Brian and Frankie

I do find myself wondering about Brian and the level of anxiety he has over Frankie.

They got along really well in the beginning.

Things went down hill when Frankie decided to tell Brian all about his past on an evening when Brian had forgot to take his pills two days in a row.

Now long time readers know that Brian has some anxiety issues. (You can click the label "anxiety" at the end of this post if you want to read about it). Medication makes a huge difference in his case. If he forgets to take his meds we notice. Like last week when he just sat in the chair and started crying. He has progressed far enough to be able to recognize that that is what it is. When I saw he was crying I told him that he could cuddle with me. He climbed almost into my lap. I asked him if he had forgot his pills; he nodded. I asked if there was anything else wrong; he shook his head. So I did a visualization exercise to help him relax and he went to bed.

He had only forgot them one day.

But it turns out he had missed his pills two days in a row when Frankie started sharing his history. I only came in part way through. It was a thrilling tale of adventure and survival. I have no doubt that much of it was true, and that much of it was false. I imagine that in the real version Frankie did a little less heroic defending of himself and his father with home-made knives and a little more fantasizing about doing so. I also doubt that being homeless was as exciting (in good and bad ways) as he made it sound.

Anyway, I don't know how much I missed, but by the time I got there and attempted damage control, Brian was fairly convinced that Frankie was capable of murder and was his present engaging self only because Frankie's pills kept his homocidal impulses in check. I did try to convince Brian that it wasn't true, but I just didn't have good answers to the questions.

Brian understands that when he, Brian, does not take his pills he very quickly goes from a cheerful capable guy to an anxiety-ridden, tearful guy. It is very plausible to him that Frankie would go from a child-like kid who never stopped talking and rolled on the floor crying in frustration to someone who might murder us in our sleep.

I think one of Frankie's stories must have included knifing someone in his sleep. It was such a common theme in Brian's anxieties.

Anyway, when Frankie had to go to the hospital because he slashed and stabbed his stuffed animal, with a homemade knife no less, and was afraid of what he would do next ..

OH! Something JUST hit me. It was obvious to me that the thing that Frankie was afraid of was that he might go from slashing his clothes and his toy to cutting HIMself. It was so obvious in fact that I did not ever explain that. I think I just said that Frankie "did not feel safe." I did not intend to be unclear. Given Brian's pre-existing anxieties though, he probably thought that Frankie was on the verge of becoming violent towards others.

Well, maybe I just answered the question I wrote this post to address: why is Brian THIS afraid of Frankie coming back even to visit.

1. Frankie told vivid stories of himself hurting other people and behaving in ways that Brian cannot understand.
2. Brian was in a psychological state that made him uncritical of the stories and highly anxious. He formed the opinion that Frankie was capable of doing physical harm to others without warning or provocation.
3. Frankie then used a home-made knife on a stuffed animal; acting out the sort of story that he told Brian.
4. The Frankie went on a rage in his room, destroying his possessions and slamming his fist into the floor until it was bloody and the police (for the first time ever) were called to the house.

And now Brian gets anxious at the thought that Frankie might come back even for a visit.

And I wonder why.

Sometimes I am a bit slow.

Just Today

Brian told me yesterday that though he does think it would be strange to be the only kid in the house for all four years of high school, he is tired of getting attached to people who move out.

He is relieved that Frankie left, but the pain he feels associated with that placement is not all that different than the pain of all the other boys moving away and leaving him.

He knows it is normal for kids to grow up and leave, but he is tired of it.

He is very happy that Carl and David and Evan are part of his life (I asked). He would not for anything go back in time and have us make a different decision. Whatever pain there was in adjusting to them moving in and being sad that they moved out was worth it. He is glad that we took them.

"But, Mom, I think I have enough brothers."

I hear ya, babe. I might have enough sons.

Though as AidelMaidel points on in a comment on the previous post, maintaining our license and doing respite periodically is not difficult, and getting re-licensed should we let it expire is a big deal. I think we probably will maintain the license, if only to do respite care.

And none of us are making any decisions about what me might want to do later. All I know is where we are today.

Today we have enough sons and brothers.

Today Hubby and I are thrilled at the idea that we could go out to dinner and not have to get a sitter.

Today we are still tired.

Will it be different later? Maybe, I don't know.

If it were just me I would be confident it would be. I will feel better and be willing. I know that.

But will they? I don't know.

I can imagine a day when the agency would call and tell me about a kid and I would respond with excitement.

But today, just today, I cannot imagine a future in which I turn to Brian and say, "Hey Kiddo, do you think you can do it again?"

How we are

So...a couple of you have emailed and asked how we are doing.

I'm feeling okay...a bit strung out, apprehensive, but okay. I wish a bed would open up in the fricative adolescent psych ward already, but I am okay.

Frankie is happily talking about how he is going to be spending next month's allowance.

Brian pulled me aside to asked worriedly if he was going to be here to GET next month's allowance. I said no, but that the social workers said not to tell him that because we don't want him to get upset.

Hubby took Brian and Frankie to the Y with the plan that he will wear them, particularly Frankie, out.

Andrew took advantage of the situation to talk to me, "Mom. I want you to know that first, I am not afraid of Frankie. Okay? Second though, Brian is afraid and I need to tell you that I am not okay with Brian being put in a situation where he is afraid. This is his house; he shouldn't be afraid here."

I said I was sorry and that I would never do it again. I would never let them rush us on a placement decision again. I would never make the decision without all of us having a chance to talk about it after the youth had visited us. I would not accept a child who had any history of violent outbreaks, even if it had been 6 months since the last one.

Andrew thought about it and said, "Well, okay then."

So... that's how we're doing.

How are all you?

"This is MUCH healthier"

So after writing to the social worker about WoW we continued to have an interesting evening.

I must have looked like a sideways bobble doll as I think I shook my head with amazed disbelief all evening long.

I kept thinking things like:

-How can someone offer you money for access to the computer so that you can get naked and you not respond by thinking that they are either suspicious or creepy?

-Why would he endanger his account for nudity? I mean, the ability to breathe underwater, teleport, have unlimited life points I would get. But nudity? Is it a boob thing? I think I would understand a boob thing.

And this fun recurring thought: If suggesting that WoW did not make him happy and maybe he should not play sent him into a manic fit and resulted in our spending four hours in the emergency room, what will he do when we say we are taking it away completely?

If I tell him BEFORE he goes on respite will that mean that he will have time to deal with it before he gets back or that he will throw such a fit there that the respite provider will either call me and say, "come get this kid" or refuse to ever do respite again? If I tell him after will that mean that I have to deal with a full blown melt-down? Will he do more than slash a couple of shirts and stab a stuffed toy?

Maybe I am just too tired to think about this right now.

---
But last night he had agreed to be off all video games and he did not protest that. He got out his old code book and decided that he wanted to learn to write in Elvish.

We let him get on the Internet, supervised, so that he could print out a few pages on the Elvish alphabet. This was a creative, interesting, MUCH HEALTHIER activity. So now, please, let me share some snippets of conversation from my evening.

Brian: "DUDE, you know that there isn't really such a thing as Elvish, don't you? What you are printing out is just something someone made up."
Frankie: "I know! But look, this site has pages on the history and everything! This is the real Elvish that like everyone knows is the real made-up Elvish!"
Brian, "Dude, there is no such thing!"
Frankie, "Yes there is, and I know it isn't real."
Me (quietly): "Brian, I will give you a million dollars if you LET IT GO."

Brian (stage whisper), "But mom!"

Me (deathly stage whisper) "LET IT GO."

Frankie: "Yondalla, I just want it to print this little bit but it wants to print too much. How do I print just that?"
I show him.
Frankie: "NO. It's printing everything. NO! I can't make it stop!" (Frustrated crying begins). "No! No! Oh why can't I make it do what I want? Why am I so stupid? Yondalla! Why won't it work?" ... "Oh. It is working. Never mind!"

Later:
Brian, "You know you aren't writing Elvish right? You are just writing English in Elvish letters."
Frankie, "That's Elvish."
Brian, "Elvish is a whole different language!"
Frankie, "You said it wasn't real, so it doesn't matter!"
Brian, "You can't say it is a different language, even a fictitious language, if it's English"
Frankie, "It isn't fickshus, it's Elvish!"

Later still:
Frankie: "Brian, I don't get this chart. Why are those marks over the letters?"
Brian: "Those are marks used in to show how to pronounce the letter in English."
Frankie: "But this about Elvish!"
Brian, "DUDE! I know. Listen to me. That column is the Elvish symbols. That column is how you pronounce it. They show that with the letters and symbols in English."
Frankie: "I don't care about the pro-nounce-iation!"
Brian: "'PRO-NUN-CEE- A --TION!'"
Frankie: "I said I didn't care about proNUNcing it!"
Brian shaking his head, "Dude, those symbols tell you how to pronounce the Elvish symbols in English."
Frankie: "That is not how you write English!"
Brian, "It is how they write it in dictionaries!"
Frankie: "I have never seen that in a dictionary! Yondalla, that isn't how we write English, is it?"
Me: "Sweetie, those are the symbols that dictionaries use to show how to pronounce words. If you get a dictionary I will show you."
Frankie, beginning to make long whining, frustrated crying noises, "I don't know where a dictionary is! We don't have one! I just want to know what the Elvish symbol for 'a' is and they have like four a's! Why are there four a's?"
I throw a look at Brian that says, "You speak, you die." I grab a paper and pen and say to Frankie, "Honey look at these words: cat, father, cape. See how they all have a's? What sound do each of them make? Well, in Elvish, they have a different symbol for each one of those sounds. If you want you can use any 'a' symbol you want."
Frankie, "Okay. Do you want me to write your name in Elvish?"
Me: "Sure" (Since my name is not really 'Yondalla' the following conversation is adjusted, of course.)
Frankie: "Spell it." I do.
He works. "Is the 'Y' silent?"
"No."
"Is the 'o' silent?"
"No."
"Is the "d" silent?"
"No. NOTHING is silent in my name."
"Which 'a' is it?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Which one?!"
(Sighing) "Show me the list.... That one."
He works. He shows me. I agree that my name written in Elvish is pretty.

He asks Hubby to write his name. He re-writes it in Elvish. Hubby expresses his appreciation.

Frankie, "Brian, do you want me to write your name in Elvish?"
Brian, "Dude, it is NOT Elvish! It is just English with Elvish symbols."
Frankie: "I'm going to learn Druidish next."


And that ends the selections of the conversation at our house. It was definitely much, much better than him sitting at the computer and saying, "Look! A wuf!"

Right?

Kitty Death

The animals may not know it, but each of them is understood to belong to one of us. Until yesterday, everyone had a cat or a dog.

And today my cat died.

I got her right after the Twin Towers were attacked. I had a great need to cling to someone and it wasn't helpful to my children to cling to them. So I called a kitty rescue organization and said that I needed an adult lap cat. They gave me the perfect lap cat. I do mean perfect. If I had a book or my computer on my lap she did not try to get between us. She lay on the arm of the chair or across the top (I usually work in a pretty comfy chair). If I put down my book she would move to my lap. She had an almost silent meow. Only a little squeaky noise came out.

Of course we don't know how old she was when we got her, so I don't know how old she was today. Certainly at least 9, perhaps 12 or more.

She had a urinary tract infection over a year ago, which we treated. It left her kidneys little damaged though. Sunday night I noticed she was lethargic. Yesterday when I got home from work I noticed she was really feeling sick. I told the boys that she was sick and elderly and I didn't know if she was going to make it. Andrew just went to pet her briefly. Brian spent an hour sitting or lying next to her crying. Frankie found a t-shirt and asked if she died, could we bury her with it. He told me several times that it makes him sad when animals die, and that he was sad even though he didn't get a chance to know my cat.

Which is true. She has spent less and less time out of my bedroom. In the past few years, certainly since the Shih Tzu moved in, she has practically lived on my bed.

This morning we took her to the vet. They warned me that she was in bad shape -- very dehydrated and she had a temperature that was low. I left her to teach class. In an unprecedented move, I put my cell phone on the table in front of me and told my class that when it rang class was over. After an hour or so they called to say that her kidneys were failing and that even with aggressive treatment she might not recover.

Since Brian has no school today and Andrew is sick (ugg!) I told them, and Brian said he really wanted to go down to the vet and say goodbye. When we got there they kicked some other person and her dog out of one of the exam rooms. Either they have great sympathy for people who are saying goodbye to their pets, or they don't like people sitting in their waiting room crying. (Possibly both). We put Frankie's t-shirt on the exam table and they brought us the cat. After a few minutes Brian decided it was time for him to leave. The vet came in, warned me that it was possible that the cat's bowls or bladder might empty (they didn't), asked me if I was ready, and gave the cat three injections. I scratched the cat's jaw the way she likes. She sighed twice, and her head relaxed in my hand. She was gone.

I'm glad I stayed. I'm glad I saw how peaceful it was for her.

I'm glad to know that even if I had taken her to the vet Monday morning when I noticed she was lethargic it wouldn't have made a difference. We would have decided to euthanize her yesterday and we would not have had last night to pet her and cry and say goodbye. I am glad to know that what she died from was not contagious and I don't need to worry about the other animals.

Soon Frankie will be home. I will tell him what happened, about how the kitty spent her last half hour lying on his old t-shirt, comforted by the smells of him and our home.

And we shall see how he handles it.

As for me, I am sad, but I am okay. Though I don't know how old she was exactly, she has seemed like an old lady for a while. She helped me through some difficult times by just sitting on my lap and purring. We had a good six years together.

I have told people that there is such a thing as a good death (which is by the way what "euthanasia" literally means). In my mind, a good death is one that comes after a full life, preferably with enough of a warning that people get to say goodbye but not too much pain for either the one dying or the one left behind. We got that with kitty.

So I am grateful for that and I am grateful for her.

Funny thing happened on the way to the shelter

Our neighbors last spring decided that raising chickens would be a good home schooling project. They got eggs, kept them warm, held the chicks, and finally put them in a coop in the backyard where they made my dogs insane. I considered reporting them (the neighbors), as I believe it is against town regulations to have chickens, but I didn't after they told me they were looking for a home in the country and would be taking their chickens away.

They did move, but they left one chicken behind.

It has been wandering around the neighborhood, mostly living in a big evergreen bush on my yard and making the dogs REALLY insane. Today though Brian caught it. He called me at work and asked me what to do. I gave him the number for animal control and they told him that they would not come and get it, but if an adult brought it in they would take it. Brian said they didn't actually say they would euthanize it, but that he thought they would. I agreed.

Wanting to get it all over with, for Brian's sake of course, I rushed home and got the dog crate. Brian was sitting in the shade with the chicken looking glum. He put the chicken in the crate and said, "Did you know that chickens purr? If you scratch it behind the head it makes a purring noise." We talked about it and he understood that we had few options: the chicken would freeze to death or be eaten by a dog if it just wandered around. So we drove to the shelter.

But because of some construction I took the back roads. Though I have driven this road any number of times, I suddenly saw something I had not noticed before: a house with a yard with a dozen or more chickens! Quickly, I pulled in the driveway. After some calling out "hello!" a friendly Mexican American woman came out, listened to me for a minute and then turned and yelled, "CARLOS!" Three children came running from the field, one of whom was Carlos.

We told Carlos our story, and that we were on our way to the animal shelter when we saw all their chickens and wondered if they wanted another. He translated and then asked us if we were selling it. I said no, that in fact I thought the shelter would charge me for euthanizing (killing) it, so I was giving it away. He asked me if it laid eggs. Brian assured him that it did. So the mom shrugged, we got the chicken, and Brian told Carlos how it had been a home schooling project and was very gentle and would purr if you scratched it behind the head. Carlos removed the chicken very gently and it walked off to join all the other hens.

So it was a good afternoon for all concerned. The chicken was saved from certain doom and is now living on a farm in the country. A nice farming family has a story to tell about a couple of crazy gringos. And Brian requests that we eat something vegetarian for dinner tonight.

Frankie and Brian

Once I was a married woman with one child.

I cooked things that my husband and I liked to eat. My one child seeemed motivated to eat what I did, although he did not like his food all mixed up. Still, it seemed no big deal to pull out some strips of chicken before adding the curry and put them on a plate with a carrot stick and some rice.

He came up with odd ideas about the world, and we listened. I gave him focused praise, just like the books said to. I don't think I ever insulted him. I wasn't perfect, but that one child grew up in a nuturing, positive environment. He was generally welcome to join us in whatever we were doing. If I was making a jig saw puzzle I would let him help, even help him out. He felt respected by the people older than he.

And he asked for a younger brother or sister. He said he liked little kids and he wanted to be a big brother.

We decided to have another child, not for him of course. Our lives changed. Having two children at two different levels oftem destroyed the sense that we were adults with a child. We were PARENTS. And the older child we had so carefully nurtured changed when the baby we brought home grew into a small child. The older brother who had been surrounded by love, praise and encouragement turned to that younger child and said, "You are a stupid poopy head!" When the younger child wanted to join him in his activities he said, "No! You will ruin it. Go Away!"

Of course the older brother was mostly a great older brother, but not always. When the older brother approached teenage years he started spending more time with friends and he did NOT want his younger brother, who had few friends, along. The younger brother cried, said he missed the big brother who would play with him, and said that HE wanted a younger brother to take care of.

And now we have a third boy who is devlopmentally much younger than the younger brother. The third boy makes mistakes and the first boy, who spends much time somewhere else, tries to speak in patient voices and tries to be helpful. The second brother says, "That is so stupid! Why did you do that? You will never have any fun if you keep doing that!" He said it with scorn in his voice. "How can you think something so dumb?"

And the second brother, who increasingly has friends of his own he wants to spend time with, yesterday told me that Dad was going to take them somewhere, but would I keep Frankie home so he wouldn't annoy them. I said no. I took him aside and helped him to remember all the ways that his older brother's behavior had hurt him. How badly he felt when his older brother insisted that he not join them in their games.

And Brian looked at me and said, "Now I understand why!"

The Rest of the Sides

Brian's principal called me this morning to tell me that Brian was crying and wanted to come home and did not want to go to the charter school anymore.

Ugg.

I told her that though Brian had remembered his meds this morning, we had just realized that he didn't take them the past two days. I spoke to Brian on the phone and reminded him of what I told him when he decided to go to this school, 20 minutes away. "I am not able to come and get you if you are having a bad day." I reminded him that he was probably feeling this way because he had missed some medication, and he had to figure out a way to cope.

He did. He came home emotionally exhausted and said that he had just been feeling bad. He was going to stay at the charter school. He said that he might even stay there through high school.

So there are more bright sides. This was the first time that Brian had an emotional break down and simply had to go on. Depression and anxiety are real. I know he does not make up how he is feeling. However, he has learned that he can go on. He can deal with it. I did not push him to tell me about his day, but I think he found the other students there more kind when he was falling apart. I don't think he is afraid that tomorrow he will be seen as the crazy kid who started crying.

I think that I will put the fact that Hubby and I did not have to tell him that he was staying at the charter school, whether he wanted to or not, in the "bright side" column too.

Frankie, from what I can tell, did okay at TLC for the first few hours, but broke down and cried at the end. Because he was un-enrolled at the the high school, TLC had to start him without having done all the educational assessments. They did not have work for him to do at his level, so he didn't learn a thing. All he experienced was being bullied to sit straight, hold his pencil in an unusual and uncomfortable way ("and they said to use my best penmanship, but I can't do that if I can't hold the pencil the way that I'm used to!")

When I picked him up he was crying. I took him home and Hubby and I listened. Hubby reassured him that he would get appropriate work and he would graduate from high school. He is not sure we are correct, but his mood brightened considerably when...

...his bras and panties arrived in the mail.

He told me that I was correct that the panties will not fit his current body, but the bras fit perfectly. He was very pleased.

He did not put on any of his new clothes however since he has counseling tonight.

And things got better

Today is the official "Oh my G-d I can't believe it's the last day to get ready for classes" day. It started with the one hour car pool run, shall be interrupted by a mid-day department meeting, and by a mid-afternoon intake meeting at The Learning Center where hopefully Frankie will be safe and learn much.

So there is not much time for blog writing or reading.

But I thought I would give you a quick summary of the events of last night.

Frankie, with lots of bravado, tried to convince Brian of the romance of living homeless --primary advantages seem to be not having to go to school and getting to eat whatever you want (i.e. whatever you find). This was followed by a dramatic telling of being taken away by the police from a yelling and screaming father, an exaggerated (as though the previous was not already exaggerated) account of his angry and violent response to being kidnapped by the government, an extremely exaggerated account of life in the treatment center (okay, not extremely, but I know they don't put bad kids in shackles and make them spend the days in quarries).

In short, Frankie was having fun telling Brian the adventure story of his life. I came in the middle of all this and pointed out to Frankie that he was frightening Brian. Frankie then ran to find all of his certificates for good behavior and other evidence of his reformed nature.

Brian's first thought was that we didn't tell him because it was all too horrible. We finally convinced him that we did not tell him because we were stupid, it wasn't as bad as Frankie was making it sound, and because we really and truly believed that Frankie was not a threat to his safety.

If Frankie were not so good at dramatic story telling -- voices, sound effects, vivid descriptions -- it would not have been so tough.

In the end though Brian seemed reassured and forgave us for our omission. Hubby pointed out the difficulty between protecting one kid's privacy and responding to another kid's right to know. Hubby also wanted to tell him that most of the kids we had had for respite had violent behaviors in their pasts, but I wasn't so sure that would make Brian feel more forgiving of us.

Anyway, all seems once again settled.

And if you are considering doing care and all ready have kids at home -- be forewarned.

All kids enjoy impressing and scaring other kids; and some kids have really excellent material to work with.

What to tell Biokids about Foster Kids

I've talked to prospective foster parents before and I have given them the following advice: tell them everything. If you aren't ready to tell them everything, don't do care. If you leave something out, either the foster kids will fill in the details or their imaginations will, and either is worse than the truth.

So why the hell don't I listen to myself?

Why do I agree to take a child into my house who I know has had a violent past without talking to Brian about it?

Okay, so I and everyone else who knew about it agree that there is every reason to think that Frankie's violent past is behind him. There are reasons, not justifications but explanations, for why he behaved the way he did. Of course anyone could become violent, but there is every reason to think that Frankie is no more likely than anyone else.

So I am not particularly worried.

So why didn't I tell Brian? Was it because everything happened so quickly? We felt like we had to make a decision during his visit. We didn't have time after the visit to sit and talk about everything that we learned so quickly and make a family decision.

Brian was part of the decision of course, but we just asked him if he thought he could live with Frankie. We did not sit down and tell him everything.

And that was fine...right up until tonight when Frankie decided to tell Brian.

Damn.

The whole, "I used to be a danger to society, but I'm much better now" story did not go over well.

Damn.

I know better.

Education of Brian, updated

So he was initially put in pre-Algebra, which is standard for 8th grade. However he got half-way through Algebra One last year. So they did a new schedule for him and sadly, it required some sacrifices. His new schedule is:

Band
Algebra I
English
Science
Art
Jazz Band
Drama

Yep...that's four periods of artsy stuff and three of traditional academics.

At least that expensive instrument I rented will be used for 2 periods every day.

He came home singing, "I don't have to take social studies...I don't have to take social studies..." Not that social studies isn't important, but it conflicted with Algebra.

Busy, emotional day

Yesteday was busy day. Brian started a new school. I helped Evan move into the dorm. I painted a bedroom, and got the report from the Frankie's IEP meeting from Hubby. Then, I went to the PFLAG businesss meeting.

All of it had some level of emotion attached.

I was happy for Brian, and excited for Evan. We had a good time together and a nice lunch. It was much easier to leave him there, 30 miles away, then to put him on the plan to Scotland. I think he will be very happy, and I admit I was glad to find his phone charger this morning. ("Ha! He will have to come back right away for this!")

The painting was just tiring since I was trying my darndest to get it done as fast as possible. It was successful and it looks okay. Hubby helped everybody shift their stuff while I was gone in the evening.

The results from the IEP were not (or should not have been) unexpected, but still made me sad. Frankie is not holding up as well as we hoped at school. It is not suprising. He went to a small school and then has been in very small classroom, usually at the facility where he has been living. Now he is in a high school of more than 1000, where there are fights and gang problems, and very large classes. Frankie will be given some choices about how what to do. Basically he can get more support in this school, or return to an educational setting in town more like the ones he has been in. I was sad about it at first, but I'm okay now.

Then there was the PFLAG business meeting where we discussed the low attendance and basic trends of the group. I volunteeered to write the letter to members, current and past, and other people who would care that will tell them, "Our chapter is no longer viable as it stands. Come to one of the next two meetings if you wish to express yourself on this issue. Unless someone wants to take it over, we will shut it down before the end of the year." Of course I will phrase it just a bit more gently.

I've known that it was coming of course. I've known it for a long time. I went out to a coffee shop with the other person who has been as involved as I have and for as long. We shared that we both had lots of ideas, but no energy to carry them out. We comforted each other.

I came home and the house was quiet. Everyone was in bed, safe and sleeping, but I couldn't sleep.

I sat in the living room and turned on the TV and thought, "I'll just watch until Evan comes home from work."

New Schools

Today was new school day.

I dropped Brian of at the charter school for the arts. His schedule is:band, social science, English, art, math, science, band. Ah yes, he was a happy camper. He is coming home in a car pool (yippee) so I have a few minutes to write for all of you.

Evan and I got the last of his things and took them to his room. We do not move him in so much as drop off his stuff. The room is one of the smallest dorm rooms I have ever seen, but it is all his. The whole thing was a rather complicated procedure -- park in an over-crowded lot, walk to the dorm to check in, go back and get the van, drive to the dorm, drop of the stuff in front of the dorm, return the car, come back and move the stuff from the front of the dorm to the room itself. Sadly, I forgot my purse and Evan had to do all the driving. It was a trial, sitting there in front of the dorm, talking to the moms and new students while Evan drove the van across campus trying to find a place to park and then taking the shuttle back, but I managed.

He's excited. I'm glad he is only 30 miles away. He nervous of course, but he will do really well. I think he's going to like it there.

Although I kept thinking of things he didn't have. The bed is raised about four feet so he could put his dresser, fridge, and microwave under it. Of course he needs a cart or box or something to go under the microwave. He did not buy any detergent or cleaning supplies of any kind. He has a private room and shares a bathroom and common area (not kitchenette as I had imagined) with three other guys. Hopefully one of the other guys thought about toilet paper. If puts everything under his bed he will have room for a book case.

You know that crayon-urge I had last week? Well, I'm getting this potted plant thing going now. I'm not sure if he would remember to water a plant, or really appreciate the plant itself. Still, the room seemed to need something. Maybe just a huge poster of a cute boy in a speedo. Maybe that's what it needs.

Anyway, we got back at noon, Evan went to get his new glasses (he looks sharp), and I started in with the painting of Frankie's room. I've given the three walls that are to be cream (actually "cinnamon cake") one coat, but they will need another. The fourth wall will eventually be crimson, but I think we may leave it its current colonial blue for now.


Any minute now Andrew, Frankie, and Brian will be home.

Frankie's home. Gotta go.

Zero Hours of Quiet

So it is mid-day, but things did not work out as planned.

See... first Hubby called and asked me to bring him something he desperately needed.

Then the middle school called to tell me that Brian was no longer enrolled because the Charter School that he wants to attend requested his records. Brian is sitting in the office and I need to pick him up. "The Charter School never called you? That's strange."

Hubby calls to ask me if I can attend Frankie's IEP meeting tomorrow at 2:30. I burst into tears about how I haven't been able to get work done; he's been working all day and most of the evenings and I have been with the kids non-stop; about how long I had been looking forward to having this morning to myself, but don't because BRIAN ISN'T ENROLLED IN SCHOOL ANYMORE! Hubby attempts to be helpful, but I get off so that I can call the Charter School.

Charter School is surprised that the Middle School un-enrolled him as they only asked for grades and attendance record to consider him for admission. The nice woman expresses concern about Brian's past attendance. I tell her how much he wants to go. He does, by the way. He has been asking to go there since his anxiety issues got bad in the spring, and he went to see his friend in a school-related recital. She says he may enroll.

So I pick up Brian, drive him to the Next Town Over, wondering about car pools and how often I am going to have to make this 20 minute drive, and take him to the Charter School. We fill out paper work, buy uniforms (store for pants, in-home business for polo shirts embroidered with logo), get lunch, and get home at about the time when Brian would have come home if he had gone to school as planned.

The Charter school is a done deal and it is probably the very best thing for Brian. Okay, so it is not as diverse as his school. He's been going to schools that are 50% Hispanic for 8 years now. The Charter School is still a public school. It's not all white. And so what if it is 20 minutes away. We know at least one other family who attends and they are already in a car pool. Of course Hubby may not be able to drive very often, but I won't have to drive all the time either. And I bet they have never had to lock down because someone brought a gun to school.

And it is an arts school. Brian will have drama and music every day. Brian loves drama and band has always been one of his favorites. He is academically gifted, but soically awkward and he is convinced that he will "fit in" at the charter school for the arts. He already knows a couple of kids who go there. The child psyciatrist (whom Brian sees because ADD meds give him panic attacks and we ain't putting him on nothing else without a bono fide expert monitoring him) and the child counselor both have said that they have seen kids like Brian do much better at schools like these.

So we are going to give it a try. He has to go full days, and he can't leave in the middle of the day with mysterious anxiety-related symptoms. He just can't. Brian though is happy and excited. He doesn't even mind about the uniforms.

So I hope it works for him. The school has recently added high school, so he could continue to attend if it works out for him.

I'm trying to be excited for him. All I can think of at the moment though is my own time crunch.

Oh, and I just got an email reminding me that tomorrow night is PFLAG business meeting. That of course was when I was planning on painting Frankie's room so that he could move in on Saturday morning. Brian and Andrew are not complaining about sharing a room in front of Frankie, but I can see the stress building.

What the boys think

Not that any of you asked, of course.

Anyway, Hubby and I had to make an immediate decision about whether Frankie could come over on Sunday. We did not have time to discuss it with the various boys. Afterwards though I spoke with each of them. And I thought you might be interested in their response. Prior to these conversations all I told them was that we were told that there was a kid who they were considering for us but about whom I knew almost nothing.

Andrew:

I spoke to him first. Told him that I didn't think it was a good idea for Frankie to sleep in the basement area with him and Evan so Brian would be moving in with him (again) and Frankie would stay in Brian's room. Andrew rolled his eyes, sighed and said, "okay." I told him everything I was willing to tell him about Frankie, which was a lot. Then I said, "If this happens, and I think it will, it will be fast. I imagine everyone will want him to move in before school starts." Andrew said, "That's cool."


Brian:

I stopped Brian and told him that Frankie was coming over on Sunday to spend two days. He said "Cool." I told him that I knew that it had been hard on him to loose his room for three weeks when we did respite and I wanted him to tell me honestly how much time he felt he could give it over in the next three weeks. He looked seriously at the calendar and then said matter-of-factly, "I can share with Andrew as much as ze needs me to."


Evan:

I told him. He said, "How long have you known this?!" I told him that I had got the call while he was at work and this was the first chance I had to talk to him about it. He said, "Okay then. You know I'm really excited about going to college. It's like I'm so excited that nothing else seems important. Like there was this thing that happened at work...[story omitted] ... and I just didn't care. That's normal right?"

Me: "Yeah. It's normal. Does it have something to do with Frankie visiting?"

Evan: "No. I just wanted to tell you about it."

Me: "Okay. I needed to talk to you because if this happens they will probably want Frankie to move in before schools starts and you move into the dorms after that. This is your home; there's no question about that, but how do you feel about someone moving in while you are moving out?"

Evan: "If you want I could ask my mom if I could live with her for a while, although I don't know that that would work out."

Me: "No. I don't want you to do that. Frankie will probably stay in Brian's room and Brian will be in the basement with you and Andrew. How do you feel about that?"

Evan: "I'm just worried about you. Can you handle all that stress? I'll be moving out, and you said you would help but there will be a new kid in the house. You know how you get sometimes. Can you cope with it?"

Me: "I can handle it." [This part of the conversation went on for a while. Evan was very concerned about my ability to handle the stress of meeting everyone's needs. I eventually convinced him.]

Evan: "Can you still help me move?"

Me: "Sure. You will be moving in while the kids are in school."

Evan: "That's right. You said he is living in a group home now?"

Me: "Yeah. And he's anxious to get out. He was about to leave months ago but then didn't because they told him he was a good candidate for our program. So he has been waiting for that process. They thought about putting him into a different foster home and then move him again, but"

Evan, interrupting me: "No that would be dumb. You know I did that -- living in a group home waiting to get into the program and move in here. Group homes suck, you know that, don't you? I mean they really do."

Me: "I imagine they do. Of course living here will be strange and different for him too."

Evan: "Yeah. You do know you guys are really geeky, don't you? I mean, this is a very weird family."

Me: "I've been told. So you are okay with him moving in even if you haven't moved out yet? You won't feel like we have some sort of assembly line thing here happening? I mean this is exactly what you asked us not to do last fall."

Evan gives long speech about how much he has matured since then, all of which is true. He then tells me that he will be at work most of the time anyway, so it doesn't matter. If I want he will move in with Andrew so that Frankie can move into his room. Immediately he looks like he wishes he could take that back. I assure him that he can keep the room until he moves.


Me: "There is just one more thing. When Frankie visits I want zir to be able to see the bedroom. I want you to get it picked up enough so that ze can look at it."

Evan gives me the look that says this is going too far, don't I remember that he doesn't want ANYone to ever go into the room? I say, "I won't let zir look through your things, but ze needs to see it."

Evan, sighing heavily: "Okay, but you won't let zir in without me, right?"

Me: "No. I promise."

Evan: "Okay then."


I'm so proud of all of them. Evan legitimately had worries to work out, but every single one of them heard "kid in group home who needs us" and was willing to do do whatever he could to make things work.

Every one.

They are such wonderful human beings. You know, most of the time.

Next:
First Impressions

The Risks of Being a Fostering Child

So I left you off with my doing deep breathing exercises in front of an angry Brian.

I really was upset. I stayed calm, but I hardly behaved like the perfect mommy. I tried to get him to talk about how upset he was about the weekend, but he wanted to focus on how he had been trying to tell me and I hadn't listened. The conversation was civil, but not the comforting that he needed.

He brought it up again last night, brave soul that he is. We talked about it for a while and we did work things out. There were tears, hugs and reconciliation. His claim that he had been trying to tell me turns out not to be without justification. My inability to understand the significance behind the words he was using is completely understandable.

But that is not what I want to talk about. I want to talk why that weekend was so upsetting to him.

Brian was still seven when we left. I may have said he he was eight, but that was wrong. He was still seven.

When we started care we, like most foster parents, did not explain foster care to our kids. We gave them the information that we thought they needed and then they filled in the details. So what we told them went something like this, "Carl's mom died a couple of years ago and nobody knows where his dad is. So Carl is in a special program that finds families for him to live with. We could join that program and he could live with us."

The boys were excited. They slowly learned more about the reasons why kids were in care, but it wasn't because I was ever careful about giving them complete and accurate information. Brian in the beginning was only five and I did not want to tell him the truth. That was a mistake. I told him, "There are all sorts of reasons why sometimes parents can't take care of their kids." That was another mistake.

I did reassure him that he was ours forever and that he would never go to foster care, but I think that assurance did not fill up the space of his anxiety. It did not because I did not understand that he was really worried. He needed more assurance than I was giving him. And I had no idea how many stories the respite kids, and Carl to be fair, were telling him.

When we went on that trip, Brian was afraid we weren't going to come back. Of course we told him that we were, but he knew that sometimes parents didn't.

That's important. He was a fostering child. We had done respite care of multiple kids. He had been told stories about abandonment that I did not know he had been told. He knew for an actual fact that sometimes parents left their children. He had met and spoken to children who had been left, and some of those children enjoyed telling horror stories to frighten privileged little brats. I know from my research that most fostering children his age believe that kids are left in foster care because they were naughty.

So now it makes sense. I understand why our leaving him that weekend, with a woman he knew and trusted, but who had a boyfriend (now her husband) whom he did not know well, was frightening to him. Though we said we were coming back, he was not certain that was true. He was afraid that he was being abandoned like all the foster kids he knew had been abandoned.

So I wonder what I might have done differently had I understood. I cannot imagine not going on the trip. The agency was paying for everything. It was a foster parent conference, but it was in Las Vegas. We would spend the days in long, emotionally exhausting seminars, but we would have other times when we could eat out at adult restaurants and tour the sights. We needed that time. I always understood the trip to be partly a bribe to get us to continue to do care after Carl left. It worked.

I know I said all the right words to Brian before we left, but I don't know that I said them carefully enough. I did not occur to me that he might not believe me when I said we would be back in four days.

No matter what, I cannot imagine a past in which we did not take Carl. I cannot imagine him not being part of our lives, part of Brian's life. Brian adores Carl. I might not have done any respite care though. I might have protected Brian from all the stories he heard. I might have waited until he was old enough that I was willing to tell him the truth about why these kids were in care.

At whatever age we started doing respite care, I would have spoke more carefully about the reasons kids go into care. The same of course would have applied to taking David. David was an abandoned child (whom we did not meet until more than a year after we went on that trip). I should have had conversations with Brian and Andrew about abandonment, about why it happens and why it wasn't going to happen to them.

But it could be that nothing would have worked. It might have been that Brian was just at a stage where he was afraid of monsters under his bed and parents abandoning him. It might be that there was nothing that I could have done except not go on the trip, and I know that even if I should not have gone on that trip, I would have. I can't imagine anything anyone might have said that would convince me that Brian would carry around pain from it for fiive years. I would have gone.

Last summer I helped do a training on children who foster. The lesson we tried to communicate then is certainly something I wish someone had told me:

Explain everything to your kids; even the ugly parts. If you don't want them to know those things, don't do care. If you don't tell them the foster kids will, or their imaginations will create something far worse.

Computers, and those who serve them

We all have Verizon cell phones. Brian however has been getting calls with a pre-recorded messages twice a week, "This is Cingular, now AT&T. There is a problem with your wireless account. Please call us back at this 800 number so that we can resolve it."

I called back the number and asked why AT&T was calling my 13-year-old who had a Verizon phone. It took a while to convince her that I wasn't kidding.

"Can you give me your son's phone number?"
I did so.
"That number is not ours."
"That's sort of the point."
"Pardon?"
"Your company is calling him every few days and it is not your phone."
"Well...they must be calling the wrong number."
"Uh huh." (She's catching on!)
Silence.
Me again, "How do we get your computer to stop calling his number?"
"I don't know. I mean, it's just calling a wrong number."
"Yes, but who can tell the computer who makes the calls to stop calling this number?"
She puts me on hold and finally comes back, "Can I have your social security number?"
"Um...no."
"Well, it's the only way I can look up your account."
"None of us have an account with you. If I don't have an account with you, you won't have my social security number in your files, right?"
"Right."
"So giving you my social security number won't allow you to look me up."
"If you don't want to give it to me, you don't have to, but without it I can't look up the account."
"Never mind, I will ask Verizon to change his number so that none of us will ever have to talk to anyone at AT&T again."
"Okay."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye and thank you for using AT&T. "

Conversation with Brian and Possibilities

Me: "So Brian. You know the licensing working talked the other day about there being a lot of new kids coming in this summer. We might finally get one."

Brian: "Okay."

Me: "I want to talk to you again about the age. The agency doesn't usually get any kids in younger than you. So the kid will almost certainly be older. It is possible though that the next one will be younger than you. When you are sixteen or seventeen we might be able to get a kid who is fourteen or fifteen."

Brian: "But I wanted a younger brother who was a lot younger than me, a baby or a little kid."

Me: "That just isn't going to happen."

Brian: "Why can't we get a little kid?"

Me: "Brian, I know that I kept saying no to a puppy and you kept asking and finally I gave in, but this is not the same. I am not getting you a six-year-old."

Brian pouts. "I just really want to be a big brother."

Me: "There are other ways to spend time with little kids...I know, I know, it isn't the same and you would be a great big brother. I am just not going to do it."

Brian: "I really want to be a big brother."

Hubby: "You have a puppy. That's it."

I know it must seem confusing to him. Why is it that we would be willing to keep "getting" teenagers but not be willing to get a little kid? Just one?

Because I am not going back. Ever.

Brian has always been my youngest and has always been the youngest child I want in the house. I wonder if I will want to stop doing care once he has moved out. Every time he has moved out of a stage of development I feel so finished with that age. Been there, done that.

On the other hand I have a great attachment to kids on the cusp of adulthood. I like them, so maybe I will keep taking them.

Although if the excitement in Faye's life doesn't calm down I'm not certain about even that.

Well, I wanted it to work, didn't I?

Brian has, for years, been able to cry about the fact that his brother Andrew would someday move away. The first time I remember it clearly was about five years ago when Brian was complaining that he wanted Andrew's bedroom. We gave him various reasons why he should prefer his and then told him that he could have Andrew's when Andrew moved out. This took Brian from pouting to weeping. He tried to climb into his brother's lap and sobbed that he didn't want Andrew to go away, ever. The boys would have been about 8 and 13 then.

He has cried over this more than once. I have held him, comforted him, assured him that he would still be able to talk to his brother. We talked about cell phones and even said we would buy web cams. Hubby and I have noticed that he was more likely to break into these sobs if he was tired or otherwise stressed, though of course that does not mean that he wasn't really bothered by it.

We were often uncertain about whether comforting him was helpful or simply feeding the drama. I struggled for a matter-of-fact attitude. "I can see how badly you feel. If you want to cuddle quietly you can sit with me. If you need to cry loudly you should go to your room." I tried to acknowledge that his feelings were real and legitimate and yet not reward the dramatic behavior.

I still can't think of any better way I might have handled it.

At Brian's counseling appointment a week and a half ago he reported that he was feeling pretty good. School was almost over and so he wasn't feeling very stressed. She (the counselor) asked me if there was anything I thought they should talk about. I suggested that they talk about Brian's feelings about his brother leaving in a year.

I went out to the waiting room and within ten minutes the wailing and sobbing started. Five minutes later she came out to get me. I sat with him and he crawled under my arm and calmed down a little. She looked a bit overwhelmed, said that she hadn't realized just how deeply Brian felt about this and that they would have to approach it differently next time. What she asked him to do this time was apparently not what he was ready for. (I imagined her asking him to draw a picture of how he felt and him refusing and falling into sobs instead). She asked Brian if he felt a little better having "gotten it out" and he shrugged and nodded at the same time. She let us go early, telling me a couple of times that Brian might feel better now that he had "finally got it out." She said something about how she thinks he tends to bottle up his feelings and it was really good that he could finally express this. "Do you think you tend to bottle things up?" He nodded.

I concentrated really hard, thinking, "Don't roll your eyes. You will look like a very bad mom if you roll your eyes. 'Bottle things up' my ass." Out loud I said tentatively, "He has discussed this with us. He has cried like this about his brother more than once."

She nodded sympathetically at me and said, "Yes, of course, but now that he has really expressed himself he might feel a little better."

I left thinking bad things about her. If it was all bottled up, how did I know about it, huh? Didn't I tell her that he cried about this very thing just like he did in her office? Did she not hear me when I said that he had cried and sobbed about it many times? Was she taking credit for some major breakthrough? She got to his pain? Heck, I told her about this pain. She admitted that her methods were a bust (this time). She asked him about it, after I told her it was an issue, and he sobbed. Big deal.

And then we talked on the phone when I was unable to make the last appointment. She wanted to know how he was doing and I told her that he was doing very well, and that we had talked about his brother going away and he had been calm. And she said it again, "Well, now that he has been able to express it, he may be finally feeling better." She had a very self-satisfied tone in her voice, or at least it seemed so to me.

I once again thought bad things about her. I believe a naughty word popped up in my mind. She hadn't done a damn thing. He hadn't expressed anything that he had not already expressed. He did not even express it in a new way. I told her about something and she witnessed it. Period.

But it turns out that that might be a bigger deal than I thought it was, because he really does seem better. I mean he really does. As he is thirteen he was finally allowed to sign up for an on-line game. He played with his brother on different computers in different parts of the house. "Mom, do you want me to instant message anything to Andrew? I'm talking to him on the computer!" Later he says cheerfully, "Andrew says we can set up times to play together when he is in college too!" It is the first time ever I have seen him talk cheerfully about his brother being away at college.

She witnessed his pain. He sobbed and wailed about his brother leaving and someone who wasn't his mother with conflicted feelings about his feelings (sympathy, guilt, frustration), told him that how he felt was understandable. It was normal. It was okay.

And now he feels better.

And I am torn, because I took him to counseling because I wanted him to feel better. I knew he needed something I could not give him. I had high hopes that he would be able to relate to this counselor and that he would share with her when he had not with the others.

And everything I hoped for seems to be happening.

So you would think I would be happy, right? And I am happy, just a teensy bit conflicted. This woman is helping my son, apparently without effort, without doing anything I have not tried really, really hard to do.

Except that when she does it, it works. When she witnesses his pain, it matters. It is exactly what I wanted and I am grateful we have found her.

But in the back of my mind a voice says, "bitch."

And I am not certain if the voice is referring to her or to me.

So far so good

Brian's new counselor seems to be working out pretty well.

I don't know if I ever told you, but he was working before with a highly recommended cognitive therapist who worked in the classy end of The City. Brian was resistent, thought that the questions the counselor asked were "none of his business" and refused to answer. These were questions like, "Tell me about a situation that makes you feel anxious." When he started making stuff up the counselor and I both agreed it wasn't working.

The new counselor is a local woman who works half a mile from our house. She gave Brian a piece of paper and drawing implements and asked him to draw what his anxiety felt like. They then talked about the different things in the drawing.

I wasn't there. She brought me in at the end to show me the drawings (with his permission) and told me a little of what they talked about. It sounds like he was able to actually tell her about what makes him anxious and what that anxiety feels like.

I am hopeful.