Sandra Tayler's Blog, page 134

Performance Review

In the stress of packing Howard for his latest away-from-home convention, he and I had some cross-communication come to light. Unfortunately due to the packing stress it manifested in unpleasant ways. In some ways it was like accidentally elbowing someone in the gut when you really meant to vent frustration on an inanimate object instead. Everyone was sorry, but recovery still has to occur. As I sorted and settled things in my brain, I started thinking about all the roles I fill and wondering how I would evaluate my performance in them. I figured it was a useful mental exercise, and might even result in some enlightenment on my part.

I sat down and listed all the roles I fill. There were a lot of them. Then I pretended that I was my own boss and rated my performance in each role: Brilliant, Excellent, Good, Adequate, Poor, Bad, Abysmal. Occasionally I made notes like: Could be better at this if I spent more time on it. The most interesting realization I gained from the process was seeing that my personal enjoyment of a process did directly correlate to how well I did at it. For example I feel like I'm an adequate-to-good layout designer, but a good-to-excellent shipping manager and given my choice I would hand off the shipping work to someone else while keeping the layout work. Other than that, the scores were about what I would expect. Which should not surprise me since I was giving them to myself.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Grocery Shopping and Observation

Sometime in the past month I followed a link labeled "A good reminder" to read a story about a father and son in the grocery store. This father repeatedly scowled and reprimanded his son for small things and the observer, who later blogged, talked about how sad it was that the father was killing his son's confidence and native curiosity. Many comments to the blog post agreed how sad it was. Some even went on to share further stories about parents who displayed similar callousness toward their children in public places. I read it all and I could see the horrible uncaring parent the blogger saw. I could see the need of a reminder to all parents to remember what treasures children are and how we should value them. That reminder is always good. Then I tip my head to the side and I see things differently. I wonder what happened between that father and son before they came to the store. I wonder what the father's day has been like, what his life has been like. I wonder why he is at the store with his child instead of coming alone.

Today I was the callous parent at the store. Gleek danced in the aisles, her glance landing with delight on multitudinous shiny things. I pushed the cart and repeated an unending litany of "No. Slow down. Watch out. Stop it. Come back here. Stay with me." Some days I love the way she fizzles with energy and ideas. Other days it is all I can do not to scream with frustration. We arrived at the store with my frustration level high. She wandered off this afternoon. Again. I had to locate her. Again. She was with friends, perfectly safe, not even technically out of bounds. Except that she was not where I'd given her permission to go. So then she had to stay in the house and the backyard, which made her grouchy. She shared her grouchiness and would not settle down for homework. Then I found her out front, or rather at the side of the house, which she insisted she didn't realize counted as the front yard. Then I had to restrict her to the house.

Hoping to inject something positive into the evening, I offered to take her to the store if she did her homework without complaints. She did the work, but complained, stomped, and was angry. I had to weigh the unpleasantness of leaving without her against the guilt of bending my word to take her anyway. A strict approach might teach a lesson about work or it might send her off into a fit of self loathing wherein she declares she can do nothing right. A lenient approach might provide a positive relationship building experience, or it might reinforce the fact that she can get away with bending the requirements. The answers would be clearer if I knew she was intentionally pushing limits, defying me. But she isn't. She isn't conniving or malicious. If she were, she would go much farther afield. As it is she remains tethered by a desire to be good.

So I was conflicted when we arrived at the store, and her skipping, dancing, ninja-sneaking traverse through the store wore my nerves thin. To an observer I may very well have looked like a heartless parent. Some of my consequences and decisions may have seemed out of proportion with the offenses. There are times when I know that the right parenting path will appear wrong to those who don't know the full story. Because a grocery trip does not happen in isolation. It is a piece of a day, part of a larger pattern. Sadly, today's pattern was frazzled and unfocused.

As she darted through the parking lot in the dark, wearing black clothes, despite my admonition to stay close, I thought, again, that it might be time for me to write the sequel to Hold on to Your Horses. I don't know that another story will help, but the last one did. It is worth a try.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Beating back the lurking illness

It has been a very low productivity day. I think this is because all of my spare energy has been siphoned into beating back the cold that is trying to make me sick. I've kept the thing at bay like Dr. Van Helsing hanging garlic and crosses in Lucy's bedroom to keep Count Dracula out. Unfortunately I fear that like Lucy I will eventually succumb and be walking dead. Or at least sniffling miserable. I have a much better chance of recovery than Lucy, so all is not lost. For now I will keep to my regimen of vitamin C and rest.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

No answers, just observations on napping and being on duty

I took a nap this afternoon. It was interrupted twice in quick succession by Link who was asking permission to play a video game and then to play a different video game. I don't remember the words of my response, but apparently they were sufficiently affirmative that he went away happy. My half-asleep brain pondered the occurrence with a grumpy tone of voice. Does no one respect my need for sleep? The kids will see Dad asleep and tip toe out of the room, but have no compunction at all about waking me from a sound sleep to ask their questions. This is true even when their Dad is around. Our kids have been known to walk out of the room where Howard is in order to wake me up and ask a question.

The simple solution would be for me to lock the door. Faced with a locked door, the kids would go find their Dad to get their problems solved. I don't lock the door when I lay down for a nap. Half the time I don't even close the door. To close and lock the door would be a declaration that the next period of time is designated for a nap. Somehow in my mind I'm only sneaking a nap. I still feel on-duty, so I leave the door open so I can still hear and respond to crises. It is silly, because unconscious people are not very watchful. When the kids were little I was clearly on duty and I didn't sleep unless they were also sleeping or someone else was specifically assigned to watch them. Somewhere the lines got blurred.

After the interruptions I got a solid hour of sleep, so my nap was far from ruined. This is usually the case, which is part of why I've never taken steps to train the kids not to wake me. It is important for me to be available to them as much as I can, because sometimes I have to work.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

The creation of ephemeral art (also known as pumpkin carving)

The sun shone brightly across the shallow concrete slab that serves as our front porch. The brightness only imparted a mild warmth, just enough to make being outside pleasant in the sixty degree air. Wielding a serrated knife, I surveyed the project at hand. Two forty pound pumpkins had adorned our porch slab for the last month, given us by my uncle who had a bounteous harvest of giant pumpkins. During their sojourn on our porch they had been sat upon, poked, shifted, and photographed. This last being the most frequent occurance as both my daughters felt it was imperative to get a Halloween picture of our mostly-black cat posed nicely in front of (or on top of) the pumpkins. The cat was not thrilled by this project, being much more interested in sitting on the lap of the photographer. Persistence did finally win and the cat and the pumpkins were made to be in the same photograph.

Now it was time for the pumpkins to become something cooler. I ran my hand over the pocked surface, marred by dozens of children discovering that the skin could be pierced without very much effort. The pumpkins had taken up a sideways position, which is common for weighty melons as one side flattens while they grow. I determined a top and a bottom, then began to cut.

When I asked the kids who wanted to carve pumpkins, Kiki and Link declared their indifference. This left the two big pumpkins for the two kids to whom jack-o-lanterns are still very important. I pried the tops open so the kids could peer inside. Rot was beginning to show on the insides, which did not surprise me. One way or another these huge gourds were headed for the compost heap. Much more interesting to arrive there with a face. Lighter too. The kids scooped out pounds of seeds and strings. Complaining about the grossness of the project only briefly before embracing the melon mess. I helped with the scraping, but we did not try to make the insides completely clean, just clear enough for a candle to sit.

I picked up the spoons and carried them inside to trade for the kid-safe pumpkin carving tools, leaving the kids designing faces on paper. Once the designs were transferred, the kids began cutting. I seated myself on the stairs, ready to help when they got tired. They didn't. Patch carefully cut out the pieces of a classic scary Jack-o-lantern face. He leaned in close, carefully sawing along the lines we'd drawn. Gleek's design was more fanciful. She drew a cat contemplating peace (as represented by a thought bubble filled with a peace symbol.)

"Everyone is going to love your design." Gleek said to Patch.

"Thanks." Patch said, then leaned over to see her working on carving out an ear. "I think most people will like yours."

Gleek nodded. "Mine is more complicated. Not everybody will get it."

Both heads bent back to their work.

I closed my eyes and savored the feel of the day. Our family has had Halloweens hectic and calm, warm and snowy, with pumpkin carving and without. It was nice to be an observer of pumpkin carving rather than the motivating force. There is joy in ephemeral art. The kids can let their pumpkins be whatever they wish, because no matter how it looks today, next week it will be withered and flat. The process matters more than the result, so I sat and savored the process.

The pumpkin carvers wound down to a finish just as gray clouds drifted across the sun. It was not a storm, just a sneaky shift from beautiful afternoon into rainy evening. We timed our efforts perfectly. Tonight we will light candles and enjoy our pair of giant jack-o-lanterns.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

The various dramas of costuming

Our October costuming began in September when Kiki informed me that she needed a full costume by October 9th when she and her friends planned to attend an Anime convention. So I sacrificed three days on the altar of costuming. The result was worn and much appreciated. Unfortunately the outfit still left Kiki feeling a bit exposed (like wearing pajamas in public) and failed to be stunningly cool. So that costume was shelved and will probably only be worn again if the outfit appeals to Gleek in a few years.

At that point, my costuming energy was all used up, which is not a great state for the beginning of October. However I did realize that had I not sacrificed my time and money, Kiki would have applied her own creativity and probably found a costume she liked much better. So I took a laissez faire approach to costuming. When Link said he wanted to be Master Chief from Halo. I said "Great! Make it yourself or save up the money." In the end he decided to buy the costume for next year and just wear his Legend of Zelda Link costume for another year.

I expected to be assailed by Gleek and/or Patch at some point during the month. I thought for sure that they would have a grand idea and be begging me to make it. Instead, they raided our copious supply of costume bits and put together their own outfits.

Patch did so methodically. His first conception was a Master Chief outfit and he started with some olive green shin guards and a helmet left over from a costume Link wore several years ago. We wore that for a few days, then added some bright blue knee pads. He discovered the belt from last year's ninja outfit and used it to hold his toy guns. This outfit was fairly standard for a couple of days, but then he decided to add the shoulder piece from his ninja costume while ditching the guns and the helmet. He was completely satisfied with the result. He wore it all over his regular clothes to both the Halloween Carnival last week and today's school parties.

Gleek was much more haphazard. She conceived the idea at the beginning of the month as an excuse to wear a flowing red cloak. Her ideas shifted and changed as she discussed the possibility of matching costumes with Bestfriend. When it finally came time to dress for the carnival, she grabbed the cloak and Kiki painted her eyes for her. Kiki did not attend the carnival because she didn't know what to wear.

This morning was the big costume day at school. Link did not wear a costume at all. Gleek decided she wanted streaks of color in her hair which resulted in globs of red and black hair gel, tangles, tears, and a declaration that this was the worst Halloween ever. We combed through it and made it work. Gleek discovered to her delight that bright red lipgloss can also be applied as fake blood to the corners of her mouth. So she got ever more creepy as her black eyeshadow smeared and the glossy blood trails lengthened.

Kiki found a good costume compromise by dressing goth, which is not at all her usual style. The last minute costuming required me to make a quick run for hairspray so we could do something spiky with her hair, but a 15 minute run to the grocery store is a much more acceptable donation of my time than three days of sewing. Kiki claims she intends to make a Samus suit for next year's costume. I've told her if she wants to do the research and effort, I will support her, but it is her project not mine.

In the end they are all happy with what they put together. All of the costumes had compromises, but since the kids made all the decisions, they were happy with the results. I need to remember this for next year.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Small Good Things

My van brakes no longer make a horrible creaking noise every time I stop.  I paid for this particular happiness with a significant pile of money, but we'll be launching our holiday sales push next week and hopefully that will bring in enough to cover it. (And Howard's car battery, and Patch's Xray.  Some months are unexpectedly expensive.)

Gleek started a Polynesian dance class.  She gets to learn hula as well as Maori and Tahitian dances.  She likes it because many of the dances include props that swing or make noise.  I like it because it is a studio run in a woman's garage and is very welcoming to people of any heritage.  I don't expect that Gleek will want to make a career out of Polynesian dance (a career which would be hampered by her Caucasian appearance) I just want her to have a chance to learn skills she enjoys. So far so good.

Link had his first band concert.  They played two songs, which we are informed by the band teacher, is pretty impressive considering they've only learned 5 notes so far.  Link announced proudly once the concert was over "There was only one squeak!"  Practice is paying off I guess.

I'm up to 12,000 words on my book project.  I'm not using word count as a measure of completion.  The book will be however long it needs to be.  But watching the number of words increase is satisfying.

Kiki has begun managing her own homework without me.  She's planning her schedule and getting things done without my intervention.  This is worlds better than in September when she would melt into a puddle and I would scrape her up and convince her to keep going.  "It feels really good."  She said.  "It feels..."
"Grown up?" I asked.
"Yeah.  Grown up."
"You know, managing your own things and getting stuff done even when you don't want to is kind of one of the definitions of being grown up."
Kiki laughed.

Howard finished scripting for the current Schlock book.  He wrestled with scripts all day yesterday and could not get them the way that he wanted.  Today he realized what was wrong and they all cascaded into place.  I laughed out loud when I read them.  I'm looking forward to putting this together as a book.

I made dinner and everyone ate it without complaining.

I found a love seat cover on clearance which will make my front room couch stop being an embarrassing eyesore.

Patch has become very self-sufficient with his reading.  He picks his own books and reads them.  We had him moved up to chapter books in the home reading program at his request.  One of his sadnesses right now is that he does not have very much homework to do.  Patch has also been writing stories, some of which I really love.  I may ask his permission to post one later.

Diagnosis

I wrote this post one week ago today.  I was not ready to release it in the wilds of the internet quite yet.  I needed time to think and to discuss with Gleek.  She thinks I should post it so that it can help other parents who are going through similar things.  So here it is:

I don't want to be here.  The knowledge washed across me like a wave when the doctor stepped out for a moment to request a copy of a document.  The rational portions of my brain were in charge of this visit.  I made the appointment.  I filled out the paperwork.  I pulled Gleek out of school.  Then I listened to the doctor and spoke to the doctor.  I asked all the smart questions.  I weighed all the variables.  I knew this course that I was on was the right one. I felt that rightness deep inside.  The calmness and sureness was there, like an underground river deep in my soul.  It was the river upon which my boat of logic floated.  But I did not want the trip.  Not at all.

The doctor and I are ten minutes into our conversation before I ask the question.  I need to hear the words.
"So she definitely has ADHD?"
He answers yes and shows me the diagnostic forms which indicate it.  Then he talks about tendencies, and possibilities, and why having ADHD can sometimes be a long term life advantage.  He hands me piles of copied articles, pamphlets, and resources.  I put them in my bag.  Most of what he tells me I already know.  The papers he has given me will be review, not new information.  I've known the shape of Gleek's challenges for a long time.  This office visit contains no surprises.  I knew what the diagnosis would be.  I made this diagnosis for her myself years ago.  But somehow, hearing it from a man who specializes in pediatric ADHD and mood disorders opens a small well of grief.
I knew what the answer would be when I asked the question, but I wanted to be wrong.  I wanted to be told that she was fine.

I know that both the grief and the desire to be wrong are illogical, but they are there.  I must acknowledge and process this grief so that it will not impact any decisions I must make.  Why am I sad?  The diagnosis changes nothing.  Gleek is the same marvelous, strong, challenging person she was before the doctor said the words out loud.  I am sad anyway; grieving because her challenges have been quantified; grieving because I am no longer able to pull a cloak of "maybe I'm worried about nothing" across the hard truths.  She struggles, not all the time, not in every situation, but often enough that it hurts.  The well of sadness has been filled up by all those thousands of small hurts seeping into it.

A diagnosis is a threshold.  Sometimes what is on the other side is very much like what came before, other times the act of crossing over changes everything.  Until one crosses, it is impossible to be certain which will be the result.  Choosing to cross is difficult when things on this side are reasonably good.  I have puttered around a long time making do with what I had.  Then the calm river came to carry me over.  I've done diagnosis before.  I've had it be world changing. I took my non-verbal two and a half year old for developmental testing and embarked upon a decade of speech therapy, developmental research, and meetings with teachers.  That same child in third grade was diagnosed with ADD/anxiety and I was transformed from a parent who would not medicate a child into one who does.  I went to the doctor for an odd lump on my chin and ended up with multiple surgeries, radiation therapy, and daily thyroid medication.  I know deep in my heart that diagnoses change things.  All of the changes that have come to me via diagnosis have been ultimately good, but choosing change is still hard, even when I'm pretty sure what shape the change will take.

The doctor threw a ball to Gleek as he asked her questions.  He put her through a variety of other little tests with a deftness which speaks long practice in working with high energy, high creativity children.  She smiled and engaged with him happily, chattering about whatever lightning quick thought passed through her mind.  She charmed both the doctor and the nurses. I was amused that the nurse commented on how active she is, apparently even in an office full of highly active children, she still stands out.  I watched Gleek as she waltzed her way through the visit.  I could see, though the staff could not, that she was nervous. She hoarded a little pile of candies, pictures, and prizes.  The accumulation of small things soothes her.  My heart was glad that everyone accepted her barefootedness and desire to touch everything as normal.  No one scowled or scolded, even when she climbed atop the counter to perch.

We left the office with seven tootsie rolls, a sucker, a book mark, a pencil, a coloring page, a prescription, and my little well of sadness firmly capped for examination later.  I did not take her back to school.  Instead we went out for gelato.  I just wanted to be with her exactly as she is.  I don't want her to change.  She doesn't want to change.  Yet change is inevitable and much of it will be good.

The decision to medicate a child should never be undertaken lightly.  I don't take it lightly, not even after making this decision once before.  Not even after seeing how medication removed Link's chains and let him fly.  They are so different these kids of mine and I can not apply blanket solutions.  For all of Gleek's years thus far, I felt strongly that medication was the wrong choice for her.  Last Spring she shifted, I shifted, and I began to know that now is the time to see what medication will do.  We need to know so we can make long-term decisions. I know the experiment will not do damage.  It will not hurt her.  Medication gave Link wings.  Gleek already has wings, this time I'm hoping for a rudder.  There is hope along with the trepidation.

The last step before filling the prescription was for Howard and I to sit down with Gleek and ask how she felt about medicine.
"I want to try." she said.  This is important.  In order for medication to work, it must be her tool, not something I impose upon her.  In the end my sadness and worries are irrelevant.  I must not impose them upon Gleek nor burden her with them.  Logic, her decision, and the calm river inside me say that tomorrow morning she will take medicine.  So she will and I will observe.  Then we will have more information than we have today, just as the diagnosis gave me more information than I had yesterday.  This is a good thing.

Purchasing the medication was complicated by a trip to the Emergency Room for Patch, whose arm turned out not to be broken.  Howard managed that little adventure, while I fetched the medication.  Then I came home and lay on my bed in the solitude of my room.  I had a small space to look deep into that well of sadness, to let some of it leak out my eyes.  No grand explanations or reasons emerged.  In the end I don't suppose I need to explain it or rationalize it.  As I move onward, as I heal, as Gleek grows, as I write, the well will empty out. It is much more empty now than it was this morning.  Water drawn from a well of sadness can soothe other thirsty ground if I'm willing to leave the well open rather than capping and hiding it. 

It has been a long day, a hard day, but not necessarily a bad one.

A getting things done kind of day

Mondays always feel short, but this one felt even shorter than usual.  I think it was the extra trips in the car.  Today was one of Kiki's late days, so that delayed the start of my work day.  Then Howard needed a ride to the auto place because the Beetle's battery died unexpectedly.  Then Gleek and Patch needed warmer clothes at school because the weather surprised us.  After that there was the retrieving of the car.  And the kids get out of school early on Mondays.

In between all of that, I got the accounting and customer support emails done.  Things have calmed down considerably on the business front, which means it is about time for us to take stock in advance of holiday promotional efforts. I also put in some writing time, which I feel good about.  Hopefully tomorrow can be equally productive and less scattered.

Halloween Carnival after action report

The Halloween carnival went very well, or so I surmise from the kind comments of people who told me "good job."  I don't feel like I saw very much of it.  My focus was on making sure the food table stayed stocked, and then on getting all the decorations, tables, and chairs cleaned away.  There were a few minor organizational troubles (Note to self: More ranch dressing, pre-test the microphone, and music for children's parade) but nothing that impinged on the enjoyment or awareness of those who were in attendance.  It was a good event.

And yet, I felt like a failure in the exhausted hours before bedtime.  After I slept, I was able to sort out why.  I failed to organize a large enough team for the event.  I did too many jobs myself and too many gaps were covered by spur-of-the-moment volunteers.  I am so grateful to the dozen people who pitched in to help clean up.  I am grateful to the people who saw problems and solved them.  It is because of them that the event worked.  I knew that the event would be full of people willing to volunteer, I depended upon that, but it is better to have a crew of people with assignments to help focus the volunteers.  I also depended too much upon my own family.  Howard helped me run the event.  The kids all helped with the decorations and set up.  This meant that when I got home, the house was a wreck, everyone was tired and over stimulated.  No one had the time or energy to reassure me that everything went well.  All the evidence of success had been cleaned up, what remained was the evidence of all the family tasks I did not do because I was too busy doing carnival.

This morning brought a world of improvement.  Howard managed the kids because it was all I could do to drag myself off to church.  He even had Link carry all the loose bowls and ladles that I brought home to wash before returning.  Howard also rallied the kids and got the house cleaned up.  All of this helped me feel immeasurably better.  This is important because my brain began to fill with ideas for the Christmas party which is the first Saturday in December just over a month away.  Sorting out why I crashed so hard last night means I can plan better for the next party.  The first assignment I made was to tell Howard that his only job for the Christmas party is to take care of the house and the kids while I'm busy.  That step alone will make a world of difference.

Doing things myself instead of delegating is something I need to work on.  It is probably a major reason I run myself ragged more often than I should.