I read a very disturbing article online the other day. Quite frankly, I'm not completely sure if it's a genuine article or if it's a fake, but the sheer terror that the article engendered in me has been plaguing me since that time. So, the only rational way for me to deal with it is, or course, to share my thoughts with you. The article (and I still get goosebumps talking about it as it is potentially more terrifying than Stephen King's The Shining or that really disturbing movie The Ring. And, in all fairness to all other horror movie producers or screen writers, I don't watch scary movies because, well, they scare me and I am a royal wuss, so there might be scarier things out there, but those two films mark the complete repertoire of my horror film watching. I hear you judging me right now and I don't care. So there.) Ok, where was I? Right, the article. The truly horrifying article that I read that has plagued my nightmares since it passed my retinas claims that the world will run out of chocolate in 2020. Please. Let me say that again so that everyone knows they did not just have a momentary bout of psychosis and read something that wasn't there. The world will run out of chocolate in 2020. I'll give you a minute to have your freak out, but please return when you're done because I'm not done talking about this yet.
Ok. Feel better? Well, you shouldn't! Didn't you pay attention to what I just told you?!?!? THE WORLD IS GOING TO RUN OUT OF CHOCOLATE!!! The article, and again I'm hoping it's a fake, claims that the lands that used to be used for cocoa production are quickly vanishing due to development, so there are fewer cocoa farms then there used to be. Also, the global demand for chocolate is at an all time high and is on the increase, largely due to a rising demand in Asia. The article states cocoa plants take 4 years to produce a crop, so new farmers have a difficult time getting into the industry because it takes too long to yield a crop that will bring in cash. Hold on...
I had to take a break, because I found myself freaking out and holding on to my M&Ms too tightly. For the record, they will melt in your hand if you squeeze them too much. That's also true for peanut butter cups, Twix bars, and Dove squares....mmmmmmmmm....Dove squares. But, imagine a world with none of those things. No chocolate milk or hot cocoa. No fudge during the holidays (what will people do for holiday gifts?). No chocolate chip pancakes. No brownies or chocolate cake. NO HOT FUDGE SUNDAES!! Is the enormity of the situation finally sinking in for you?!?!?
Ok, so once I got past the initial shock (and, as you can see, I'm still experiencing painful aftershocks), I got to thinking about the side effects of this situation. First of all, there is a HUGE opportunity here to make some cash. Granted, I don't have the funds to front a big cocoa farm, but if any one does, I will work for chocolate. I think if you were able to get some land in the right climate, you would eventually be richer than the wealthiest oil producing countries in the world. I mean, let's think about this for a moment. When you're having a bad day, do you say to yourself, "Man, I could really go for an oil change" or do you reach for a candy bar? Do you say, "To make myself feel better, I think I'll go fill my car up with premium" or do you bake brownies that you then cover in chocolate ice cream (or vanilla, if you go for that sort of thing)? Look, part of the problem is that most of the countries in the world are being run by men who think that the one with the biggest oil field wins. Countries waging wars because they think oil is what brings power and wealth. To them I say, tell your wives that when Aunt Flo comes to town, they're going to have to settle for broccoli because there's no candy. For those not in the know, I'm talking about the time in the red tent, riding the cotton pony, or that time of the month when every man dreads hearing the words, "Honey, can you pick me up some tampons when you go to the store? Oh, and get some chips, too. Oh, and don't forget the chocolate". Yeah. The chocolate. Now imagine what would happen if that person came home to someone who is on the rag, surfing the crimson wave, full on into shark week, only to have to say, "Here are your lady things, but they were out of chocolate". I know that all of the men (or women) who have had to come home to an emotional and slightly irrational beast who, at other times, doubles for the love of your life, will certainly dread the day that happens because you know that when you say those words, you are putting your life in extreme danger. In fact, I would venture a guess that many marriages will end the day the chocolate dies.
In fact, I'm going to go one step further and make a prediction: When chocolate makes its grand exit (which I think is what the Mayans were referring to as the end of days), I believe women will rise up and say, "Ok, boys. You've had your fun and really screwed things up. It's time to step aside and let us run things for a while...idiots." (And for the guys who are reading this, don't get your panties in a wad just because I called you an idiot. There are FAR worse things I could have called you, so get over it). When that day comes, the world will really see what is meant by the phrase, "hell hath no fury like a women's wrath" because us PMSing bitches are going to tear some shit up looking for one last hug and kiss of the chocolate persuasion.
Plus, and this is the closest I will come to a political rant ever on this blog, if any American can corner the market on chocolate, then maybe we can sell that chocolate to the billion women in Asia who are PMSing and finally buy back Manhattan.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
The South's rebuttal
In response to my last post (Look, Ma! No hands!), I received some feedback that maybe I was overlooking some of the dysfunction that exists in the Northeastern section of the country. While I was perhaps a little harsh in my previous entry, please don't think this means that there isn't a fair amount of crazy out this way as well. We can refer back to my place of employment (You can't make this stuff up) to realize that crazy is alive and well.
* Man breaks into Subway shop and grabs a bag of chips. Police found him standing amid the broken glass eating a bag of Sun Chips. Shockingly, there was pot in his pocket. Personally, I loved the mug shot that went with the story. He looked very content.
* Man buys a danish in a pastry shop and calls police because there are rat droppings on it. Turns out they were just chocolate sprinkles. I wonder what dog poop is like in his world.
* Man crashes car while drinking. Goes to nearby home, crawls in through open bedroom window, and falls asleep. I wonder if that bed was just right.
* Man steals car of Chinese food deliveryman. He continues delivering the food to collect more money and gets caught at one of his last stops. While he may not have been very bright, he did demonstrate what being an entrepreneur is all about.
* Man steals car after attacking his victim with...a pillow. What kind of pillow fights did this guy get into as a kid that he can stun an adult male with a pillow long enough to take the guys keys from his pocket and steal the car? Glad I never went to any slumber parties with this dude. His cell mate should sleep with one eye open.
* Hard of hearing man arrested after soliciting prostitute...while inside a Friendly's restaurant. How long do you think it took other patrons to realize the couple at table 3 were not shouting about what toppings they wanted on their sundaes?
And, my personal favorite:
* Woman crashes car into her own house after becoming distracted by a bee in her vehicle. I really, really wish I could have been there for that one. The images that get conjured in my head are simply spectacular!
Ok, so what do all of these stories tell you? They tell you crazy lives everywhere...or perhaps it's that stupid lives everywhere. Whatever. In any case, CT does have it's share of interesting events, and while it may be cold enough to freeze the balls off a pool table up this way, I'd still rather live with the devil I know than the devil I don't. Especially if he's delivering Chinese food.
* Man breaks into Subway shop and grabs a bag of chips. Police found him standing amid the broken glass eating a bag of Sun Chips. Shockingly, there was pot in his pocket. Personally, I loved the mug shot that went with the story. He looked very content.
* Man buys a danish in a pastry shop and calls police because there are rat droppings on it. Turns out they were just chocolate sprinkles. I wonder what dog poop is like in his world.
* Man crashes car while drinking. Goes to nearby home, crawls in through open bedroom window, and falls asleep. I wonder if that bed was just right.
* Man steals car of Chinese food deliveryman. He continues delivering the food to collect more money and gets caught at one of his last stops. While he may not have been very bright, he did demonstrate what being an entrepreneur is all about.
* Man steals car after attacking his victim with...a pillow. What kind of pillow fights did this guy get into as a kid that he can stun an adult male with a pillow long enough to take the guys keys from his pocket and steal the car? Glad I never went to any slumber parties with this dude. His cell mate should sleep with one eye open.
* Hard of hearing man arrested after soliciting prostitute...while inside a Friendly's restaurant. How long do you think it took other patrons to realize the couple at table 3 were not shouting about what toppings they wanted on their sundaes?
And, my personal favorite:
* Woman crashes car into her own house after becoming distracted by a bee in her vehicle. I really, really wish I could have been there for that one. The images that get conjured in my head are simply spectacular!
Ok, so what do all of these stories tell you? They tell you crazy lives everywhere...or perhaps it's that stupid lives everywhere. Whatever. In any case, CT does have it's share of interesting events, and while it may be cold enough to freeze the balls off a pool table up this way, I'd still rather live with the devil I know than the devil I don't. Especially if he's delivering Chinese food.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Look, Ma! No hands!
It's cold. Very cold. It's the kind of cold where as soon as you walk outside, your nostrils freeze shut and, if you did have a runny nose, your snot is now etched into your skin. It's the kind of cold outside where if you were to fart, I'm pretty sure a little puff of steam would come out of your ass and waft through your clothes, thereby making the whole "silent but deadly thing" a little more ridiculous because everyone would know it was you as you walked away with little steam clouds emanating from your backside. It's the kind of cold where if you were forced to use an outhouse, I'm pretty sure parts of your body (and none of the parts you would want) would stick to the "seat" leaving you in a very precarious (and painful) position. I realize I said "none of the parts you would want" as if there are any body parts that anyone would want to get stuck in any part of an outhouse at any point in time. In looking back at that statement it is possible I may have misspoken there. Sorry. It's the kind of cold that makes me go, "What the hell am I doing in New England?!?!?!"
I have always believed that, if circumstances put me in such a position where I could no longer afford a roof over my head, I would immediately start walking south and would not stop until I hit Key West. Sandy beaches, bars, beautiful water, bars, warm air, and bars; what more could a girl ask for if she couldn't have a place to live? The problem with that plan, aside from the fact that I am far too lazy and out of shape to even consider walking to the corner market, never mind walking down the entirety of the East Coast (should that be capitalized? I don't know), is that I don't think I could live any farther south than, say, Washington D.C. The reason I say that is because, while the cost of living is a bit better and people are frighteningly friendly, I can't understand a stinking word that comes out of their mouths. I'm comforted in knowing that it's not just me that has a hard time with that either, but that it's a common problem. I know it's a common problem because when I watch shows like, "Moonshiners" or "Swamp People", they have to put subtitles up for the characters even thought they are reportedly speaking English. Even with the subtitles, I'm still at a loss sometimes to figure out what the hell is being talked about as I not only don't understand the words being said, but also can't understand what they're talking about. This latter issue of mine has to do with the cultural divide that exists in our country. Now, I'm not talking about spiritual or political differences as everyone recognizes those and is fully aware of what I'm talking about (of course, those difference also scare the crap out of me and is another reason I'd rather freeze my ass off up here than make the trek south). No, I'm talking more about the crazy stuff that happens down south and, in particular, in a Sunshine state which will not be named here. I know the comedian, Chelsea Handler, has often poked fun of this state on her show as she has highlighted some of the absolutely insane things that happen there, but for those of you who haven't seen her show, here are some of the bat shit crazy (yes, that's the official diagnostic terminology) things that happen there (these are actual news stories courtesy of the Sun Sentinel):
* A woman allegedly drank a few drinks at a bar, then entered the mens' room before deciding to come out of her shell by shedding her clothes and returned to the bar stark naked. She apparently misunderstood what "1/2 off" meant on the happy hour banner.
* Man tried to force fiancee to swallow engagement ring. I wonder if she said yes....hmm.
* Man called 911 ten times asking for a ride to Mexico stating it was only 500 miles away. He ended up getting a ride alright, but it wasn't to Mexico.
* Man arrested for having sex with donkey. Later, that same man was arrested for stealing over $10,000 worth of batteries. I wonder what he needed with all of those batteries for?
* A man, wearing an ankle monitor, gets arrested after burglarizing a home. What tipped police off was not just the ankle monitor, but the fact that he left his wallet at the scene of the crime.
* Man steals flat screen t.v. from Walmart and asks store personnel to help him load it in his car. Too bad he couldn't keep the t.v. He would have gotten to see himself on the next episode of Cops.
* Man robs convenience store while wearing glove to prevent leaving fingerprints. Yes. You read that right, "glove". He only wore a glove on his left hand, but touched everything else with his right.
* Woman steals police car and goes to McDonalds. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that maybe she was under the influence?
* A woman is arrested and gives police a fake name and date of birth. Only problem is she has that information tattooed on her body. I have nothing to say about this one other than that's not bat shit crazy, but bat shit stupid.
* A man walks into a convenience store to rob it. When the clerk shows him the register is empty, the man walks out of the store and calls his mom to come pick him up. He got picked up, but not by his mother.
And perhaps my favorite story:
* A man walks into a bank wearing a t-shirt and headphones, marches into the manager's office and says, "I'm boss of the bank. Give me some stacks". I'm not sure what tipped off the manager to realize this was not the bank's president, but that clever manager did not give him any "stacks".
So, those are just some of the things that people do down there. While I'm sure there are some idiot criminals in my home state as well, I feel like there are many more stories that originate south of the Mason Dixon. And, yes, I know I always tell people to stop judging me and that's exactly what I'm doing in this post, but I feel confident you'll get over it. And if you don't, it's likely I won't find out about it anyway because I'm so freaking cold I'm going to have to burn my computer to keep warm.
And, if you're wondering what the title is all about, I'm typing this without using my hands. That's how cold it is........................... Sorry, I had a little shiver there.
I have always believed that, if circumstances put me in such a position where I could no longer afford a roof over my head, I would immediately start walking south and would not stop until I hit Key West. Sandy beaches, bars, beautiful water, bars, warm air, and bars; what more could a girl ask for if she couldn't have a place to live? The problem with that plan, aside from the fact that I am far too lazy and out of shape to even consider walking to the corner market, never mind walking down the entirety of the East Coast (should that be capitalized? I don't know), is that I don't think I could live any farther south than, say, Washington D.C. The reason I say that is because, while the cost of living is a bit better and people are frighteningly friendly, I can't understand a stinking word that comes out of their mouths. I'm comforted in knowing that it's not just me that has a hard time with that either, but that it's a common problem. I know it's a common problem because when I watch shows like, "Moonshiners" or "Swamp People", they have to put subtitles up for the characters even thought they are reportedly speaking English. Even with the subtitles, I'm still at a loss sometimes to figure out what the hell is being talked about as I not only don't understand the words being said, but also can't understand what they're talking about. This latter issue of mine has to do with the cultural divide that exists in our country. Now, I'm not talking about spiritual or political differences as everyone recognizes those and is fully aware of what I'm talking about (of course, those difference also scare the crap out of me and is another reason I'd rather freeze my ass off up here than make the trek south). No, I'm talking more about the crazy stuff that happens down south and, in particular, in a Sunshine state which will not be named here. I know the comedian, Chelsea Handler, has often poked fun of this state on her show as she has highlighted some of the absolutely insane things that happen there, but for those of you who haven't seen her show, here are some of the bat shit crazy (yes, that's the official diagnostic terminology) things that happen there (these are actual news stories courtesy of the Sun Sentinel):
* A woman allegedly drank a few drinks at a bar, then entered the mens' room before deciding to come out of her shell by shedding her clothes and returned to the bar stark naked. She apparently misunderstood what "1/2 off" meant on the happy hour banner.
* Man tried to force fiancee to swallow engagement ring. I wonder if she said yes....hmm.
* Man called 911 ten times asking for a ride to Mexico stating it was only 500 miles away. He ended up getting a ride alright, but it wasn't to Mexico.
* Man arrested for having sex with donkey. Later, that same man was arrested for stealing over $10,000 worth of batteries. I wonder what he needed with all of those batteries for?
* A man, wearing an ankle monitor, gets arrested after burglarizing a home. What tipped police off was not just the ankle monitor, but the fact that he left his wallet at the scene of the crime.
* Man steals flat screen t.v. from Walmart and asks store personnel to help him load it in his car. Too bad he couldn't keep the t.v. He would have gotten to see himself on the next episode of Cops.
* Man robs convenience store while wearing glove to prevent leaving fingerprints. Yes. You read that right, "glove". He only wore a glove on his left hand, but touched everything else with his right.
* Woman steals police car and goes to McDonalds. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that maybe she was under the influence?
* A woman is arrested and gives police a fake name and date of birth. Only problem is she has that information tattooed on her body. I have nothing to say about this one other than that's not bat shit crazy, but bat shit stupid.
* A man walks into a convenience store to rob it. When the clerk shows him the register is empty, the man walks out of the store and calls his mom to come pick him up. He got picked up, but not by his mother.
And perhaps my favorite story:
* A man walks into a bank wearing a t-shirt and headphones, marches into the manager's office and says, "I'm boss of the bank. Give me some stacks". I'm not sure what tipped off the manager to realize this was not the bank's president, but that clever manager did not give him any "stacks".
So, those are just some of the things that people do down there. While I'm sure there are some idiot criminals in my home state as well, I feel like there are many more stories that originate south of the Mason Dixon. And, yes, I know I always tell people to stop judging me and that's exactly what I'm doing in this post, but I feel confident you'll get over it. And if you don't, it's likely I won't find out about it anyway because I'm so freaking cold I'm going to have to burn my computer to keep warm.
And, if you're wondering what the title is all about, I'm typing this without using my hands. That's how cold it is........................... Sorry, I had a little shiver there.
Friday, January 4, 2013
You can't make this stuff up
As many of you may or may not know, I work in a private, special education facility for children with emotional and behavioral health issues. On most days, it is an extremely emotionally and physically draining place to work. It's the only place I know, other than the prison system, where you can go to work on any given day and expect to hear someone, who barely comes up to your waist, weave a tapestry of profanity so elaborate that you would think they were Tony Soprano reincarnate (He did die in that last episode, right? If not, just add the name of some other smart ass with a mouth like a truck driving sailor with syphilis in this spot and you'll get what I'm talking about). I have worked at this school for the past 10 years and have worked at other schools like it since...well, since a long time ago. What never ceases to amaze me is the amount of creativity and dysfunctional intelligence that most of these children possess. For example, while working in a similar program in Philadelphia a long time ago, I was in the process of holding a child who had just attempted to stab another kid with scissors (and yes, I mean physically restraining him). He was a wiry little guy and was only 7 at the time. His mother was an old school woman and would become IRATE when her son acted out or used any profanity. Now, this kid was smart enough to know that he was already going to be in a heap of trouble when he got home and he didn't want to add to it, but he wanted to make sure I knew how unhappy he was with his current situation. Therefore, he decided to start showing me his spelling skills by yelling, "You B-i-c-h! You B-i-c-h!" over and over again. I didn't really think it was the right time to tell him he wasn't spelling it right, so I just let it go. However, one of his classmates caught the error and wanted to help him out. (Before I go any further with this story, let me put this into perspective for you. The helper classmate had a name that was only four letters long and, despite his being in 3rd grade, still could not spell his name.) My friend's classmate, on his way to his bus, decided to come over to where we were and say, "That's not how you spell it. It's spelled, b-i-T-c-h". I swear to you that, in that moment, I wasn't sure if I should jump up and hug the kid for being able to spell something that long or kick him square in the ass for that being the word he focused his brain power on. Anyway, that's the type of kid I have surrounded myself with for a long time now. And that's the type of story that has helped me keep my sanity.
For a few years now, I have had the idea of turning my job into a mockumentary type show like The Office or Parks and Recreation, but I have been plagued with the idea that people would not find the show funny; that people would instead find it cruel that I share these stories for the purpose of entertainment. Now, I have had some ideas to remedy that situation, but I still come back to the idea that the kids still have the best lines. Let's take, for example, another student story. This one, again, took place during a hold following an equally dangerous situation and there were a few of us trying to contain the boy. He's yelling and cursing at us and then busts out with this gem, "A-B-C-D-E-F-G! Get your fat ass off of me!" Now, I ask you, how are you supposed to continue to focus on safety when you're attention has shifted to not pissing yourself from laughter?
Now, I don't want to make it seem like every story I have involves a restraint, because they don't. I think some of those are funny because the situation is so dire that almost anything else would be entertaining in that moment. The kids do come up with some great things at other times. Let's take, for example, the 13 year old girl who came to school seemingly distraught. When asked what was the matter, she said she was worried she was pregnant. Now, we knew this girl was dating a kid in the school who didn't live anywhere near her and who she could not possibly get access to during the day, so we were a bit confused when she mentioned this concern. So, her teacher asked her if she had sex recently and her reply was, "No". Being the educator that her teacher was, she proceeded to explain to the student that she needed to have intercourse in order to get pregnant and, without that event, it was pretty safe to say that she was not with child. This student, not looking particularly relieved at this bit of information, then looked back at her teacher and asked, "Well, I've had phone sex. Does that count?" Um. Hm. Yeah, no. That does not count. And, please remember to clean the phone when you're done.
Then, there's the story of one of Nicole's students who is supposed to be silently reading a book, but, while his finger is diligently scanning the pages of the story, his eyes are roaming everywhere but down at the actual words. Nicole walked up to him and said, "Hey. How's that story?"
"Oh, it's pretty good."
"Oh yeah. What's it about?" Nicole asks. The kid flips to the cover of the book, reads the title (which was I got a D in Salami) and replies, "It's about a kid and salami".
"Really? Tell me about the paragraph you just read".
"I don't know what I just read" he honestly retorts.
"But, I thought you said you were reading?"
His honest to goodness reply was, "I wasn't reading it, Miss. My finger was" and then he looks off to the side, where no one is sitting mind you, and says, "Can you believe this woman?"
Then there was the conversation I overheard between one of my students and one of her classmates. Mind you, I have no idea how they came to this topic, but this is what was said:
Student 1: "I have ADHD".
Student 2: "Oh, we just have cable in our house".
One of my favorite stories, however, was about one of my kids who was about 12 at the time, but probably a good 6" taller than I was. He was definitely a handful to manage and, even though his IQ scores were very low, he was always managing to put together some kind of plot to help him get what he wanted. One day, he ran away from the staff person who was specifically assigned to him and barracaded himself in our physical therapy room. While the room had windows, the only real way to get in was through the door and he moved some very expensive therapy equipment in front of it which we didn't want to damage by pushing through. As his therapist, I was called to deal with the crisis, so I began trying to talk with him through the door and his response still makes me chuckle to this day. As I was talking to him through the door with his staff person, my supervisor, the clinical director, and the principal all standing next to me, the boy actually called out, "I'll come out if you give me a Sony Play Station and $300". Yes, he was holding himself ransom. Being the smart ass that I am (still better than being a dumb one), I quickly turned to my supervisor and asked, "Can we get him those things if he promises to stay IN the room?" As we tried to figure out how to get this kid out of the room, someone came up with the idea of running a fire drill to see if that would work. So, the principal arranged for the drill, the alarm went off and, from behind the door, we hear laughing with this child's response of, "Ha ha! I'm still not coming out" I won't bore you with the rest of the details of the story, but his father was called to help us. When he arrived, his father, very calmly, walked over, knocked on the door, and said, "Come out here right now". Suddenly, the laughter stops, the door slowly opened, and the boy says, "Oh. Hi, daddy" with no exchanges of Play Station or cash. To this day, I loved the idea that the kid wanted to hold himself for ransom and I would have loved to have seen how he would have managed the exchange. Hm...I guess I'll never know.
Perhaps, however, the thing that is most entertaining about my place of employment is not just the level of dysfunction in the children, but also the sheer amount of crazy that lives in the staff. For example, our program has a child psychiatrist on staff to provide a complete array of mental health services to the family in one program. Several years back, we had a psychiatrist who was probably about 5'5", 120 lbs soaking wet, and who wore glasses. The man was perhaps one of the frailest people I have ever come in contact with and, yet, he was the one holding the prescription pad. What made that last statement even more ridiculous, however, was the fact that the man used to move about the building with a blazer draped over his shoulders as if he was walking the promenade in Rome for an evening coffee while pushing a...wait for it...wait for it...while pushing a wheelie chair. You know. An office chair with wheels. This little man would walk around with a wheelie chair in front of him as if it was a walker. If you're having trouble forming this image in your head, I encourage you to act it out now. Throw a sweater over your shoulders, grab your office chair, stand behind it and hold on so tightly that if you let go, you will surely crumble into a heap of helpless man flesh on the floor. Now, walk around and try to grab a glimpse of yourself in the mirror or, better yet, have someone snap a picture of it and put it on your favorite social media source. That was our psychiatrist. I don't know for sure, but I'm fairly certain he ended up on an inpatient psych ward shortly after he left us.
Now, many of you may not find any of these stories funny and, for every funny story there is, there are at least 5 other ones that will make you ache with sadness, frustration, and rage at the horrible existence some of our children must endure and how miserably the system has failed them and the people trying to help them. As I mentioned before, I have been working in the mental health system for many years, with this population specifically for 15 of those years, and while others may not find these stories entertaining, I have to find the humor. Doing so not only allows me to keep my sanity and not crumble into a sobbing mess, but it also allows me to see the resiliency that lives in these kids. And if you still have a problem with these stories, then you can "A-B-C-D-E-F-G. Get your judging ass away from me."
For a few years now, I have had the idea of turning my job into a mockumentary type show like The Office or Parks and Recreation, but I have been plagued with the idea that people would not find the show funny; that people would instead find it cruel that I share these stories for the purpose of entertainment. Now, I have had some ideas to remedy that situation, but I still come back to the idea that the kids still have the best lines. Let's take, for example, another student story. This one, again, took place during a hold following an equally dangerous situation and there were a few of us trying to contain the boy. He's yelling and cursing at us and then busts out with this gem, "A-B-C-D-E-F-G! Get your fat ass off of me!" Now, I ask you, how are you supposed to continue to focus on safety when you're attention has shifted to not pissing yourself from laughter?
Now, I don't want to make it seem like every story I have involves a restraint, because they don't. I think some of those are funny because the situation is so dire that almost anything else would be entertaining in that moment. The kids do come up with some great things at other times. Let's take, for example, the 13 year old girl who came to school seemingly distraught. When asked what was the matter, she said she was worried she was pregnant. Now, we knew this girl was dating a kid in the school who didn't live anywhere near her and who she could not possibly get access to during the day, so we were a bit confused when she mentioned this concern. So, her teacher asked her if she had sex recently and her reply was, "No". Being the educator that her teacher was, she proceeded to explain to the student that she needed to have intercourse in order to get pregnant and, without that event, it was pretty safe to say that she was not with child. This student, not looking particularly relieved at this bit of information, then looked back at her teacher and asked, "Well, I've had phone sex. Does that count?" Um. Hm. Yeah, no. That does not count. And, please remember to clean the phone when you're done.
Then, there's the story of one of Nicole's students who is supposed to be silently reading a book, but, while his finger is diligently scanning the pages of the story, his eyes are roaming everywhere but down at the actual words. Nicole walked up to him and said, "Hey. How's that story?"
"Oh, it's pretty good."
"Oh yeah. What's it about?" Nicole asks. The kid flips to the cover of the book, reads the title (which was I got a D in Salami) and replies, "It's about a kid and salami".
"Really? Tell me about the paragraph you just read".
"I don't know what I just read" he honestly retorts.
"But, I thought you said you were reading?"
His honest to goodness reply was, "I wasn't reading it, Miss. My finger was" and then he looks off to the side, where no one is sitting mind you, and says, "Can you believe this woman?"
Then there was the conversation I overheard between one of my students and one of her classmates. Mind you, I have no idea how they came to this topic, but this is what was said:
Student 1: "I have ADHD".
Student 2: "Oh, we just have cable in our house".
One of my favorite stories, however, was about one of my kids who was about 12 at the time, but probably a good 6" taller than I was. He was definitely a handful to manage and, even though his IQ scores were very low, he was always managing to put together some kind of plot to help him get what he wanted. One day, he ran away from the staff person who was specifically assigned to him and barracaded himself in our physical therapy room. While the room had windows, the only real way to get in was through the door and he moved some very expensive therapy equipment in front of it which we didn't want to damage by pushing through. As his therapist, I was called to deal with the crisis, so I began trying to talk with him through the door and his response still makes me chuckle to this day. As I was talking to him through the door with his staff person, my supervisor, the clinical director, and the principal all standing next to me, the boy actually called out, "I'll come out if you give me a Sony Play Station and $300". Yes, he was holding himself ransom. Being the smart ass that I am (still better than being a dumb one), I quickly turned to my supervisor and asked, "Can we get him those things if he promises to stay IN the room?" As we tried to figure out how to get this kid out of the room, someone came up with the idea of running a fire drill to see if that would work. So, the principal arranged for the drill, the alarm went off and, from behind the door, we hear laughing with this child's response of, "Ha ha! I'm still not coming out" I won't bore you with the rest of the details of the story, but his father was called to help us. When he arrived, his father, very calmly, walked over, knocked on the door, and said, "Come out here right now". Suddenly, the laughter stops, the door slowly opened, and the boy says, "Oh. Hi, daddy" with no exchanges of Play Station or cash. To this day, I loved the idea that the kid wanted to hold himself for ransom and I would have loved to have seen how he would have managed the exchange. Hm...I guess I'll never know.
Perhaps, however, the thing that is most entertaining about my place of employment is not just the level of dysfunction in the children, but also the sheer amount of crazy that lives in the staff. For example, our program has a child psychiatrist on staff to provide a complete array of mental health services to the family in one program. Several years back, we had a psychiatrist who was probably about 5'5", 120 lbs soaking wet, and who wore glasses. The man was perhaps one of the frailest people I have ever come in contact with and, yet, he was the one holding the prescription pad. What made that last statement even more ridiculous, however, was the fact that the man used to move about the building with a blazer draped over his shoulders as if he was walking the promenade in Rome for an evening coffee while pushing a...wait for it...wait for it...while pushing a wheelie chair. You know. An office chair with wheels. This little man would walk around with a wheelie chair in front of him as if it was a walker. If you're having trouble forming this image in your head, I encourage you to act it out now. Throw a sweater over your shoulders, grab your office chair, stand behind it and hold on so tightly that if you let go, you will surely crumble into a heap of helpless man flesh on the floor. Now, walk around and try to grab a glimpse of yourself in the mirror or, better yet, have someone snap a picture of it and put it on your favorite social media source. That was our psychiatrist. I don't know for sure, but I'm fairly certain he ended up on an inpatient psych ward shortly after he left us.
Now, many of you may not find any of these stories funny and, for every funny story there is, there are at least 5 other ones that will make you ache with sadness, frustration, and rage at the horrible existence some of our children must endure and how miserably the system has failed them and the people trying to help them. As I mentioned before, I have been working in the mental health system for many years, with this population specifically for 15 of those years, and while others may not find these stories entertaining, I have to find the humor. Doing so not only allows me to keep my sanity and not crumble into a sobbing mess, but it also allows me to see the resiliency that lives in these kids. And if you still have a problem with these stories, then you can "A-B-C-D-E-F-G. Get your judging ass away from me."
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Sorry. I don't do mornings.
There are those who are considered "morning people" and those who are "night owls". I would say that I have long considered myself to be a solid, functioning member of the latter group and I believe it to be genetic. My mother, for example, will stay up until the wee hours of the morning playing games on her computer (And when I say "games", I mostly mean the card games that come standard with most operating systems because my mother, despite being a highly intelligent and educated woman, CAN NOT, no matter how many times we try and break it down for her, CAN NOT figure out how to navigate the Internet.). (For the record, I still don't know where to put that damn period!.)!. My father will "stay up" with her, but by that I mean, he's actually sleeping on the couch while the t.v. is playing some black and white movie in the background. (Sidebar - My father has a knack for finding every old, black and white movie on t.v. and will INSIST it's a movie he has never seen before. However, when a movie is coming on t.v. for the first time and is being advertised as the "premier" showing, he will become equally adamant that he HAS seen that movie before and then will go on to tell you what it is all about. I have no idea how he has done this throughout my entire life, but he has. Incidentally, when he sleeps on the couch, he can be snoring and you will feel confident that he's completely out, but as soon as you approach the remote to change the t.v., he's now wide awake, will tell you what was just happening in the movie and will lay a guilt trip on if you want to change it, saying something like, "You can change it if you want, but it's a nice movie. I really like this one". If you leave his movie on, he gently drifts back into a peaceful slumber. If you do change it, he remains wide awake and, if you've been lucky enough to pick a movie that is from the 20th Century or later and has any profanity in it, he groans every time someone swears. It's great fun.)
Anyway, as I was saying, I've long been fond of staying up late. At least, I should say, I HAD long been fond of staying up late. I enjoyed watching late night t.v., hanging out with friends, taking spontaneous trips out (e.g. the casino, a local establishment, Florida) and it didn't phase me because I knew I would be able to sleep in. The times when I was not able to sleep in, however, were highly unpleasant. Things like getting up for school or ... well, actually, maybe just getting up for school, were painful, but I functioned on only a few hours of sleep and seemed to do just fine as long as no one actually interacted with me. If I had to get up early for something else, things could go either way. For example, if I had to get up early for an appointment - not pleasant. If I had to get up early to catch a flight somewhere - no problem, baby! Mimosas, Bloody Marys, or my good friends, Stella and Sam Adams, are always ready to help in that regard.
It's not surprising that my fondness for evenings grew as I moved from my teenage years to adulthood and my options for entertaining myself in the wee hours dramatically improved, as did the pool of friends who would be available to play with me. One of my oldest and certainly dearest friends, Cristina, was right there with me as we moved from our teens on to bigger and better things. Strange thing about our friendship was that she was not really one to enjoy playing with Jose, Bud, or Sam, but she did enjoy dancing (As much as I would like to elaborate on that last comment, I feel I need a release from her before I share any other details). Even stranger still, however, was that she played for the other team. She was one of "them" - a morning person. And, when she got up in the mornings, she was actually chipper. Yep. Smiley. Happy. Loving life...at ungodly hours of the morning. Now, I have been told at various time in my life that 4, 5, and 6 o'clock actually happen twice a day and, while I have come to that cold realization now, in my younger years, I thought it was just an urban legend. I didn't think anyone or anything could actually function at those times (except for the time I went to NYC to see the Thanksgiving Day parade...that's a story for another time. And, damn, it is a funny one). Cristina, however, was living proof that some people not only function at those times of the day, but actually thrive! Crazy, right? Not only was she a morning person, but she was really into activities like running (Again, I would like to elaborate more on some of her running experiences, but I still need that release. Without it, she could bury me with what she's got on me. Just saying). It's amazing our friendship has survived, but it has and I love her.
So, wait, where the hell was I going with this? Oh, right, The Change. At some point in my life, I began to go through The Change. No, not that change! I'm not that old! I mean, I began to transform from a person of the night to something else. Work was definitely a culprit because I had to be up in the morning to get there. And be showered. And be dressed. And be ready to work. I swear, some companies want so much from their employees! So work didn't help and when I went from office jobs to working in a school - well, they wanted me there even earlier! WTF?! When that happened and I had to set my alarm clock to go off at 6:15, I honestly cried some mornings. It was not pretty. I just kept telling myself, "It will get easier as you get used to it". Well, I've been at this job for almost 10 years now and I'm not used to it yet. Then, our little Bundle of Love (henceforth referred to as BOL) came along and she really sent the transformation into overdrive. Except there was only one problem with that. She wasn't really a night person or a morning person. She was more of a "I'll be up whenever the hell I damn well please and you'll be ready to feed me!" kind of person. Really put a cramp in my style, I tell you. Now, she's almost 3 and is getting into a groove, but it's a morning groove. And, of course, the school still expects me to be at work on time like everyone else. Overachievers. And, now that I have to get BOL to daycare and make sure she eats in the morning, I'm getting up even earlier. I don't even want to tell you what time I get up because I dare not speak it's name. I will tell you, however, that I have figured out that each time I hit my snooze button, I get an additional 9 minutes. I have also figured out there is a "nap" setting on my snooze button that will give me 1 more minute. I have used them so often, in fact, that the snooze button is starting to fail on my clock. Actually, maybe it's not from using them so often as much as it is the force with which I activate them in the morning. Let's just say, I'm pretty sure I have voided the warranty on the thing at this point. And, sadly, I still do cry in the mornings (or swear so much it would make my father groan and give me a lecture that it was because I didn't watch more black and white movies).
In fact, even after my shower, I'm still not fully functional. One problem is that I don't drink caffeine (when I do, it's not pretty. I kind of look like a middle aged soccer mom on speed for about an hour or so before I crash. It's actually a lot more gruesome than that, but that's enough information for the purpose of the story. All you need to know is that I'm not putting Juan Valdez's children through coffee school). Most people know that they shouldn't tell me anything important or expect much from me before 10 or 11 am. In fact, one of my coworkers (who is one of "them") finds my morning suffering quite entertaining as I flail about like a fish slowly suffocating and dying before being returned to the fishbowl and getting reengergized (I don't really flail about. It's just literary license. If I was truly flailing about, I would hope that my coworker would call the nurse...or a priest...or someone). Another problem is...well, there is no other problem, really. I just don't do mornings. It's genetic, remember? And, say what you will, but you can't fight nature.
Anyway, as I was saying, I've long been fond of staying up late. At least, I should say, I HAD long been fond of staying up late. I enjoyed watching late night t.v., hanging out with friends, taking spontaneous trips out (e.g. the casino, a local establishment, Florida) and it didn't phase me because I knew I would be able to sleep in. The times when I was not able to sleep in, however, were highly unpleasant. Things like getting up for school or ... well, actually, maybe just getting up for school, were painful, but I functioned on only a few hours of sleep and seemed to do just fine as long as no one actually interacted with me. If I had to get up early for something else, things could go either way. For example, if I had to get up early for an appointment - not pleasant. If I had to get up early to catch a flight somewhere - no problem, baby! Mimosas, Bloody Marys, or my good friends, Stella and Sam Adams, are always ready to help in that regard.
It's not surprising that my fondness for evenings grew as I moved from my teenage years to adulthood and my options for entertaining myself in the wee hours dramatically improved, as did the pool of friends who would be available to play with me. One of my oldest and certainly dearest friends, Cristina, was right there with me as we moved from our teens on to bigger and better things. Strange thing about our friendship was that she was not really one to enjoy playing with Jose, Bud, or Sam, but she did enjoy dancing (As much as I would like to elaborate on that last comment, I feel I need a release from her before I share any other details). Even stranger still, however, was that she played for the other team. She was one of "them" - a morning person. And, when she got up in the mornings, she was actually chipper. Yep. Smiley. Happy. Loving life...at ungodly hours of the morning. Now, I have been told at various time in my life that 4, 5, and 6 o'clock actually happen twice a day and, while I have come to that cold realization now, in my younger years, I thought it was just an urban legend. I didn't think anyone or anything could actually function at those times (except for the time I went to NYC to see the Thanksgiving Day parade...that's a story for another time. And, damn, it is a funny one). Cristina, however, was living proof that some people not only function at those times of the day, but actually thrive! Crazy, right? Not only was she a morning person, but she was really into activities like running (Again, I would like to elaborate more on some of her running experiences, but I still need that release. Without it, she could bury me with what she's got on me. Just saying). It's amazing our friendship has survived, but it has and I love her.
So, wait, where the hell was I going with this? Oh, right, The Change. At some point in my life, I began to go through The Change. No, not that change! I'm not that old! I mean, I began to transform from a person of the night to something else. Work was definitely a culprit because I had to be up in the morning to get there. And be showered. And be dressed. And be ready to work. I swear, some companies want so much from their employees! So work didn't help and when I went from office jobs to working in a school - well, they wanted me there even earlier! WTF?! When that happened and I had to set my alarm clock to go off at 6:15, I honestly cried some mornings. It was not pretty. I just kept telling myself, "It will get easier as you get used to it". Well, I've been at this job for almost 10 years now and I'm not used to it yet. Then, our little Bundle of Love (henceforth referred to as BOL) came along and she really sent the transformation into overdrive. Except there was only one problem with that. She wasn't really a night person or a morning person. She was more of a "I'll be up whenever the hell I damn well please and you'll be ready to feed me!" kind of person. Really put a cramp in my style, I tell you. Now, she's almost 3 and is getting into a groove, but it's a morning groove. And, of course, the school still expects me to be at work on time like everyone else. Overachievers. And, now that I have to get BOL to daycare and make sure she eats in the morning, I'm getting up even earlier. I don't even want to tell you what time I get up because I dare not speak it's name. I will tell you, however, that I have figured out that each time I hit my snooze button, I get an additional 9 minutes. I have also figured out there is a "nap" setting on my snooze button that will give me 1 more minute. I have used them so often, in fact, that the snooze button is starting to fail on my clock. Actually, maybe it's not from using them so often as much as it is the force with which I activate them in the morning. Let's just say, I'm pretty sure I have voided the warranty on the thing at this point. And, sadly, I still do cry in the mornings (or swear so much it would make my father groan and give me a lecture that it was because I didn't watch more black and white movies).
In fact, even after my shower, I'm still not fully functional. One problem is that I don't drink caffeine (when I do, it's not pretty. I kind of look like a middle aged soccer mom on speed for about an hour or so before I crash. It's actually a lot more gruesome than that, but that's enough information for the purpose of the story. All you need to know is that I'm not putting Juan Valdez's children through coffee school). Most people know that they shouldn't tell me anything important or expect much from me before 10 or 11 am. In fact, one of my coworkers (who is one of "them") finds my morning suffering quite entertaining as I flail about like a fish slowly suffocating and dying before being returned to the fishbowl and getting reengergized (I don't really flail about. It's just literary license. If I was truly flailing about, I would hope that my coworker would call the nurse...or a priest...or someone). Another problem is...well, there is no other problem, really. I just don't do mornings. It's genetic, remember? And, say what you will, but you can't fight nature.
Friday, October 5, 2012
It's happening...
So, I have long understood and reluctantly accepted that each passing day makes a little bit older and brings me one day closer to death (ok, so I'm being a bit dramatic, but I only state the facts). Something happened this week, though, that made those harsh, cold realities even more...well, harsh and cold. I don't really know how to explain it...oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly how to explain it....we bought a minivan. Yes. That's what I said. A minivan. Yes, yes, I know. You can all have two minutes to make as many wisecracks about it as you want, but make them good because, once the two minutes are up, we are not discussing it anymore. Ready? Go.
One minute left (Seriously, it's one minute. I'm using a timer).
Ok. Time's up. I hope you got that all out of your system and, while I realize it may not be possible to have it completely out of your system after only two minutes, a deal is a deal. No, I don't care that we didn't shake on it. Time is up.
So, as I was saying, we bought a minivan. Now, I don't think it's any big secret that I have been a secret fan of minivans for quite some time. They typically have a pretty powerful engine and have a ton of space. I have touted the virtues of minivans for years and always thought it would be a great vehicle to have. However, now that we have actually made the commitment to purchase one, I am having a horrific case of buyers remorse. I mean, yes, it does have a remote control that opens and closes the sliding doors. It does have a moonroof. It does have a USB cable to plug in my iPod. It does have the bluetooth setting for my phone. And, the piece de resistance, it has a built in cooler. Yeah, boy. A cooler. You know, for water and juice. Oh, and a V6 engine. Vroom vroom. Wonderful features. Still, with all these wonderful little bells and whistles, it's still, at the heart of it, a minivan. An over sized station wagon. A family car. It's...practical and, as I have said in a previous post, the word "practical" for a car is the kiss of death. In other words, it's not sexy. Nicole suggested we decorate the inside with little Christmas lights. I thought we could upload some Bob Marley into the radio's memory (yes, the car stores music). Maybe we can install some hydraulics and get that bad boy jacked to drive down the road. Eh. I think even if I were to paint flames on the side, install some nitrous, and have skulls for headlights, this car would still not strike anyone as fierce. It is, at it's core, practical. And that one characteristic has now out trumped all other features for me.
With that realization that practicality is now king in my house and sexiness has lost out, I came to the understanding that I am now, officially, middle aged. Now, when other people have a mid-life crisis, they go out and get a young trophy wife and a sports car, boob jobs, motorcycles, or some other crap that they don't need and doesn't suit them. Me, however, I do a mid life crisis by purchasing a vehicle that is so the opposite of young, cool, sexy, vibrant. I went for cargo space, comfortable seats, and decent mpg. Holy crap. What the hell has happened to me? Where did my youth go? When did all of these grey hairs show up? When the hell did I decide remote controlled sliding doors and a back up camera were what was important? I don't know when it happened, but it sure as shit did. And now, as I prepare to go pick up a car that will likely be the car my daughter drives to college (it's already got a moonroof, so she won't have to try and self-install one in a drunken stupor - read my previous post about my cars if you don't know what I'm talking about), I have reluctantly embraced my middle aged version of sexy. So, eat your heart out, Justin, because I brought it back.
One minute left (Seriously, it's one minute. I'm using a timer).
Ok. Time's up. I hope you got that all out of your system and, while I realize it may not be possible to have it completely out of your system after only two minutes, a deal is a deal. No, I don't care that we didn't shake on it. Time is up.
So, as I was saying, we bought a minivan. Now, I don't think it's any big secret that I have been a secret fan of minivans for quite some time. They typically have a pretty powerful engine and have a ton of space. I have touted the virtues of minivans for years and always thought it would be a great vehicle to have. However, now that we have actually made the commitment to purchase one, I am having a horrific case of buyers remorse. I mean, yes, it does have a remote control that opens and closes the sliding doors. It does have a moonroof. It does have a USB cable to plug in my iPod. It does have the bluetooth setting for my phone. And, the piece de resistance, it has a built in cooler. Yeah, boy. A cooler. You know, for water and juice. Oh, and a V6 engine. Vroom vroom. Wonderful features. Still, with all these wonderful little bells and whistles, it's still, at the heart of it, a minivan. An over sized station wagon. A family car. It's...practical and, as I have said in a previous post, the word "practical" for a car is the kiss of death. In other words, it's not sexy. Nicole suggested we decorate the inside with little Christmas lights. I thought we could upload some Bob Marley into the radio's memory (yes, the car stores music). Maybe we can install some hydraulics and get that bad boy jacked to drive down the road. Eh. I think even if I were to paint flames on the side, install some nitrous, and have skulls for headlights, this car would still not strike anyone as fierce. It is, at it's core, practical. And that one characteristic has now out trumped all other features for me.
With that realization that practicality is now king in my house and sexiness has lost out, I came to the understanding that I am now, officially, middle aged. Now, when other people have a mid-life crisis, they go out and get a young trophy wife and a sports car, boob jobs, motorcycles, or some other crap that they don't need and doesn't suit them. Me, however, I do a mid life crisis by purchasing a vehicle that is so the opposite of young, cool, sexy, vibrant. I went for cargo space, comfortable seats, and decent mpg. Holy crap. What the hell has happened to me? Where did my youth go? When did all of these grey hairs show up? When the hell did I decide remote controlled sliding doors and a back up camera were what was important? I don't know when it happened, but it sure as shit did. And now, as I prepare to go pick up a car that will likely be the car my daughter drives to college (it's already got a moonroof, so she won't have to try and self-install one in a drunken stupor - read my previous post about my cars if you don't know what I'm talking about), I have reluctantly embraced my middle aged version of sexy. So, eat your heart out, Justin, because I brought it back.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Zombies live in my house
In a previous post, I had quickly alluded to the fact that RM has never picked up the habit of sleeping in bed with us. Ever since she was a super midget (aka infant), we have had her sleep in her own bed. I know that some of you are thinking, "How could you have put that teeny tiny little baby in her own room in her own crib right off the bat? You heartless wench!" (That last comment was just rude and uncalled for, by the way. Please be nice). Well, we did it because I am, as I have mentioned before, a paranoid freak who was completely worried that I was going to roll over in the middle of the night and suffocate my child. While there may come a day in her teenage years where that thought might seem a bit more appealing, I assure you it's not where I have ever been with her yet. There have been times where Nicole has said things like, "But she won't be little forever. Can't she just sleep with us once?" And, as I am not TOTALLY heartless, I have entertained that idea only to have RM relentlessly kick and poke us in her sleep while she tosses and turns resulting in Nicole becoming so completely frustrated (and we know how well Nicole does when she's sleep deprived). When we get to that stage (which you know you're at "that stage" when Nicole is now tossing and turning and making the loudest grunts of disapproval one has heard without actually using anything that approaches a civilized language), then I know it is time to return Baby Toss and Turn to her room, which makes everyone in the house much happier.
So, we were kind of plodding along pretty well with our bedtime routine until this past summer when we did all of our travelling (please refer to the my earlier post of "If it's Tuesday, this must be..."). We thought we had it all planned out. We brought an aeromattress to put in our rooms and a baby gate to block her in the bedroom as she was still sleeping in a crib at home. So, during our first trip (in Maine), we set up the aero bed, gated her in, and positioned ourselves near enough that she could see us and hear us, but so that she was still in her room. She cried at first to stay in her bed, but she fell asleep pretty well and was surrounded by her 1st string toys, her favorite books, and her turtle night light that projects stars on the ceiling. When we went to bed, she was as snug as a bug (not a bed bug) in a rug. Later in the evening, I got up to use the bathroom and RM was not in her bed. Well, given my freakish paranoid nature, I immediately checked the baby gate and saw it was still up. I woke Nicole up in a half panic and blurted out, "Where's RM?" She sat bolt upright and we turned on the lights to reveal our little baby girl had curled up on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. She was pretty cold, but fast asleep and I picked her up and put her back in bed hoping this was a fluke. Well, the next night it happened again and Nicole and I decided we didn't want to risk her getting hurt as she tried to get in bed with us or find a corner in an unfamiliar, unbabyproofed (yes, that a word now) room, so we decided to have her sleep with us. Now, at this point, she was older and bigger and I wasn't as worried about rolling over and suffocating her. Now I was worried about suffocating her with my pillow as, for some reason, I assumed she would lose all of her strength and muscle control at night and would become inexplicably paralyzed if any part of her were to touch my pillow (I've already told you that I'm a freak and I have asked you on numerous occasions to stop judging me. Seriously, I'm getting a complex now). Once we made this decision to let her sleep with us, we pretty much gave up on any form of restful sleep happening as we all shared a queen size bed. So, that was Maine and the beginning of the end of the Restful Period.
When we travelled to Florida, we still packed the aero bed, but we never actually put her in it or even unpacked it. On the first night, we were too tired from the car trip to unpack it and pack it up again in the morning, so we decided against it. Once we reached our "permanent" hotel destination in Florida, the room in our suite housed a king size bed and there was no more room for the aero bed without it being in the bathroom and there was no way I was going for that. So, we all slept in the Big Bed with the 1st string and the night light off to the side. What was disheartening for me about this was, aside from a California King, we were now sleeping in the biggest bed possible and this STILL was not enough room for the smallest in our brood. She kicked, poked, slapped, and headbutted all while in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep. And, let me be clear. When I say "in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep", I'm referring to her sleep. I would not characterize what was happening for Nicole or myself as "deep, deep sleep". I would more call it a painful, stressful, and endless exercise in sleep deprived frustration or the makings of a self help book entitled "How to Become Psychotic and Homicidal in Less than 3 Days".
And so it went until our trip(s) came to an end and we headed back home. Not only was it great to be back home after having travelled for so long, but it was also great because we were going to reclaim our bed and have the Little One in her own space again....at least, that was the plan. What actually happened, though, was that the crib, which at one point in time had looked so vastly huge that I thought we could actually lose that small, tiny creature in it, was now not big enough to house her and her night time buddies. In fact, she was no longer able to sleep through the night. Each and every night, she took at least 2 hours to fall asleep and then would wake up at random times during the night calling out for one of us and asking to sleep in our bed. Yeah. That's not going to happen. We have separate rooms for everyone's sanity. But, that sanity was now slipping through my fingers like a sardine on a slip and slide covered in vaseline. After about 3 weeks of limited and pathetically poor periods of interrupted sleep, we broke down and bought her a big girl bed. The thought was that the big girl bed would somehow miraculously restore our lives of restful, dreamlike slumber where the only thing waking me up was my own odoriferous flatulence in the middle of the night. Yeah. That was the plan. Again. That was the plan. The reality, however, was that she continued to not sleep through the night. She kept waking up. Crying. Asking for water. Whining. Asking for toys. Whimpering. Asking for books. Bawling. Asking to sleep "in that bed" ( meaning our bed meaning "hell no!"). Weeping. And, for the record, that's what Nicole and I were doing. Not RM. It was us. Why? BECAUSE WE WERE REALLY FREAKING TIRED!!! Have you ever been so sleep deprived that you could no longer put together a coherent thought? So sleep deprived you would try to say something and you would end up sounding like English was your 4th language? So sleep deprived that you couldn't answer any of the questions Elmo was asking you? Yes. Elmo talks to me. We're old personal friends. Don't judge...ok. judge. I don't care. I"m too freaking tired to care. I'm too freaking tired to think. I'm too freaking tired to think (as you can tell from this blog. Wait, I already said that). Ok. I'm going to go nap for a while until Night of the Living Dead rises in my house again.
So, we were kind of plodding along pretty well with our bedtime routine until this past summer when we did all of our travelling (please refer to the my earlier post of "If it's Tuesday, this must be..."). We thought we had it all planned out. We brought an aeromattress to put in our rooms and a baby gate to block her in the bedroom as she was still sleeping in a crib at home. So, during our first trip (in Maine), we set up the aero bed, gated her in, and positioned ourselves near enough that she could see us and hear us, but so that she was still in her room. She cried at first to stay in her bed, but she fell asleep pretty well and was surrounded by her 1st string toys, her favorite books, and her turtle night light that projects stars on the ceiling. When we went to bed, she was as snug as a bug (not a bed bug) in a rug. Later in the evening, I got up to use the bathroom and RM was not in her bed. Well, given my freakish paranoid nature, I immediately checked the baby gate and saw it was still up. I woke Nicole up in a half panic and blurted out, "Where's RM?" She sat bolt upright and we turned on the lights to reveal our little baby girl had curled up on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. She was pretty cold, but fast asleep and I picked her up and put her back in bed hoping this was a fluke. Well, the next night it happened again and Nicole and I decided we didn't want to risk her getting hurt as she tried to get in bed with us or find a corner in an unfamiliar, unbabyproofed (yes, that a word now) room, so we decided to have her sleep with us. Now, at this point, she was older and bigger and I wasn't as worried about rolling over and suffocating her. Now I was worried about suffocating her with my pillow as, for some reason, I assumed she would lose all of her strength and muscle control at night and would become inexplicably paralyzed if any part of her were to touch my pillow (I've already told you that I'm a freak and I have asked you on numerous occasions to stop judging me. Seriously, I'm getting a complex now). Once we made this decision to let her sleep with us, we pretty much gave up on any form of restful sleep happening as we all shared a queen size bed. So, that was Maine and the beginning of the end of the Restful Period.
When we travelled to Florida, we still packed the aero bed, but we never actually put her in it or even unpacked it. On the first night, we were too tired from the car trip to unpack it and pack it up again in the morning, so we decided against it. Once we reached our "permanent" hotel destination in Florida, the room in our suite housed a king size bed and there was no more room for the aero bed without it being in the bathroom and there was no way I was going for that. So, we all slept in the Big Bed with the 1st string and the night light off to the side. What was disheartening for me about this was, aside from a California King, we were now sleeping in the biggest bed possible and this STILL was not enough room for the smallest in our brood. She kicked, poked, slapped, and headbutted all while in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep. And, let me be clear. When I say "in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep", I'm referring to her sleep. I would not characterize what was happening for Nicole or myself as "deep, deep sleep". I would more call it a painful, stressful, and endless exercise in sleep deprived frustration or the makings of a self help book entitled "How to Become Psychotic and Homicidal in Less than 3 Days".
And so it went until our trip(s) came to an end and we headed back home. Not only was it great to be back home after having travelled for so long, but it was also great because we were going to reclaim our bed and have the Little One in her own space again....at least, that was the plan. What actually happened, though, was that the crib, which at one point in time had looked so vastly huge that I thought we could actually lose that small, tiny creature in it, was now not big enough to house her and her night time buddies. In fact, she was no longer able to sleep through the night. Each and every night, she took at least 2 hours to fall asleep and then would wake up at random times during the night calling out for one of us and asking to sleep in our bed. Yeah. That's not going to happen. We have separate rooms for everyone's sanity. But, that sanity was now slipping through my fingers like a sardine on a slip and slide covered in vaseline. After about 3 weeks of limited and pathetically poor periods of interrupted sleep, we broke down and bought her a big girl bed. The thought was that the big girl bed would somehow miraculously restore our lives of restful, dreamlike slumber where the only thing waking me up was my own odoriferous flatulence in the middle of the night. Yeah. That was the plan. Again. That was the plan. The reality, however, was that she continued to not sleep through the night. She kept waking up. Crying. Asking for water. Whining. Asking for toys. Whimpering. Asking for books. Bawling. Asking to sleep "in that bed" ( meaning our bed meaning "hell no!"). Weeping. And, for the record, that's what Nicole and I were doing. Not RM. It was us. Why? BECAUSE WE WERE REALLY FREAKING TIRED!!! Have you ever been so sleep deprived that you could no longer put together a coherent thought? So sleep deprived you would try to say something and you would end up sounding like English was your 4th language? So sleep deprived that you couldn't answer any of the questions Elmo was asking you? Yes. Elmo talks to me. We're old personal friends. Don't judge...ok. judge. I don't care. I"m too freaking tired to care. I'm too freaking tired to think. I'm too freaking tired to think (as you can tell from this blog. Wait, I already said that). Ok. I'm going to go nap for a while until Night of the Living Dead rises in my house again.
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