The Po Show

Jump Start

It seems I'm doing whatever it takes these days to keep from writing, including having a car accident and subsequent bodily suffering. I'm finding cool books to read, taking naps, watching the NBA playoffs. Anything to avoid writing.

I know there are some people out there who became writers because they couldn't help it; they have to write. They get ideas, and the ideas bitch and moan and torment them in the middle of the night and in the midst of all other tasks until they get committed to paper or monitor. Then there are other writers to whom it doesn't come easily; they have to work at it. They have to sit their butts down in their chairs and force themselves to something of a writing schedule, treating it like a 9-5 job. They tell themselves it doesn't matter what crap they write, at first anyway, as long as something gets put down on the page (virtual or otherwise).

My ideas flit around in my head, but don't seem strong-willed enough to force their way out. It seems that I don't want to start, because then I might have to finish? The question mark there indicates my ambivalence. Do I have to finish? Not really. No one is making me write. I should do it because I want to. Do I want to?

There just has to be something more to my life than doing laundry and shopping. I need some crank in my head to turn, to get me started on something else.

Other Paths

The weirdness of Facebook continues. I got a friend request from a woman who was one of my best friends in late elementary school. We hung out a lot in junior high and some in high school as well.

Pre-adolescence, she was sort of gawky and awkward, taller than all the boys. She did gymnastics and was in very good physical shape. During our early teen years, she got a lot of acne and was still taller than all the boys, so she remained sort of awkward and socially uncomfortable. Then later in high school, her skin cleared up some, and she started taking modeling classes, and she was suddenly attractive. She had a huge romantic courtship with the older brother of one of my best friends. After high school, she went to Europe to model and, I heard from others, was fairly successful. She was not classically pretty, but she was tall and had a beautiful figure and she was very photogenic. I didn't hear anything from or about her for almost 25 years.

Now I see that she is in NYC, and she has a wildly successful design company that she started 7 years ago. She designs furnishings and housewares, the kind you see on MTV or something. From her FB page, I saw that she just designed the interior of this insanely exclusive lounge club in midtown, where apparently you need to know one of the 100 "ambassadors" of the club to get in. Some of the Tribeca Film Festival private parties were held there. There are several pictures of her, and she is gorgeous and poised, in a dress that no doubt cost more than I've spent collectively on every single item of clothing in my entire life.

This is all so foreign that I find it completely bizarre. It's not like I'd want that life, or even understand what that kind of life is even about, but it's just really strange to think that this woman came from the same place and time I did. We used to walk home from 6th grade together. She almost got us kicked out of Disneyland once, when she spit out of the Fantasyland Skyway and her spittle landed on a park employee. She announced it to all the girls in class when I got my first period, because I was the first one and she was so shocked. We slept over at each other's houses. She seemed...ordinary.

It's odd to think of the paths that we choose, and where they lead.

Crash

It's been over a week since I had my car accident. More than a fender bender, less than a major collision. No one was injured (though my neck and back hurt, more now than immediately after the accident, which is both common and annoying), which of course is the main thing. The kids were not in the car with me, so no trauma there.

It's just sobering to think that a clueless woman could shake up my existence with a simple turn of her steering wheel. She pulled a freaking U-turn right in front of me, and my car went smash (to the tune of $6400). I had that fluid, drawn-out, "oh shit" moment between the time when I realized I wasn't going to be able to stop in time, that I was going to hit her, and actual impact. My head snapped forward and back, my sunglasses flew off my face and landed on the floor of the car. My first reaction was to yell at her, as she continued to curve around my car, through the closed window, "What were you doing? WHAT WERE YOU DOING??" Then I burst into tears, hysterical sobbing that lasted awhile. She got out of her car and asked if I was all right, her mother got out of the car and asked if I was all right, and I continued to sob. "Ma'am, why are you crying?," she asked, and I wanted to scream at her that I was crying because she'd pulled a left U-turn from the right lane right in front of me and made me hit her. We'd just had a accident! Why shouldn't I be crying? Her stupidity could have fucking killed me, if the impact had been different.

For years I've said: we're all inches from death. We coast around in these metal boxes, at speeds faster than any living thing was ever designed to go. We have our air bags and our crumple zones and we think we're safe, but obviously we are not. We hear about fatal crashes all the time. We see the ambulances on the freeway, we see the headlines in the newspaper. It's the stuff of movies, but it really does happen. This woman had her 90 year old grandfather and her 85 year old grandmother in the back seat, and she pulled a stupid stunt like that. She was not *watching*, she was not *paying attention*, which seems the normal state for so many people out there. It seems like every week, I have someone pull into my lane, float over the divider line, pull in front of me in an intersection without looking to see if it's safe to do so.

We are at the mercy of the unfathomable, unknowable lameness of others. We can do all we can in our metal boxes, but there are others in their own metal boxes that can put themselves into our paths. Physics don't play, and our squishy, soft shells are no match for the crash.

Happy Mother's Day

I had a perfectly lovely Mother's Day today, with all kinds of sweet gifts and cards and lots of yummy food (a truly eclectic mix, as we walked from one spot to the next in the city: pho, pommes frites, pomegranate frozen yogurt, and my favorite almond croissant).

Matthew made me a really cute card (green construction paper) and painted a terra cotta pot for me (in green. Since green is my favorite color, every Mother's Day ends up looking like St. Patrick's Day around here :D). I'd gotten a call from the unit supervisor on Friday afternoon, that he'd been REALLY upset because the plant they put in my pot was not as Matthew wanted it to be. It was too droopy, too small, too funny-looking. They were trying to help him, but it was the very end of the day, so he decided he'd rather have not have any plant in it, so they yanked it out and cleaned out the dirt. He had to change the card he'd made me, which had said, "I hope you like the pot and the plant." He was able to erase "and the plant." I give him ENORMOUS props for this, because the former Matthew would have refused to give me the card at all, because it wasn't perfect, and would probably have thrown the pot on the ground and broken it. Instead, he got it together and was able to give them both to me :).

Ross got them each a card to give me, and got me exactly what I'd wanted: a flour sifter :). I'm also getting an iPhone docking clock radio, which will be $20 off at Costco starting tomorrow. Luckily they took back the one Ross got me last month (and on which Tessa wrote "Happy Mother's Day" on the top! I was able to get the writing off using a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, though you could sort of see the pen indentations), which we realized was only for iPods.

Tessa made me cards and gifts from herself and her imaginary siblings. Yes, apparently I have acquired new children recently. Tessa told me about them awhile ago, and I had sort of forgotten because she hasn't talked about them since. But today I received aluminum flowers from Roy, and a flower picture from Ying-Yang (I'm serious). The gift tags indicated they were from "Roy, Tessa's imaginary twin brother" and "Ying-Yang, Tessa's imaginary sister"). Tessa herself made me a folded envelope card (green construction paper) and an origami doll that is supposed to be me (wearing a green dress and with a big heart on the front).

I could just melt from all the sweetness.

Happy Mother's Day to all you wonderful mommies out there.

An Extended Stroll Down Memory Lane

As part of my mental prep for writing about our experiences with getting Matthew help over the years, I thought I'd skim through my blog, which I began in 2004. Of course, I ended up reading every entry (which didn't really take all that long, since there were lots of periods of time during which I didn't post much).

It was really fun, and often funny, and often poignant. Tessa was only two at the time. Matthew was doing so well at the end of his second round of kindergarten, interacting really well with other kids. I had a job (which sucked royally, but still, it was a job). I loved the house we lived in.

Then we moved, and I had all these high hopes for how things would continue to improve. Most of those didn't pan out, and though I think I might actually be in a better mental place right now than I was in 2004, there was a lot of darkness between then and now. While it's gratifying that we've come out of it, and Matthew is getting the help he needs, the chronicle of suffering is tough to read.

FIVE years. How could we have lived here for five years?

How They Get Him

So it's been over a week since our IEP meeting, but I really wanted to share some excerpts from the Continued Stay Review that the school submitted for Matthew, because it's quite remarkable. Why has it taken me over a week to post? I've been...busy. (Basically ever since I posted about writing a book, I've taken to doing things like going back to sleep after the kids leave for school, and reading a lot. Let's all join hands and analyze THAT! :p)

Anyway, here's some of the report:

"Matthew's mental health needs are of the utmost importance as without strong supports in this area, his ability to function is severely compromised. He needs a small, self-contained classroom with predictable, consistent routines to alleviate his anxiety. He needs the availability of crisis prevention and intervention in support of the classroom program. It is only when he feels safe and secure in his surroundings that he can begin to trust the significant adults to help him and guide him when he is feeling overwhelmed and upset.

Socially, Matthew is a sweet, sensitive boy who is often overwhelmed by the complexities of social interactions. He does not understand social nuances or the effect that his behavior may have on others. His rigid thinking also hinders his ability to relate to others. He is competitive and does not like to lose or to be wrong in a game/discussion. These are very painful experiences for Matthew and he may lash out at others or at himself in frustration and/or disappointment. However, when he feels comfortable in his environment and shares an area of interest with another student, he very much enjoys having a conversation. At these times, he is animated, interesting, and very engaging. He needs close adult supervision during all social times to feel secure and to intervene in the moment when necessary before things begin to escalate..."

There's a lot more, but can you BELIEVE how perfect this is? This is exactly what I've been saying, since he was a toddler. For all those years, this is what he needed. I'm so struck by how inappropriate all those old behavioral intervention plans were (including the ones his former private therapist kept shoving down my throat), because this is what he needed. All the sticker charts and points and prizes in the world were not going to make up for what he really needed, which was being kept emotionally safe in his environment. And that was never going to happen with one teacher in a class with 20 kids, or an aide there for half the day, even if that teacher and that aide were wonderful. Having a school psychologist who understood him and loved him wasn't enough, when she tended to only see him in the aftermath of a disaster, when it was too late. The bottom line is that what Matthew needs is a lot of adult attention, a lot of eyes on the ground, and people who are not going to continually try to force him to do what he is not capable of doing.

(On a separate, sad, and sweet note: the girl in class that Matthew has been very attached to, the fun and funky Lydia, is leaving the school. I'm not sure if she's going to public school in her district or to another private school. I heard that when the class was told that she was leaving, Matthew asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, and when he returned it was obvious that he had been crying. He talks about her all of the time, more than he's ever talked about a classmate, so I feel so sad for him.)