So my trip to Paris was awesome. Not a whole lot of shock-value in that statement.

Yet slightly more dramatically (had I been told during the first two days of the journey that I would someday make the following declaration I would have figured that either myself or the deliverer of said message was tripping on acid or some other powerful hallucinogen), I would go as far as to say (and stone sober, mind you) that my time in Paris, albeit my only solo expedition to date, was not only my most memorable vacation, but one of the greatest times of my life. The experience was flanked with brief but distressing adjustment periods (strangely, I again suffered culture shock upon returning home) but it was the many wonderful days in the middle that made all the difference in the world.

To briefly emphasize the benefits I reaped before referencing a less cheery affair, Paris provided me with a much-needed change of scenery, pace and emotional climate. It provided me the chance to reclaim my identity and, for the first time in a while, I genuinely cherished the joy of living. I returned with renewed energy, insight, and perception. Most importantly, it gave me the time and space to replenish what had become a desperately starved and malnourished entity: my spirit.

Pity I just had to spend five soul-sucking days at the beach with my mother.

My mother who, nearly always driven by egocentric motives, imposes her disguised negativity anytime things aren’t going precisely the way she thinks they should. Now, don’t get me wrong, she’s as pleasant as a peach when she wants to be and she tries very hard not to be blatantly biting with her words (which are often under the breath utterances). Rather she is insidious like a poisonous snake slithering in the tall grass, donning what I call “the look” and waiting until the right time to strike using the mental inventory she’s taken. The Look is usually not made with direct eye contact; it’s simply a judgmental expression of such disgust and disdain that it manages to drain the recipient of all self-worth and value. Yet if anyone were to confront her about these things she is always equipped to cover her tracks with a reserve of manipulative tactics ranging from changing her obvious intent to flat-out lying about things she’s said or done.

Needless to say, my trip to the beach wasn’t all that beachy.

In conclusion, my voyages within the last month–the first to Paris, the second to the Outer Banks (which encompasses the graveyard of the Atlantic)–should be aptly memorialized as
the treasure and the shipwreck, respectively.

Hell, you didn’t think I chose the title for this blog out of thin air, did you?

Firstly, I’d like to settle one issue: No. I don’t actually speak like that, although, admittedly, coming up on my 5-year anniversary living in North Carolina I do occasionally draw a word out longer than it needs to be, blushing immediately at the realization (and horrified that it seems to be happening more and more all the time).

Secondly, I’d like to thank the few who still check back occasionally to make sure I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth since I have had too much going on to dedicate the time I’d like to writing, leaving large, ugly gaps between posts.

Thirdly, I felt like sharing that I have just returned from a very dysfunctional family vacation to the Outer Banks which included about twice as much family as I would have liked. Not only have I been having marital troubles as of late, but this voyage was a product of my susceptibility to my mother’s relentless pressure on me to commit to things she wants to do (and well in advance, mind you). Having only been home for approximately two hours and exhausted beyond measure, I am currently attempting a mother-detox, but there is a great deal of residual resentment that I am having difficulty in shaking. Oddly, I revert to an infant-like state in my ability to intelligibly and effectively communicate with that woman beyond the superficial level, and equally unfortunate, the stress I endure when in her presence inevitably turns me into the very type of person she loathes and already believes me to be. It is like some strange phenomenon where I allow her to create me into something to condemn and emotionally subjugate.

On the bright side, these issues may have inspired a whole new subject for me to lament about in my posts! The situation has certainly begged the question whether it’s possible that I’m just being overly sensitive and choosing to see the negative in people, although my original and more intrinsic belief is that I’ve been surrounded by many dysfunctional individuals for so long but finally see these relationships for what they are and have become extremely frustrated because the other’s aren’t interested in breaking the cycles. Therefore, I look like the “bad guy” for wanting–correction–needing change. Yet, when it arouses difficulties in multiple relationships at one time, it is easy for the others to perceive the problem lies in the individual stirring things up, as opposed to within themselves, no?

Could I be on to something or am I just crazy?

Since I am going to be out of town over the next few weeks, I wanted to give an update on my friend’s baby. He is almost 4 weeks old now, but still in the critical heart ward. They were hoping he would have graduated to the NICU a couple of weeks ago, but he has suffered some complications including infection and his lungs collapsing.

(”H” is my friend and “P” is her two year old who came to stay with me a couple weeks ago)

I drove down to see the baby Saturday for the first time and I even got to hold him. It was a day for a lot of firsts, as it was not only the first time I held him, but the first day his father got to hold him! Also, big brother got to get his first look and touch. Since P is only two he doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Up until Saturday, he had only seen his baby brother in pictures. Also, Baby was doing well enough on that day that H was able to change his diaper and give him a sponge bath. Up until now, only the nurses have been able to care for him.

Baby Boy seemed so much tinier than the pictures she had sent me (even though he’s over 8 lbs now). I guess partially because the photos were taken close-up making him look bigger as well as his being very swollen in the beginning. If he hadn’t been hooked up with wires everywhere, you would never know by looking at him that he has been through so much. He was awake most of the time and seemed very alert. I couldn’t stand seeing him lying on the table wearing only a onesie and no socks or blanket! I kept sneakily moving the blanket up over his feet. During his little “bath”, when H was washing him with the wash cloth I went right behind her drying him off and covering him up. He started to cry after she washed his hair, so I placed my hand over his tiny head to keep it warm. Although we could only touch him with gloves on, it had to have helped because he became immediately content. Can you imagine how cold it would be lying in a hospital room naked and wet? Poor little guy.

He did have a couple of disconcerting spells where he seemed to be choking and fighting for air (he’s on oxygen, but he was clearly struggling in some way). After he was turned on his side and suctioned he seemed to do better. He has a lot of junk in his lungs that needs to be expelled. As long as he remains stable, the next steps are for him to learn to breath and eat on his own. He has never done either in his short life. He is on a feeding tube, and has never been fed through his stomach. Although babies are born with the sucking reflex, since his was never stimulated he must even learn to suck.

I can not imagine how hard it is for her to have to leave him there. I feel like I already miss him and obviously I don’t have the new mother longing like she does. If all goes well he may be home in a few weeks, maybe even by the time I get back from my trip. Unfortunately, as the nurse was very careful to convey, you just never know what the future has in store for babies this critical. He has proven to be a fighter though, so I am remaining hopeful and optimistic.

Reminiscent of an eighties commercial where an old lady disappointingly looks at her hamburger and proceeds to inquire about the insubstantial beef patty, a reader of this blog recently asked, “where’s the dysfunction?” Whether you’re hungry for beef or dysfunction the phrase, “where’s the meat?” gets to the heart the matter. This inquiry has led me to one conclusion: that apparently my narrative on how I incurred grievous injury while attempting to change a diaper, or on pulling a piece of dental floss out of my child’s butt, or on sleeping with a butcher knife under my mattress on a mini-trip with my kids, doesn’t satisfy some people’s insatiable thirst for depravity.

So here’s a confession: I have a potty mouth. And at times a temper. I was not blessed with a plethora of patience and when my limit has been breached I am ashamed to report that my vocabulary tends to become rather colorful. I have gotten slightly better over the years, able to occasionally muffle an obscenity just as it is hitting the air, or sometimes tweaking a consonant just in time to ever-so-slightly distort the forthcoming expletive. At times I wonder, does it really matter if the words I spew in the heat of anger and frustration are official profanities in the English language? I rather think it’s the delivery of the message that makes the most impact; however, I certainly prefer not to curse as I don’t condone that language by my children (of course, I pull a bit of the “do as I say, not say as I say” routine and reinforce that those words are not acceptable). I absolutely do not choose to do it. In fact, I work very hard to control it.

While often swimming in a sea of chaos and resentment it is difficult to always behave in a manner that is commendable and respectable. Although I certainly have many things to be thankful for, raising children with ADHD while being afflicted myself, makes for some very harrowing, if not downright dogged moments around here. It is very unfortunate that the time of day when my two younger children (ages 9 and 5) often begin throwing ridiculous tantrums because their medication is wearing off rendering it extremely difficult to cope with situations rationally, my medication is also wearing off (and yes, this process can have the same effect on adults as it does children). Needless to say, our household can become a very undesirable scene between the hours of 3 and 5 pm.

Initially, I try to respond patiently and rationally. Unless you have raised children like this and have dealt with similar issues day in and day out, you just can not fathom the stress induced by these incessant tribulations. Once I feel my blood pressure has reached the boiling point, I know little can save me. I have incorporated breathing techniques which do help temporarily; however, if the chaos ensues this only serves to delay the gasket from blowing.

Luckily, I’ve always had a speedy recovery. Immediately as soon as the demands, screaming, or kicking the bedroom door stops, my breathing returns to normal and my sense of calm reinstates. That is, up until recently. Something is different in me now. I imagine that along with having larger issues weighing on my mind, it’s because I have finally reached a breaking point and realize that this can not continue. Instead of coping one day at a time, it is imperative to stop this cycle. Something must change. Only nothing is as simple as it should be when ADHD is involved.

The other day after coming home from school the two younger kids behaved beautifully the entire evening. They were both sweet, agreeable and cooperative. Usually they tend to take turns, like only one of them can behave at a time. When my husband came home he even jokingly asked what I had done to them. Reveling in the pleasantness of the atmosphere, I realized that this is what it’s like to have “normal” children. I know all kids sometimes misbehave and need consequences. But for children with ADHD, it is the lack of coping skills (which leads to intense overreacting) that is one of the many elements separating them from the norm. Traditional strategies can be very challenging to implement and do not always work.

In any case, there you have it. Dysfunction. I imagine it’s a little disappointing if you were chomping for something as “juicy” as the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal–I’m saving that for another story.

I am not extremely drawn to poetry so it was a little peculiar when I was sick the other day and this poem kind of materialized out of nowhere. I was actually working on a post I have partially written when I found myself fighting the rhyming verses that kept materializing. So, this was produced instead.

ReGeneration

Perhaps I had it coming,
But I don’t remember well
Why I often wore the welts of belts
When I was small Michele.

My father’s rage often hit the roof
While my mother simply played aloof.
She’d say his name in that horrid whine
As if that would suddenly help this time.

When as a child I lie in bed
Anger and fear swirling through my head
The kind and gentle face I saw
Was the apparition of my grandpa.

While lying there I began to cry.
For the thought that he would someday die
Sent floods of salty streams to flow
To soak the core of my pillow.

I greatly envied my own mother
Having a father such as he,
And I equally resented her
For choosing mine for me.

Our fathers represented
The likes of day and night.
The gentle one had been to war;
The other learned to fight.

From the childish vision of my dad
I often thought all men were bad
Then I recalled the other man who
Showed us warmth so kind and true.

Now I’m grown and he is gone
But I am lucky he lived so long.
I’m only sad my kids didn’t see
Just why he was so special to me.

It’s quite ironic, this circle of life
For now despite my childhood strife
My once hurtful father is no more–
He’s now the grandpa my kids adore.