In this house, I’m the Mama…

They have declined to even assign a caseworker.

Their reasoning? We have complained about this before, so it must be a vendetta on our part.

Additionally? Asthma meds are just maintenance meds. That’s not really neglect.

At least that means they won’t call her, I guess.

Responses I have gotten from others on this issue:

“Social Services shouldn’t have the right to go into her home and tell her to clean it up, any more than they should have the right to tell people not to spank.”

Right… Because swatting your kid on the behind lightly is a jailable offense, but having your kid sleeping on the floor and inhaling bacteria-laden feces is no big deal. Let’s not mention that I pay taxes, to pay the salaries of the people that should protect kids from LIVING IN FILTH.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to let it go.”

Hmmm… I bet if it were YOUR kids, your opinion might be different.

“They’re not YOUR kids. Why worry about it?”

You’re right. They’re not my biological kids. But I would be concerned for ANY kids living this way and I’m most certainly concerned about MY stepchildren having to live in this. I wonder if you adopted a child, and that child still saw the birth mother, and when that child saw the birth mother he/she came home covered in filth if you would think that. I’m thinking not.

“There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Bull pucky. I bet if they were YOUR kids, you’d move heaven and earth to make sure they didn’t have to deal with that kind of crap (no pun intended). The fact that they’re my STEPkids doesn’t make me any less concerned, or any less driven to change the situation.

Notes to the well-meaning folks out there:

1. They ARE my kids, just by marriage, not biology. And quite frankly, I’m really tired of hearing folks say otherwise. If you were a foster parent, or an adoptive parent, or a stepparent yourself, I’m betting you wouldn’t harp so much on the biology angle.
2. I am appalled at the squalor in which they live and you should be, too. I will not let it go, nor will I pretend that there is nothing I can do about it. As long as I have a voice, I will fight to make sure that they do not live in deplorable conditions.
3. Yes, Social Services should absolutely have the right to go into her house and tell her to clean it up. They should also have the right to restrict her parenting time for not providing medication to my Stepson. It’s called Environmental Neglect and Medical Neglect, respectively. Look it up.

To the rest of you, who have been so very supportive:

Thanks for your thoughts and your prayers. Keep ‘em coming. If you get a minute, call your local Social Services Agency and let them know that you won’t tolerate inaction on issues like these in your community.

One more thing… If you see a child that you suspect is being abused or neglected, please do NOT hesitate to call. It’s not just your right to report, it’s your responsibility. We live in America, folks. Kids should not have to live with abuse or neglect.

IDIOT ALERT:

I had to have the garage door repaired. The repairman told us that one of our problems was that we did not have a “large” enough motor on the opener. I thought for a minute, and said that we had the largest one made at that time–a 1/2 horsepower. He shook his head and said, “Lady, you need a 1/4 horsepower.” I responded that 1/2 was larger than 1/4. He said, “NO, it’s not. Four is larger than two.” We haven’t used that repair service since.

IDIOT ALERT:

I live in a semi rural area. We recently had a new neighbor call the local township administrative office to request the removal of the deer crossing sign on our road. The reason: “Too many deer are being hit by cars out here! I don’t think this is a good place for them to be crossing anymore.”

IDIOT ALERT:

My daughter went to a local Taco Bell and ordered a taco. She asked the person behind the counter for “minimal lettuce.” He said he was sorry, but they only had iceberg. He was a Chef? Yep.

IDIOT ALERT:

I was at the airport, checking in at the gate when an airport employee asked, “Has anyone put anything in your baggage without your knowledge.” To which I replied, “If it was without my knowledge, how would I know?” He smiled knowingly and nodded, “That’s why we ask.”

IDIOT ALERT:

The stoplight on the corner buzzes when it’s safe to cross the street. I was crossing with an intellectually challenged coworker of mine. She asked if I knew what the buzzer was for. I explained that it signals blind people when the light is red. Appalled, she responded, “What on earth are blind people doing driving?!”

IDIOT ALERT:

At a good-bye luncheon for an old and dear co-worker. She was leaving the company due to “downsizing.” Our manager commented cheerfully, “This is fun, we should do this more often.” Not another word was spoken. We all just looked at each other with that deer-in-the-headlights stare.

IDIOT ALERT:

I work with an individual who plugged her power strip back into itself and for the sake of her own life, couldn’t understand why her system would not turn on.

IDIOT ALERT:

When my husband and I arrived at an automobile dealership to pick up our car, we were told the keys had been locked in it. We went to the service department and found a mechanic working feverishly to unlock the drivers side door. As I watched from the passenger side, I instinctively tried the door handle and discovered that it was unlocked. “Hey,” I announced to the technician, “its open!”  His reply, “I know - I already got that side.”

Editor’s Note:  I’m pretty sure these folks have all been fired from their above-listed jobs and now work for Social Services or Family Court…

So hubby and I discuss this “concerning” turn of events after we get home. He is outraged, of course. We decide to involve Social Services. We send an e-mail to the therapist that sees the children and verify that this is something “reportable.” Should be a no-brainer, right?  No.  The list they’ll actually respond to can be bizarre.  She verifies that this is reportable and hubby makes the call. Here’s where things begin to get interesting.

Hubby discusses this most recent issue–the fact that the kids are living in squalor and have no clothes that don’t have dog poop on them. He fills the caseworker in on The Egg Donor’s (ED) refusal to fill Stepson’s prescriptions. He tells the caseworker about the long history and asks her to check the file. He discusses our many concerns, including the discussion that Stepson had with the Dental Hygienist recently where he told her that “at Mom’s we don’t brush our teeth usually, because we don’t get home until one o’clock in the morning.” He spends at least 20 minutes on the phone with this woman, explaining, then nodding, and saying “Uh-huh” a lot.

Now it’s my turn. She and I have a nice long chat, during which I reiterate all of the things that hubby told her. Then comes the good part…

She tells me that it seems strange that all of these other folks–the hygienist, the therapist, etc.– have concerns about the kids but haven’t reported. It just doesn’t “gel” for her, she says. She’s been doing this a long time and perhaps we’re just overreacting. I tell her that no one wants to get involved. That’s why they haven’t heard from all of these people. It’s not that it’s not happening, just that providers don’t want to the be in the middle. She explains to me that these providers are mandatory reporters.

Yes, I know this. I tell her that perhaps they’re not reporting because they see that we’re getting it done, even if ED is not. I explain that the hygienist is having this conversation with a kid while he’s sitting in the dentist’s chair getting a cleaning. She’s talking to him about how often he brushes, but this time he’s cavity-free. Nevermind that he’s had a head full of them in the past. If he were being neglected, he wouldn’t be in this excellent shape right now, right? That’s how people think about this.

She disagrees. “Neglect is neglect,” she says. No kidding? Isn’t that the purpose of the phone call? Isn’t it neglect when your kids don’t have clothes without dog poop on them?

I get the distinct impression that our upcoming court date is a mark against us in her eyes, instead of another avenue we’re pursuing to get this done for the kids. She tells me that she’ll likely just give ED a call and “check in” on this issue. I come unglued. I know. I shouldn’t have. But I can’t even fathom the logic someone would use to come to this kind of a conclusion.

“What? I certainly hope to heaven you don’t actually CALL her,” I say. “If you don’t believe us about this situation, wouldn’t it be better to at least stop by, knock on the door and see for yourself? Surely you know that if you call it will be cleaned up by the time you arrive? That would be worse for the kids than if we had never made a call to you.”

“I’m not saying that I’m going to do anything at this point,” she responds (with the “don’t get all freaked out about this” attitude–I hate the placating tone, I really do). “I simply don’t have enough information to make a decision on what to do. I haven’t even looked at the file. I can’t just send someone out at 7 o’clock at night without basis.”

“I agree that this is not an immediate threat to the children, since they are with us,” I answer. “I can certainly understand that you don’t want to send someone right this second. But I am begging you to at least have someone go and take a look. Please don’t call ahead. That would defeat the purpose of this call.”

She repeats herself, over and over and over again… “I can’t say that I’m going to do ANYthing at this point.”

I get frustrated. “What about the medication?”

She proceeds to tell me that we just don’t have proof that his meds are not being administered.

“Oh, but we do,” I tell her. “We have the date the prescription was issued, the number of pills in the bottle, the dates that they were with her, and the e-mail from her stating that he had some left. Obviously it has not been administered appropriately.”

“Well, that’s subjective,” she replies. How in God’s name is that subjective???? “Further, these medications are maintenance medications. It’s not like his life is in danger if he doesn’t take them.” Unbelievable.

I remember that the meds weren’t the actual reason we called, just an aside in an already long list of grievances we have with ED. I return to the dog poop issue.

“Well,” she says, “I don’t think a child wearing long sleeves on a hot day is an emergency.”

Do these people just not listen? I answer her slowly, teeth gritted…

“We… are…. not…. calling…. about…. the…. clothing. If we had an issue with the long sleeves, which we do by the way, we would just send her an e-mail, or discuss it with the child. We most assuredly would NOT call you to take care of it. However, we do have a HUGE issue with the fact that this child has no clothes to wear–except this one long-sleeved shirt–that aren’t covered in dog poop. This is unsanitary and unsafe for them. This is neglect!”

She explains again, with the same condescending tone, what she already explained to my hubby. “We deal with all kinds of issues regarding children and there are some very immediate cases we have to handle. We see children getting raped, beaten, burned, locked up and tortured. Those are the cases we deal with on a regular basis.”

I don’t disagree with her. I’m sure they see a lot of ugliness, every day. I can’t imagine doing the job they do. But the fact that they see things that are “so much worse” does not make this NOT wrong… It doesn’t make this less of a safety issue… It doesn’t make this small… It does NOT make this OK.

I eventually hang up after she talks to hubby one more time and we sit, dejected, beaten, and weary. It’s frustrating to deal with the many issues there are but by far the biggest frustration is the absolute refusal, by folks who could fix it, to step in. Hubby tells me that the worst part for him was when he asked her why they come to our house so readily every time ED calls. They have been to see us eight separate times in the past seven years now, on allegations of abuse–unfounded every time. But they still come every time she calls.

Her answer? “It depends on the egregiousness of the claim.” I guess next time we’ll have to claim that she’s making them eat it and see if they come running. I wonder briefly–if it was her kids that were living in a houseful of dog poop if she’d do something about it. Maybe she’d think it was pretty egregious then.

In the meantime we’ll just have to live with the fact that these kids, not kids from Darfur or Somalia or Afghanistan or Tijuana, but kids from the good ol’ upper-middle class US of A, live in squalor exactly 49% of the time. We’ll just go to bed on the nights they aren’t with us wondering if they’ll come down with something because they sleep on a mattress on the floor, right next to bacteria-filled dog feces. We’ll wake up on the mornings they aren’t with us and wonder if they have something not feces-covered to wear. We’ll be able to do exactly nothing about it. And we’ll do this until they turn eighteen because their Egg Donor, and the Social Services folks we pay with our tax dollars to protect our children from just this sort of thing, don’t care.

I HATE this system.

I picked the kids up from daycare yesterday and Stepson was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. I know I’ve discussed this with you before in my What Does It Take? post. I really don’t understand why it’s Rocket Science to send the kid in appropriate attire when it’s 97 degrees outside. Long sleeves are not appropriate (and dark blue, to boot), in case you were wondering.

As we get into the car I say, “Dude, why are you wearing long sleeves when it’s like nine hundred degrees outside?”

“It’s all I could find,” he says.

Now, I know this is probably true because The Egg Donor (ED) seems to never do laundry. The kids come in filthy clothes most days–too small, torn, whatever. Rarely do we pick them up when they are wearing something freshly laundered–let’s not even discuss the number of times we’ve picked them up that they’ve actually brushed their teeth, brushed their hair, or had a shower recently. But I decide to give ED the benefit of the doubt.

“Did you look very hard or did you just grab the nearest thing?” I say.

“No,” he insists. “I DID look. I looked hard! But I couldn’t find anything that didn’t have dog poop on it.”

I’ll let that sink in for a moment….

The silence in the car was deafening. A million thoughts ran through my head. My instant reaction was that I wanted to hunt her down. How can you let your kids live like that? What kind of a parent would have their child picking through clothes covered in dog feces to find something to wear? I was astounded. I went from white hot anger to near tears in seconds.

These poor kids. Did he really say he couldn’t find anything other than a long-sleeved shirt on a 97-degree day because all of his other clothing had dog poop on it?

Yep, he did. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe he’s exaggerating. He is, after all, only 7.

“What? Seriously? All of your clothes can’t have dog poop on them. Did you look in the closet? Isn’t the dog potty trained?”

All three kids shake their heads no.

Eldest stepdaughter pipes up, “No, we’re working on it. She doesn’t pee in the house anymore, I don’t think. But she hasn’t learned to go outside yet for pooping.”

“And she poops on your clothes?” I ask.

Youngest stepdaughter answers. “Yep. She just poops wherever.”

“And you guys don’t clean it up? And wash the clothes?”

“Well, Mom does when she gets time,” says Eldest Stepdaughter. “And the dog gets in big trouble!”

“Oh,” I respond. Well then, that makes all the sense in the world, doesn’t it?

Has the world turned upside down and I missed it? Have I stepped into some alternate reality where things like this are commonplace?

To be continued…

Last night after we arrived home, my son (the 8-year old) announces to me that he needs some ham… and cheese. He has decided at some point during this day that he wants to make dinner for us and these are the items he needs to purchase. I ask him if he needs shredded or block cheese… What kind… Did he want to run up to the store right now?

Oh, yes. He absolutely wants to go… right now! I suggest that he take the keys and go ahead. He gives me the head-tilted-to-the-side, silly grin, “M-o-o-o-m-m-m-m-m-m-m….” in response. I snatch the keys off of the counter and we set out. At the store, he checks the rows and rows of cheese. We discuss the flavors of the different varieties and he settles on Mild Cheddar. I suggest that he get the shredded kind–because it’s so much easier than shredding it yourself.

“No, no,” he says, “I want to actually do it myself. You know? I want to MAKE it myself.”

Alrighty then. Into the cart goes the block of cheddar and we move on down the aisle to the lunchmeat section.

If you’ve looked for ham recently, you know there are at least 700 different choices–chopped, diced, cubed, sliced, thin sliced, honey, honey-smoked… the possibilities are endless. His eyes grow wide as he looks at his options. Then, he sighs, throws up his hands and says, “Doesn’t anyone just sell HAM anymore? Just plain, old HAM?” I resist the urge to smile and pick up a package of sliced ham… just HAM.

“How about this?”

“No, I don’t want the ROUND kind, Mom. Just HAM. Just plain, old HAM.”

“Well,” I respond, “This is just plain, old HAM. It’s not a block, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s sliced.”

He takes the package from my hands and examines the ham closely, checking for evidence that it is, indeed, sliced. Apparently he is convinced because the round, sliced package of ham goes right over the edge of the cart and takes its rightful place next to the Mild Cheddar. We head for the checkout. I hate to stand in line and we only have a couple of items, so Self-Checkout it is. He unloads the ham and the cheese onto the counter next to our little Self-Checkout stand.

“Can I do it this time, Mom? Please?”

“Sure, why not,” I say. I scan my card and he goes to town. He is very careful to check that the appropriate number of items show on the screen and verify that the price for each is what he expected. I swipe my debit card and we head for the car, me rummaging in my purse for my wallet so that I can put away the debit card and him, little legs high-stepping, plastic grocery bag swinging from his arm, whistling a happy tune.

When we get home, he sets up shop in the kitchen. He opens the block of Mild Cheddar and digs under the counter until he finds the cheese grater and a bowl, cuts himself off a good-sized chunk and begins to grate. He digs out a skillet and grabs the eggs from the refrigerator. I hear him rustling around for utensils, then I hear the click of the knob on the stove. I’m in the living room trying to stay out of it. He’s made some overtures in the cooking world already, but this is a big deal. Cooking dinner all by himself!

I wait a few minutes and decide to go for a glass of water. As I round the corner, I see that he has spilled some of his grated cheese on the floor. There he is, hunched over, broom and dustpan in hand, sweeping it up. I smile, grab my glass of water, and retreat to the living room again, thinking to myself that he’s one heck of a great kid.

Five more minutes go by and the smell wafting from the kitchen is heavenly. I surmise that his eggs, ham and cheese is probably done and decide to go help with dishing it up. No sooner have I dug three forks out of the drawer, than he orders me, in his best 8-year-old firm-and-stern voice, to return to the living room.

“Go sit down, Mom! I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

“Did you want me to set the table?” I offer.

“NO. JUST GO SIT DOWN. I’ll bring it!”

I obey. Shortly he appears in the living room, plate in hand, piled high with eggs, ham and cheese. I wait for him to serve hubby’s, then for him to get his own.

As he’s serving our dinner, I get a little twinge. I remember not so long ago when he was just a little, bald guy that loved Sweet Potatoes in a jar. I remember getting him out of the bathtub and breathing in the scent of Baby Magic. I remember him taking his first little toddling steps. I remember the first day of Kindergarten. I remember lots of skinned knees and tears. I remember the sound of his gleeful laughter as a little one. I remember the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing while I rocked him to sleep. I remember looking into his eyes for the first time and wondering what he would be like.

Now here he is–the big 8–and I’m so impressed with him already. He’s a thoughtful, kind, respectful, smart, full of life, full of laughter, mischievous kid with an amazing sense of humor. I feel so blessed to know him, to have him in my life. And he’s evidently going to be quite a chef, to boot!

As I take a bite of some of the best eggs I’ve had in a long time, I think to myself, “I’m the luckiest Mommy alive!”

It’s that time, again. The time when all of the stores stock up on all of the supplies our kiddos need to go back to school. With the thermometer hovering around 100 degrees, it’s hard to imagine that the dog days of summer–the days of the perpetual sprinkler, bathing suits, coconut-smelling suntan lotion, backyard BBQs, popsicles and ice-cold lemonade–will soon be replaced with getting up early, homework routines, earlier bedtime, and Back to School Night. But it’s coming.

I actually love this time of year. I don’t love the heat. In fact, I yearn for the crisp mornings of fall–the reds, deep oranges and golds of the leaves, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan that I can hear once the Air Conditioner isn’t running full time, the thought of cinnamon and gingerbread, Halloween costumes, and holiday time. Maybe it’s the thought that those things are coming that make this time of year so great. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming number of school supplies out there.

I’m not much of a shopper, really. I’m a “get in, get it, get out” kind of gal. But I must admit that school supplies are my downfall. I could spend hours in the aisles lined with endless stacks of three-hole punched, pristine, wide-ruled notebook paper. I love to look at the packages of never-opened, never-used pink erasers, pencil toppers, and pencil grips. I love to run my fingers over the smooth covers of the rows and rows of spiral notebooks, glossy folders, three-ring binders, and Composition pads. I get positively giddy over the packages of Number 2 pencils, 10, 24, or 36, sharpened or not.

I love to fill the cart with all of the things the young ones will need, checking each item off of the list I carry in my purse. I love the fact that glue sticks are $0.25 for a 2-pack. I love that the 36-pack of pencils are just $0.99. Rulers are $0.50. School supply boxes–in red, green, purple, or blue–are $0.50, too. But my favorite–the best part–is the brand new boxes of crayons, the tips still sharpened, the smell of wax so fresh, for just $0.20 a box.

I load up on crayons, folders, notebooks, protractors, rulers, notebook paper, sticky notes, and hand sanitizer. I carefully place washable markers, dry erase markers, pencils, supply boxes and Kleenex by the 10-pack into the cart. I shiver with delight at the bargains there are to be had at this time of year.

The kids aren’t even with me. In fact, I don’t think they care so much about this shopping experience. The last few years they’ve been bored about 10 minutes into it. I never have. I remember school shopping as a kid and I feel the same about it now as I did then. Even though none of these supplies are for me, there’s just something about getting all of these new things that is exciting. There’s something about the fact that no one has written on anything, lost the cap to the marker, left the lid off of the gluestick, or bent the folders that makes this purchase almost as exciting as it was when I was 10. I’m sure it had much more to do with the excitement of getting back to the routine, seeing friends I had missed over the summer, making new friends, and learning that I associated with school supply purchase back then, but I truly am excited about it now.

This year, I’m on my own and I’m loving the leisurely pace through the aisles. It’s early enough that the aisles aren’t packed with parents and kids following this same ritual. I shudder as I recall last year’s debacle, four kids surrounding the cart, each of them grabbing for what they need, in the midst of a sea of others doing the same. It reminded me a little of the Cabbage Patch Kid craze in the mid-80’s and I was ready for a Valium by the time we left.

Not so, this time. I finish up with this trip and take my bags of loot to the car. I will go home and divide these many school supplies into separate bags, one for each kiddo. I will label everything and have it ready when mid-August rolls around. The kids will be ready to go and I even have some extras for home. I breathe in the scent of paper, wax, hand sanitizer, and strawberry-scented erasers (no, not on the list, but I had to get them anyway) and shut the trunk.

It will be another year before it’s school supply time again, but I feel satisfied that this trip has gone well. Every item on the list has been checked off and we only need new backpacks. I won’t have to brave Wal-Mart or Target with the packed aisles of screaming children and frazzled parents. It’s all done! And I’m early… I have a momentary twinge of disappointment, thinking that it will be months before I’ll smell that new-crayon smell again–before everything is new once again. I dash back into the store and reach for another box of crayons…

I’ll keep that one for myself… until next year.

I said in my Back to Life, Back to Insanity post that I would do an entry about the Egg Donor’s refusal to provide asthma medication previously.  Here it is, as promised.  Before I link you to the timeline for this particular incident, let me frame the situation for you.

This occurred in 2003.

In 2001, Stepson had RSV and was hospitalized for 2 weeks. His oxygen sats were in the 60’s (for those of you unfamiliar with oxygen sats — that’s BAD). He was extremely ill and that illness, at a little less than two years old, caused him to have very tender lungs. This means that his asthma affects him regularly and it can cause other things like respiratory infection, sometimes leading to pneumonia (not this particular time, but he was right on the edge).

The coughing that I describe in the timeline is not a little bit of a hack. When he gets ill like this, and it happens approximately once a year like clockwork, he coughs until his lips turn blue, until he gags, until he vomits. He coughs because he can’t get a breath. The only remedy to that is a nebulizer treatment or his inhaler, and a lot of inactivity. The other, and more long-term, remedy to that is aggressive treatment with regular meds, which at the time this occurred, was clearly not happening.

In 2003, my hubby had two overnights with the kids and that was it. One weekday and one weekend overnight. The Egg Donor was not much different than she is today, so try to imagine, if you can, scheduling and attending all of the appointments for three kids on one weekday and one weekend.

In 2003, my hubby was paying half of his paycheck for child support and the other half of his paycheck to his attorney. I was paying all of our living expenses. We were absolutely strapped financially. We have been asked (by people like the Special Advocate who don’t really care what the answer is) why we didn’t take Stepson to the ER. Keep in mind that The Egg Donor did actually have insurance, had the kids five overnights per week, and had the financial ability (because she was getting almost $18,000/year tax free from my hubby) to take him to the doctor and get his medication. She was also court-ordered to provide the insurance and work together with my hubby to get the kids’ medical needs met. A trip to the ER would have been at least $5K out of pocket, which we simply did not have. In hindsight, it would have been better for everyone if we HAD just taken him and put her down as financially responsible or something. We could have paid the ER twenty-five bucks a month forever, but taken it out of her hide later. We also could have filed a more in-depth report with Social Services. Suffice it to say that we learn as we go and we don’t always make the right decision, but we did the best we could at the time.

Click here for the story…

The end result of all of this is that Stepson got better, that time. Who knows what the long-term impact to his lungs was of not having his medication that weekend. He’s getting a little better as he gets older and we’re trying to keep treating him aggressively.

Hubby filed another Motion to Modify Parenting Time shortly after his emergency motion was denied by the court, with a new attorney. That was in 2003. We didn’t actually get into court until 2005. At that point, we successfully argued, against a Special Advocate’s report (written by an SA that bought The Egg Donor’s lies hook, line and sinker), for 51% custody. By the time we got into court, ED had changed jobs six separate times, dropped insurance on the kids all of those times, failed many more times to provide meds, etc. But the timeline, and our attorney’s presentation of it (along with the serious dental needs the kids had that she refused to address–a blog for another day–and the fact that ED refused to get glasses for the Eldest Stepdaughter saying, in writing, “I don’t see what her ability to see 10 feet in front of her has to do with her schoolwork”), was largely the reason that my hubby got 51%.

In my opinion, if it’s that obvious that ED isn’t getting the job done, the court ought to award full custody to the parent that is, with minimal visitation by the other parent. But that’s not how they’re geared these days. It’s my hope that we can take the consistent failure to administer medication (we even had to arbitrate on that because she refused to follow Doctor’s orders–another blog entry for another day), failure to refill prescriptions, take them to the doctor, help them with homework, do anything else that a prudent parent would do, and open the court’s eyes entirely this time.

I try to remind myself that, although she’s still as loopy as they come, the kids are in much better shape right now than they were in 2003, 2004 and early 2005. It’s the little victories that keep us going. But oh, how I wish things moved more quickly.