She's all boy!

I cringe every time I hear someone pronounce: “He’s all boy.”  Same as I hold my tongue when people use the word tomboy to describe a female child or adult.  These sentiments are way outdated.  Children are children.  Some boys and girls like to climb trees and play rough.  Some boys and girls like to sing and dance and play house.

I’ve had this aversion to these unnecessary adjectives since my son and two daughters were little.  My kids know how I feel and I believe they share my feeling.  Problem is, I am now a grandmother and don't really feel like holding my tongue anymore.  

I pledge, on this Mother’s Day, May 12, 2013, that I will no longer be silent.  It will be my cause to eradicate these over-used and inaccurate labels from the face of the earth.  To do so, I must bring out the big guns: humor and teasing - and, if called for, a touch of shaming. 

From now on: My son was a tomboy growing up.  He liked sports and messing around in the neighborhood creek and getting dirty and all that stuff.  My daughters were all boy, they liked sports and messing around in the neighborhood creek and getting dirty and all that stuff.

Here’s some recent pictures of my youngest granddaughter Finley, 18 months old.
  By the way, she LOVES bugs and mud and food and play and ... well, you get the idea.  She's all boy!

Finley with her wonderful mother, who, as a child, was all boy!

 

Birth order

The psychology of birth order has been around for decades.  It goes something like this: oldest child is the boss, middle child is neglected, and the youngest child is adored.

Generally speaking, birth order is spot on.  At least in our household.  We reared three children, loved them all equally, but for sure Andrea, oldest child, was the self-appointed leader; Jenny, middle, was neglected – at least during her early years; and, to this day, our youngest, John, can do no wrong.

This morning it occurred to me that the psychology of birth order was still alive and raging in our household.  It hit me after looking at recently taken pictures.  They all were of the newest member of our family: Sammie, our 6-month-old border collie.  Mika, the middle dog at 9 years, was visible in some of the frames, but only because of her proximity to the puppy.  Baxter, the oldest, is there, too.  In one photo she can be seen “leading” from her perch atop an outdoor cushioned chair. 

We haven’t always had three dogs.  It was about seven years ago that we first upped the number of canines in our home from two to three, just about the same time we were coincidentally empty nesting.  Were we replacing our children with dogs??  At least one neighbor thought so.  While walking all three dogs, he hollers, “Which one is Andrea?”

Have our dogs taken the children’s place?  In our hearts, no.  In our home, yes.  Ok, sorta in our hearts, too.

Below are some of my recent pics.

How adorable is she??

Bax: Perched and ready to lead, if necessary and/or awake.

Mika herding Addison.  Always.

   

GOOOOAALLLLLL!!!

 

Move over Mika, you're blocking Sammie.

Grandpa's helpers.

 

Dog house with a view.

 

Crushed in a good way

This week my family was crushed under the weight of good news.   

Yesterday we got the news that my son-in-law Jack was accepted into nursing school.  The process for application is grueling.  We stopped counting the number of hoops he jumped through.  Then there was the wait, all the while knowing he had just a 1 in 5 chance of making it in.  For the last couple of weeks he obsessively checked his email for THEE answer.  It finally came Thursday. He starts classes in August. 

A year ago our son John graduated from law school.  In July he took the bar exam and waited until November – FOUR months – to get the results.  He didn’t pass.  So, he took the bar exam a second time in February and waited THREE agonizing months for the results.  His job was on the line.  No pass, no job.  He found out on Monday he gets to keep his job.  He passed bar. 

It’s what they wanted, so we wanted it, too.  For them.  And for that reason, we all share in the glow of this good news.   I can tell you the crush of good news feels good. 

 

 John, left, and Jack.  We are so proud of you!!

Connected in a flash (of headlights)

Flashing headlights jolted me out of my driver's haze.  The one you fall into when covering the same ground day after day.   When you reach your destination, you wonder how you even got there because your mind was not behind the wheel, even though your body was.

First thought: Wow.  Is that a message?   For me?   You talkin' to me?

Second thought: I wonder if it's a speed trap warning?   Reflexively I ease my foot off the gas pedal.

Third thought (after spotting Mr. Police Officer aiming a radar gun at ME!):  It WAS a message.  For me.  Someone was trying to warn me to slow me down and it worked.  Without words.  Just the simplicity of flashing headlights.

Who was this masked crusuader?  This urban Robin Hood?  This male or female who thought enought about his or her fellow man or woman (gender nonspecific writing is exhausting) to send up a warning.

Whoever it was, we were connected for a nanosecond, which is one-billionth of a regular second so that is really a short and almost immeasurable amount of time.  But still, a connection that produced two important and measurable results: I was prevented from getting a ticket for speeding and I felt something.  I felt special.  I felt gratitude.  I felt connected.

It was a beautiful and greatly appreciated reminder of the magic of human connection.   And maybe even a reminder to pay attenion - body AND mind - to my driving.

My gateway drug

My addiction started early in life.  Around the age of 10. 

I had a flashback the other night while making a mini-smore.  I was placing chocolate chips on a wheat cracker when suddenly I was transported to my childhood kitchen.  I saw my younger self hoisting my younger self onto the kitchen counter.  I was in search of the bag of chocolate chips. 

In the back of the top shelf of the cupboard I could see the bag.  I knew it already had been opened, so taking a handful would not alert my mother.  And that is just what I did.  Stole chocolate chips. 

Did it stop there?  Oh no.  I became expert at getting in and out of that cupboard without notice.  They were so deliciously tiny, and it's not like my mom was counting them.... until she could actually count them.  My greed had been my undoing.

Who ate the chocolate chips?  My mom demanded to know the identity of the selfish, lowdown thief.  I had to confess.  Or was I outed by one of my brothers?  That detail I don't recall.  I swore I would never do it again (I did).  I now craved the chocolaty goodness.  Withdrawal was too painful.

The other night as I placed chocolate chips on my crackers and then mini-marshmallows on top of the chips, it occurred to me that these chips were my gateway drug.  I have tried all kinds of sweets over the years, but continue to come back to my gateway sugar: that beautiful and perfectly sweet chocolate chip.   Of course I no longer have to hoist myself onto the kitchen counter to reach my drug of choice.  I also have discovered other ways to ingest them, such as on salty wheat crackers with mini-marshmallows, then ever so slightly melted in the microwave.

And it all began on nice streets of Aberdeen, South Dakota.

Child Protective Services: Big Mother is better than no mother

I got a phone call this morning from a person whose home and life I recently assessed for the State of Texas.  This person and the person's home were being considered as a placement for children who were, and apparently still are, wards of the state.

I can't of course get into specifics of any kind.  That would be unethical.

But the phone call and this person's deep and profound attachment to the children got my emotional engines going - again - regarding the issue of child welfare and, specifically, Child Protective Services.

As I was not allowed to get personal with this morning's caller, in this venue I can.  I should qualify what I am about to write by disclosing that I was employed by CPS in 2005 as a caseworker in a Family Based Safety Services (FBSS) unit.  This is the type of unit that works with families so their children won't be removed.   I had just gotten my master's in social work and felt called to CPS.  In my academy class I was voted the person most likely to still be working at CPS in 20 years.  I was gone in less than a year. 

Our child welfare system is not so much broken as it is permanently flawed.  There really is no fix for it.  What you see is what you get.  While criticism of the system is often valid, real suggestions for improvements are few and far between.

Bottom line: It's the only system we have for this moment in time and we definitely need to have a child welfare system in this moment in time.

Historical context is critical to understanding how child welfare in the United States has evolved into our current system:

1800s:

           - Early in the century, the first orphanages were organized by churches and charitable groups.

           - Later in the century, private agencies began finding homes for orphans out of a belief that it   was preferred to growing up in an orphanage. 

1900s:

           - Early in this century, states began passing laws protecting children from abuse and neglect.

           - Social Security Act of 1935 authorized the first federal money for child welfare agencies in the states.  This was the first real push for states to build their own welfare policy.  This is also           the action that began financial assistance to families with dependent children which was                changed in 1996 to be temporary assistance for families with dependent children. 

            - Amendments to the Social Security Act are so numerous, you must be a wonk to keep up. Two key changes worth mentioning occurred in the 1960s.  First, the courts got involved in child abuse cases and, in 1967, Congress mandated foster care in all states.  

             - CPS may have its deepest roots in the 1974 Congressional act that told states to come up with a child abuse/neglect reporting and investigation system or no dough, as in federal dollars.

When I was a child, there wasn't a CPS to say whether my aunt and uncles or grandparents were appropriate "placements" for me and my 5 brothers had we been removed from our home.  CPS is a contemporary phenomena.

For some, the foster care boom that began in the late 70s and really took off in the 80s and 90s may seem like ancient history.  For CPS it's been a nano second.  And in that nano second, states, including Texas, went from handling a trickle down of reports of child abuse and neglect to a virtual tsunami of reports. 

Get this: in 2011, the most recent year for stats, CPS in Texas got a whopping 255,514 reports of child abuse or neglect!!  This according to a state report. (link below).  I still am looking for a comparison number, but this is just a blog and likely no one is still reading at this point.

Mind you, reports of abuse are not the same as actual abuse.  Non-the-less, they have to be processed.  And by now, processed by a gigantic and policy-laden bureaucracy.   Big Mother making decisions about our most vulnerable citizens.  Who thinks that's a good idea?

I would love to hate CPS and at times I have been critical.  I've made many reports to CPS over the years in my capacity as a social worker, and more than once I have been disappointed in the outcome of a case.  But I can't completely despise Big Mother because I have witnessed good outcomes too.  I've had the privilege of working with or meeting impressive, even heroic, individuals who work for CPS.  They don't quit after less than a year.  Without their dedication, our children would suffer.

So to the person who called me this morning I say this: CPS is an enormous and complicated machine.  Imperfect and flawed.   But it's the only system we've got to protect children.  And I understand this means nothing to you because all you care about are the lives of the children in your small world.

You know what?  If I were in your shoes, I'd feel the same damn way.


http://www.dfps.state.tx.us/documents/about/Data_Books_and_Annual_Reports/2011/DataBook11.pdf

Homicidal Anger

Dr. Deidra Louis Blackmon, a local veterinarian 33 years young, was killed last month in Saginaw, a town near Fort Worth.  A man presumably fueled by Anger shot her dead. 

Dr. Blackmon was driving home from a night of celebration with friends at the Stockyards in Fort Worth.  They stopped at a convenience store.  Dr. Blackmon, the driver, went inside.  This is all according to news reports.

When she came outside, she found one of her friends had gotten out of the car.  Her friend had too much to drink and was feeling ill.  While helping her friend, as friends do, the women were blocking the door to the car parked next to them.  This angered the couple whose car they were blocking. 

According to reports, Dr. Blackmon apologized to the couple.  The passenger apparently wasn't having it and had some choice words for the women.  She was controlled by Anger.

What could possibly make someone angry about having to wait a minute to get in or out of their car? 

Unchecked Anger.  Self-righteous Anger.  Drug or alcohol fueled Anger. 

The women got into the doctor's car, a Lexus that I assume she worked hard to earn.  An impressive young woman, I am sure.  I wish I had known her.

Back on the road, the women were hunted down by Anger.  Dr. Blackmon was the one hit and killed.  The shooter was identified and is in jail thanks to surveillance videos and the angry passenger has been charged with not reporting.

Here's from the WFAA report:

Blackmon grew up in Keller and graduated from Haltom City High School. She was employed as a veterinarian at the Animal Emergency Hospital of North Texas in Grapevine.

Bruce Nixon, the chief of staff at the clinic, called Blackmon a "shining star" and talented veterinarian. Nixon said she usually works at the clinic on Saturday evenings, but was off on Saturday night celebrating a friend's wedding.

Now, what to do with my Anger about this tragic loss of a promising life?