Tag Archives: death of a parent

How are the Kids? Ethan Edition

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Ethan. My baby boy. My sweet, sweet pumpkin.

He’s struggling. Not necessarily at home, but definitely away from home. Not with us, but with just about everyone else. And by all reports, it’s becoming an issue.

At home, he’s (usually) polite, very helpful, extremely loving. Away from home (by accounts of teachers and others, as well as limited personal observation when he didn’t know I was around), he can be rude and angry, disrespectful and uncompromising. It doesn’t matter if it’s another kid or an adult. It’s not all the time, but he’s just not someone you’d want to be around sometimes.

He’s overly bossy. He gets very angry, occasionally becoming physical. He will argue and yell at anyone, showing no fear or anxiety if he’s sent to the principal or another authority figure. He argues when he perceives someone is cheating – whether it’s a kid taking an “extra” turn or not following the rules.

He doesn’t sit still – that’s something we DO deal with at home. He’s constantly moving, wiggling, unable to remain motionless. Some of that might be “being seven” or it might be more.

Ethan was dealing with issues before Mike died. He was seeing a counselor in St. Louis, before we moved, to deal with the death of my dad (his beloved grandpa) in 2010 and our separation in August.

Ethan saw some very tough things over the last few years. Once I drove home in the middle of the night from a trip because I knew something wasn’t right. I found Ethan sitting up in bed, next to Mike, who was passed out. Ethan told me he was worried his dad would die, so he wanted to be by his side. Ethan was five years old. It was 2 a.m. After slapping him awake, I convinced Mike to go to the ER. He was four times the legal limit.

Stuff like that is hard for a kid (or an adult) to process.

He talks, quite openly, about his dad’s drinking and what happened when Mike drank. He talks about seeing Mike try to hide the liquor in the ceiling tiles or under the couch.He talks about how mean Mike was to me when he drank and how he yelled at me for no reason. Ethan also talks about how he’s the only kid at school without a dad. It all breaks my heart.

School administrators and counselors are worried about him, especially going into second grade. Apparently, second grad is a critical year for kids socially, and Ethan is at risk. His school has been fantastic, really creating an accepting environment and wanting to make sure Ethan is successful, happy, well-developed and well-loved.

Ethan has a really good counselor here. They’ve really bonded. If Ethan is struggling, he’ll tell me that he wants to talk to Mr. Robb.

Ethan’s well-being and happiness definitely played into my recent decision to step away from my career. I can’t be involved, I can’t be a mom, by only spending 15 minutes with the kids each day. I want to be a regular fixture in his classroom. His teacher and I are going to be working closely all year. Ethan is going to get involved in several social and sports activities.

It’s going to take a while. It’ll be a long, hard road (for both of us), but I just KNOW that Ethan will be okay.

How are the Kids? Lauren Edition

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Lauren was just 15 months old when Mike was removed from the house and only 20 months old when he died. I don’t know how much she remembers about her dad or if she has any memories at all. Mike was pretty far gone into the spiral of alcohol at the time she was born.

Today, Lauren is a happy, giggly little girl. She adores her brother. She loves her dog. She is a cuddler and a hugger and blows kisses 24/7. Lauren is fearless and repeats everything her brother does. She loves dancing, playing with “babies” (dolls), reading books and building with Legos and wooden blocks. She is a terrific eater – she’ll try anything and gobbles up things most kids won’t touch (broccoli, raw onions and peppers, spicy guacamole).

But she doesn’t talk. She makes noises, usually the first letter sound of a word. She uses several baby signs and has developed her own signs for some words. She has her own way of communicating with us – there just aren’t words.

Her new doc was worried about speech during Lauren’s 24 month check up. Babies at that age should be saying SOMETHING. I had ignored some of my concerns about her speech. Afterall, she was the second child and Ethan talks “for” her. But new doc arranged for an evaluation.

Over the course of a month, Lauren was evaluated by child development experts, speech therapists, occupational therapists and doctors. At the end, Lauren tested off the charts for almost everything. Brag moment: the coordinator said that Lauren’s scores were the highest they had ever seen; Lauren tested a full year ahead of her age in several categories. Except for her speech.

Lauren had the speech of a 9 month old – she was 25 months old at the time of the evaluation.

At the time of the evaluation, she did have one word: “dad” (said while pointing to a photo of Mike).

Lauren is going through “baby speech therapy.” Every two weeks, a speech therapist visits the house for a 40 minute session. Lauren loves it. In just a few sessions, I can tell a difference. She now has a distinct label for her brother (“Eth”) and has been more “vocal” with making sounds. She seems to really be trying.

I think I’d be dealing with Lauren’s speech issues regardless of whether Mike were alive or not, regardless of whether or not Mike and I were still together. But it’s very difficult being the only one to make treatment decisions for an issue this big. Still it’s nothing like what’s going on with Ethan…

“How are the Kids? Ethan Edition” to come at a later date…

I Quit!

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I’m resigning from my job tomorrow.

I do not have an “offical” offer for a new job yet.

I’m reminded almost daily by my boss that I am a “bonus eligible, stock optioned executive at a fortune 500 company.” I’m walking away from a salary I will NEVER make again, with a bonus package that pays more than most people make in a year.

I am not crazy. I’ve given this  A LOT of thought.

I’m working about 80 hours a week – I’m in the office by 7:30 a.m. and leaving around 7 p.m., then back on-line by 8 and working until 10 or 11. Then there are the weekends…oh, the weekends.

I do not see my kids. And when I do, I’m grouchy because there’s always an URGENT email. That’s a problem.

I don’t know if things would be different if I wasn’t a single mom, or if I wasn’t widowed, or if Mike wasn’t an alcoholic, or if pigs could fly. But I know that this isn’t working for us right now, and as Ethan continues to struggle, I need to be there for him. As Lauren starts to ask questions, I need to be there for her. As my mom’s health continues to be a mystery, I need to be there.

I’m fortunate. I can take a 50 percent pay cut and make it work. The basement remodel will have to wait. We won’t be going to Europe or Disney next year. I won’t be driving a brand-new car next month. But I’ve realized that I can’t put a price on my happiness, my kids’ health, or our sanity as a family.

Let’s just hope the unofficial offer becomes official soon…

Breakdown on the Playground

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Ethan had a major breakdown yesterday.

He was playing outside at Kids Klub, the after care program at school (don’t even get me started about the use of the “K”s and the lack of punctuation), when he lost it. Tears flowed. Fists balled up. And piercing screams came out of his little boy body.

The college-aged counselor supervising the playground had no idea what to do.

Luckily, on Thursdays, the program supervisor is at the school. She was able to pull Ethan aside, hug him, and comfort him.

Apparently, the cemetery set him off. When I first visited the school, I thought it was a little unsettling that the church cemetery butts up against the playground. You can’t miss the gigantic tombstones just off the rock wall or the huge monuments near the swings. The living and the dead play near one another at St. B.

Interestingly, he was crying about his grandpa more than his dad. He told Mrs. B that he was sad about his grandpa. Why did he have to die? Mentioning his dad was almost an afterthought of his grief. Kind of an “oh, yeah, and I’m sad about my daddy, too.”

Last night, after his shower, I held Ethan for a long time. We read parts of a grief book that my mom bought last week. Some parts don’t apply to our situation, but others seemed to resonate with him. Ethan asked why he didn’t have anything of his dad’s to remember him by – unlike the photos and hanky and keepsake box and some other small things that he has that belonged to his grandfather and that Ethan keeps near his bed.

The truth: I don’t really have anything of Mike’s anymore. Mike either took his stuff to his parent’s house (and I haven’t gotten anything back except two broken laptops – even though I asked for a few things specifically) or it’s in storage in St. Louis (which I can’t access until I’m officially named trustee of his “estate”). I started explaining that daddy didn’t live with us when he died, so there really isn’t anything of his around. Then I remembered the shirts.

When Mike came to get his clothes in September, he left behind three button-down shirts. I don’t know if he purposely left them or if he just didn’t notice them in the corner of the closet. But I have these three random shirts – a white dress shirt, a striped Ralph Lauren shirt that he never wore, and a casual shirt from his law school days. “Ethan,” I said, “how would you like one of daddy’s shirts?”

Ethan ran down the hall to my room. He picked the casual shirt and immediately he put it on. “Look how BIG this is!” he said. “It’s down to my ankles.”

He giggled as he struggled with the sleeves which practically drug on the ground. He wore the shirt around last night, during Lauren’s bath time and during story time. Then he took it off and placed it on top of his stuffed animals, next to his pillow. “I want to sleep with it here,” he said. “This is the stuff I cuddle.”

Heart. Broken.

Ignored Thank Yous

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I haven’t written any thank you notes yet – not to the people who sent flowers or sent money for the kids’ college fund (God, that makes me so uncomfortable) or donated to SJC or made dinner for us or sent packages of goodies to the kids.

I’ve looked at the cards. Taken them out of the box. Pressed my pen to the paper. But nothing comes out. I just stare at the blank cards, wishing they’d write themselves. I stare at the white plastic bag holding the cards and list of people to send them to. It sits on my kitchen counter, waiting, taking up valuable countertop real estate, just as it has for the last four weeks.

At this point, I’m rude, and I know it.

I really am thankful to everyone who sent flowers, drove (or flew) to Ft. Wayne for the funeral, sent notes, prayed for us, made us dinner, held my hand while I picked out flowers, sent care packages to the kids, sent money (especially those who really couldn’t, or shouldn’t, have because of their own situations). I”m humbled beyond words. I’ll be forever grateful. To many (most), I’ve expressed my gratitude – either verbally or through a passing/fleeting mention in a Facebook message or email. I just can’t write formal “thank you.”

Writing thank you notes is acknowledging that Mike is gone. He’ll never go on a father-son Boy Scout camping trip or take Lauren to a father-daughter dance. He won’t see them graduate high school or be there to help pick out colleges. He won’t walk Lauren down the aisle on her wedding day or have “the” talk with Ethan. Mike will never be there to comfort the kids when they’re sick, and he’ll never hold his grandbabies.  

Even though I’ve been pissed off at him for the last few years, I really, really, really hoped that he’d get better so he could do these things with his kids. He deserved these things with the kids – but more than that, THEY deserved these things with their dad.

I’ve pared down the thank you list to the bare bones. I’ve cut out some of the thank you notes that I “wanted” to send but didn’t “need” (per etiquette guidelines) to send. Still, it’s daunting. It’s overwhelming.

But, I have to figure out how to get it done.