatized for years. Not because of the slinging, but just because I, the perfectly obedient Chewymom, had gotten into trouble.

Outwardly I was a model student, but inwardly a rebel. I guess. My dad was a leftward-leaning Political Science professor. It was 1972, and the previously-mentioned first-grade class held a mock election. Nixon vs McGovern. You can guess who all the talk in my house was about. McGovern. So who did I vote for? Nixon.

Now, what first grader goes completely against her parents? Huh?

Okay, so along comes the Christmas season, and we were decorating pine cones with little tiny figures–you know, shepherds, angels, wise men, Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. The teacher had a few extra packages without a baby Jesus for the Jewish people in the class. So I piped up, “I’m Jewish!” Right. My teacher, who you will remember knew my parents fairly well, went along with it all, even though mean ole Jennifer declared, “SHE’S LYING!!” My parents never said a word to me when I came home with a Christmas decoration sans baby Jesus, even though my teacher had to have told them.

My childhood was littered with examples of me telling whoppers, talking back, thinking my parents must be aliens, and just generally wondering who I was and how I got stuck in this weird family. I have no doubt my mother wondered the same thing, minus the weird family part.

In fourth grade our elementary school was merged with another one, and as a result we had a whole slew of kids we had never met before. One of them was Jamie. Jamie and her sister were the first people I ever knew of who were adopted.

“A-HA!” A light bulb went off in my head. “That’s it! I’m adopted!” My parents were significantly older, and horrifyingly more old-fashioned, than any of my friends’ parents. Except for Tiffany and Linda, but they had siblings in high school, so their parents were supposed to be old. I seemed to have NOTHING in common with my parents, either. I still loved conservative politicians. I had a thirst for spiritual understanding that seemed to not be matched by my parents’ boredom with church. I liked the pop/rock station Z-93, while my parents preferred elevator music. I wanted to watch cool stuff like Gilligan’s Island and Brady Bunch, and my parents were obsessed over 60 Minutes and Walter Cronkite. Obviously I was completely unrelated to these people. I wondered what my “real” parents must be like–certainly they’d understand me better. They’d vote for a Republican, and for goodness sake, they’d watch decent TV!

For the record, here I am 30-something years later, and I can assure you that I was not, in fact, adopted. If I were, I would not hear my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth on a daily basis, saying things I SWORE never to say to my kids like, “If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to be late!” And “Stop that or you’ll be grounded.” Or “Did you remember to brush your teeth?” Or “Your room is a wreck!” Literally in her voice and with her inflections. Eerie.

And besides, I gave birth to my twin, ironically at about the same age as my mother gave birth to me. And I fully expect for Sally to look at me in a few years, as though she is looking at an alien, and be certain that she did NOT come out of my body. Whether it is rebellion, a strong-will, or just thinking completely outside the box, she and I do not see eye to eye on many things, just as I did not with my mother. We butt heads and argue, and yes she is only five. And she would never dare to get in trouble at school–not a single popsicle stick has been pulled this entire year.

Next fall, I fully expect for her to vote for McCain and come home with a Muslim crescent moon decoration in her Christmas ornaments.

And if my mother were still alive, she would lift her hands and sing “GLORY, HALLELUJAH!” knowing that her prayers have been answered, because I finally have a child just like me.

Sally said this after she had told me that a girl at school said, “I’m going to get my Daddy to beat you up!” And I responded with, “Huh???”

Ahhhh, that blurry line between truth and fantasy….

Call me insane, but I broke my long-held rule of only allowing my children to only participate in one extra-curricular activity at a time. Sally has had not one, not two, but three activities going for most of the school year. My reasoning was that she was in a 4-k class, and next year she will start “real” school. Additionally, I am taking a small class load this year compared to what I will face next year when I enter the nursing program. This seemed to me to be a good year to try ballet, gymnastics and soccer, all three, and decide which seemed the best fit.

Soccer ended after the fall season, ballet is actually during pre-school hours, so Sally just goes during school, leaving me only gymnastics to juggle, along with swimming, tennis, and two soccer teams for my other children. Sally’s gym class is one hour per week, and for the most part it has been enjoyable.

Except for the week that a teacher who normally works with an older group of girls took it on herself to correct the behavior in Sally’s group. And by correct, what I mean is that when the group of four little five-year-olds was told that they could crawl in the “pit” as they always do at the end of gymnastics, this teacher came SCREAMING at them, “GET OUT!! LEAVE!!! GO HOME! LEAVE! GO HOME NOW!!!”

Sally hopped out of that pit faster than a bat out of a very hot place and came running to me in fear. The whole way home, she cried and complained about the mean lady who had screamed at her. She decided she never wanted to go back to gymnastics because the mean lady might be there. So I composed a letter to the owner of the facility. Her response? “Well, if I had seen those girls I probably would have yelled at them even more!”

Not exactly what I was looking for. But I took solace in the fact that the gal who actually does teach Sally’s group is sweet and fun and does not yell. But in the back of my mind I thought, “If Sally gets yelled at one more time, we’re out of here.” I refuse to pay money to a place that is going to verbally mistreat children, especially when they were actually only doing what they were told they were allowed to do.

Things went on smoothly enough until last week. When I dared to sit in the spot where I always sit to watch Sally’s gymnastics. And the owner came around a corner and YELLED across the enormous gym for me to move. Surprised, I got up and stood awkwardly, trying not to block the doorway, but still attempting to watch my daughter, while two ladies near me confessed, “I’m scared of her! I thought she was going to yell at me!”

I said, “I’m not putting up with being bullied. If she yells again, we’re out of here.”

Almost immediately, the owner peered around the corner and called out, “READ THE SIGN ON THE DOOR!”

I did read it. It says not to block the doorway. So I asked, “Where can I sit to watch my daughter?”

She responded (still yelling across the entire gym), “WE HAVE A WAITING ROOM! YOU CAN WAIT IN THERE, AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT, YOU CAN LEAVE!”

The waiting room is completely walled in, and there is no way to see the children. I marched around the corner, took Sally by the hand, and began to walk out. The owner stopped me and tried to explain, justify, etc. I told her I felt like she and I had differing philosophies on how to treat people–she yells, as do her employees, and she does not want parents to watch (and I pointed out that it made me wonder what she is hiding). I do not pay money for my children and me to be bullied by an old lady with a bad attitude who just happens to own a gymnastics center. And I must be allowed to see what my daughter is doing. Therefore I would find a place that could meet my needs and requirements.

And with that, I walked out the door, got in the car, and drove straight over to another gymnastics class in our town. Which just happened to be having a class right then, and they invited Sally to stay and try it out! While I watched through the large window between the gym and the waiting room. And to add to Sally’s delight, one of her best friends ended up being in the class!

My friend said this to me today as we sat and watched our sons play soccer in 30-something degree rain. I cannot tell you how miserable we were, and we had coats, hats, gloves, scarves. The players had only Under Armor, jerseys, shorts, socks, and shin-guards to keep them warm.

And to think, yesterday we enjoyed a windy, 75-degree afternoon of soccer.

Twenty-four hours and forty degrees make a big difference in the enjoyment of a soccer game!

Today I had the opportunity to ESCAPE! (Yay for Chewydad!) I headed to Starbucks and ordered my favorite drink–venti, skinny, two-Splenda latte. I snuggled into a cozy chair in the corner and read. I had brought my iPod in, but I ended up enjoying the music they had playing in the store. I was so relaxed, reading my book, sipping my latte, listening to the music with the hum of conversation in the background. And then they walked in.

A young couple with a boy around the age of two and a girl who appeared to be about six. The woman went to the counter and stood in the long line for what seemed like forever and ordered a drink. The man stood in the space in front of my chair and proceeded to flip the girl upside and tickle her. She screamed! And then after he put her down, the two kids began climbing up and down off of barstools, ramming their heads into the man’s leg, yelling to each other, runing in circles, and generally making me dizzy.

I darned near picked up my stuff and headed home. I mean, if I wanted total chaos, I could read my book at home with three people trying to talk to me, a certain five-year-old girl screaming at her brothers and tattling, and the tv running, along with the sound of the Wii in the background.

And for a change in my usual “pro-kid” way of thinking, I decided that someone needs to have a restaurant or coffee shop in this town with a no kids area. I mean, when I want to take my kids with me, I’m all for kid-friendly. But sheesh, sometimes I just want a BREAK!

After what seemed like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, the noisy family left, and everyone in Starbucks relaxed. By then I had to go to the bathroom, so I just packed up and headed home. Where I am now, listening to the sound of two tvs, two boys annoying their sister who is screaming at them, and water running in the kitchen.

*This post was written last Sunday, but not posted until today. So I’m not literally, now, listening to tvs, etc. And I didn’t just now enjoy a Starbucks latte. Now I’m hitting “post” really quick before I take a kid to the doctor, and after I straightened the kitchen, wiped down the potty, sucked up a few cat hairballs with the vacuum, and threw a load of clothes into the wash.

Today we were headed home from the orthodontist, and I had the pleasure of being the passenger while Ben drove. Funny how that terrified me about eight months ago. He’s turning out to be a really responsible driver, and I can actually concentrate on other things besides smacking my hand on the dash and pumping the imaginary brake.

So today I listened in on a conversation between Sally (5) and Brig (17). And I heard Sally say to Brig, “YOU are the SEXIEST!” Not once but about five times.

I’d like to tell you that I was shocked and horrified, but I was too busy laughing to think of shock and horror. And so was Ben. He asked Sally, “What does ’sexiest’ mean?” (He’s gonna be a great dad someday, I tell ya.)

Sally replied, “It means weird and dumb!”

Right.

And she continued to say, “Brig is the sexiest!” realizing she had an audience in the front seat.

So I asked, “Where did you hear the word ’sexiest?’”

“On Avatar. Katara says it to Saka,” Sally responded, placing her tv watching in serious jeopardy.

When we got home, Ben and I told the story to Drew. I informed him that Sally had heard the word “sexiest” on his beloved TV show Avatar.

Now it was Drew’s turn to burst into laughter. He said, “Mom, Katara called Saka SEXIST!”

Ahhhh….