Category Archives: raising children

Mar24

I get her.

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I don’t believe in child support. I don’t believe in government involvement.

There, I said it.

Friend of the Court called me yesterday for a friendly conversation. We had our 3-year review, guess who didn’t send in documents or fill out the form. Hint: it wasn’t the responsible parent—they even got my letter.

I have a great relationship with the FOC. I’ve always lived by transparency and honesty, the use of documentation to back things up, and being proactive. They called to ask me if I wanted to increase my child support that I received.

I turned the opportunity down.

The lady was absolutely amazed by my response. It’s uncommon. She couldn’t refrain from asking me why instead of letting it go, so we continued into a discussion.

It’s my belief that because I get to—not have to, I get to—raise Evelynn, she is my responsibility. Her dad may have donated the sperm but in my eyes, she only has one parent. Even if you ask her, she finds it weird when kids split parenting time between houses; she only wants to live with me and maybe visit with him. He’s a friend to her, not a parent.

I related to this woman how I believe Evelynn is my sole responsibility. I pay the bills. I handle her school and sports and doctor visits. Since I get to be the parent in her life every day, I don’t care about the money. Now, when he comes at me wanting to use Evelynn as a pawn in dating or for his ego or making claims of how he’s her father or because he’s jealous of a new guy in my life, then I make sure he is up to date on payments (he’s typically behind). I also don’t allow him to get crazy in changing the visitation schedule.

I believe in consistency. I will not allow for him to get her hopes up only for him to start cancelling again. It appears seeing her only five times a year is best for him not to cancel. We tried it, her last birthday, for him to see her twice within a month because he forgot about her birthday being the following weekend; SHOCKER he cancelled on the second one due to sickness.

Called it.

A man who claims he never got sick while we were together suddenly was always sick and had to cancel. He’s cancelled so many times over the years we are now down to him only seeing her—supervised visits only, of course—five times a year. When she was a baby, we started the schedule at twice a week. Imagine cancelling so much that he went from 104 visits a year to only five. Absolutely insane to me.

When we also broke up, FOC wasn’t involved—they forced their involvement eventually due to needing state insurance for Evelynn—and he only gave me $100 a month for diapers. When FOC told him that amount was increasing, he was furious. I didn’t really care. I even allowed them to lie about my income so he could pay less.

Once, I also offered him $25,000 to walk away with the promise I would lie to people and tell them I had cheated on him, that she wasn’t his. To his credit, he refused. More to ego, than anything. Though, I can’t fathom why over the years given how much he cancelled on her to golf with buddies or due to hangovers (social media and many mutual friends slapped me in the face with the truth). Then again, at the time, he had gone months without seeing her in hopes of manipulating me into missing him (yes, he admitted this). It backfired on him.

He’s a man of poor calculating skills.

Yes, I’m not afraid to admit I attempted to pay him off. I would rather my daughter have a father who is not involved at all than one who didn’t even want her, cancels on her, uses her to boost his ego, and quite frankly, not even worthy of her.

Evelynn is amazing. Her personality gives me life. She saved me. I’m not sure how anyone could ever give her up.

Then there’s the entire history of him hurting me, manipulating me, degrading me.

Clearly, I have no respect for him.

Back to FOC.

What infuriates me is this stigma against single moms wanting the dad to pay for everything. I could care less if he pays, I simply want him gone. My daughter is strong because I have nurtured that within her. I have made sure to love her twice as hard. I have played good cop and bad cop, parent and friend.

Evelynn will tell you how I’m “such a mom. The other kids’ moms aren’t really moms because they don’t make their kids eat veggies for lunch like you do. I know I don’t want to and why you make me, but you’re really a mom.”

I am that mom. I know my kid. As soon as we sway from her daily designated fruit, veggie, and protein intake and her sleep schedule, she gets sick. Happens like clockwork every time. Yet, she’s rarely sick, hasn’t been to the doctor since before covid (just a couple phone calls). Clearly what I do works. She’s not a fan of the rules but she understands them. And because she knows how much I love her, she respects them….mostly.

Anyway, back to FOC. Again.

This woman couldn’t believe me. She couldn’t believe my ex.

I can’t blame her.

He’s mandated to provide for Evelynn’s health insurance and pay 80 percent of her medical bills. He hasn’t. I have her insurance, I pay her bills. He racked up late fees and I paid them. She had a heart condition when she was born (she had two holes in her heart, thankfully they healed themselves) and multiple audiology appointments (diagnosis: stubborn and selective hearing, legitimately. She made a movement showing she heard the sound but then wouldn’t turn towards the sound to indicate she knew where it was coming from, instead she would do this very slight head tilt and a smirk. She was only three. They had never seen this reaction before, they found it hilarious. I did not). I racked up $18,000 in medical debt for her because I refused to ask him for money and I had to pay his late fees since most of the bills were past due.

By the way, he never asked when or how those visits went. Someone else had to bring it up for him to remember.

Holes in the heart is not normal. That’s not forgettable. It should not be forgettable.

I refused to be the single mom who made the ex pay for the kid he didn’t even want, a kid I would do anything for.

The woman at the FOC was appalled. I didn’t even give her details. She was simply appalled looking at his child support payment history and hearing he wasn’t providing her insurance or hadn’t paid medical bills. She’s sending me a form and highly recommended in the future, that I not only don’t allow for this to continue but to get the court involved if it does. It’s his responsibility.

Funny, he claims that as Evelynn’s father it’s his responsibility too, to provide for her, and yet he doesn’t do it. The boy only knows how to talk about doing and thankfully I’ve stopped listening. I learned early on he was never good at taking any action.

Let’s travel back to my core belief: I get to raise my daughter.

I get to tuck her in at night. I get to enjoy her laughter daily. I get to hold her daily. I get to watch her play soccer. I get to listen to her sing and hum through her entire day. I get to send her off to school and do the morning rituals of a kiss and “Have a good day, love you!” and for her to yell it back to me proudly. I get to do our nightly “I looooooove youuuu” song followed by tickles as I tuck her in. I get to do all that. I choose to. Every day. That’s a freaking blessing.

The fact that he has messed up so terribly and doesn’t even care, has allowed me to get that for over 7 years.

Get that.

Do you understand the difference? Do you understand the meaning of word change and how much word choice matters?

I’ve been thinking about it all day and night.

Yet again back to FOC, though. She couldn’t believe my decision. Asked me three times. Asked about the medical debt and going after him for repayment. It’s off my radar. I only care about lack of time he has with her. It still makes me sick knowing he’s around my daughter, knowing at some point in my life I had hit such rock bottom to allow him near me. Knowing what he did to me and yet gets to breathe the same air as Evelynn.

The only thing I wish they’d change is his connection to Evelynn. She deserves so much more than him. Her having his last name as part of hers sickens me, still. I’ve seen his dating profile—you would never guess how little he sees her. He shouldn’t have that privilege to “claim” her as his.

I’ve said it before and I will say it again: it’s 2022, family dynamics have drastically changed along with society’s acceptance and views. Providing half the DNA doesn’t make one a parent, it only makes a child. Our actions and love make the parent.

He loves to correct me when I call her “my daughter” instead of “our daughter.”

She is my daughter and I love the hell out of her. He can keep his money; I get to have her.

Feb15

Calling dibs on single mom status.

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Calling dibs on single mom status.

I’m a single mom. That’s just who I am. I’m a mom who by definition takes care of her kid on her own. A fulltime single mom.

It’s what I’ve known.

I make all the decisions. I pay the bills. I play good and bad cop. I play parent and best friend. I don’t have someone to turn to as backup or support. I don’t have someone to talk through hardships with. I don’t have someone to juggle her schedule with. I figure it out on my own. All of it. There’s no one to argue with when she’s sick and must stay home from school. There’s not many options for me to call to pick up my kid from school if I’m stuck in a meeting or running late. There’s no one to take her to school if I’m sick.

There’s no one to rock paper scissors with on Saturday mornings when she wakes up at 7am and is ready for some dippity eggs and toast. There’s no one to cover for me when I have a debilitating migraine and need a day off spent in bed, amid darkness, quietness, and closed blinds. There’s no one to spend time with Evelynn during the long working days. My daughter is known for being my showing assistant.

It’s not a path well lit. It’s a path lit by just a cell phone with a dying battery that must be made sure to be charged every night.

Aka it’s poorly lit.

Aka sleep isn’t always on my side.

It’s navigated by putting one foot in front of the other and trusting my feet and my heart will take me where I need to go and my head will stop me when or before any shit hits the fan. If I’m not sleep deprived and delusional by then.

I’m doing the job of two. I don’t have someone to lean on at the end of the day for reassurance or backup. It’s just me and that’s draining.

But I’m incredibly grateful for the people I have in my life. The companies I have worked at over the years who help me make it work.

From Hall Financial where Evelynn would go in and sit with the boss man during meetings to Fitness Tee Co. where there was a kid room she could chill in if necessary. I’m grateful for the understanding of flexibility and working from home ability. It’s taught me discipline in keeping a strict calendar, time management, getting work done, the meaning of non-negotiables. It’s taught me that time is our most valuable currency.

It runs out.

I’m grateful for the clients who accept me as a fulltime single mom and choose to work with me. I’m grateful real estate offers me more flexibility as Evelynn gets farther into her education and sports. I’m grateful for Graydon’s and their allowance for Evelynn to come in on sick days or no school days so I don’t have to cancel work. It’s a blessing and one I have never taken for granted. Although, sometimes, I do struggle with understanding why more companies can’t be so accommodating.

Last week, we were kicked out of our place 8:30AM to past 6:30PM with an unusable kitchen so we spent our days at the restaurant after school. I have the most sociable child and I’m not quite sure where she got it from. She has no problem going up to a kid and asking if they want to play her games with her (this happened Monday). Or forcing the bartender’s husband into playing her Nintendo Switch with her (Tuesday). Or asking a couple people at the bar to scooch over so we can fit in (Wednesday). Or, my favorite, the time she roped a regular (now friend) and the bartender into creating barbie clothes out of gloves and napkins with her.

I refuse to be the person who says, “My God, this is so hard. You don’t understand.” Quite frankly, there’s others who have it much worse. I might not be great at asking for help but I know there’s a crowd of people rooting for me; who wish me well. That’s an incredible feeling. Somedays, knowing someone else believes in me, is all I need. That alone is enough to keep me going.

It drowns out the ones wanting me to fail. They don’t even register on my radar. (To the point this is an afterthought.)

Even more, I did choose this path. I had it as my New Year’s resolution to make it on my own, to break it off with the baby daddy. I don’t believe in resolutions…but that one. It was it for me. He hurt me and I was done with him. I couldn’t trust him. He wasn’t a good dad. He wasn’t a good human. I deserved better. Despite all the fear thundering through me, I was going to squish it and set my own path. I was going to teach my daughter that you can make it on your own. I was going to show women that you are worth a hell of a lot more than a bad relationship. I was going to show single moms, nothing is worth staying if you’re not treated well.

So these hard days, these long days, these lonely days; I’ll still take them all. They’re worth a hell of a lot more to me than any day where I was hurt; was degraded and talked down to; made to feel stupid or ugly or unworthy; made to feel less than or not enough.

There are many days I need a nap but the love for this little girl and the life I’m building for us carries me through. She’s my best friend. Even on the days she drives me absolutely crazy, she’s my everything.

I get to see her every day. I get to tuck her into bed every night and sing our I Love You song. I get to teach her healthy eating habits. I get to nurture her into a good human and woman. I get to set her on the path for independence. I get to hear her laugh and make her smile. I get to sing and dance with her. I get to set an example for her.

I get to watch her grow up. Wake up to her and say goodnight.

Mama might need a nap but I’m not missing any of this. If I knew how my days would turn out, I’d choose this path again, without hesitation. Often times, the hardest moments are the most rewarding memories.

I’m a fulltime single mom. I wouldn’t dare change that until it’s well worth changing.

Feb4

Jake, we love you; a child’s perspective on death.

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Jake, we love you; a child’s perspective on death.

Children astound me. This girl amazes me. Everyday.

This morning before school we FaceTimed Big Jake, my brother Travis’ dog. Jake is only about 6 months older than Evelynn. When we lived with my parents and on the east side, she spent a lot of time with him. Travis is putting Jake down today because of how unwell he’s doing. We’ve known this day would come for a while now and it’s finally hit a point where Travis can’t put it off any longer.

Death is a difficult subject to handle and kids can simultaneously amplify the difficulty & break it down into such simple terms. We always tell Evelynn the dead remain within us if we allow them to; are no longer suffering. Sometimes, she will feel the need to want to visit a gravesite to say hi, needing something tangible. She didn’t quite understand an idea that someone was simply gone, she needed an idea that they still exist around us and so I’ve allowed her to create and expand her own view on death and after. 

She has a picture of her great grandmother Goetz & I’ll catch her in her room having a full-blown conversation with great grandma Goetz. Telling her what’s going in her life or that she misses her but is thankful she’s “still here with us.” She has a toy dog that barks when there’s movement nearby and sometimes, we will hear it randomly bark—she’s convinced it’s because of ghosts, specifically her great grandma Goetz. She calls it her proof.

My views with religion and God are tumultuous. You don’t grow up with a brother like Taylor, watching him suffer and smile and not be confused about a greater power. And yet, over the years, my views have simplified. Took me 25 years to grapple with my religious views, but I finally understood them.

Evelynn is 7 and seems to already know where she stands regarding an afterlife. She calls it a new “city.” So, this morning, she told Jake she loves him, goodbye, she will miss him, and that she hopes (no, she knows) he will enjoy his new city and she will see him again one day. 

Jake is an amazing dog. Always very protective of Evelynn while everyone else could basically handle things themselves. When another dog would run at Evelynn to knock her over when she was only 2 years old, Jake would body slam that dog like NOT TODAY SATAN. When Evelynn wanted to visit the llamas on the edge of my parents’ property, Jake would stand guard, barking and making sure she didn’t get too close; he didn’t like them hissing. Jake always allowed Evelynn to treat him like a jungle gym or her personal chair, his patience with her was mind blowing.

So Jake, we love you, goodbye, we will miss you, we hope you enjoy your next city. 

Jun26

Migraine hell.

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I’ve always done it alone. And I was fine with that. Though, I couldn’t tell you how as I never remember much other than the puking. The constant puking and pain. Everything else is black.

Until this time when I had someone by my side.

Migraines are my invisible enemy & Wednesday I came down hard with one. I was out for 36 hours, dead to the world. My boyfriend claims to have spoken to me throughout the day but I don’t remember it. He took Evelynn the entire day and then planned on having to do so again yesterday (he skipped going to football practice) because he didn’t know what to expect. If I’d feel better or if I’d still feel like death. Yesterday, I still wasn’t 100% with a lingering headache that I had to work to manage.

My brain was in a meat pulverizer. It was like a construction crew was having a jackhammer party in my head. I couldn’t keep down anything, not even water. My body would overheat and then get hit hard with chills. I couldn’t stand up, I was dizzy, I was seeing spots. It’s wondering if death is a good enough answer just to end the pain—it’s not. But that’s the troubling thing with migraines: you want it to end as fast as possible by any means possible. There is nothing I can do except sleep. Looking at a screen makes it worse. Trying to keep hydrated just makes for more trips to the bathroom to puke. I go dark.

While I spent the entire day in bed, Andy took care of Evelynn. They washed both his truck and my car. They took the dogs for a walk and she rode her bike. She got dirty and played with mud. They did a bonfire and danced. She ate all her meals and earned herself some ice cream. He kept her happy and entertained.

I’ve had to skip major events for migraines. I’ve lost great friends from migraines. I’ve been verbally abused by past boyfriends due to my migraines cancelling their plans. I’ve had grades slip in college due to migraines and my attendance record alone. I’ve slept through days on vacation due to migraines. I’ve missed soccer games growing up due to migraines. I’ve left bachelorette parties early due to migraines. I’ve almost lost jobs due to migraines—my work ethic and communication helped me keep them, helped my employers trust me. I gave up going for my teacher certificate because I couldn’t sub more than 3 days in a row without getting a migraine. I once chopped my hair because I heard that could help. I once gave up lentils (yes that means peanut butter, too) because I heard that could reduce headaches. I once went on a migraine med and ended up pregnant because it interacted with my birth control despite original assurances it wouldn’t—8 months after giving birth there was a “new finding” that the med I had taken was reportedly making birth control pills ineffective.

Since finding out I’m celiac and going gluten free, I’ve had far fewer debilitating migraines. Where I used to have them for 2-5 days 2-3 times a month, I now only get the excruciating crushing ones a few times a year. Most people don’t know how to react. They can’t see it. They can’t feel it. It’s invisible. Some think I must be faking it. It’s extremely difficult for anyone who doesn’t experience such crushing and debilitating migraines to not be annoyed with me for disrupting their day. Reality: it’s my hell. I not only have to battle the migraine but then I will have to also defend myself.

Today with the migraine gone and the post lingering headache gone, I’m feeling unbelievably blessed to have a man who took it upon himself to watch Evelynn for a day without complaints. Thank you babe.

Nov2

Balancing Act: Single Parenthood.

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Incredibly grateful. That’s the mood.

I was terrified to be a parent. I knew without a doubt I could love my daughter hard and give her my heart but I didn’t think I could have the energy to be present. I thought I might be one of those moms who are always laying down. Not because of depression or lack of desire but because I had suffered from constant chronic fatigue and endless migraines. You have to understand, I missed so much school in high school that every year I had to write my principal and the board a letter requesting not to make me repeat a grade and explaining the cause of my extensive absences, and I had to get all of my teachers to sign it with their stamp of approval. After I had Evelynn, I was subbing and couldn’t wake up to sub more than 3 days in a row without coming down with a migraine from exhaustion. I’d spend the next 36 hours or so sleeping. It was dreadful.

I worried endlessly about a career I could juggle with single parenthood. Until Evelynn, there was a reason I stuck with serving—it worked for me to sleep, I didn’t take the job home with me, it required little to no functioning. It wasn’t until we found out I had Celiac Disease and I learned how much working out daily helps that I improved and did basically a 180 with my health—I now average less than 6 hours of sleep most nights, little to no fatigue (unless obvious overexertion), and migraines minimized 95 percent I’d guess.

And then there’s the other part: I am adamant about believing I do NOT have it harder than any other parent, single or not. Some days it gets really difficult to believe but I refuse to go down that road. I am not special. I am not the only single parent. I am not the only parent. There are plenty of others in similar or way worse situations—let’s be real clear and honest about that fact. I have it pretty damn good.

Reality is it’s still frustrating when folks don’t get that single parenting as the sole parent is tough. No, I can’t drop things to go out. No, I don’t have “half the days off a month” to date. No, I don’t have someone else who can pick her up from school because she’s sick. No, I don’t have someone else who can get her around in the morning because I’m running late. Everything is on me—the school events and extracurriculars, the finances, the cleaning, the nurturing. I play best friend and parent. I play both parents.

I love her hard enough so she never doubts she is less for having only one parent routinely around.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Seriously, I always feel like I’ve suddenly lost a part of me on those weekends she goes to my parents without me. Might not be often but damn, shit hits hard. (I swear I’m not a helicopter parent.)

I am no supermom. I don’t mind if Evelynn thinks I am but I don’t want to be anybody’s goals simply because I might have it hard. I know I have it hard. You can respect me for it but it’s only my reality, not yours. Your reality is yours, and your only goal should be to make it work, make your dreams happen, make the best of your situation.

The difference between me and others, though, isn’t because of my single parent status, it’s because of my mindset. I refuse to settle. I refuse to give up.

Whether I had Evelynn or not, my reality would still be me pushing forward, working for more, consistently showing up for me.

I can account for every moment of my day. I act with intention. I make things happen for me and my daughter. I don’t believe in complaining about things we don’t have or our struggles when I can work at changing them. I have the power (98 percent of the time) to grow and make changes.

And then there’s the reality we can’t always control things. I shared my fear of parenting due to health issues and support—I wasn’t sure I could keep or find a job with my life. Single parenting is hard and you never feel so alone as a parent until you’re taking all the days off work for both your illnesses and your kids, even if it’s just the flu. You never feel so alone until you have to fit in the groceries, the bill paying, the dinner cooking, the workouts, the cleaning, the drop-offs and pickups, the extracurriculars, the bedtime stories and tuck-ins, the early morning wakeups and midnight calls. And then the actual work for an income. It’s stressful. There’s no one to fall back on. I have an extremely supportive family but my life is not their responsibility. I’m pretty adamant about that, too.

So why do I refuse to recognize myself as having it “harder” than other parents? Because their situation isn’t mine. I think parenting in general comes with some hiccups and difficulties. It’s a road only you can travel. Every child is different, every household is different. It’s the entire reason for the nature vs. nurture debate. We can’t depict how one’s upbringing effects one’s life. So how we can say single parents with 100% custody have it harder? I simply have different obstacles to overcome than others. We’re still all in the same battle of raising littles.

The benefits: I raise her. I make the decisions. I don’t have to consult with a partner currently. I have the freedom to raise her how I choose—there’s no room for varying upbringing beliefs that I have to take into consideration.

But I also own all the failures. And I’m good with that.

I have been profoundly blessed in finding two jobs over the last few years with leaders who support me. Who instead of immediately looking at a piece of paper and take me to the chopping block, will ask me what is going on and how can we make it work? What do I need from them to be successful and balance everything? Often times that has included taking odd hours or working from home. Sometimes, it’s just being given a little grace.

My daughter comes first with everything, the balancing act of recognizing when that means I show up for her versus when that means working towards building a life for us, is the tricky part. I’m still learning this balance. But I always tell her why and we communicate.

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When she didn’t see me during the parade, her face was ashen white.

Thursday was Evelynn’s costume parade at her school. Of course, I didn’t find out about it until the day before. She had already scolded me once before for missing some activity in class in September where most of the parents had come to class to participate—it was a 1-on-1 volunteer. I didn’t feel the need to volunteer when they had said they had enough. Evelynn of course thought otherwise.

Evelynn didn’t see me during the parade but I saw her. She was ashen. She was so white in the face I couldn’t tell if she had been extremely upset and scared or if they had put makeup on her. She ran right by me—she hates being put on display in front of a large group of people she doesn’t know. Like every parent, sibling, grandparent, and faculty of the school. When I showed up to her class after to snag a photo and tell her hi/goodbye and grab a kiss, she IMMEDIATELY lit up. Instant color to her face. It was amazing—shocking and eye-opening, too.

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She was thrilled I stopped in for a few minutes to say hi. check out those colorful cheeks! And yes, she wore last year’s costume so her Anna costume for trick or treating wouldn’t be worried…but we couldn’t find her Minnie ears so I improvised. #momwin

I didn’t stay for the Halloween party—balancing act, remember?—but she understood.

So Thankful. That is how I felt all of Thursday and since. That I was able to text and email my bosses late Wednesday night and request 2 hours off Thursday morning to see Evelynn’s parade.

We’re all balancing something. This happens to be mine—and I love mine despite all the struggles and unknowns.

Jun18

She dances to her own tune.

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“But Mom, I’m a little busy right now.” — Evelynn’s response to me wanting to take a pic of her folding laundry last night.

Well, this girl might not be starting kindergarten in the fall. I knew there was a 98% chance the evaluation wouldn’t go well, and I had already been tempted to keep her back in the Young 5’s because of age, size, speech, and attention span.

Newsflash: she’s 4. She’s young and curious and has a very active imagination.

She has an impeccable talent to keep herself occupied for hours in the car by simply playing pretend with her hands—no socks, no puppets, no dolls, no clothes, just her fingers and nothing more.

Here’s what the teacher saw:

  • A child who could not spell her own name.
  • A child who could not stay on task.
  • A child who talked too much.
  • A child who was more interested in drawing and color than picking out numbers and letters.

Here’s what the teacher didn’t see:

  • That “R” initial for her last name was because she loves her preschool/daycare teacher Ms. Julie Rozek and she will go around and tell people her last name is Rozek.
  • It was at the end of a long day. She is one of the most on task kids in her preschool class and is exemplified for her listening and behavior. By the time I pick her up each day, her “following” skills are typically done and she’s all about doing things her way.
  • She’s social. She will talk her ear off. Her telling you she loves your necklace and asking how your day was and telling you about her weekend coming up because she’s excited to go to grandma’s house and see Logan is who she is. You’re an adult. It’s a one-on-one time. She doesn’t see this as a test. She sees it as an opportunity to have a conversation.
  • She’s an artist. She’s creative. She has an overactive imagination. She doesn’t count or pick out letters because she doesn’t want to—not because she can’t. She thrives on knowing the why behind why she is being asked to do something.

Finally, her stubbornness to do her own thing is not a developmentally delayed dependent child—I assure you she has more independence than most kids. She walked into your classroom without my assistance or urgency. She drew two very well done people that were not stick figures and even let you keep the picture without a fight, using all the colors at her disposal because she’s a kid who sees life in color. You said they were about her age level—that’s because of her great interest in coloring—but her inability to stop or to draw the items in your order of need made her lack discipline.

She does things on her terms. That doesn’t mean she’s developmentally delayed, it means she’s the boss of her own life.

She is not a child who does something simply because you tell her to. She does bend at your will.

Honey, she’s the strongest, independent child I’ve ever met.

Can we go back to the fact this is a 4-year-old doing an assessment at 4pm for less than 15 minutes?

Here’s what really annoyed me: she has a speech problem the teacher failed to inquire about. Evelynn’s teachers, first in Chelsea, then in Birmingham, and then now at her current preschool, have all made the same comments regarding her communication: she is very good and imaginative at creating ways to get her thoughts across.

I don’t doubt Evelynn should be in a Young 5’s class instead of Kindergarten next year. I was already on this fence. However, I’m disappointed in how they determined this recommendation. Children learn differently. They express themselves differently. They are not robots. This is not a time to give a child 7 tasks of yes/no. Children live in the grey area based entirely on their mood, especially come after 2pm—if they make it that long.

I’m disappointed that in less than 15 minutes this “expert” in young 5’s decided Evelynn didn’t know her numbers simply because she wouldn’t pick out a specific number on a list. Listen Linda, last night she helped me fold clothes and towels—not one of which I had to refold behind her, mind you—and when she spotted the number on the back of my soccer jersey, she asked me, “Why is there a 5 on your shirt?” I never encouraged the number recognition, she did it on her own. She’s curious, not a child.

When Evelynn was first placed in WISD and 3 teachers would come to the house to work with her on her speech—she was only 2 at the time—the eldest lady of the three, for all her expert years, didn’t understand Evelynn. She thought Evelynn didn’t understand her. They were playing on the floor. This lady repeatedly asked Evelynn to do a simple task with a baby doll and then proceeded to show her how to do it. When Evelynn continuously ignored her, the lady started to speak louder. Without even looking at the lady and breaking from working on her puzzle, Evelynn slammed the baby down on the floor to show the lady she didn’t want to do what she was asking. It wasn’t a mean slam, it was a “I’m not doing this” because the woman wouldn’t stop shoving the back at Evelynn—it was only a few inches off the ground. I had already told the lady to move on to a different task, Evelynn was uninterested—until Evelynn put that baby down, the lady didn’t believe me.

And you can bet your ass I told her, “I told you, that’s what she does.” It was only after Evelynn dismissed the doll that the woman tried a more appealing method.

I’m not an expert in child development, but I like to think I’m somewhat of an expert in my daughter. I watch her. I observe her. I know her. I can tell you when she’s fake coughing to avoid brushing her teeth. I can tell you how the first thing she does when she walks through the door is take her shoes and socks off and defuzz her toes and she can’t be expected to do anything else until she does that. I can tell you if we don’t sing “I love youuuuuuu” in a singsongy voice to each other as I tuck her into bed at night, she won’t go down. I can tell you how upset she will be with you if you unwrap her cheese or chocolate or open her juice or milk for her. I can tell you how her previous school told me she could count her numbers but she never would for me, she told me she couldn’t—I didn’t know she could until I caught her singing in the car. She’s sneaky like that. I can tell you she can’t leave her preschool/daycare without giving all her teachers and friends a hug; and if we miss anyone, she has to go back in. She’s an independent girl who needs routine and learns in tunes. More than anything, she’s her own person.

When I first walked out of that school after her evaluation, I felt like I failed as a parent. It doesn’t bother me that she might be going into Young 5’s—I want her to be in the best environment for her to succeed as a human—I felt like a failure because of how many times that teacher repeated “developmentally delayed”. I kept thinking about it. Kept watching Evelynn—I’m fully aware of her stubbornness and her attitude and the fact she can’t read—but I couldn’t see it. All I saw was a happy 4-year-old soon-to-be 5-year-old curious about life around her.

So here it is, I had misspoken. It’s not 2032. It’s hello class of 2033. Let’s just add on another year of Evelynn running the class because this kid is hellbent for election. Good luck teachers, she’s ready for you. I just hope you’re ready for her.

Apr17

I only pray for strength.

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“If all your prayers were answered, would it change the world or just yours?”

I don’t believe in the power of prayer to heal. I believe in its power for strength and acceptance, but as for asking for wellness or to live or to beat something? No. (*snort) No, I’m sorry.

Evelynn was sick last week. Again. She came down with walking pneumonia, which is basically pneumonia but without a fever is how the doctor described it. When someone asked me how she was, they immediately went into the mode of “Did you take her to the doctor? Has she been put on medications? Did you pray for her?” First, I was already annoyed that a near stranger was asking me about my parenting skills when I had already had it taken care of. I don’t need someone checking on me with basic common sense.

Second, I don’t believe in praying for someone to get better.

That is favoritism.

Health might not be a materialistic item but I’m still asking for special favors. I’m asking not for me to have the strength and ability to overcome something on my own (or in this case, Evelynn’s), but for God to grant me health when there are thousands of other sick people on this earth, as well. I’m asking for special treatment.

And I love when it’s a “speedy” recovery people pray for.

I won’t do that. In fact, when people ask for prayers to get better, I move on. Well, first I pray fo something else entirely and then I move on.

I know, I sound cold.

Hear me out.

Taylor is 22 years old. He wasn’t supposed to live past a week, then a year, then two years, then five years, then ten years. Then he wasn’t supposed to make it to be a teenager, then into adulthood. They gave up guessing his life sentence but continued to be amazed by his survival. Damnit, he’s old enough to drink. He has the second largest spinal fusion surgery, beat only by one more vertebrae—yay Taylor (eyeroll). He lives his days in a hospital bed sleeping and watching television. He’s hooked up to oxygen and heart monitors. Somedays he’s constantly being suctioned to remove mucus buildup. He’s never grown out of a diaper and gets sponge baths via the kitchen counter. He’s fed through a g-tube. At one point, he had been put on a ventilator after his spinal fusion surgery, which lead to him now being fed through said g-tube. He’s my height (5’5”) about and half my weight—he’s less than 70lbs. You read that right. Cut my body in half vertically and you have the size of Taylor. Literally.

He’s 22 years old and didn’t celebrate his 21stwith alcohol—it wasn’t an option and not by choice but by total health restrictions. Hell, he doesn’t even get cake.

I don’t pray for Taylor to get better. I used to pray for Taylor to magically walk one day but then I hated the idea that maybe he’d be stealing someone else’s ability to walk. I loved him but hated that idea. I lost my faith in God in high school because I didn’t understand how God could be cruel. I found my faith again years later and it’s not conventional or founded in the church.

It is founded within.

He’s not cruel. Life is just unfair. There are other kids worse off than Taylor. Kids who don’t make it until 22 years old. Kids who don’t have the mental or physical strength to withstand abuse and neglect. Kids who are unloved.

Taylor is very well loved. He smiles. He laughs. He can’t talk but he can communicate.

Taylor is a living miracle.

Taylor is strong.

Strength is what I pray for. The ability to handle the outcome. I think it’s the only thing God can give in abundance, besides love, because it’s requires our own will power.

Yes, I believe God gave us free will. In that free will, he gave us strength. The strength to accept any outcome life throws at us. We have to decide how strong we are going to be. We have to decide what is worth it in life. We decide what is worth losing everything over and what is worth moving on from.

When someone passes away, I pray those they leave behind are strong enough to grieve and make it through. When someone is diagnosed with cancer, I pray they are strong enough to battle the fight; and if their body isn’t physically strong enough, I pray they are mentally strong enough to accept the outcome. When someone needs a transplant, I pray for strength and acceptance because the alternative—to pray for someone else to die in order for them to get that transplant—fucks with my head too much.

Strength and acceptance. Those are the only two things I will ever pray for. I hope you have the strength to accept the life you make for yourself. And if you can’t accept it, I hope you have the strength to change it. I hope you have the strength to rise above. I hope you have the strength to live instead of simply survive. I hope you have the strength to make a life worth living.

Mar18

Give me bossy, I’ll give you a voice.

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I have a problem calling my daughter bossy. I also find it difficult to reprimand her for the times she is bossy. She’s young and impressionable. I’d rather she grow up bossy and strong, with a slight attitude towards authority, than lose her voice. She’s young and knowing the difference at this age is challenging.

Attitude is everything. It’s what defines growth and success. It’s what decides if goals are achieved. It’s what can define our character and how we think of ourselves, how we talk to ourselves.

It’s also what separates state of content from true pure happiness.

We have a habit as empathetic humans of getting roped into things that aren’t good for us because it’s what someone else wants or because we’re told it’s what’s best for us. We’re never given a well-rounded why but we take it, hoping maybe they know something we don’t or because we host this fear of the unknown.

It’s why we go back to toxic or negative relationships. Instead of burning the house down we shut the door and hang a rope out the window.

It’s why we stick around for undervalued or underpaid jobs instead of chasing a career and holding out for the positions or pay we deserve.

It’s why we don’t speak up when we disagree with a popular opinion.

It’s why when we’re sad, we smother it and self-medicate in damaging ways or ignore it until it becomes a ticking time bomb and too much to bear.

It’s why we overuse words like depression and anxiety, when what we really feel is sad or fear.

It’s why we often times forget people cannot simply demand our respect given their job title or status in life—it’s something that must be continuously earned.

It’s why we lose curiosity and imagination with age.

It’s why when we’re told “No” or that we’re not good enough, we often take it.

We’re told “No” too many times. “Sit down.” “Be quiet.” “Listen up.” Yet, we never give someone at a young age the platform to speak and cultivate their own thought process.

I make Evelynn play alone. Sometimes, I’ve wondered if I’m a bad mom for fostering independence—I know some people find this “selfish” behavior on my part but never ask me why I do it. I want her to rely on herself and feel confident alone. So many people are so scared of being alone or find too much comfort in it as a way to escape reality. I want her to grow up balancing social and alone time.

When Evelynn was first put into preschool (a pre pre-preschool at age 2) for 2 hours, it was required the parents stick around in the room. What happened? Every child only wanted to play with their parent. I refused. I encouraged her to play with other kids while I drank my coffee and watched, stepping in as needed if there was a problem. Overtime, other parents tried to do the same and we’d chat, often interrupted by their kid wanting their attention in a roomful of child peers. Evelynn ended up being the only child social enough to play with other kids and parents the entire time, every day. Despite her speech issue.

When she went into pre-preschool at age 3, she became the child who sought out the lonely kid and made sure they had a buddy. While other kids often sought her out, and she would play with them, too, she was comfortable enough to play with the quiet kid, the disabled kid, the lonely kid.

For our 90-minute trips to the east side or back, she plays with her hands. Her fingers are puppets. She entertains herself. Whereas me and my brother would have berated our parents with “Are we there yet?” Evelynn keeps herself occupied or tells me a story. Or naps. I’m lucky there.

What do I mean when I make her play alone? Saturday and Sunday mornings are my “coffee time” when I drink my coffee and read. Evelynn can cuddle with me if she’s in a mood or, mostly, I encourage her to play with her barbies or dolls or animals or kitchen set. I encourage her to color or do her puzzle. She’s still on this 400-piece puzzle that I refuse to help her with. The only thing I’m willing to do is sit at the table with her or separate the pieces by theme (sky, snow, edges, etc.). I want her to be able to say she did it. I want her to be comfortable on her own.

I don’t want her to equate playing alone with nobody wants to play with her or be around her. I don’t want her to equate being alone with nobody wants her or likes her.

I take the bossy.

I welcome the bossy.

When she tells me to do something, I give her a look and she uses her manners. I ask her why she can’t do it herself and if it’s a sufficient reply, I’ll do it. If she thinks something is “too hard” I make her try first before I help. We often do a, “Evelynn, stop. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Okay? Try it again,” when she’s frustrated and she is the only obstacle standing in her own way.

And then she nails it.

The child has a speech issue. Still. It’s better but most folks can’t understand everything she says. Hell, I often struggle. It’s a work in progress. However, this hasn’t stopped her from engaging with peers or talking with a stranger at Target. She’s always telling the checkout lady or sir a story. She hasn’t let it deter her.

We have a habit in growing up of losing our curiosity and voice. We’re so scared to tell someone how we feel, that we love them, that we’re happy, that we love ourselves, that we’re sad. We filter everything; in fear they won’t love us back, we don’t want to be seen as conceited, we don’t want to be seen as broken, we don’t want to be labeled. I love that kids have no filter (except when they’re saying something hurtful or doing something harmful, of course).

Evelynn isn’t afraid to tell me how she feels or what she wants. I want that to grow and continue. I want her to know she matters. I want her to foster that imagination. I want her to foster that curiosity. I want her to foster that empathy for others. I want her to keep randomly coming up to me and announcing with pride, “Mom I’m strong,” while pumping her arm muscles on display; or, “Mom, I did it! I’m smart,” when she completes a new 100-piece puzzle; or even, “Mom, I’m beautiful” when she puts on a new dress she likes or wears “flower hair” (braids) she loves.

I want her to know she CAN validate herself. I want her to foster that voice. I want her to know she has the power.