May 24, 2017
In this moment, I am overcome with emotion. I tell myself I want to cry. I am a woman, I feel a lot at one time. Why not cry? It seems like I was once told this was the normal reaction to a big problem. Crying doesn’t seem right. Do I have a problem, oh heck yes! My problem, to be clear, is that I am surrounded by problems and lack support or resources to “fix” them. I can’t say my challenges are unfixable or life ending. Thus, I do not give myself permission to cry. I do, however, give myself permission to start this blog assuming no one will read it or care. Comforted by the hope I may be wrong, I can share my world, my thoughts with the hope that I may reach someone else who thought they should cry, wanted to scream but instead, decided to reach out into the world and do something.
I am the mother of a perfect 16 year old daughter. For 14 years, I have insisted there is something not quite “normal” about the way my daughter thinks. I have taken her to see doctors, talked to educators, placed her in therapy and nothing has been done to address what I have termed “the glitch”. The glitch really bit me in the butt today.
Sick over the weekend, I was not feeling up to taking my daughter and her sleepover guest to breakfast Sunday morning. I had committed to taking them out but planned on an early dinner surly not breakfast or brunch when I was exhausted and barely moving. My daughter, led by an equally selfish buddy, decided to take the city but to a local restaurant. The friend’s mother would pick the girls up and drop mine back at home. I was told, however, not a word about a city bus and was told only that the mom was picking them up. Of course, being a mom is being a spy so I waited for the girls to leave and then thanked the other mom for picking them up. Of course their story was blown and by daughter was banished to taking the public bus in lieu of parental chauffeur to school the rest of the year (four days).
Today is bus day one. My daughter left at 6:30am to get to school by 8:00am for her first final exam. She asked for a dollar and was on her way only to arrive after 8:40am, miss her first exam, be detained at school and force me to take the day off of work. How did it take her longer to get to school than it would take to get to Chicago? Well, she decided it was too expensive to take more than one bus so she planned to walk about two miles to a bus route that would take her 6 blocks away from school. She then stayed on the bus and rode it until she as in a different city, miles away from school. The then took another bus back towards school and then got off. I am not really sure what happened next but she ended up on a bus stop two miles from school for about a half hour before taking the bus past her stop, again, to another bus that would take her to another bus stop the same distance from the stop she past to get to that bus. Yup, foolishness.
Why am I overwhelmed by this? I believe my daughter has dyslexia. I am not a clinician so I am not allowed to diagnose however so I can only tell you my belief until diagnosis is completed. While dyslexia is most credited with reading and writing issues, dyslexics also struggle with following sequences, explaining or understanding processes and, at least in my daughter’s case, finding the most reasonable solution to a problem. I can’t blame the last one on dyslexia but I won’t be upset if someone else can. At best, this morning is the introduction to another chapter of avoidable drama in my life. Meanwhile, I am home with a teething toddler who probably inherited this, or something similar, from their absent father. As if I don’t have enough to do, I need to find a better way to help my daughter figure life out and I have nothing else to give. Sucks to be me because as a mom, in independent mom who married a mentally unhealthy man, very comfortable leaving everything on my shoulders, I get to do it anyway. Back to that man I married, in addition to raising him, I get to ponder why his family doesn’t see our children as part of their family. The kids pictures and names are included but their care and well-being are maternal responsibilities.
So, I am writing and the frustrated future-divorcee of a teen with a learning disability and a toddler with toddler issues who tries to fit a career around the diverse needs of her family. Though this is a long rant with little content, I feel better sharing who I am and letting you know more rants will follow. Pity party, yes, but I will not cry!