http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MhZPqHeEAQ
Multiply this by about ten and you will know what it is like here during mating season!
Ah, this is more like it!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qY8-HooF9I&NR=1&feature=endscreen
Pokemon!
Before Ming was eighteen months old, I had over three huge albums with photos. I couldn’t bear to get rid of any of these pictures of Ming, even the ones in which I’d accidentally missed his head completely and all that could be seen was a torso, a nappy falling off and stubby, grubby little legs.
Those faulty photos, in which Ming’s eyes glowed bright red, became his favourites. “Ming dwagon – Mummy look!” he’d exclaim, delighted.
I’d show my albums to anyone who seemed remotely interested, but it wasn’t until my mother got a fit of the giggles that I realized I was overdoing it – just a bit.
“Julie, all of the photos for fourteen pages are exactly the same – just Ming sitting in the baby bath,” she laughed.
“No they’re not, Mother,” I said, indignantly. “Look closely – in this one he has that coy expression; in this one he’s twitching his nose; in this one he’s scrunching his eyes; and in this one he has bubbles all over his cheeks. And see, here, over the page, the light is slightly different, so his eyes look bigger and….”
By this time my mother was hysterical with laughter. “But it looks like pages and pages of quadruplets,” she spluttered.
It was months before I took another photo!
Eventually I got my ‘photographer’s’ confidence back, but by this time Ming had, unfortunately, developed whiskers. Not real whiskers, of course, but black texta does have a certain texture about it, especially if applied thickly and often.
It was the Pokemon creature, Raticate, who provided the inspiration. Raticate, being rat-like, had whiskers that Ming just had to have. His first attempt wasn’t so successful; he ended up covering most of his face from the nose down with black lines and then got a terrible fright when I showed him a mirror.
After that, it was my job to draw the whiskers onto Ming’s face. Ming became more and more particular about each hair-like stroke of the texta. One application would last around three days because he violently resisted having his face washed. “MING’S RATICATE WHISKAS! MING’S RATICATE WHISKAS!” he’d yell repeatedly, frantically avoiding the sponge.
The trouble with all of this was that I wanted to take the next series of Ming-photos and the whiskers didn’t fit my vision of cute. Neither did the fierce scowl that accompanied the whiskers, for a truly authentic Raticate look.
But, like many things, I got used to the whiskers, so much so that after awhile they just seemed a natural part of Ming’s face. I started taking photos again. So I now have two albums of identical photos of a severe looking two-year-old boy with what looks decidedly like a moustache! The phase only lasted a few months. Gyarados succeeded Raticate and, although Gyarados didn’t have whiskers, he did do a pretty effective water attack. “SPRISE ATTACK!” Ming would yell.
Give me whiskers any day.
I miss Pokemon!
Paranoia
King: Julie hasn’t been as attentive to us as usual. Have you noticed?
Prince: Yes I have noticed!
Frosta: Yes, I’ve noticed it too, guys, and I’m a bit hurt too, but from a female perspective, I understand that she is simply going through a blue wren phase.
Prince: What’s a blue wren?
King: Those stupid little birds that flit around our heads all day.
Parkinson’s disease, in its final stages, can lead to confusion, depression, hallucinations, delusions, moodiness, dementia, and paranoia. Ironically, some Parkinson’s medications can also have these kinds of side effects which is why it is such a difficult disease to treat. Until recently, it was Anthony’s physical debilitation that was the primary concern. Yes, hallucinations were a big problem but that was eventually improved by some changes in medication.
So the nursing lodge decision was made on the basis of his physical disabilities – immobility and incontinence (and other factors). But lately, there have been some signs of psychological problems. His confusion in the evenings has become a constant and his depression too, and last week I blogged about his uncharacteristic anger with me. Today, when Ming and I visited, he was different again. He had a strange, suspicious expression in eyes (eyes which are so difficult to read now) and he began a mumbled diatribe about the nurse who had showered him this morning, saying that she had kicked his foot and hurt him. He even used a few insulting expletives so I left Ming with him out in the sunshine and went in to talk to the head nurse.
This is only the second time I have raised an issue. The first was last week when I told her that his anger with me was a new thing, and today, without going into exactly what he had said, I mentioned that he seemed to have something against the nurse who showered him this morning. I admitted that I didn’t know if he was delusional or if she had actually been a bit ungentle with him and emphasized that his complaining was, like this new anger, uncharacteristic. She said she would look into things tactfully and we both agreed that it may be a new symptom of his PDD. I said I would see his doctor asap to see if his meds. could be altered (for the millionth time) to address this new out-of-character behaviour.
She said that he was occasionally a bit rude and nasty to staff, especially if their ethnicity didn’t match his and I was a bit shocked and reassured her that this, too, was completely out of character. She patted me on the back and Ming and I came home a little stunned by this rather rapid change in Anthony’s personality. The other thing that has been happening lately is that he has begun accusing me of having a boyfriend (which, of course, I don’t!) and previously he was never the jealous type.
I hope we can do something about this because it is very worrying. I mean if he is nasty to the staff they are hardly going to love him are they. So this is a real dilemma in terms of his care.
Love story 108 – Ming’s tail
From the ages of about two to four, Ming wore a tail. At first it was a skipping rope with one handle missing. I’d get him dressed and tuck one end into the back of his shorts and off he’d go. The rest of the rope would drag on the ground as he walked, ran and played. The tail became so much a part of Ming’s identity that if we couldn’t find it there would be a frantic search.
Anthony I got used to shouting desperately, from opposite ends of the house, “Have you seen Ming’s tail?” This became our morning routine!
During this period, even though he didn’t always wear it at home, there was absolutely no way Ming would leave the house without his tail attached. “Where’s my tail?” he would wail. Once, when we couldn’t find it, and then I remembered it was soaking in the laundry sink, I had to ring the pre-school teacher to say he’d be late because his tail wasn’t dry yet. This happened a few times so that even she began to see this as a perfectly normal excuse for being late. She told me once that she’d had to speak to the whole class about not touching Ming’s tail after it had been pulled out once too often and he’d dissolved into furious tears.
Inevitably, the skipping rope split and we had to find another tail, before the trauma of not having one left long-term psychological damage. Not to Ming – to me! I just couldn’t imagine him without his tail.
Ming was surprisingly mature about the disintegration of his old tail after I said that, of course, we’d get him a new one. “I’m sad but I’m okay, Mummy,” he said stoically. “I’m gwowing up, so I jus’ need a black furry one now,” he reassured me.
This happened on a Saturday, so I left Ming home with Anthony (well Ming wouldn’t come to town tail-less anyway). I searched the toyshops all morning in vain. Each time I asked, “Do you stock tails?” I’d get a bewildered response. I could have bought another skipping rope or any sort of rope, but Ming had graduated to black and furry and I respected that.
I rang Anthony who told me that Ming had been weird all day – not himself at all, quite moody, in fact. “He says he doesn’t feel good without his tail,” Ants said, laughing quietly.
We made the quick decision to give him a black woollen tie of Anthony’s that he had only worn once before anyway. “You’ll have to run out to the car when I get home so he thinks I found one in town,” I said. And that’s what we did. When I got home, Anthony and Ming raced to the car but Anthony won and secretly tucked the tie into my bag while we both told Ming to close his eyes and open his hands.
I put the tie into Ming’s hot little hands and he opened his eyes. He stared at it for what seemed like ages before he looked up at me, tucked the narrow end into the back of his pants solemnly and said, with serious joy, “It’s sooo wicked; look, Andony. Isn’t Mummy awfulsome!”
What a relief, and I took all the credit even though it should have gone to Anthony.
I wish Ming remembered these days.
Queenie
Queenie is our oldest peahen because I purchased her and King as adults. All of the other peafowl came as littlies. Queenie and I have a rather special relationship although we do disagree on some issues. She is a rather radical feminist whereas I tend to waver. She has successfully negotiated a relationship with her husband, King, whereby he only visits when she says yes. King understands because he can see how hard Queenie is working on training the younger peahens. King’s method of training the young peacocks is to play tag around the house.
I think the reason that Queenie and I get on so well is that we are both contemplative. I love her!
Who let the dogs out?
Remember this song? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=He82NBjJqf8&noredirect=1
For some time now we have had a dogs versus birds dilemma and this has been a source of contention between Ming and me. I have tended to lock the dogs in their yard and let the birds free range and Ming has wanted this arrangement reversed, so we have now come to a compromise. The dogs get to run free all morning, then get put back into their yard, then the poultry get to free range all afternoon until we put them away, then the dogs get another run. So far this is working very well.
The reason we can’t let them all frolic together is because the dogs want to kill everything. Blaze is a miniature dachschund and Jack is an Irish terrier so, despite our attempts to train them not to kill (using electric collar things briefly which I didn’t like, and a dog trainer) both breeds have been bred to hunt and kill.
Luckily the guinnea fowl and peafowl can fly up and away from dog danger, but none of the poultry can – not even Godfrey – so now we have a new system and everyone seems very happy – the gang, the dogs and Ming and me.
They look so innocent don’t they!
Don’t be fooled by their sweet demeanours; Ming let them out a bit early the other afternoon, before the roosters were roosting, and they killed Noname and Tina Turner almost instantaneously. Poor Ming tried to stop it but had to come and tell me. I cried my eyes out even though Tina and I had such a love/hate relationship. Noname was always a bit vulnerable and an easy target so I guess, for me, this was another lesson learned.
I’m not sure if getting accustomed to loss is a good or a bad thing.
Control
I latched onto a couple of quotes from two articles that I found on Monday and, when I read them to Ming yesterday, he was blown away. The first comes from this source: http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/healthy-connections/201007/help-my-controlling-behavior-is-ruining-relationships
“How does a person become controlling? It is basically a method of coping with the anxiety they feel beginning very early in life. Some had parents who couldn’t quite fulfill their role as strong caregivers and seemed to be weak or incapable.
A child in this situation, as early as age 3, may begin to prop up their parents and become a little adult very early on. If the stress continues, fear increases and the use of attempts to control what they can, becomes compulsive and unconscious. It is more likely to happen with children who are helpers, and/or leaders by nature, often first born boys or girls feel proud of themselves for helping and it is encouraged or reinforced by parents and other influential adults. They may also have a tendency toward anxiety, worry and perfectionism which will only make it worse.”
The second quote comes from this source: http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/emotional-freedom/201010/how-deal-control-freak
“Controllers are often perfectionists. They may feel, ‘If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.’ …. Controllers are also controlling with themselves. They may fanatically count carbs, become clean freaks or workaholics. Conventional psychiatry classifies extreme cases as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder–people are rigidly preoccupied with details, rules, lists, and dominating others at the expense of flexibility and openness.
QUIZ: AM I IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH A CONTROLLER? (from Emotional Freedom)
- Does this person keep claiming to know what’s best for you?
- Do you typically have to do things his way?
- Is he or she so domineering you feel suffocated?
- Do you feel like you’re held prisoner to this person’s rigid sense of order?
- Is this relationship no fun because it lacks spontaneity?
If you answer “yes” to 1-2 questions, it’s likely you’re dealing with a controller. Responding “yes” to 3 or more questions suggests that a controller is violating our emotional freedom.”
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I read these quoted excerpts to Ming so it was rather lovely when he listened without angst and it was very interesting to see his jaw drop in recognition of himself and me. I guess you could call it an epiphany.
It was during our first session with the counsellor last week that she suggested we might have control issues, so it was the word ‘control’ that stuck in my head and is why, after things went haywire on Sunday, I googled ‘control issues’ and found the above two articles. What would we do without google – ha!
“So I’m a control freak,” Ming said with a certain amount of relief and a tinge of pride.
“Yes.”
“And it’s because I couldn’t control Dad’s sickness and your misery, and my back and all the shit?”
“Possibly.”
“So what do we do now?” Ming asked.
“Well, we’ve already taken the first step, kid.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am the one in control now so you can just freak off!”
His pealing laughter filled the house and my heart had a lovely little nap.
Sometimes I just want to go back in time!
Despair
Despair came to visit today even though I had already told it to go way so many times and thought it had finally given up. It knocks on the door a lot and I ignore it and feel safe because the door is locked. But today, it picked the lock and broke in and, whammo, smashed me just as I was putting the kettle on. And when I fell down, it kicked me and kicked me until I begged it to stop, to please go away. It stopped kicking me but it didn’t go away.
So that was a few hours ago and I have since gotten up, washed the tears off my face and am now developing a plan of how to get rid of it because it’s sitting in the living room, waiting. Do I play the waiting game too and hope, in time, it will give up and go away? Or do I go into the living room and confront it. Despair has the advantage of course because it stopped me from doing all of the things I wanted to do today by snaking its way into my conversations with my son and non-conversations with my husband. It burned the kettle dry and whipped the wind up to blow all of the clean clothes off the line and into the dust of the driveway.
It’s pretty clever, this despair, because it has positioned itself in the middle of the house and created a sort of dividing line between my son’s room and my office, so every time he and I have tried to have a chat, it whips into the conversation and, with incredible skill, turns all the good words into corpses, turns our blue eyes black and laughs derisively when we both slam our doors and give up.
The trouble with banishing despair is that it might simply go somewhere else and inflict itself on someone else, so I have to figure out how to kill it. It has never been so presumptuous before, never made itself so at home before and, when I last sneaked a peek, it was dozing comfortably in the living room, waiting. Waiting for what though? Is it waiting for another mother/son argument, for another wife/husband disappointment, for another bird to be killed by the fox, for another glass of my tears?
How will I kill it before it kills me? I know it hates me laughing because once I saw it shrivel when I laughed. And I know it hates me loving because once I saw it vomit when I hugged Ming and Ants at the same time so maybe I can kill it with more laughter, with more love. But somehow I don’t think that will be enough. After all, this despair has already been able to permeate all of our laughter and love with little drops of dead fly poison.
I wish I had the solution to this predicament.
jmgoyder 