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?

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.

Disclaimer: Please forgive me if this narrative falls short of par, for I am excruciatingly tired as a result of getting very little sleep over the past 48 hours. The circumstances leading to my first sleepless night is the cause for the aforementioned quandary.

I am embarrassed to admit it. On one hand it seems silly. On the other it seems pathetic. And yet, if I had a third hand on which to place another perspective, it could be argued that it’s never a bad idea to be prepared. But prepared for what? Whatever did I expect to do with it? I’m not even extremely proficient at slicing cantaloupe. Yet as I have discovered, the anxiety caused by fear can drive us to do inexplicable things. Although we all react differently to the “red flags” perceived by our senses, our reactions which are influenced by previous experience as well as one’s individual personality are undoubtedly intertwined with our instincts for survival.

Expecting to take my kids on a short but fun retreat for the last couple of days of spring break, I reserved a cabin in the resort campground that is adjacent to an amusement park about 100 miles from our home. And though our little expedition did prove to be fun (at least during the daylight hours), I cut it even shorter than it was intended to be after getting absolutely no sleep the first night and knowing it would be no better the second. It had nothing to do with comfort; it had everything to do with mother bear syndrome and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

One could regard my demeanor as a bit over reactive; admittedly, it is humbling to report. However, considering our cabin (which was no Fort Knox by any stretch of the imagination) was relatively secluded and sitting just on the edge of a vast wooded area, at some point it occurred to me that I had absolutely no way to defend myself should the need arise. After all, anyone seeing us arrive that evening would know that dwelling inside this easily penetrable cabin was a woman with three children. No man.

This would be the reason, among taking several other precautions, for my sliding a considerably large butcher knife under the mattress, and strategically placing it so that I could grab the handle in a jiffy–although beyond that, I couldn’t fathom what I would do with it. How it even came to be there is somewhat perplexing. Feeling uneasy, I had risen from bed several times in order to verify the many noises I was hearing, when suddenly, and without premeditation, I found myself looking in one of the kitchenette drawers. After examining and ruling out the benefit of a pocket knife of sorts, I briefly considered the 9-inch butcher knife before reluctantly putting it into my hand. Not even remotely comfortable with the limited protection it offered, I quickly concluded that, whether or not I could put it to use, I was better off having it with me than with an intruder.

Analyzing some of the underlying psychology contributing to my lack of security, it could be plausible that growing up as a member of Generation X, which was showered with an onslaught of slasher flicks immortalizing the likes of the infamous Jason and Freddie, contributed to my imaginative scenarios. But impacting my state of mind more than the ridiculously gory horror films of the eighties are my personal life experiences that at times have threatened my sense of safety and reassurance. All of these elements together—some obviously fictitious, some quite real–multiply in notability when my awareness is heightened beyond it’s usual state.

A secondary factor is that lurking in the subconscious areas of my mind are the true horror stories I have been privy to. Although I used to be guilty of watching a great deal of CourtTV, I have personally known a few victims of senseless homicides, one of them happening when I was in the 2nd grade. Our babysitter who lived about ten minutes away was brutally murdered one night in her own home. Her younger sister was also savagely killed, while their brother was left for dead with severe head injuries inflicted with a baseball bat. Her body was later found in a nearby sewer pipe, the large kind leading to the creek that we kids often played in.

On a personal note, an encounter I have had which undoubtedly lends to my sense of susceptibility is having had my own house broken into a year and a half ago while my husband was out of town. This occurrence justified a fear based on possibility and turned it into a fear based on reality.

Additionally, I have had a couple of strange and alarming encounters while merely performing routine duties at common locations, which have caused me to frequently be looking over my shoulder. After being followed a couple of times and flat-out stalked by one creep, perhaps I should wear a t-shirt when I run my errands that says, “I’m watching you, too, so don’t even think about it.” Perhaps I’ll detail those experiences in a post entitled, “Grocery Store Stalkers: How Not To Shop For Dates.”

But where do you draw the line in being reasonably cautious and being paranoid? Was rigging the towel over the front window to cover the useless blinds unwarranted? Or blocking the doorway with a heavy wooden chair, which although I knew would not slow anybody down, would at least provide for a noisy entrance? Or leaving the light on in the bathroom all night so that from the exterior the cabin would possibly look less inviting to a prowler? Was it sleeping with a butcher knife under my mattress that crossed the line? For it is definitely not something I thought I would ever do. Maybe the answer isn’t in the preparations I made (including having my cell phone within easy reach) but my level of anxiety.

Upon writing this narrative and with all things considered, I have come to this conclusion: I would certainly rather be caught prepared, in spite of looking foolish, than to be caught unprepared, proving me to be foolish for ignoring my instinctual red-flags. So laugh if you must, for I can appreciate the humor in how ridiculous I must have looked to the predator watching from a distance. On the bright side, I must have looked just crazy enough to keep him at bay.

You are probably familiar with the phrase, “be careful what you wish for.” This cliché provides no exception when placing wishful orders to produce intelligent offspring, for I offer living proof to this mantra with the bittersweet results delivered on my behalf. Although not most parent’s number one priority, when given a choice, naturally we hope for acute and resourceful children. Since my husband and I process information as oppositely as two human beings can, I maintained even before we procreated that our brood would likely turn out either extremely dense or, preferably, extremely bright. With our gene pools consisting of contradictory strengths and weaknesses, I never imagined average intellect to be a probable outcome. In retrospect, I admit it is rather peculiar that I didn’t consider it, but perhaps my theory was a result of my highly intuitive predictions. In spite of this, my foresight failed to anticipate the repercussions; I hadn’t counted on their brilliance coming back to bite me in the form of defiance.

Since my daughter, who is now nine, was a late talker we initially had no idea of her mind’s power. But it didn’t take long once she began putting her words together to realize that there was a lot going on in that little head of hers. I remember one time she was sitting and coloring on a piece of paper at age 3, when she looked up and announced in an enlightened manner that “three four’s is twelve.” I was quite impressed that this three year old had discovered the concept of multiplication completely on her own, and to this day she hasn’t ceased to amaze us with her nearly infinite acumen.

This child has a comeback for everything. The latest which I, personally found amusing since I was not on the receiving end, was on Sunday morning as she was arguing with her father for waking her up. His rationale was that she needed to get used to the new time, as a result of Daylight Savings, to ease the transition in getting up Monday. As always, she proceeded to argue the validity of her objection and attempted, at any cost, to get the last word. After going a couple of rounds he told her that the discussion was closed and would not be debated further. Her response: “Why? It’s because I have a point! Isn’t it?” I stifled my laughter, and informed her that her dad already feels sorry for her future husband!

Although it went along with what I had always predicted, I really thought that her level of intelligence was likely the exception of our genetics, rather than the rule. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected similar results to be duplicated. Yet, here is my son, now five years old, impressing most adults with his inquisitive and interpretive nature. He has been inquiring since he was three how the first human came to be. Unfortunately, his curiosity is more advanced than his ability to comprehend the answers to such questions. At four, one particular thought that preoccupied his mind focused on the last person, as opposed to the first. His thoughts were instigated after driving by a cemetery one day. He said, “Mom, when the very last person dies they will not get to be buried like everyone else because no one will be left to bury them. But it will be OK since there will be no one to see their bones.”

As much as I wonder what goes on in that boy’s mind, I do know one of the frequent culprits because he informed me that he sees math problems in his head. It should come as no surprise considering he frequently begs to be challenged with math facts. At Christmas while my parents were visiting, Brock wanted my dad to ask him some addition and multiplication problems. I had recently written down some simple algebraic equations with a single variable to see if he could grasp the concept. The first problem I gave him was, “if 4=n, 2n + 5 = .” I explained that since the 2 and the n were right next to each other, they needed to be multiplied. Within a moment, he produced the correct answer. So when Grandpa rattled off “3×2,” in response to Brock’s request, the child was disappointed. Replying in a manner that implied the question had insulted his intelligence, he stated, “that is so Pre-K!” before revealing the answer. (Which, ironically they haven’t even done addition in kindergarten–as you can imagine, he is not at all excited that his math at school consists of counting!)

I am grateful that he should never struggle with learning and I am optimistic about the things he will be able to accomplish if he utilizes the power of his mind. Yet, along with these benefits, come some very exhausting deficits. Just this week he has taken to throwing tantrums that rival the 3-hour fits he threw when he was three years old. Attempting to determine this recent relapse, we contributed the first day to being overly tired as a result of springing forward an hour. But after three consecutive days of intensifying tantrums, I may be forced to dig a little deeper; of course, it is entirely possible that he is just testing the waters, attempting to exert some control. He has always been a little neurotic about wanting things a particular way, but overall, he’s usually reasonably behaved.

One handicap I face is that never having dealt with this type of resistance, like him, I am learning as I go. And with a learning curve such as his, we are playing hard ball to say the least. I know the basics about the importance of consistency, and such. But I also need to know what exactly is an acceptable consequence and how long you implement it sans positive results before attempting a new approach. Not to mention, I need coping skills. I can only deal with so much blatant chaos and discord before I need soap in my mouth for cursing like a sailor. Obviously, the goal is to remain calm, but stern. Yet, after 2-3 hours of pure hell, that is easier said than done. If this keeps up, I am going to need professional assistance or the military.

At the request of his pediatrician, we have a series of appointments beginning next week to administer IQ testing. It couldn’t come at a better time, because perhaps the psychologist performing the testing can bestow some sound advice on how to deal with my little mad genius.