Webkins

Who knew this exists? I learned from my 5-year-old grandson. You buy a webkins. You get a “code.” And voila, you have gain entrance to a secret, magical world.

My grandson, Jacob, is particularly keen 0n “going for” ALL of the beach accouterments. You can get a “job” to earn dollars for purchasing your dreams. Or you can go the arcade and gamble for webkins dollars (it takes, for example, $750 webkins to get a set of surfboards for the beach theme room Jacob has named “Ocean Waves"). Jacob tried to teach me the Dicekins game (but I just didn’t get it). His parents secretly gamble for dollars for their son. And Jacob is keen on getting yet another webkins (which comes with some $2000 webkins for wheeling and dealing in the webkins world). For that, he mopped the kitchen floor for a dollar. And has plans to rake leaves and wash window. All in search of yet another webkins (which costs $15 in the real world; Jacob has now saved $7 towards his next webkins).

What do I think about this?
• Jacob mopping the floor. Pretty thorough and impressive for a five year old. Clean floor. Cheerful worker. Goal oriented. Good? Bad?
• Jacob using the computer mouse. Pretty impressive small motor skills. Menus. Game moves. Better than me--though how easy is that?
• Jacob’s goal oriented behavior. With webkins world, he learns that things cost, you can’t get around that, you have to earn the money. If you make bad choices, you deal. (He is selling back earlier purchases, shifting around what he did a few weeks back and now seems to regret.)
• Parents. I saw both dad and mom playing the webkins games to earn Jacob dollars. Now those games aren’t easy. I certainly couldn’t have earned him any money even though he tutored me in dicekins (or whatever). But what does this teach? Under the table? Family solidarity?
• Web world? Real world? Where does this lead? Not entirely sure. I brought computers to my kids. I live from software. My husband spends his life at the computer. Not entirely sure. . . . . .

Smart, funny, amusing kid. Where does webkins lead? Not entirely sure. This kid doesn’t watch TV. He does watch videos. (And he could perform all the songs from “High School Musical.) He’s also playing chess online. He’s also playing outside an writing his own book of "scriptures." I’m working in this world of software and online communities. Where does it lead?

Not entirely comfortable. Would oh so happily get back to books, walks, writing (though mostly on a computer). Still there is this romance of ink and paper, and I haven't entirely abandoned that mode.

I was born too early and too late. Such a life lived in between. It’s hard to know what to make of this all.

Getting home

Not so easy. A lesson I have learned. Do not fly in or out of the airport in Newport News Virginia. Flying in for Thanksgiving, my flight from Atlanta was cancelled--with an offer to fly in 8 hours later. Flying out, my flight is now 2 hours late, and I get to spend the night in Atlanta (my cost not the airlines because this is an act of God, weather, not Delta). And fly home tomorrow.

A convoluted trip. I voted thumbs down on the eight-hour wait in Atlanta and flew into Richmond, rented a car there, picked my suitcase up in Newport News (60 miles apart--both some 30-40 miles from my son’s home on the outskirts of Williamsburg, near Jamestown). And so tonight I drove to Richmond, dropped off my rental, my son drove to Richmone, picked me up and drove me to Newport News. I’ll wait here 4 hours and spend a very short night at a (too expensive) hotel in Atlanta.

All in all, I won’t be that much in the hole. I had planned to arrive home between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m., go to bed and sleep. Get up at 10:00 or 11:00 and prepare for the descent into work on Tuesday. The plan now. Sleep in a somewhat expensive bed in Atlanta, fly out in the morning. Get home by 1:00 or so. Still part of the day to recover. Not that much difference all around. Though a whole lot of hassle and some money. I did check on a flight tomorrow--$333 to make the change. A good night in an Atlanta bed at that rate (and more of my day in Seattle) seemed like a better plan.

Isn’t modern life just too complicated? I had thought of driving to Williamsburg with Bevin--but decided that would take two weeks, not three. That may have been easier. Still a possibility for my sabbatical--I have never driven cross country. And Bev is such a good traveling companion.

(By the way new granddaughter is so cute, and son, daughter-in-law, and grandson so good to be with. Webkins. That’s what I learned about from grandson Jacob. A whole new world. But for another day--assuming I do eventually get back to Seattle.)

Thinking about Romney and abortion

I’m a bit of a political junky, so I have been following presidential primary politics for a while now. With my Mormon background, it’s hard not to pay just a little extra attention to what the talking heads have to say about Romney. Recently on hearing yet again about Romney’s flip flop on abortion, I started thinking about the Mormon position on abortion (or at least the position as I knew it back in the eighties). Mormons are definitely anti-abortion, but not in quite the way most conservative Christians are. I think the wobbly nature of Romney’s discourse on abortion may well have roots in the Mormon position.

The Mormon position allows for abortion in the case of rape and grave danger to the health of the mother. For conservative Christians abortion is murder of an innocent child. The child dies without baptism, without faith. Thus the abortion means the loss of both the mother, who murders, and the child, who dies without the benefits of Christ’s saving grace.

I suspect the ambiguity of the Mormon position--with its allowance for justified abortion--begins in the Mormon notion of the soul. For Mormons, the soul is eternal. It has a life before its mortal existence, comes to earth to take a body, and lives on after mortal death. For traditional Christians, the soul begins with life. So the child aborted in the womb has only that brief existence. For Mormons an eternal soul enters an earthly body. When is not exactly clear. But no tragedy for the aborted child in the Mormon version of the story. If the child’s soul has not yet entered the body, then that soul will be allotted another body. If the child’s soul has entered, then that child has obtained its necessary body and will be exalted in the highest Mormon heaven with all of the innocent children who die before eight, the age of accountability and baptism.

In other words, the abortion is no tragedy for the child in the Mormon version of the story. It forecloses little in the eternal view of what matters. In the traditional Christian version, it is a tragedy, in many versions foreclosing salvation for that child. In the Mormon story, it is the woman who suffers and is judged, not the child. She is the one who must justify her decision before her God. Abortion is a terrible event, but the official position of her church signals a measured and merciful view to the horror and pain women may face.

So on this matter I am inclined to allow Romney’s wavering views on the extent of a woman’s right to choose--he is finding his way along a spectrum that is part of the larger conversation about abortion among Mormons. The dominant note in that conversation is definitely pro-life--most Mormons in the twenty-first century are proud conservatives. But the Mormon God through his church’s leaders has allowed for a terrible choice.

An Idaho Halloween

Yes, I realize that Halloween was last week. But I’ve been thinking about my childhood experience of Halloween all week (as each day brings more rejected candy dumped out in the kitchen area at work).

I grew up in a small village (350 people on the sign at the outskirts of town) in southeastern Idaho, where my dad was the “sheriff.” Which says nothing about his job description. He was in fact the town employee. He plowed the snow, graded the roads, kept the city ball diamond groomed, the grade school playgrounds and parks watered and mowed, the weeds along the road down. He sent the water from the city well to be tested. He was the town dog catcher (known to take a gun and a dog to the town dump).

I loved Halloween--one of the most festive days of the year in our little town. Each year a Halloween “carnival” was held at the grade school. Costume parade, cakewalk, bobbing for apples, haunted house. Everyone gathered after kids had trick or treated around town. My misbehaving peaked at writing on windows with soap (never with wax which was pure evil to my dad).

My dad hated the night--the one night of the year he was most the sheriff, trying to bring a little peace, a little law and order.

Naughty boys (always boys as far as I ever knew) had a yearly ritual. Tip over outdoor toilets or put them on the roofs of sheds and barns in town. (No one really used outdoor toilets by the time I was a kid but many of them still existed on local property.) A canal flowed around the town. Bridges over the canal were made of wood. The second ritual of bad boys was to pile bales of straw on the bridges and set them on fire.

So my dad spent Halloween chasing kids away from the toilets and the bridges, pulling the toilets off sheds, covering up the nasty holes, putting out the fires on the bridges and scattering the straw along the graveled road.

My memories of Halloween then: the excitement of the carnival (after the excitement of the candy and being just a little bit bad) and one very pissed off Dad!

Why no posts?

I ask myself from time to time why I managed to post as much as I did while I was off with Bev. Now an easy answer would be that I had more time. But that wouldn’t be true. I don’t really have all that much easy, computer time when I’m with Bev. She certainly doesn’t get computers. And if I’m just sitting there and it is daytime, then from her view I’m being really annoying. We aren’t walking, we aren’t driving, we aren’t drinking soda, we aren’t shopping. These are activities she gets. Sitting with a small thing on my lap, ignoring her. This she doesn’t get.

So why did I write then, and I don’t write now. I used to write in the evenings, mostly when Bev was sleeping. So now I come home from work, but I don’t write.

Some random thoughts on this mystery. During that time my brain was able to slow down enough to daydream, muse, contemplate, think. It wasn’t assaulted with external assaults and requirements. At work, I spend my time “thinking”--but it’s quick, short, tactical, high pressure. When I come home at night my brain is swimming. Nothing settles out that is working spending more time on. In fact I spend my time holding these quick, intense thoughts at bay.

So I guess my evenings are mostly spent trying to send my brain into a loop that doesn’t assault me, hassle me. That’s the mode my work brings upon me. So what do I do? Read e-mail. Read the blogs of kids and friends. Watch TV. (Watching movies usually seems like too much of a commitment.) Download audiobooks. Wash dishes. Listen to audiobooks as I fall to sleep. Keep my brain, my thoughts at bay.

This is not good. I’ve always thought of my brain as my friend, not my hassler (torment is way too dramatic here). So this means that I need to find a way out of the return of my current life patterns. Life tires my brain. This not helping.

Bev and the Fabulous Four

Last night I had a first-time event: a sleepover with Bevin plus ALL of my daughter Sarah’s kids: Anna (8), Clara (6), Sam (4), Isaac (4). I had done halvsies--Bevin plus 1 girl and 1 boy.

It was a great night and pretty much a success. But I learned a few things. About my grandkids. And about Bev.

The grandkids. They are pretty self-contained, interesting little people. I have a few routines that always succeed: legos, On Demand (Tom and Jerry are the biggest hit, with Angelina Balerina a close second), pancake breakfast, chocolate chip cooky dough, Diggedy Dog, Green Lake. Diggedy Dog is half a block up the street: menu headlines hot dogs (actually the little diggedy and the big diggedy), chips, drinks, little tables, lots of toys, photos of dogs on the wallks, pictures of dogs on the wall drawn by children (including Clara and Anna). Green Lake is a wonderous park a block from my house (three miles around the edge of a lake, with docks, playgrounds, cool little eddies along the way); today Sam and I watched an elderly Asian man catch a little fish. Let the kids watch TV long enough and they will fall asleep. Everything else is easy.

Bevin. She was actually most challenged by the weekends. She loves hanging out with the little kids. But she is a person unmoored by folks, events that show up in the wrong place. She spends a night every weekend with these kids (Sunday and primary in the middle). But this weekend she discovered the kids in the middle of her weekend with Mommy. And she wasn’t always quite sure how to manage.

First. Watching TV in the evenings. Mom and Bev settle down on the couch, Bev’s head on Mom’s lap and a blanket over her head. On Saturday: the couch was full, the blankets were taken, and no place for both Mom and Bev to veg (and they were cackling over Tom and Jerry, who had heard of such a thing).

Next. Sleeping. She sleeps in her bed in the basement, wakes up in the middle of the night, goes to the bathroom, and climbs into bed for a cuddle with Mommy. Well on Saturday: she couldn’t go to bed in the basement. She was suppoed to go to bed in Mommy’s bed.

(I finally got her to sleep by giving her a soda, turning on Barney on the couch upstairs once the others had gone to bed. She sipped her soda, watched Barney. And very soon, she was ready to get into bed with Mommy.)

The morning: (By the way, we had a fine, long, cuddly, night. She didn’t get up in the middle of the night, and she got up late. . . .) it was fine at first, we got up, she bathed, I fixed her breakfast, and she asked me to turn on Barney, her favorite. But before you knew it, the couch was full with girls watching Barney. Bevin always sits on the couch, at the right as she watches Barney. Girls were sitting there. And that was just TOO much.

The secret to finding the calm, happy Bevin. She and I went on a short walk, to the little market up the street, she chose herself from the coller a Dr. Pepper. We walked home. She took up her familiar hanging out on the front parking strip. And all was pretty much well.

There were other “challenges” to Bev’s day. But you get the drift. The world should be predictable. Many of us probably hope for that as Bevin does. But she is unforgiving. She does expect her world to resolve itself into familiar happy routines. . . . . . My job. Her bliss.

Weekend mornings

Bevin doesn’t seem to understand that people sleep in on weekends. She tends to get up early in the morning (3:00 to 5:00), come upstairs and go to the bathroom, then climb in bed with me. All to the good. We go back to sleep. . . . for a while. . . . .

I can tell when her night is over. She sits up in bed. I have my back to her. She stares at me, and stares at me. I ignore her. I pull the blanket back around me, maybe over my head. She watches for a while. I can feel the staring eyes. And then she moves to the next step. Pulls the blanket back, more staring. And then she finally makes her move.

She reaches over and pinches my nose.

At that point, I know it’s all over. If she decides to get up on her own--that’s not good. She may start cleaning surfaces, trashing things. So I take notice. I reward the nose pinching (I do know that). I look at her.

She’s still sitting there cross legged. Watching me. And she smiles. She knows she has me. I smile too. With luck, it’s 8:00 (rare), once it was 9:00 (miraculous). Usually it’s more like 7:00. Alas, at times it’s 6:00.

But the day begins, with a smiling companion. Which goes a long way. . . . .

Gangster endings. . . . . . . . . . . . .

So I don’t think I’ve ever watched a complete episode of the Sopranos. Couldn’t tell you whether I’ve ever watched any of the Sopranos. But of course it’s been in the background noise of popular culture for years. So right now I’m watching the final episode of the Sopranos. Why? Who could resist. The coverage. And I saw a replay of the ending. You see, that’s something I have spent time thinking about over the past two decades: endings. From what I could tell watching news accounts of this final episode, this was a protypical version of the protypical modern/postmodern ending. Don’t give them an ending. Give them play, ambiguity. Let the reader write the ending. I’m still waiting to watch this ending, but I suspect that from what I’ve heard about this ending, the “appropriate” response is laughter. This is in your face, a parody, an exaggeration, the kind of stereotype that makes you take notice. I’m told, from the news tonight, that many readers are outraged, others feel that they know the secret,, others like me are laughing. Can’t say I’m an expert on the Soprano--remember I’ve never watched them--so who knows whether I’m scratching the surface or outing my ignorance.

So why does this even intrigue me? Make me pause? Okay, I didn’t finish a doctoral dissertation on endings. But more importantly, I have spent the background reading of my past few months on a very big book. I can’t take it on planes. I can’t take it in my purse. It’s often difficult to cart into situations where I might read. So in the short run, I listen to audiobooks and read (page by page) shorter, more compact books. The big, heavy book:(916 hardback pages): Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra. A book by an Anglo-Indian writer. A book about a ganster and a cop.

I’m still watching this final episode of Sopranos. But I can see that this series and my book have themes, narratives in common. Family, religion, ethnicity, women, children, the banality of crime. . . . . . . I don’t know how my Indian book ends. Why do I care? And why do I think this has anything to do with the Sopranos.

At my work (at a software company where I do documentation), I work with our documentation team in India. I read (and listen via audio books which are wonderful because of the accents) quite a bit of Anglo-Indian literature. I spent two very painful weeks with our new “manager” in India--aspiring to success in an American company, he’s against Ghandi (our American hero), he celebrates Valentines day, he’ll eat anything (no vegetarian he), and he drove me cracy. In other words, I’m invested in endings, in reading, in India.

So the Sopranos is not yet over, playing in the background. Does any of this mean anything. Can’t say. Stay tuned. Sopranos? Indian policeman and ganster. Stay tuned. . . .

Elizabeth Rose Oman

I’m a proud grandma (again, how lovely). This baby is a miracle.

You can learn about what Mom went through for Elizabeth Rose at her blogs:
Mormon Mommy Wars
Living with PKD


On her birth:
Her mom at Mormon Mommy Wars

Her dad at Times and Seasons

Heather's sister at Mommy Mormon Wars

Basketball--disappointments

I tuned into about five minutes of the Utah Jazz game tonight--and this (sad experience) sent me into a meditation on basketball, its place in my life.

Some of my earliest memories are basketball games. My next oldest sibling, a brother, is ten years older than me. That means that when he was a freshman in high school (14), I was four. When he was a senior in high school (18), I was eight. My brother was a basketball star. And some of my earliest memories are the games he played. The high school he (and I) attended had around 300 students (9th through 12th grades). The baseball games were played in the city “armory”-- bit bigger than the tiny gym in the high school. I was happiest when my dad found a seat near the little stage where the piano was located. Then I could use the space to mimic what I really cared about at the basketball game--the cheer leaders. I grew up in a very sexist world. Girls didn’t play basketball (in fact when I grew up we played girl’s rules, a whole other post). Girls could: (a) play in the pep band or (b) be a cheerleader. At 4 to 8, I imagined myself as a cheerleader. By the time I arrived at high school, I had learned that I would play in the pep band.

Perhaps this experience--the gap between the glamour of my little girlhood and the reality of my teenage world--traces the structure of me and basketball. The continuing gap between wish, desire, fantasy--and reality.

Fast forward. I spent much of my early adult life living in Salt Lake City. Cheering for the Jazz. We came close but were thwarted, most memorably in my engaged Jazz days, by Phoenix and Seattle, as I recall (or was it only Phoenix in those days).

Then I moved to Sacrmanto. My husband’s job yielded us free tickets to the King’s games. Mostly pathetic, but then rising hope. And somehow I remember those fantasies, those desires were thwarted--by the Seattle Sonics.

And so now I live in Seattle. The Sonics are pathetic. And threatening to leave the city for Oklahoma City (because the Seattle tax payers won’t cough up money for a third new arena (we already have one for football, somewhat successful, and one for baseball, not so much so).

So tonight I find myself routing again for the Utah Jazz. And yet another round of disappointment (assuming of course that the Jazz didn’t manage to overcome their twenty point deficity--now wouldn’t that be a wonderful story).

So should I give up on basketball? Can’t quite get there. My father somehow polished sports into my genes (though it never did occur to him that a daughter might play as well as cheer). But again, another story.

Companions and solitude

So how long has it been since I wrote? Why? Companions. Friends. Visitors. My friend visited for two weeks. My husband was here for two weeks. (My husband flew off to Scotland this morning). This time was on some levels difficult for me. Defer to others. Lose yourself. Was it these people? My patterns with these people? Me? I’m certainly left with these questions. And no immediate, easy answers.

It is clear that the basic patterns of my life these days assume solitary time. My work (yes I’m back to work) overwhelms me with people, talk, conciliation, compromise, listening (NOT one of my top skills). My personal life must leave me solitary time. This I know. So to what extent do I need people. I certainly want the answer to be that I thrive on the people I love--my kids, my grandkids, my husband. I do love times with them, look forward to time with them. . . . . . .

But I am just so relieved this evening. The first really alone since mid-February (except for three days in the middle). What does this mean? (Another question to contemplate should I have solitary time for such.)

Bev's true true colors

It seems that Bev is mostly succeeding. She is a happy soul. And she is finding a happy path at her day program and her new home. The girls at her home see her as the little sister (she is small, cute, clueless). The girls are helping her, protecting her, cuddling her, forgiving her. She spent the first few days cycling through her routines of misbehavior, but also of charm. I think she will be okay in both places. Stay tuned!!!

An alternate good to God's good

I just revisited Brideshead Revisited (the BBC version with Jeremy Irons, Anthony Andrews, John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier--original novel by Evelyn Waugh, adaptation by John Mortimer). To me this mini-series (I still need to read the Evelyn Waugh book) is a devastating meditation on religion--and a gem of television drama. The first time I saw this series my much younger self was overwhelmed by the last episode.. The Laurence Olivier character accepts last rights (his last act in lifeis to cross himself) though he has been estranged from the church, living in sin for some twenty-five years. As a result of this episode, the Julia character (daughter) pushes away the Jeremy Irons character--because of the gulf opened up by religion and belief versus skepticism. Finishing the series tonight, I was no less moved by this episode. Found myself in tears.

Julia (Diana Quick) rejects Charles (Jeremy Irons) because she is terrified that marrying him will mean embracing an alternate good to God’s good. The good that Catholicism signifies in this series haunts me. The mother is sweet, loving, lethal. All of the children are damaged by her love and by the church.

I’m not sure the alternate good must exclude God (though I have little talent for belief myself). But a god that wins out must be on the side of life. A line from the last episode, from the nurse about the Lord Laurence Olivier character. Says the nurse. He resists dying. Not because of a zest for life but because of a fear of death. I do not want this to be an appropriate epitaph for my end, and for my life.

True colors

So Bevin pulled out the stops her first night. She spent a good deal of the time being oh so charming. Smiling, eating well, hanging out with the girls for the evening, playing with the toys. The other girls want to mother Bevin, treat her like a little sister. So they were being excited, welcoming, etc.

Everything seems to have gone well until after Bevin’s shower, Lizelle gave Bevin her shower first, so that she had time after she was finished when Lizelle was busy. The time just after Bevin has had a bath or shower and changed her clothes is the point at which she seems particularly vulnerable to one of her puffing/anxiety attacks. And she put on quite a show, apparently. While Lizelle was in the bathroom downstairs, Bevin went into the bathroom upstairs and cleared off all of the surfaces, in her most violent manner, breaking some knick knacks in the process. Then she ran into the bedroom of one of the girls upstairs and cleared off all of her surfaces (thought I don’t think she broke anything there). She also tried to raid the refrigerator. When Bevin’s new roommate, Jill (a very sweet autistic woman) started to scold Bevin, tell her not to do that, Bevin actually managed a full sentence: “J (for Jill) shut up!”

At that point Lizelle arrived, finally got Bevin to settle down by sitting with her stroking her hair, cuddling with her--such good instincts. And then the good Bevin kicked back in, started smiling and babbling about Mommie. . . . . . .

I went over there mid-day today to talk to Lizelle. Luckily she was fine about what happened, felt like she had an idea of what to expect, how to handle this. Clearly, it’s probably best to leave Bevin’s shower until last. That way she’s more likely to stay in hang-out mode with the other girls. Lizelle will set it up so she can spend time with Bevin and help her through her vulnerable period after her shower. We talked about other possibilities (including, I’m getting Bevin her own TV for private Barney viewing when nothing else will do).

I was glad to hear that Bevin’s fit was outdone by Jill at her arrival, and even one of the girls, Ginna. Jill had managed to break windows and pieces of furniture. Now she’s mostly a lamb. So despite Lizelle’s quiet way (and she’s actually smaller than Bevin), I’m thinking that she may well be equal to Bevin.

Bev moves in

I took her clothes over earlier in the day. I took her over at about 4:00 and stayed until 7:00 or so. Bevin liked the place, liked the girls. Was happy, pleasant, pretty charming. Ate a good meal. I joined in. Took lots of pictures. Hung out with the girls. Bevin is taller than the care giver. Which means that Bevin can’t be consistently aggressive and stay there.

I’m hoping the good atmosphere, the fact that she will be busy, and that things will be happening between the girls. (All of the girls are much higher functioning than Bev, inclined to be protective and friendly.) These facts on the ground will, I hope, keep her well behaved and engaged. She is well behaved at Sarah’s, interestingly enough has more problem with me. I think because of the one to one time.The fact that I’m quiet, not that interesting. And that Bevin must make some decisions on her own to keep her life interesting around me (something she’s not that good at) rather than going with the flow. . . . . . . .

I hope so. This is a very sweet, loving place. I’ve done my part. I long to have Bevin do well here. It’s up to her. Which is the scary part. I’ve done what I can to charm, prove she has a supportive and loving family, buried folks in pictures of cute families and stories of Bevin as charmer. . . . . .

The Castle

Okay. It’s not that bad!! But over the past couple of months I’ve often wondered whether I am on the outskirts. The logic of the world I’ve confronted trying to find a place for Bevin has often left me mystified.

The immediate incident that has sent me along this path of contemplation:

I found a good day program for Bevin. Her soon-to-be roommate at the group home she will move to on Monday goes to the same program. The roommate travels to the day program with a transportation service called Hope Link--three days a week. Bevin will be going to the same program five days a week. So it seems that it should be a no brainer to have Bevin travel on the same bus, the Hope-Link bus, too. But. . . . . . The rules have changed. The center in Bellevue (this center is in Issaquah) is a few miles closer. Hopelink will only take her there. (Though they will compensate me for the cost to have her use a different service, that won’t be available for 4 to six weeks). No matter that the trip to Issaquah takes 10 minutes along i_90 and the trip to Bellevue takes 30-45 minutes along the 405/520 corridor (hell holes of the Seattle area commute).

(Though there is footnote to this narrative. The director at the Issaquah program talked Hope Link into taking Bevin to the program until June--by which time I should have the other program, subsidized by Hope Link, available.)

I’m sure there is a logic that I am missing.

Certainly getting to the point I could actually call real people who run group homes and day programs was rather indirect. Like going through a series of entries, with a warrant for entry (paperwork that made it through the system):
        1.        I couldn’t apply for services until Bevin was living in Washington. That meant that I filled out the paperwork and waited until I was told that once I apply she would qualify. (This took a couple of weeks.)
        2.        Once I had Bevin in Washington, I called. Then they put her paperwork into the system. After 10-14 days, I was assigned a DDD (Developmental Disabilities Division) caseworker.
        3.        In the meantime, I went to the Social Security Administration, assured them that Bevin had moved to Washington, had me assigned as her SSI Payee--and was told to wait for the paperwork to go through (and her SSI to begin coming to me)
        4.        I called the DDD caseworker; we played phone tag and then she finally got back to me and made an appointment--in approximately a week to ten days.
        5.        This was the “intake” caseworker. She did the intake discussion (the short one, less than an hour). Then she warranted that I could go on to the next step.
        6.        We waited until another week until Bev’s SSI information went into the system (another week). Then she assigned me the caseworker of the next level.
        7.        So I called him, played phone tag, finally made an appointment--for 7-10 days hence.
        8.        He came to our house and did the “long” interview--this one took two hours. Then he had enough information to present Bevin’s case to the group family home crowd.
        9.        So a week later he gave me the names of family homes. He also gave me the names of some day programs.
        10.        So then I made the calls and made the appointments to meet the family home directors. (Another week.)
        11.        Then I went to visit the homes, identified two that might be possibilities.
        12.        Then we had to have all the paperwork sent to them (took another few days).
        13.        And finally I identified a home--waited the best part of another week until I was accepted.
        14.        And so at this point we begin talking about the day program, the group home.
        15.        But my caseworker knows nothing about how things are paid for, what my next steps are.
        16.        You guessed it!! I have yet another case worker. The family home caseworker. He is the one who seems to hold the secret information on how things are paid for, what I need to do next.
        17.        So now I’m playing phone tag with him. I’m hoping this doesn’t take too long.
        18.        At least Bevin is supposed to move into her home next Monday. . . . . .

And I’m exhausted. . . . . . .

Found a home

Bevin is going to move into the home that is closest to Sarah’s house. It will be easy for her to include Bev in more spur of the moment kinds of things with her kids. It will be easy access for me off the easiest freeway here. So the location couldn’t be better.

The girls there are all higher functioning than Bev--more language, some of them even read and have jobs. . . . . I’m hoping this will be good for Bevin. It will mean more is going on. I just hope she behaves and fits in. It would be sad if she couldn’t.

Today we’ve been shopping for a bed. I will probably have her move in by the end of next week. That way, I’ll be able to get a sense before I have to go back to work about whether the placement will work. I’ll still have a little time if somehow it doesn’t.

Wish Bevin luck!

Visiting

I spent today visiting two homes where Bevin might live. I liked both women who manage the two homes. One exists. And the other is a new home; it doesn’t exist yet. I vote for the one that exists. But I realize that I am “auditioning” Bev, and I’m not sure she’ll get the part. Maybe in either home. My first choice. A home that exists. The girls are all much more accomplished than my Bev. They talked to me. One even asked me about my job. Bev would be the least accomplished of the group. She liked the place. She met her potential roommate--an autistic girl who is apparently more accomplished than she presents. Bevin liked her. She remembered her name. And when we left, she said, “bye ja (read Jill).” Not sure they’ll choose Bev.

The other home is a theory. A nice theory. I liked the woman. She has other homes and she is smart, in touch. I would assent to Bev living there. But I didn’t see the home as a living entity. It's assemgling. I liked the vibes in my number 1. I could see that organism.

Stay tuned. Maybe neither will want Bev. . . . . Who could imagine that?

Mommy and Me

Bevin can be weirdly wonderous. This is her masterpiece: she pronounces the consonant sound “M” for two words only, Mommy and Me. For all other words, “M” becomes “W.” Hence Milk is “Wa.” Water is “Wa.” Matt is “Wa.” Mike is “Wa.” Mommy is Mommy. Me is Me.

Even Freud would smile.

I’ve spent six weeks now with Bevin--pretty much full time (with the general exception of one overnight with her sister and family per week). It struck me recently, that this devoted one on one has not happened for the two of us since Bevin was a very small, nursing baby. Even then, I left her with her father, I left her with babysitters, and I left her with her siblings. By the time she was three, I was leaving her at a day care center--lots of kids and people. So despite the way Bevin’s language (admittedly limited and perhaps as a result more eloquent) focuses on the isolated dyad of Mommy and Me, our life hasn’t. Which makes the past six weeks all the more instructive.

I came to this experiment with hope. I would detox my daughter--love her, feed her, walk, ride, sleep. And we would arrive at the sweet, wild child I have in my heart, I remember from her babyhood, toddlerhood. . . . . Mommy and Me. The cure.

Ah those twisted family plots. This is partly true. Bevin is happy. She loves me, she cuddles, we have great times together. We love to drive, we love to walk. I’ve discovered that Bev is great in coffee shops and bars--any place where her focus can be on a good drink (for her a soda, or in Bevin speak, “pa” or “poppie.”) But I am now also confronting those epic narratives about mothers and daughters, Mommy and Me. One on one can be more challenging than one in a group. Especially for Bevin, who doesn’t have a great deal of commitment, goal oriented behavior. It’s easier for her to encounter me, love me, fight with me, disobey me, than it is to work herself up to such battle in a group.

Sometimes Bevin seems out of time, out of place. A world to her own. And then I push a bit deeper and I find a truth about the most common place things we do. Mommy and Me. Continuity. Disconnect. Love. Fight. Me. Other. It’s how we come to who we are. Bevin is so very human. And that means, oh so complicated, frustrating, frightening, intriguing, wonderful.

A Bevin whisperer

I want to be one. This is now my goal.

Bevin can be scary when she cycles out of control. Not often. But often enough to require attention. She dips down into a well of anxiety and discontent. She runs about the house. She flushes toilets--again, again, again, again, again, again. . . . .. She begins puffing, spitting (not sure how to describe this very weird behavior). If you impede her progress in running about the house (and flushing toilets, and puffing) , she is way pissed. Throws things, big things (a toy microwave, a lamp, a vase, anything at hand . . . .). And she is aggressive. That means she hits--me, if she can.

What to do? I love Bevin. I find her charming. Even at her worst I’m scared, but intrigued, interested, engaged. I’ve always thought of Bevin as my wild child. So I forgive her beyond what I can sustain for others.

The basic task: to control her behavior to the point that others will find her as charming, intriguing, lovely, as I do. And treat her the way they would any charming, intriguing, lovely, young woman. I find myself returning to two memories that are weirdly parallel, in synch. Which makes me pay attention.

Number ONE: Last fall, my husband and I visited my son and his wife. And I learned about how to be a dog whisperer. My son’s wife (SW) had rescued an enthusiastic, badly behaved black lab from certain death. Maggie. Smelly, loving, on the edge. SW was clear on these basic principles. Here’s what I remember:
--You (person, homo sapien) must establish yourself as alpha dog.
--Establish boundaries. (For Maggie, she can go into the kitchen, the family room, the hall, the stairs, but not the living room, the computer room, or the kid’s room.)
--Reward good behavior. (For a dog, lots of pets, loves, food.)
--Make bad behavior less than pleasant. (For a dog, this means a choke chain.)
--Ignore neutral behavior.
--Do everything you can to help your dog succeed. This means lots of exercise. Letting your dog outside when she’s about to lose it.
And Maggie was making progress. She lapsed from time to time. But for the most part she didn’t come into the living room and she didn’t come into our bedroom.

Number TWO: Bevin’s first school was CBTU in Salt Lake City--the Children’s Behavior Therapy Unit(at Douglas school on 13th East). Bevin began attending at the age of three. Most of the children were autistic (Bevin never had enough “points” to be autistic, or autistic like, but she this school definitely made a difference in Bevin’s life.) This school rescued badly behaved, developmentally disabled children. Taught them to behave in a way that brought them closer to what the world expects. You attend. You don’t bite, hit, fight. . . . . You comply. This is what Bevin learned, to attend, to fit in. And this was important. The rules of the therapy unit:
--You win. Don’t engage a struggle if you aren’t willing to take it to the end.
--Establish boundaries. The developmentally disabled child (DDC) will behave as specified. Look at me, listen, smile. . . . .
--Reward good behavior.
--Make bad behavior less than pleasant--boring, a dead end. (For A DDC that means isolation, repetition, boredom. For Bevin, that sometimes meant a blindfold, not looking at her, repetition, a timeout corner, a hold to quiet her in publoic.)
--Do everything you can to help your DDC succeed. For Bevin, this means, lots of driving, walks, trips into public places where there are lots of interesting people. . . . . .

Since bringing Bevin to Seattle, I’ve been rummaging in my grab bag for tools that will help the two of us succeed. And I’ve gone back to this twinning structure--the dog whisperer, behavior therapy. Bad behavior is annoying. How to extinguish the behavior? With a a very basic creature--she just won’t listen to reason. She has no reason.

And so? I want to be a Bevin whisperer. She needs to succeed, to be lovable. And that success depends on me--the alpha dog. And she’ll be happier if we succeed. Certainly I’ll be happier if we succeed.