RenovationGirl

You Mean Insurance DOES Cover Some Things?

Last year in Builder Boy's first year of preschool, his director, a former speech therapist, mentioned that I shouldn't "be alarmed" but he might have a speech issue.  I was shocked, but certainly not alarmed.  Builder Boy did not fit into the standard speech problems scenario.  He started "talking" at nine months...some of his first words were "Dada" and "bananananananana."  Once he realized he was making sense, it took off from there.  Just a couple of months later, he started speaking in "sentences."  "Beep, beep, Dada!" as he asked Remodel Man to beep the car horn (unnecessary car horn beeping drives me batty, so of course, Remodel Man taught this to Builder Boy very early...).  Builder Boy is not shy to talk and talks pretty much all the time. So, yes, I was shocked. 

She suggested that we could either get a speech evaluation or wait to see if it worked itself out.  After conferring with the pediatrician, we decided to get the evaluation sooner rather than later since Builder Boy was getting frustrated when we were not understanding him.  The evaluation uncovered a "mild articulation disorder" which will be quickly remedied with therapy.  Phew! 

Only problem, when I called the insurance company to see what was covered, they told me what they always tell me-nothing.  It covers nothing.  Insurance not covering something is not new to the infertile.  It is expected.  Remodel Man and I began to discuss which non-vital organs we would sell off first to pay for the therapy.  Imagine my disbelief when I received a call today from the speech therapy place telling me that he was covered, COVERED!!!!, for 25 visits a year!!!  I have no idea why I was given different information when I called, but I am not questioning this stroke of luck.  25 visits gets us through this year and a few months into the next.  That might be just enough to fix his problem, but if it's not, who cares?  Insurance actually covered us for something. 

It's like Christmas morning...

And I Thought I Was Stressed...

There's a lot of stress in the Renovators household...Remodel Man is looking for a new job and career, Builder Boy is testing every boundary in his little world, and I am dealing with both of those stresses plus my own multiple jobs, this house, the bills, the laundry, the infertility and so on.  But on Saturday night, I discovered another household member is totally stressed out, too.

Our cat, Deconstructor Cat #1, or DC1, came into our room first thing Saturday morning to cry for food.  A few seconds later, he was getting kicked out by Remodel Man.  He had been sitting strangely on top of some dirty clothes with a dazed look in his eyes and weird muscle movements in the nether regions.  We've seen this before when he was sick and peeing all over the house.  I thought we had over-reacted and that he was just sitting there.

Later that night, we saw him sitting on a mailing box, looking the same way.  As he jumped off, we noticed a tiny puddle...and it was dark.  Dark as in bloody.  I checked the litterbox and it was much of the same.  Sigh...here we go again.

I drove DC1 to another city where they had an all night emergency care animal center.  Five hours and $300 later, the diagnosis:  STRESS.  Turns out, DC1 is stressed out, too.  Most likely from the abundant affections of a four year old who loves DC1 very much.  DC1 tolerates Builder Boy, but makes it clear it's only toleration.  Recently, Builder Boy's affections have been numerous and very passionate...and DC1 is not happy. 

The doctor had to sedate him to do some and tests...DC1 would have none of it.  Somehow, they got the xrays, which showed nothing, but that was about all he would allow.  So, now we wait and attempt to lower the stress of the cat.  He is still, almost 24 hours later, feeling the effects of the sedation.  He is walking normally now, unlike last night when he was walking like a drunken sailor, but he is lethargic and groggy and his third eye is still hanging out there.  He's breaking my heart. 

We are one stressed out family here...you know it's bad when your feline is on kitty Vali.um...

Just a City Girl

Last week, we went to our annual county fair.  This is a yearly tradition for us that dates back to before we even lived in this county.  There's something about a hot, sticky night, gyros and funnel cakes, and seeing live animals up close that just makes for a perfect summer night. 

While there, I experienced something that I have never experienced before-a demolition derby.  Being raised fairly close to the city of Pittsburgh, a night out for us was to see some theater, eat out at a nice restaurant by the river, or ride the incline to Mt. Washington.  It was not going to a demolition derby.  Marrying a car guy (have I ever mentioned that Remodel Man has an addiction to cars???), you would think I would have been taken to one by this point, but Remodel Man loves cars...not the demolition of them. 

Remodel Man thought it would be cool to see this, so we trudged over to the derby arena.  I was at first fasincated, then horrified, and then sad.  My fascination stemmed from the "rules" of the "game."  I asked a million questions of Remodel Man, attempting to whisper them so none of the country folk would think me daft.   I was fascinated by the firefighters (most likely volunteers) who stood guard and put out car fires.  The derby began and the horror of it hit me fully.  "Those poor cars!" I'd gasp.  I shrieked and covered my eyes (peeking through my fingers, of course) and worried about these cars and their drivers.  At one point, a car rode up over another and landed on its driver side.  The crowd cheered; I felt sick.  I just kept saying to  Remodel Man, "This is horrible!  What a horrible thing to do!"  Then, as one by one the cars were pushed to the side and only a couple remained, I felt so sad.  I know cars have no souls, they are not human, etc., but I am sentimental.  I was traumatized when I sold the very first car I ever owned.  Then, when my second car was totalled in an accident (not my fault), I was so sad to say goodbye.  And I've seen and teared up to Herb.ie Fully Lo.aded far more times than I'd like to admit.  I just couldn't help think of all the memories people had of these cars that were smashing one another to bits. 

I just didn't get it.  But I looked around the stands to see smiling faces and hear the cheering of the crowds.  They loved it.  And I still don't get it.  I guess I am just a city girl through and through. 

Is That Crickets I Hear?

As a child, hearing the crickets chirping away at night signaled the end of summer and the beginning of what we around my house call, "the 'S' word"-school.   I remember feeling a sense of anticipation hearing those crickets-new school clothes, hanging out with my friends, Friday night football games, and just plain fun.  Now, as a teacher, the sound of those crickets fills me with dread. 

It's not that I dislike what I do.  I truly feel that I am called to teach.  Instead, it's the end of the time when I get to pretend I am a stay-at-home mom.  This year is especially tough for me.  At the beginning of each summer, I create a list of all the projects I want to accomplish.  It is such a great feeling to cross off a project from the list and feel momentarily organized...or at least I imagine it must feel good because this year I have accomplished not one thing on my list.  This coupled with the difficult times with Builder Boy makes me want to scream.  I am blessed to have a job that gives me (well-deserved mind you!!!) a two month break every year.  I should have a spotless house and  a charming and advanced child-but I don't.

Instead I begin my year with unresolved child issues, a house as dirty and disorganized as the day school let out, and still barren.  Sigh...will somebody shut those crickets up, please?!

The Lifting Fog

Today was a clearer day.  That dark, sad place that I lived in yesterday was replaced by the beautiful, joy-filled sunny and warm day that was today.  Thank you for so  many heartfelt comments and support.  As soon as I hit "publish," I wanted to delete the post, but I didn't.  Partially, because I needed your comments; partially because I need this public reminder of how terrible yesterday was so I can strive to be more patient, loving, strong, and grace-filled. 

Remodel Man and I spent a vast majority of yesterday evening talking the day through.  We came up with an action plan which we will implement slowly.  What I discovered (besides what a heartless, nasty, lunatic  I can be to this clever, funny, caramel-eyed boy) was that we need to practice what we preach.  We lack the follow-through ourselves, so why should Builder Boy follow-through?  If we are asking him to pick up his toys every night, then we need to pick up our own "toys," too.  If we are asking him to be patient, then I need to be patient myself.  (Notice, that was "I" not "we."  Remodel Man has far more patience than I ever will.) 

Here is what our action plan consists of:

1.  A Family meeting (kind of weird with only the three of us, but hey, SuperNan.ny does it all the time!) during which time we will discuss:

2.  Family Rules

3.  Family Chore Chart

4.  TV time (a card system that I have been thinking of for awhile now, but failed to implement it)

I also spoke with a friend's husband tonight who is a child psychologist.  I had mentioned to my friend that I had been worried about Builder Boy and she said to talk to her husband.  By my explanations of the behaviors I am seeing, he very assuredly told me that there is nothing wrong with Builder Boy.  He did suggest that our parenting skills probably need some tweaking, but he did so respectfully and with great understanding (he has four kids and they suffered with infertility themselves).  So, that made me feel a lot better. 

Builder Boy has talked about our day yesterday at random times, processing that Mama can get mad, but still loves him.  It must be a hard concept for little ones to grasp.  I worry that he will remember this particular day, but hope that even if he does, the good days will hold the greatest place in his memory.

Thank you again for your comments and support.  As I sobbed through each of them, it reminded me that I am not in fact alone in this. 

Alone

I am blessed in my life to have many friends who I would call "good friends," but over the past few months, I have never felt more alone in my life.  It seems that all of us are dealing with major life issues right now, and because of this, when I talk to my friends, I am always quick to ask about their problems.  Time is limited on the phone for me, so by the time we get around to me, one or the both of us has to run to attend to one of the many "emergencies" that involve one of our kids.  Or when I am having an especially difficult day, like today, I do reach out and no one is home.  (Is there any worse feeling than that?) By the time anyone can return the call, the storms have calmed, the skies have cleared, and that darkness that fills your spirit has lifted, albeit temporarily. 

You see, I'm having a lot of problems with Builder Boy.  It started when he was two, got bad around three, and now, he's just unbearable.  I'm not sure if there is something emotionally wrong with him.  I'm not sure if it's my parenting or temperament.  When I talk to anyone about it, I always get the flippant reply.  "Oh, he's just acting his age."  "That's totally normal for a four year old."  Etc, etc, and so on.  And while yes, the things I describe are perfectly normal for his age, the intensity with which he displays these moods, behaviors, etc., are far from normal. 

Today was the highlight of my "Mom of the Year" moment.  There we were in Wal.mart (I place I despise more than anywhere on this earth) to pick up one lousy container of lime juice.  Builder Boy was ticked off about something (I don't even know that I knew what at the time) and I was ignoring him and trying to get out and to where we needed to be.  (Following the textbook advice to ignore bad behavior, praise good behavior-HA!)  He wanted to stop and look at something, but I told him that we couldn't this time.  I started walking, holding his hand, and he started to pull on me to stop.  I reiterated that we did not have time today, and he continued pulling.  I dragged him for a few feet until he threw himself on the ground.  I calmly told him we needed to leave and that we were getting in peoples' way and walked away from him.  He flipped out and continued trying to hang on me, tripping me in my flip flops and causing quite a scene.  This continued to the car, (after I had picked him up literally kicking and screaming and looking like every other piece of white trash at Wal.mart) and by the time we got to our car, I lost it.  I just couldn't handle it another minute.  Months and months of freaking out over everything-and I mean everything-just got to me, there in the parking lot of a store I hate.  And I yelled.  I yelled, "you f%$#ing little brat."  Yep.  Mother of the freaking year.  I used the f-word to my son, about my son for the world to hear.  I was the woman who you judge in the Wal.mart parking lot.  I was the woman you tsk-tsk about as you head to your car feeling badly for the child she is raising.  If you are infertile, I was the woman you whispered to your husband about, "SHE can have a kid and we can't?!"  I was that women.

But I am at wit's end.  My son is out of control.  I have reached out to many people with no help at all.  Everyone, if they take me seriously, throws up their hands and says, "I don't know what to tell you."  I know he is a spoiled kid.  He has too many toys.  He always wants more.  He rarely plays with any of them.  He lacks discipline.  He lacks structure.  He rules this roost.  This was my situation to create and now it is my situation to fix.  Alone.  Remodel Man, while a loving father, is the good cop to my bad cop.  He is Super-Dad and the fun one.  That's not going to change.  So this is up to me.  I know I can't do it all at the same time.  I must work to control each bad behavior and once mastered, move onto the next one.  But I'm scared.  It's hard to do this.  I takes patience, of which I have none, and consistency, which is not easy for me. 

And so here I sit, alone, trying to figure out how to change the terrible situation that I have created.  I feel weak.  My spirit feels depleted.  My prayers are more like begging.  I am always nervous and trying to hold back the flood of tears.  But I am desperate to salvage the sweet, funny, kooky, empathetic little boy who was once in that lean, tall body of his.  I have to do it for him.  For us.  Alone.

What Have You Done This Morning?

Can you see what is inside Builder Boy's butterfly catcher?  Is it a beautiful butterfly?  Look closely:

Any ideas?  No?  Try this picture:

Okay, wait...that's a little blurry.  How about this one:

Guesses?  Well, how about a little story?  This is how my morning began.  I was so proud of myself for getting up before Builder Boy (for once!) and getting a few things done before our day officially began.  I walked upstairs to do a few more things.  Remodel Man was in the bathroom so the door was closed.  I noticed a black blob stuck in the corner of the door.  Because we always fear the cute little animal in the above pictures, I got a little closer, but not too close.  Sigh...fears realized.  We had a bat.  Sleeping.  On our bathroom door.

Mind you, we have them all the time, but this summer, we've had a bit of a reprieve.  And I am never the one to have to do something about them when we do have them.  But Remodel Man was inside the bathroom and the bat was outside hanging on the door.  It was up to me.  I managed to get the bat into the butterfly catcher and covered it with some cardboard.  Remodel Man, ousted from his throne, was able to open the door now and found me screeching all girly-like, but in a whisper, because of course I didn't want to wake Builder Boy.  I was dancing and prancing softly and shaking and screeching, but I was paralyzed in one place.  Remodel Man (my hero...) removed the butterfly catcher from my hand and calmly carried it downstairs where we took it outside to its freedom (and I am sure, back into our attic...). 

But its daytime and bats aren't so crazy about the day.  So, I had time to grab the camera (hey, a blog writer is always looking for that great blog post!) while Remodel Man attempted to shake the bat out of the butterfly catcher.  My one cat looked on with great interest.  (Thanks, you stupid cat, for only noticing the bat once it was outside!!!)  As I began this post, the bat was still there, hanging onto the butterfly catcher for dear life.

So, that's how I started my morning...how about you?

Pins and Needles

So, I found an acupuncturist who specializes in infertility after the really good one "didn't have time" for me.  While the new one, we'll call her Ms. Pins and Needles, is farther away than I wanted, she was kind, understanding, confident, and encouraging.  No guarantees, of course, but there was at least a little glimmer of hope that this might work.  If not, what's the worst thing that could happen?  My stress is a little bit relieved?  Okay, I'll take it.

Pre-infertility, I was terrified of needles.  Shots were torturous, and if I had to give blood, forget it!  The first round of infertility testing changed all of that.  They took 18 vials of blood at one sitting, and besides almost passing out, I did it.  Since then, I don't mind it so much.  They took my blood every other day for how many  months and I lived.  Remodel Man gave me 3, sometimes 4 shots some nights of treatment, and I lived.  But I won't lie, I was a bit nervous about my first acupuncture appointment.

Guess what?  I lived.  It was no big deal at all.  She kept me talking while she placed the needles in my head, abdomen, legs and feet.  She kept me talking about Builder Boy, which I am sure was no coincidence.  She finished it quickly, placed the soothing music on, turned out the lights, and told me I had to relax..."You have to, because you can't move-you've got  needles all over you."  She chuckled and walked out.  I chuckled, too, because she was right!

I had a hard time relaxing.  Relaxing doesn't come easy for me anymore.  I'm too stressed about too many things.  But I tried.  I said a mantra that I thought was baby-friendly.  (Okay, between you and me, I changed the mantra a few times while there...yeah, I'm really good at meditating...)  I tried taking deep breaths, although I got a little freaked about breathing deeply with those needles in me.  Strangely enough, though, I was able to get to a mild meditative state which I have never been able to do at home.  I can't quite describe it, but I felt like I was tingly, sort of floating, but not really.  I was relaxed, but not asleep, but not wholly aware of things outside of myself.  I came in and out of these a couple of times.  I was kind of cool!

After she took the needles out, I felt normal, but the next day,  I felt calmer.  Perhaps it was the treatment, or perhaps it was because it was the first time in 5 years that I was allowed to sit and relax for more than five uninterrupted minutes.  Regardless, I feel good. 

I go back three days this week-the three days she suspects I will ovulate.  I had the option of doing the OPK (ovulation predictor kit), but I chose not to.  Maybe next month, but for this month, we'll just see what happens.  I feel a slight sense of hope which feels good and scary at the same time.  It's good to feel positive about my fertility, but it is also scary to have that sense of hope that could be crushed so easily. 

Oh well, I'll just be on "pins and needles" to see what happens.