PTSD Working Notes Entry 1

I don’t know how many of you know that I have been interested in learning psychology for the purpose of studying PTSD. It seems as though most current research is trying to find a cure-all method that will work for the majority of people. I read a book by Malcolm Gladwell titled Outliers: The story of sucess. It explained a few things that got me to thinking on the topic of interest.

The book talks about how language can account for some of the reason most Asian cultures are better at math. It talks about how the way the culture relates to power structure can have something to do with why some planes crash. It talks about how seemingly random advantages in sports can come down to arbitrary cut-off dates in the little leagues.

I got to thinking about those factors.

PTSD, to me, seems to be the subconscious trying to boot or delete information that doesn’t fit into the mind’s neat little picture of the world. Because the person is not dealing with the stimulus consciously, the subconscious is mulling it over. Your subconscious is what holds the constructs that have built “you” so it makes sense that it would need to work out the problem.

It has to do with how we learn. There are two ways we learn that I want to talk about, through repeated exposure or through cortisol responses to “life” threatening stimulus. I will likely go into these ideas in a later post.

What is perceived as normal to any given person has a lot to do with where they came from, who was there with them and their capacity for abstract thinking.

I wonder if there are a set of factors that could be determined about a person that could identify what kind of treatment is likely to work for individuals.

For instance, people from high context cultures are going to be less able to express clearly what they are going through both because of the power differential and because they naturally communicate through subtext. Also, many high context cultures are also community oriented which means it is likely that for people from those cultures and/or cultural backgrounds being in a support group with peers is likely to be more effective than one on one therapy with a psychologist.

Be Honest, I can take it.

I learned something about myself this week.

I hate being lied to.

It is the ultimate insult if you think about it. They don't care about destroying the relationship. This is a natural consequence of lies. Worst case scenario they never see you again, in calculating that cost, they determined you were expendable in their life. You are not valuable enough to tell the truth to.

In making up the lie, they rarely say it outloud and listen to their own voice. Usually, lies are made up on the spot and are never very good. But they don't respect you enough to give you a believable one. Essentially establishing that they don't believe you are smart enough to figure out their lie.

I felt there was someone in my life who didn't respect me. That person's behavior reinforced it continuously. A matter came up that I became aware of and it was that person's responsibility to tell me my resources had changed. Only, the didn't tell me. I let it go until it came time to need the resource and I asked about it.

This is the second time in the last week this person has told me what a coincidence it was that I ask about that very thing as they were just working that issue. The person proceeded to over detail the response with unneccessary information. Information I knew to be a bold faced lie.

I felt the adrenaline rise in that moment. I needed to say, "your pants are on fire and here is the ash to prove it."

Only, I can't say anything. It was something they didn't have to lie about, a simple one sentence answer would have communicated the only part I needed. this person has control over an aspect of my life. I am not afraid to stand behind my truth telling. The thing that concerns me most is I am not sure what else this person will lie about to save their skin and whose cost is it going to be at? For me the consequences are not that great. For others who are under this person it could prove detrimental to their career.

But the thing I hate the most about when someone lies to me is what it does to me. I get that people lie to protect themselves. In this case I am pretty sure that is the cause of the choice. I know that many liars will insist on their lie even in the face irrefutable evidence. But what it makes me do, and this process I saw like it was onstage in front of me, I lose all of the rationality that gets me through the day and I focus on destroying the lie. I look at the holes, I look at the angles until I figure it out and I destroy it.

I don't like that my heart does that. Because destroying the lie sometimes destroys the person who told it. I hate that it makes me so mad. I hate that it takes control of my life like that. So, today I am choosing to grow. I said it to someone I care very deeply for this week. It is not what lying to me says about how they feel about me that matters, it is how I react to it that determines who I am. And who I am is entirely in my control.

I choose to be a person who sees that this person's lie is likely more about their insecurity than it has anything to do with me. I know they lied, they know they lied but of the two of us I don't have to carry that lie with me. So I am choosing to lay it down.

What does it mean to lay down a lie?

It means I realize that the consequence of that lie will catch them. It will compound with other lies and will eventually crush them. I take no delight in that. Someone tried to crush me once for a perceived wrong and it feels very desperate. I don't want anyone else to endure that. It is not my job to punish that person.

I just need to do everything I can to be truthful.

Nothing is going my way

She says, "Momma, I'm scared." Yesterday, she was just about out of her mind with boredom when one of our neighbors came for a visit. They had been playing upstairs. Another kid came over for a while. He left. We feed the first kid. About 6 bites into dinner, the second kid comes back and lures the first kid out the door with candy. Xyla is upset. So we talk about the dynamics. I tell her it wasn't right for the second kid to take the first kid away. There are just too many factors to navigate here. But I let my daughter get a feel for validation. Today, she writes me a note. The note says the same thing she has been saying since our talk yesterday. She doesn't like it when friend 2 takes her other friends away. So I tell her that right now she has a choice. She may continue to feel that way or she may choose to forgive friend 2. I tell her that if she makes the other friends choose her or each other she should be prepared to lose two friends. If she chooses to forgive, I will go with her to talk to friend 2 about what is happening. She decides to forgive but she is scared of the confrontation. I told her everyone is. But practicing this skill will help her be good at resolving differences. Not only that but she will learn how to stand up for herself, which is very important. Tonight, she starts thinking about all the points she wants to make. Tomorrow, we go talk to friend 2 and his mom. Pray that God gives us restorative words to help bring friends back together.

When the Hawk Strikes

I read an article today that railed on the common core math and the teacher who taught it not being able to see that 5+5+5 gets you the same answer as 3+3+3+3+3 and both are correct to the process asked for in the instructions.
 

I completely understand the frustration. Yesterday, for example. Going over Xyla’s math for the day I noticed a “wrong” answer that was a matter of semantics. There were two dogs drawn in the box. The question said, “How many feet do the dogs have?” Xyla answered 4. This was marked wrong. I know I should let it go because getting into an argument with the teacher about what kind of question is asking for situational awareness and which is asking for a sum is kind of a pointless battle. But just so I can write it down and get it out in public. The question should have been “How many dog feet are there?” Because if you look at it technically, Xyla was right. Each dog does only have four feet and the question didn’t really ask for a sum total of dog feet.
 

Then we met another challenge. Part of Xyla's homework is to read a passage and then answer questions about that passage. I am not going to pretend to understand my daughter at every turn but the more I learn about her, the more I like her. When she got the last question on this work page different from what I expected, I asked her about it.

 
The story was the Three Billy Goats Gruff. The first two goats trick the troll on the bridge promising he will get a bigger meal if he waits. The largest crosses, troll tries to collect, goat pushes troll off the bridge. The moral is supposed to be "Don't be greedy." So after the reading the first question was, where were the goats headed? The middle two questions were similar. Last question was, "Was it right for the goat to push the troll off the bridge?" She emphatically writes, "NO!" Not certain she understood what was being asked in the question, I asked it out loud, she says no it wasn't right. Not being one to leave this alone I ask her why she decided that. She said because it is mean to push anyone off a bridge.

 
I guess it is to be expected that they will teach moral reasoning by asking the kids to form and deliver an opinion from something not specifically mentioned in the text. But I want to know from the teacher's perspective, what is the answer key answer here? I ask that because the answer's wrongness is subjective.

 
While the pushing could be considered justifiable because, in fairness, the troll was trying to eat him and his brothers. However, I can't say Xyla is wrong. I mean, the first two goats deceived the troll and the third goat solved the problem with violence and went on about his day like he didn't just hurt someone. We are talking some Goodfellas BS right here. This is an “eye for an eye vs. turn the other cheek” dilemma and I am interested to know which they are teaching my kid. If they teach turn the other cheek, we move to California, if they teach eye for an eye, Texas.

 
Now, I can be accused of putting too much thought into this but this kind of argument played out in my community this week. One lady “rescued” a dove that was being attacked by a hawk. She wanted to know where to take it to get it care. It is a Eurasian Collard Dove and an invasive species. One guy was super crass and suggested she break its neck and eat it. While everyone else seemed to be trying to tell her where to take it so it can be rehabbed.

 
All I keep thinking is, if she takes it wherever she decides is worthy, they will likely smile nicely at her and take the bird. As soon as she is gone, they will probably put it outside to see if it will fly off on its own. If it doesn’t, they are likely to put it down because it is an invasive species.

 

My community thinks that “hawks are bad” because they are predatory and the dove is peaceful and innocent. Truth is, the number of doves may drive out other native species of bird and predator or not – the hawk has to eat, too. He just happens to eat other birds. The hawk eating the invasive species is not necessarily a bad thing. The community thinks the hawk is bad not because the hawk is bad but because they sympathize with the woman who has an emotional attachment to a bird she sees every day. The emotional attachment, peacefulness, terror, etc. those are all human emotions we place on the situation. We do this because of Disney. Just because some character is being delivered as “bad” doesn’t mean it is, it might mean you just don’t have enough of the story to make a decision. Which explains the entire genre of the anti-fairy tale. The stories where the author tell the tale from another perspective. Can you say When the Clock Strikes?

 

I don’t like the way the crass guy handled it but he was right. It is a measure of what is valued more. What has more value is usually measured by community standard (the woman’s sentimentality for the dove) and not reality (the cycle of life). If you do a side by side comparison of the characters of the Gruff story you might feel the way Xyla does about pushing the troll off the bridge.

 

Troll – lives at the bridge, eats other animals. Is hungry and maybe has some cognitive delays if he is so easily trickable by the goats.

 

Goats – do they have a right to eat in the pasture on the other side of the bridge? Isn’t deceit and assault also bad behavior?

 

We want to think that the assault is justifiable because the big goat was “defending” himself and his brothers but what if he wasn’t. Have you met a goat? These goats could have been bullying the whole neighborhood. Going house to house taking things that weren’t theirs. Speculation aside, I like the idea that my child thinks that all life has equal value. Her goldfish is just as important to her as her cousins. That is something that may change over time but for now, even though I am pretty sure the teacher will say it is wrong, I am not going to correct Xyla on this one. Being able to see things another way is a valuable skill. Now that I know she can think that way, I am going to encourage her to use it. There are college students who can't defend their answers intelligently but my 2nd grader can. She might be a brilliant writer someday.

Upsetting the Balance

This is one of those days I wish I had the support to be a stay at home mom. Yesterday was Columbus Day so I had the day off. Xyla did not. I decided to see how much I could get done after I drop her off and before I have to pick her up.



I know I have my best ideas early in the morning. (Most of the time between 2 and 4 am.) So it wasn't shocking that I found that I would be able to get a lot done between the hours of 5 am and 8:40 if I were a stay at home mom. That's two full loads of drying laundry with at least one load making it into drawers. That is time for cooking breakfast as opposed to breakfast in a box. That is getting one kid and myself ready for the day. Getting up at 4 am would afford all of that and enough time to workout and shower. Though I would likely have to wear my hair curly but that would be ok with me.




After delivering small child to school and the bell rings, I jumped in my car and started my day. I allowed myself to be horribly side tracked but it only cost me $25. Then I took my car for an oil change. If I had stayed on track, I would have been able to wash the other two loads of laundry, pick up after the kid tornado that swept through my living room with the neighbor boys and my daughter as F3 force winds and her toys and papers as debris.




I made it home in time to cull all the papers that were living on the freezer, liberate the freezer burned foods that had been trapped there because of the living paper stack and move the plants around so that we had room to use the kitchen table as a kitchen table. I got the dishes done and had a plan of what to make for dinner.




I picked up the small child and we completed her homework before 4pm. That gave her time to play and eat. If I had more time at home, I could do those things that make our space livable that I just don't have time to do right now. We would have ample time to learn Spanish as a family.


Sadly, I don't have this kind of time every day. While it seems insurmountable - I am certain that I can figure out how to get it all done as a working mom. I guess I will just have to start getting up at 2 am to figure it all out.




*smile*

Independence Day

It started a few weeks ago and it isn’t consistent every day. She started to walk into her before school care room without even trying to give me a hug. She wanted to learn to wash laundry, she wanted to learn to wash dishes. Last week she even asked if she could comb her hair on her own for the first time.

We constantly have this conversation about she isn’t ever going to have kids, she doesn’t ever want to get married, she doesn’t ever want to leave home. But that divide is already in progress. I told her, you don’t have to do any of that right night but if you decide at some point that you want those things, I will be ok with it.

This lead to a conversation about what happens to her if anything happens to me. In typical Xyla style, it soon turned to what will happen to me if she dies first. So just to throw it out there for her peace of mind, who wants custody of me? (Just kidding. Mostly.)

It is hard for me to describe to her that I am trying to help her develop skills to manage life at the same time, I can’t imagine life without her in it. It’s that joy and sadness thing that so many empty nesters tell you about. You work hard to make sure they are self-sufficient but then they don’t need you anymore. Can’t have it both ways I guess.

There is no real moral here. I just kind of wanted to document the moment I knew she was starting to grow more independent.

Burning One Down

My daughter had just fallen asleep. A difficult task considering the sweltering Oklahoma heat in July. She was sweating heavily because my central air had finally given out. A situation I was dreading but couldn’t do anything about. I kept checking her temperature obsessively just to make sure she was ok. My checking likely contributed to her fitful slumber. Her temp was climbing ever so slowly. I don’t know when it got to my action point because it is really hazy. I took my floor fan out on the porch and plugged it into the socket outside thinking somehow I would find cool air.

I went back inside the house and picked up my baby. I stood on the porch swaying back and forth with the oscillation as if that was going to help. The fan was only pushing warm air across the porch. It was over 90 degrees in the middle of the night.

I kept going over my life and thinking about the things I should have done differently that could have prevented this moment of desperation. I realized trying to change that show was fruitless so I started to pray. I prayed for comfort and control over my daughter’s rising temps. I kept trying to get her to drink more water whenever she would wake up but even that was warm.

Then when I was done praying I decided everything had to change.

Ev-ry-thing!

Last night I was going through some papers I have been dragging around with me for several years. My family knows the ones. The ones I was obsessed with ordering and reordering and scanning and reading and researching and . . . and . . . and . . .

I have been through some things that might make a good novel someday. Though you’ll likely not believe much of it. I was getting rid of most of the instructions and regulations and intentionally vague directives. The rest I am having a hard time letting go of. The rest represent four of the hardest years of my life. It is literally my baggage. Well, my box-age.

It is a printer paper box full of every shred of whatever I thought even remotely relevant to my fight. It isn’t light. It has been pushed around my living room so I can vacuum so many times I can't count. I have stubbed my toe on it. It couldn’t live in my closet because that was also full of things I didn’t have time to go through and get rid of. So my box-age sat in my living room for everyone to see. Anyone who knew what it was tried to ignore it.

I had people actively asking me to give up but what was in that box was a matter of life. I was as desperate to change every shred of paper in that box as I was determined to cause my life to change that night on the porch. It has a tendency to consume. We have all met those people consumed by some cause they can’t let go of. We have seen people destroyed by the thing they are dragging behind.

Early this year the rock wall gave away. When it did a flood of changes came with it. It was so shocking the way everyone expected that since I had prevailed I would instantly give up my box. I can’t for a variety of reasons.

First, it has been with me for so long. There is a certain amount of comfort in the things you have control over in your life. Reorganizing, sorting, adding to and taking away from that box was the only thing I could control when it seemed everything else was in a vortex.

Second, the water has rushed by and largely soaked into the ground but some part of me can’t believe it is all over. I guess I am holding onto the box just in case I need it to preserve my life again. Like there is still a deluge that lurks behind the wall I have come through. Usually described as paranoia.

It was so hard for so long, it is difficult to think it was over so quickly and I came out alive on the other side. The other side likes to move on like nothing ever happened, like I was never drowning. In a way this box is the only way I know I wasn’t crazy, I really endured that. If I get rid of the box all memory of what I went through only exists in my heart.

I have other baggage as well. Anxiety from relationships, a certain amount of traumatic stress that resurfaces because of my career. Someone I met this year who I look to very much helped me to see that I can let some of it, possibly all of it, go. A month or so ago I looked at one of those bags and thought, “hmmm. This isn’t useful and it is hurting me to keep ahold of it. Let me set it down.”

I set it down and walked away. Every now and then, I start to feel the anxiety but I remind myself that I set that bag down and I need to leave it where it is. It is a work in progress. Eventually, I want to let the others go as well. I want the work to start in a tangible way with my box-age. Truth is, even if I keep the box, I am the only one who will know and I don’t really want to rehash it all again. I can’t move forward in a positive way if I feel the pain every time I look at it. And no one can console me over it. So I need to destroy it so it can be distanced from my memory as well.

I want to burn it page by page in a fire and watch it rise up and disappear.

Things have to change.

Things have to change.

Coloring is Everything

I read an article recently about adult coloring books. Not what some might think. Landscapes and more grown up types of pictures for adults to color. For balance the article included the criticisms of people who believe that adults who color are showing a refusal to grow up or immaturity somehow. So I had to think about it.

Parents with children usually end up coloring with their kids in a Strawberry Shortcake book. Some of the coloring books have words and stories. We give children coloring books to teach them a variety of things. It is a good measure for their dexterity, motor control, training them to conform to social norms, and color schemes. The one that stands out the most is the motor control.

I don't remember the journey to learning to color. I don't even remember not knowing how to color. I have watched my daughter as she is growing and learning to color. I saw how frustrated she was by not being able to stay in the lines. I saw the crayons go from formless color blobs to starting to conform to the cute little kittens and puppies with bow ties on the page.

I think the phenomenon of adult coloring is about control. Think about corporate people who are told everything about how they will accomplish their day. You will not use the bathroom without letting someone know where you are going. You will finish this project before lunch. Today's world is so automated, very few people have the luxury of choice or control over their day.


So why is it so "immature" to choose a past time that allows you to not only make every choice. You pick the book, the medium you color with, each color. You want an watermelon to be blue - then by all things holy, color the watermelon blue. Want your rain boot to have contours, then use the combination of colors that rounds it out. Make your own shadow. Complete the scene with other drawings of your own.

Our imaginations used to be limited to "the right color, now stay inside the line." We learned the rules, now lets break them. Here's another thing. We get involved in big projects, projects that fail, projects that stall, projects that never seem to end. When you need a quick win, with coloring, you can have one. The picture is finished when you say it is.

I think managers should purchase coloring books, crayons and colored pencils and place them in a common location where their employees can color. Think about how innovative your employees will be if you allow them to tap into their creative side and think about the possibilities. Think what you'll learn about their personalities.

How Can I Help You to Say Goodbye

She said, “My heart is broken right now and it hurts so very much. I have never cried like this before, not even when I hurt my arm.”

It is true. When a kid came flying down from the top of a bounce house and landed on her arm, she cried hard. She cried even harder when I told her that I had never seen her cry like that and I was worried a bone might be broken and we might have to go to the hospital for an x-ray.

Last night, she cried even harder than that. She overheard my dad telling me Friday that someone in her dad’s family was sick in the hospital. They prayed for the baby. Last night she overheard me asking her dad what happened.

Her newest baby cousin had been taken off life support this weekend. Losing a baby is sad enough but how the child ended up on life support is even worse. She doesn’t know the second part. It may take some time but we may have to eventually talk about that, too. I hate that it is her family that makes it necessary to explain things kids shouldn’t have to learn at her age.

After I put her to bed, I heard her talking out loud. It seemed like she was praying. I stood outside her door and listened long enough to hear her say “why . . . take that baby.” So I went in and asked her if she heard me talking to daddy. She said she hadn’t but she was trying to figure it out.

A little over a year ago she was at the hospital when the family gathered around her other uncle’s bed and waited for his body to give out. Her tender heart remembers the sadness. When she asked at that time, I told her his body was very tired and sick and it just couldn’t work anymore.

This time though, there wasn’t an easy explanation. I told her that babies are very delicate. I told her I was delicate once, she was delicate once. I told her sometimes they just don’t make it very far into life. I told her her cousin wasn’t able to breathe on his own. They gave him some medicine and some machines that helped him breathe. When they do that, you can only have the machines do the work for so long and then they are either able to breathe on their own or they aren’t. With the baby being so delicate, he just wasn’t able to.

For the next hour, I held her as she asked a lot of questions about God and Jesus and how we breathe if we are made out of clay. And how do we have skin and bones? How she can know the baby is with God if she’s never seen God before. Someone at daycare told her God is dead. She wanted to know how God could hold a baby if he is dead. Or if he isn’t dead, if he is so old. She didn’t want anyone to die, especially not her family. Why does God take babies?

In between her sobs I explained the best any of us know how.

She wanted to know who was going to take care of her if anything happened to me. She didn’t want to ever leave this house. And her good friend Lily is leaving and she doesn’t want to go. And it isn’t fair that she has to go when she doesn’t want to.

At times an old Paty Loveless song ran through my head as I told her it is ok to feel sad. Remember Inside Out? How she also had to feel sadness. Sadness isn’t a bad thing. I know it hurts. I feel it, too. More than she knows. Then she started to walk through the part where she “didn’t even get to meet him or know him and maybe if she was there . . .”

Half of my answer was me trying to convince her, the other half me trying to convince myself that even if we were there, there was nothing we could have done to stop it.

My heart ached again because I want to rescue the ones who have been abandoned by his family. But all I can do is thank God that he brought us here before that world consumed us. That sentiment in my mind was followed by her lament that every day is always so happy but this Sunday just didn’t end happy at all. Then she fell into a tear exhausted sleep.

As I folded her clothes that aren’t so tiny anymore, I keep thinking about the conversation on the phone drifting to “reduced sentence” for attending anger management. I keep thinking about how oblivious  people can be about what the death of a child means for families in court. I keep praying for the soul of the “really good lawyer” who will be defending the offender. Because I, for one, would not be able to look myself in the mirror because of the things I would have to say to win that case.

Then my mind rests on Kelsey Briggs. The night my reporter and I were sent to Meeker, Oklahoma to try to find the home of a family who just lost their two year old. You will have to look that one up because I can’t re-write here the scene playing on a loop in my head.

I sent a message to her teacher explaining briefly what happened and that she might need a little extra understanding today. This morning I was sure to be tender about rushing her. I was sure to hug her that much tighter when I dropped her off. And now I have the day to try to busy my time so I don’t start formulating plans to bring them all to my home and raise them. My heart is broken right now and it hurts so very much.

Primary Cultural Education

I realized yesterday that the scripts for victim blaming are written for us early in life.

Yesterday, I picked up my daughter and she was nearly in tears afraid she would be in trouble for losing her scooter.

The daycare is remodeling, I assume in response to the growing population of children in care there. Most organizations know that change on a grand scale requires grand degrees of communication. This has apparently escaped the owner of the daycare.

To get an idea of the breakdown, we shall start at the beginning of summer. I let the daycare know that I would be on a work trip for two weeks and that Xyla would be out of care for those two weeks. I didn’t want to use my “vacation” week so I understood they would still be charging me. I came back to find three things. Last year, they let the before and after school kids know that they would be able to participate in the field trips offered by the daycare. The office staff (Tricia is my favorite person in the whole world – I would clone her if I could) stopped each parent and let them know she would need them to sign the permission slip and everything else would be taken care of. It was my understanding that the kids in Xyla’s age group were automatically enrolled since the day care pays their fee for this.

No one mentioned it so she wasn’t enrolled, therefore had to watch all of her friends go on field trips for two weeks while she stayed at the daycare all day. She wasn’t auto enrolled because apparently when I told them she would be out of care for two weeks because I was going on a work trip, they assumed I was taking her out of care altogether. When I dropped her off two weeks later, they had rearranged all of the cubbies and made new name tags for everyone but her. Then a few weeks later they had her listed as needing transport to a different school than the one she attended.

I asked Tricia about the field trips and she promised that she would let me know as soon as an opening came up. And she did. I requested they give her space for her things and a name tag. That took  more than two weeks. Telling them she didn’t go to the other school took longer to get through. I had told more than one person that she was not going to the other school. They made a note and said they would pass the information on. Then the next event like school drop off practice, they still had her on the list for the wrong school. Then there is a note to stop at the desk and make sure your kid is on the right list for the right school if they need transportation. So I tell the staffer there (not Tricia) the information requested and she looked at me like I had just spoken Russian.

The week before school (which is a horrible time to change anything at a daycare) they decide they need to move things around again. Kids who were going on the field trips would bring their scooters one day a week and the scooters were stacked in the hall (fire hazard). With the remodel the space they usually occupied was filled up with more cubbies. Without telling the parents, they moved all of the scooters into the furnace room (?). The owner swears she told the kids they were in there but apparently not all of the kids got the message because Xyla swears she didn’t know and couldn’t find hers. (Thus the panic over thinking she might be in trouble because someone else stole her stuff.)

On the day they take scooters, some parents also give their kids money to buy snacks at the center they go to. I gave Xyla some money which she keeps in her purse, in her cubby under other stuff. I want to pause and say, the first year we were there, someone stole her coat . . . on a winter day . . . and the staff looked at me like “well what do you want me to do about it?” So their reaction to this news was less than surprising.

Did I mention there are surveillance cameras all over this joint? Realistically they could review the tape for the hallway and find out who took it but that is too much trouble or might reveal that they don’t actually record with those cameras.

So when Xyla told me her scooter was missing I was upset. When she told me someone had also taken her money out of her purse I was livid. This is the third time this summer.

The owner was in the lobby handing out popsicles to the kids on their way out the door. So I approached her and said, “I have a problem.” And let her know why I was frustrated. She flat out looked at Xyla and said, “Well then maybe you shouldn’t bring your money to school and just go there on the weekends and your mom can buy you stuff there on the weekends.” Then looked at me and said, “you know her pass is good on the weekends, too?” First, I am the one who told you there is a problem – don’t tell my kid what to do, talk to me. Second, no! No one mentioned their passes were for them and could be used at other times. It isn’t on your website, it wasn’t in an email and it is safe to assume your staff didn’t make a point of telling anyone.

Third, I resent that because her stuff is being stolen you want her to not participate in a way her friends are in the activity. Fourth, I don’t like that you just told my kid her money being stolen was her fault for bringing it in the first place.

That is when it hit me. This! This is where the culture of victim shaming begins. What bothers me is that this is a place that touts that kids in Arts programs achieve higher than other kids, studies say! But what are you teaching them, exactly? You are teaching them that lousy behavior will not be punished. You are teaching them that you don’t care enough to attend to the issue. You are teaching them their lives don’t matter. At the same time you are remodeling to accommodate growth which teaches them that what matters most to you is maximizing your profit.

Their company values page says “Give customers of all ages (yes, children ARE customers) a WOW experience every time through . . . giving accurate information and creating a safe and caring environment.” I walk out of there many days with a “Wow” experience alright but it is usually not a positive one.

They could look at the tape and find out who is stealing stuff and confront their parents. They could assemble all the kids and have a conversation about not taking things that don’t belong to them and returning those things with an apology if a mistake has been made. Because they are kids, it could be a puppet show to open for the magician when he comes each year. These are all opportunities to teach morals to kids but they want to teach my kid that if someone takes her things, doesn’t communicate changes properly or hurts her that it is really her fault for just being her and maybe she shouldn’t expect to have the privileges everyone else has. When will this country ever learn?

If you can read this . . .

A year ago, I thought school was going to be rough on Xyla. Despite everything I tried to do, she just flat out refused to learn to read from me. I used to tell everyone that if I was a teacher I would not be able to teach K-6 because there is so much foundational work that has to be done at that age and I don't know how to help them make those vital connections. I can't fathom letting one kid get out of my class having missed learning probably the most important skill in existence.

I told Xyla her whole world would change for the better once she learned how to read. She kept telling me she didn't want to know how to read.

At the beginning of last year I had the most frustrating experience. Xyla would bring her homework home and we would spend three hours trying to accomplish one page. At the end of kindergarten she was reading the Sam books just fine. Then suddenly she decided that she didn't know how to read at all. I had to try to get to the bottom of it. I went to her teacher first and asked why she was on such a low reading level. And her teacher told me  things that I will never forget. 1) She has had problems in the past with students who come from the private kindergarten Xyla went to. 2) Xyla performed very poorly on the reading assessment at the beginning of class. 3) Xyla didn't know her letter sounds.

There was one very important thing her teacher didn't tell me, but we will get to that.

I just about came out of my chair but realized that aggression would get me nowhere. I calmed myself and I tried to explain to her teacher that she did know all of her letter sounds and had known them since she was 3. I appealed to her to test her again. She refused. She said she would test her again at the end of the quarter. I went to her because I have a lot of teachers in my life who would have counseled me to not blind side her with the problem by going over her head.

She had placed Xyla with a remedial reading group along with the other kids in her class that went to her private kindergarten. I then understood why Xyla was suffering in her reading. Someone told her she couldn't. And she believed them. This is something I cannot relate to. Usually when people tell me I can't do something, I do it anyway - and look good doing it, too.

I can break this down a little. Xyla doesn't talk to people she doesn't know. So the second disclosure was something I could understand and tried to explain to the teacher about her personality and why it would have been difficult for anyone to get her to "perform" well, when everything was so new and uncomfortable. I wonder how many kids get placed in an underperforming group for the same reason. 

The first disclosure was a classic case of stereotyping and that just makes me angry. Even in Xyla's kindergarten class there were all levels of readers. There was a girl reading at a 3rd grade level in there. This woman would have pinched her off in the slower group too, just because. Angry, angry, I tell you.


The third disclosure was just patently untrue. I told her teacher Xyla not only knew her letter sounds but could actually read pretty well. She said that she didn't know how Xyla was doing it reading at home, that I probably read her the same stories and Xyla memorized them and repeated them back. Which would have been a pretty phenomenal thing in itself since I never read the same book twice.


I know that this sort of thing happens because it was how my grandfather made it through something like 6th grade not knowing how to read at all. They had the benefit of a one room school house with multiple grades in the same room. He could hear the older kids and regurgitate what they read almost verbatim.


At home, Xyla read books I had never read to her before she was reading them for the first time. So I was not going to let that stand. I asked Xyla to go get a book from the shelf. She picked one she had never read. I opened it and told her she wouldn't be in trouble if it was difficult but I wanted her to read some of the sentences in the book for me. And she did.

Even though this "trick" floored the teacher, she still insisted that Xyla was correctly placed in the remedial class and that no further testing would be done until the end of the quarter. How much time do students lose because of this kind of thinking?

I told her teacher that her placing Xyla in the remedial section was the worst thing she could do. Xyla already knows that being "brown" (as she calls it) she stands out in her class pretty much no matter what. She is very perceptive. When you seat her next to the trouble maker, she makes trouble because that is what the trouble maker does. When you set her next to the smart kids who hold still and work hard, that is what she does to fit in. I told the teacher that in the remedial class, Xyla will listen to the way the other kids are reading and she will do the same just so she doesn't stand out. Putting her in that class would hobble her more than I could express.

The teacher wouldn't hear any of it. The thing her teacher failed to tell me in the course of this was that she did not conduct the testing herself. One of her teacher's aides conducted it. Which means beyond the teacher/class/school all being new, a random person took her aside and asked her to read, when Xyla had no bearing of how well or poorly her classmates could read.

I took my concerns to the vice principal. She is a breath of fresh air and phenomenal at conflict resolution. I explained what was happening at home, I explained my visit with the teacher, I laid out the non-resolution that was suggested. She asked me what I wanted the outcome to be. I told her I had asked Xyla if she liked her teacher and she did. She liked her class.


I told her ultimately I want the best thing for my daughter, I told her I wanted her retested by someone who could make friends with her before they give the test. I told her I am willing to do what it takes from asking to switch classrooms to switching schools if this couldn't be resolved. I know it sounds like I am "that mom". You know the one who thinks nothing is wrong with their kid kicking the back of your seat in a theatre. The one who thinks their kid is a genius and can do no wrong when their delusion prevents them seeing what their kid really needs.

I admit I think Xyla is smart, but that is because she understood the concept of being able to affect humor at age 4. Most 4 year olds repeat what they hear, she was generating her own material and it was good stuff.

But I am not deluded. The vice principal ended up spending some time in her classroom and getting to know Xyla. Within a week or so of our meeting, she retested her and found that she was at a higher level. Learning from the teachers that she could, in fact, read, changed everything about how long it took us to do homework. It was taking 20 minutes, which is average for 1st grade homework.

This year we are entering the year with her being able to read words that I have not read to her, she can sound out most unfamiliar words on the fly. I can tell when she is getting tired of reading because she starts guessing (badly) at the words instead of reading them.

Since the new school year starts in just a couple of weeks, we have been talking about it to get her used to the idea. She said she wants to still be in her old class. I explained that all of her friends were also going to be going into 2nd grade and that she needed to learn at the next level and that her teacher would still be there just down the hall and she could visit whenever she wanted.

We went over to the school to look at the class list and we read it together so she could see that there were some kids she knew in there. We started trying to implement the school schedule and routine. We looked at the teacher's website and she wants the kids to read 20 minutes a night so we are trying to get that in there too.

Xyla feels so empowered by knowing how to read, too. She found her way to something by herself the other day by reading signs. When she came out I reminded her that it wasn't that long ago that she told me she didn't ever want to learn to read. I expressed that I didn't help her find her way, that she did that herself by reading. I asked her how that felt. She said it felt pretty good knowing where to go.

She gets down quite often when I read to her saying she is upset that I can read so fast and so well and she isn't as good at it as me. I told her it was all about practicing. I told her I have been reading for a long, long time and have had lots and lots of practice. I told her the more she reads the better she will be at it. It is just a lucky thing for me that reading together before bed is one of the things in her life that makes her feel loved. It makes bedtime run smoothly. When she starts dragging her feet to get to bed, I ask if she wants to have time to read. Suddenly, she runs in warp speed.

While there is the conventional wisdom that the single most important thing parents can do early and often to help their kids learn to read is to read with them, I want to add the equally important thing that you also need to do as they are learning. You need to tell them they can read. You need other adults to tell them they can read. Positive affirmation is so important. It will save you months of fighting over homework. I promise.

Room to Grow

I know a person who recently married her husband again to keep the peace in their home. She stated honestly that she was sure the marriage would end in less than 3 years. I started thinking about that in my own life. I have been an “old maid/spinster” for a long time. My perspective of her situation is one that believes that her husband was giving an honest effort to symbolically display his willingness to own the process of changing himself into the man she needs. Caveat: I am not a member of that relationship so my perspective is seriously skewed and does not reflect the reality the people face. I had one thought that has haunted me since she made her confession. I thought, “Aren’t you going to give him room to change and grow?”.

Then I remembered, those things we see about others that bother us most are things we usually don’t like about ourselves. So I decided that my attitude toward the situation is not about her, it is about me. I have been reading an article that talks about how we sabotage our relationships (www.positivelypositive.com). One of three suggestions they have for ending the cycle is to manage our expectations of the other person. My interpretation: give them room to be who they are.

If I am going to give them room to be who they are, I have to do something that is hard to do. I have to erase all of the trappings I put on them and really see them for who they are. Something I expect them to do my direction, but forgot that was a two way street.

I was involved in a relationship with a person who would frequently change from a confident extrovert to an irrationally fearful person and I could never figure out why. Those times when the switch hit were the times I was suffocating him in my expectations. I wasn’t giving him the room to be who he was. I lost a phenomenal friendship.

I have had so many people tell me they are intimidated by my accomplishments and they are afraid to get close to me. I think the part they don’t say is that they think I will expect lofty aspirations from them and they are afraid to disappoint me. What they never stick around long enough to learn is that I . . . fail . . . at my aspirations all . . . the . . . time. Allthetime. I am not afraid of it though. I am the kind of person who believes failure is a chance to start again with more information. If you see me achieve something, it probably isn’t the first time I tried it. Remember I mentioned that I am a “spinster”.

I have to do better about showing my vulnerabilities. Mostly because I see reactions in my daughter when certain things happen that more than fearing being in trouble, she fears not fitting into my expectation of her. That is the most terrifying thing in her life. That she will be rejected by me because she is not the person she is expected to be. I am not sure when the epiphany will hit but I am trying to emphasize whenever I can that she makes good choices and has good ideas, even when it isn’t what I would do.

She told me she wants to be just like me, she tried – and I mean it was painful to watch – to love tomatoes. She tried so hard because it was what I liked and she wanted to be like me. I told her I felt loved that she wanted to be like me but that she was also her own person. I told her that I wouldn’t love her less if she didn’t like tomatoes. Her dad doesn’t like them, neither does her uncle and that is ok. Then I mentioned that she likes seaweed snacks and I can’t handle them. I told her it is ok for her to like things I don’t like too. It is ok for her to be a different person from me and I will still love her. The important thing to remember is that our actions toward others should lean closer to showing love rather than exclusion.

She has a friend who I overheard telling her that she would be her friend and give her some item, only if she stayed by her side all day. I checked that right there. I told her “friendship should never be conditional and should never be bought. Either you are her friend or you are not, that should never have anything to do with stuff. This is the same friend Xyla and I talked about earlier in the school year. She said she wasn’t sure if she could be friends with her anymore because this friend wouldn’t let her play with other kids and sometimes she just wanted to play with other kids. She said that every time she wanted to play with someone else, this friend would tell her she wasn’t her best friend anymore.

First, I asked her how she felt about that. She said it made her feels sad. Before school started I asked her to keep an eye out for kids who sit the fence, who don’t get included, who don’t have any other friends. And she has done really well at that. When I went to lunch with her at school, all of the kids told me they loved her because when they felt lonely and new and awkward, Xyla was there to be a friend. She said she likes how that feels to help others who feel left out but that this friend wouldn’t let her do that.

I told her what her friend did was called manipulation. It is a way for people who are scared to lose the friendship to make you feel bad for “leaving”, even momentarily, so that you won’t leave. I told her this is fear people have because they have lost things like friendship before and it hurt. I told her that she had a choice. I told her this is something she will encounter many times in her life. Any choice she made she didn’t have to put up with that behavior but she would have to confront it.

I told her there were at least three options I could see and maybe she might think of another way. The first option is to not be friends with her anymore. She didn’t like that option. The second option is to be friends with her but explain that it is ok to have more than one friend and that her playing with other kids doesn’t mean their friendship was over, they would still be friends tomorrow and for a long time. The third option is to have the other kid come play with both of them. I told her she was the only one who could decide what she wanted to do. I told her it would feel scary at first but she needed to ask for what she wanted and that I would support whatever decision she made.

She never told me what she decided but I can see the results. There are many, many times when she declines to spend time with this girl. There are times when they are nearly inseparable. Whenever this person requests a playdate, I always ask Xyla when we are away from her if she wants to play with her. And I support her decision.

I tell her my expectation is not that she will be just like me, my expectation is that she tries always to treat people well. My expectation is that she will not allow unwelcome manipulation. My expectation is that she will ask clearly for what she wants. I tell her no one can do these things perfectly. I tell her, it is what I expect of myself every day and I often fail. The important part is to try. I tell her how much I learn from her every day (she never believes it – maybe one day she’ll read this blog and realize I wasn’t kidding).  We both have to learn how to recognize our emotions, express what we want and deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.

And then I have to give her room to grow.

Never say, "I told you so."

When I suggested a transition for your video, you laughed at the simplicity of my thinking. It was such an old trick and things don't work like that anymore. The next thing I know, I am watching that program and there it is, the transition I mentioned. I knew then that even though you were downplaying my contribution that you valued my opinion. But you know what I didn't say. I didn't say, "I told you so."

I have listened to you tell other people that my programs are broken to discredit me without mentioning my name specifically. I have heard you put down what I am saying in meetings as though I have no idea what is going on. I recognized that we needed a specific status and that certain training that will safeguard our careers would not happen until we fought for that status. I said it loud enough that someone up chain listened and gave us that status. It changed everything. It will change how our career field perceives us.


I mentioned that we needed to build a better on the job training function and that one of the PDs should be in charge of mentoring the troops consistently. It will mean they have to work harder to get what they need for their program and the quality of their work may suffer a bit but that I was willing to do that because it was needed. We needed to build a deep bench because if we continued to push our star player, he would eventually burn out and then where would we be. 


That was two years ago. Now they have elevated you to lead producer and I hear you telling other people that you are willing to be the training mentor in the fashion I suggested. I said nothing. It is a brilliant idea. We both know whose it was. It doesn't matter to me that I get the credit for it. What is important is that these young, willing, engaged people get lit on fire for this job so they will want to stay. So I hope that when you say it, someone lets it happen.


I told you I was certain you would hate the job of manager because it didn't have anything to do with what you are passionate about. Then when they foist it upon you for a short term, you hated it. You hated the bureaucracy, the paperwork, the endless meetings. You make a big deal about me not striving to perfect my craft. That's because you don't understand what I have molded my craft to be. You are phenomenal at what you do. You care meticulously about getting the imagery right. People respect you for your ability. I respect you for your ability, I will never be as good at it as you. I don't want to be. But please, please don't make the mistake of assuming that I am trying to be better than you at that.


I struggled for the last four years trying to get you to see what I was trying to do. I realize that it was off putting when I came here and announced unabashedly what my aspirations were. But I believe that we should have a work place where people feel comfortable talking about where they want to be in life. I believe there are ways to help people achieve. I believe that even if they don't go to Hollywood and become producers that they will take the communication skills we teach them with them forward in life. These skills are so valuable in any field. 


No matter what happens. No matter how many of my supposedly wayward ideas you pick up and carry, I am not going to say, "I told you so." I don't need to lower you to elevate my own reputation. The only person who needed to see that I was brilliant, was you. You showed me you believe that from the beginning. I recognize your need to be "top dog" and that is fine. But you don't see what I see and that is what separates us.

You look familiar.

The first thing people say to me when we meet is how I look like someone they know or have met before. This is a good quality to have when you are a journalist, simply because people will tell you things they might not tell any other stranger.

Lately though, I see myself that way. Like someone I used to know. Things have changed and it is hard to keep up with my thoughts anymore.

I listened to this guy talking loudly in my direction about his account on Tinder, directly to me about having all kinds of fruity alcohol for girls to come over and spend time at his house and only having responsibility every other weekend. All I could think about was the safety of my kid. She'd been invited to a pool party, a surprise birthday party for her friend. When I arrived to drop her off, the mom offered me a beer.

I made the choice to stay because I don't know their drinking habits well enough to know how responsible they would be with my daughter. I knew the guy who was talking to me was the birthday girl's dad and that he had recently divorced from her mom, who was there with her new boyfriend. This is drama in the making. So I stayed.

I stayed because people who drink at a child's birthday party at a pool is a safety issue. I know that guy was trying to use his charm and drop all kinds of hints but . . . everything felt wrong. These people were not my crowd. It feels weird to say that because I have always felt that all people are my crowd but they are not.

It feels elitist to say I do things differently and I don't know why I felt they weren't putting the kids first.

It isn't only things like that, though. Not long after I finished my degree, one of my friends accused me of looking down on her because she wasn't as educated as I am. I was trying to offer her resources trying to steer the dysfunction of her family that exploded in my kitchen on a sunny Sunday after church, back to a healthier situation for all of them. I thought about it later and I realized that she would never understand where I came from, that I had to work hard and sacrifice relationships and sleep and sanity to achieve what I achieved. That I spent so many bleary nights wondering if my coffee intake was going to cause me a heart attack even if the stress from worrying about it didn't.

I schlucked through two of the most damaging lessons about love I could have gone through. But I still try to keep my heart open though my hope occasionally wanes. Then I suffered professionally what many people take as a politically left leaning bent about women in leadership in the federal government.

And I have come to know that others may never truly understand how truly tired I am of forging a path through life. But I have to keep moving forward, even though I desperately want to find a place to rest. I have to keep moving forward because there is a small person who needs to learn that though she will suffer heartache, there is a way to overcome it. Needs someone to help her navigate the slough of emotions that she will have to sort as she meets life's challenges. Someone to teach her how to assess consequences for her life choices and balance whether the possible outcomes are worth what you have to give up to acheive them. Someone to fill in the rest of the phrase when she asks out loud, "What if I fail?" By adding, "What if you succeed?"

It isn't enough to buy her art lessons when she says she wants to be an artist, I have to expose her to the many things in the world that inspire the greatness she sees in herself that will get worn by time and torn by circumstances. Then turn all of that into something that connects with the soul of others who will identify with her vision of life. The will recognize something in her art that teaches her that on the outside, some of us may stand out, but on the inside we are all connected somehow. That the thing that people recognize in her is that little thing that makes them the same. That she will never look in the mirror and not recognize herself.

There is a lot of work to do, there is no time to rest.

The Coffee Club

My second job was as a dishwasher at a country café in a small, small Wyoming town. The woman who owned the place was that wonderful combination of country and girl. The kind of woman who can rope and tie a calf for branding in less than 8 seconds but also cries at Olympic Pairs Figure Skating.

She was older and her husband bought her the café because she retired from working the farm. The Senior Center was attached to the café and every day at noon there were a hoard of elderly country folks who would file in and commune over mass prepared meatloaf and potatoes and gross pudding deserts. (I hate pudding from a can.) For some of those people this was the only balanced meal they would get each day.

In the main café at breakfast, people would bring their unsuspecting friends in to try the "short stack" of pancakes. When the server would start to tell them the pancake is the size of a large pizza plate, their friend would shake their head in a knowing way. The price didn't suggest anything unusual but when the pancake was brought out, the unsuspecting friend's eyes would be the size of the pancake. Then realizing they'd ordered two was always a special treat.

The leftovers were scraped into a bucket and fed to the owner's dog later in the day. Any other dog would just look fat and happy but this was a working dog, he needed the extra calories. Table scraps were a necessity.

Of all the things I hated washing, I hated washing silverware the most. There was a lot of it. Even at home, to this day, I wash silverware first just to get it over with.

I never truly appreciated that place until now. I loved it when I was there but just now is the impact of what happened every day making sense.

In the morning, every morning, the owner would unlock the door but leave the lights off. My mom would be prepping for the day in the kitchen and the light from the kitchen provided just enough light to see the tables. They would trickle in one by one. They would sit quietly in the dark and drink coffee.

Most of them were farmers or ranchers. They would gather around the table, the server would bring them a cup of coffee and the unspoken conversation would commence. Every once in a while someone's wife would want to come along, just to see where they went every day. Those days were never as peaceful. Women have to fill the silence. I believe the term that was used to describe their chatter was "hen clucking". The wives just didn't get it.

Toward the end of an hour someone would grab the cup of dice and they would roll to see who was paying for everyone's coffee then they would get up and head off to start which ever chore starts their farming day. The owner would turn on the lights and the café was open.

Later in the morning they were all back around the same table only this time they would talk about their day. This time they might order breakfast. This time they told stories. My favorite was the one they called "the fisherman". He had retired some time before and spent most of his days fishing. He had a full set of false uppers he refused to glue in. When he told his big fish stories his teeth would bobble up and down in his mouth. It was awesome. Every one of those men aspired to be an old fisherman so this man was revered.

Over stories of broken fences and tractors, agreements were made, barns raised, help disbursed. It is where farm commerce happened with a knowing glance and a hand shake. This was a time when people gave their word and it meant something.

I look back at the last few years this venue has been largely silent and realize how much "hen clucking" has distracted me from an important part of the day. The part of the day you don't have to fill with noise. I realize that we all have to have some moments of silence. Maybe to gain some perspective, maybe to reflect. Maybe just to clear our heads. I have been so ambitious that I have forgotten the meaning of Ranch Hand coffee. So this morning in honor of the old fisherman and the farmers and the ranchers, I sit in my kitchen, with the glow of the lamp from the living room peeking around the corner and I am sipping my coffee in silence. Any minute an alarm will go off, the lights will come on and the responsibilities that color the day can begin. Until then I plan not to think. To let there be silence in my head.