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Graduation gratifies, but unconventional future looms

What I said in the newspaper this week:
Before you read this column, chant this line: “This is not about me. This is not about me.”
I say that because I am bound to offend some very good people with this piece. I’ve done it before, when I’ve taken sacred tradition or community perspective and … observed it, with no intention of being negative. You’ll have to trust me — this comes not from a place of anger, but joy and sadness. In nearly equal doses.
It’s a graduation year at Home Place, an unequivocally happy moment. Our graduate has surprised anyone who’s known her long. Burdened with prenatal brain trauma, learning has been terribly difficult at times. This is the girl who arrived at cognitive milestones long after her classmates had sprinted ahead. As she came into her teen years, social and emotional development proceeded excruciatingly slowly, grinding to a fitful stop for now.
Yet here we are, graduation-bound. We got the professional pictures, ordered announcements, agonized over the guest list and are discussing the family party menu. Endlessly, since older sisters are looped in and opining.
This didn’t just happen. Graduation comes about because of the intense — and that word isn’t big enough — involvement of professionals, neighbors, church members and friends who are willing to be a “village.”
By golly, we did it all. Tutored, cajoled, bribed, explained, explained, explained. Emailed, texted and phoned in a tight network of determination. We searched for help, found the best doctors, prayed the most-needed prayers.
But no adult in the universe could change some things, and that’s coming home to roost. This is where “sad” kicks in.
The graduation information from the school has been ongoing for months, it’s true. What’s not said says more.
There’s no scholarship buzz, for starters. Parents who have birthed high school seniors know just what I mean. Your kid starts getting the high sign by the school early on — “grades, community involvement, great endeavor equals scholarships.” Students are advised to visit the counseling office to mine all possible scholarship applications. You, doing your part, chain them to the kitchen table until those are filled out and submitted. Then you hold your breath along with your kid, hoping some relief from the cost of tuition will be extended because your child was deemed worthy. Or lucky.
Not this time, not at our house.
We’re not getting the recruiter love, either. Not from colleges or military branches. Certainly, pieces of mass mailings have landed here, with color-soaked pictures of beautiful campuses and delighted students grinning in clean-cut joy. Or children flying Air Force planes, whatever.
This doesn’t mean my daughter is not bound for college. We’ll be talking to the right folks to find a good fit for the girl who dreams of being a chef. We’ll start with one class at a time and watch what happens.
And that’s so great. I get that. I know that in the world of developmentally disabled adults, our girl has more options than most. Her brain has organic damage that left holes in lobes, but there’s a lot that functions beautifully. Like areas that determine compassion, appreciation, musical ability and capacity to love.
But I’m a mom. I want what I want for my kid and I’m not going to get it this time. This message came home to me a few weeks ago at Whitman College.
My girl is blessed to be part of a program that pairs special-needs adults with Whitman students. The group meets twice a month for activities that everyone loves: karaoke, tie-dyeing, treasure hunts, movies. It’s amazing how happy both sides are to be together.
Yet when I watched my child sitting on brick steps surrounded by Whitties, there was that moment of pain — knowing my blond-headed baby would never be seemingly care-free on a college campus, in momentary limbo from the dive into adulthood.
Truth is, adulthood for her will look much like her childhood. For years.
We’re also missing out of the not-so-important stuff surrounding graduation. Like the birthday party invitations that dried up a decade ago, there will be no party after the official senior party. Or the excitement of friends planning a trip before going separate ways to college. Not the sweet promise of a last summer at home, when your parents are slightly more tolerable when a light is at the end of the tunnel.
Actually, all that is the important stuff.
This is my first graduation of a special-needs child. I’m not doing it as well as I hoped. On one hand, people will say there is no need to rain on everyone’s end-of-school parade. To those I ask to please refer to my first sentence.
Others will counsel me to look at the bright side. And I will. Sometimes, though, we have to recognize the gray passing over us and acknowledge it as a valid color.

 

Filed under: everyone's kids, Family, FASD, Love, My house, our traditions, Universal pain, children, Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder, Home Place, Milton-Freewater, moving forward, Sheila Hagar, special needs high school graduation, Walla Walla, Walla Walla Union-Bulletin

Cat Ninnies Anonymous

What I wrote in the newspaper last week…
Fighting cat addiction by tooth and claw

 

 

It doesn’t take much to light the flame under my secret addiction. Not Facebook, since that’s no secret.
My drug of choice? Kittens.
Heaven help me, I’m a complete sucker for those little balls of fur and moist noses. The wide eyes and frisky tails. The fluffy paws batting at air. All of it makes me melty and happy, like warm chocolate sauce is coursing through my veins.
And every single day, Facebook serves up a buffet of kitten pictures. Kittens, cats, puppies, dogs. Babies. In ridiculous, adorable poses.
I bring much of this on myself, of course, by some of the pages I “like” on Facebook. Like Blue Mountain Humane Society’s page. That group has gotten really savvy at marketing on Facebook. Puppy in Mardi Gras beads? Cats posing on crinkly velvet? Already hooked, reel me in.
Which is why I’ve called a few times over the years and requested to be put on the shelter’s do-not-adopt-to list. People think I am kidding when I say that, but I assure you I am not. That decision comes when I am being proactive about my addiction.
The folks at the shelter just laugh, by the way. “OK, Sheila, we’ll put you on there. Again. For now.” I hear them wink at one another.
I can tell when things are getting bad and I’m looking for a fix. I look at Annie Mae, our kitty of 13 years, and think how nice it would be if she had another cat to commune with while we are gone.
Never mind that Annie Mae has no use whatsoever for her own kind, now that her boyfriend of many years is gone. Max was special to our tuxedo cat — never laughing at her stick-thin body, never hissing while she ate his food, always willing to share his mom’s generous porch and its cushy wicker chairs with our curmudgeon of a cat.
Beyond Max, Annie Mae preferred there be no other felines in the universe, thank you.
I know this in my head, but that wisdom is unavailable to me when the fever starts climbing. At the next notch, I briefly consider the cost. A visit to any number of web sites will assure anyone that owning a cat is not for the faint of wallet. Estimates for monthly costs range from $600 to more than $1,000 a year, not including any adoption fees.
And that’s not just the obvious stuff — regular vet visits, food, kitty litter, toys, medicine, flea control — but the things you can’t anticipate. Like when your cat gets out and hides in the engine compartment of your car and you, whistling as you go off to work, start the engine. That is so not cheap.
Then I start imagining a new kitty in the house. Not a brand-new kitten, because I really am past the curtain-climbing, leg-shredding stage. But a younger cat with some joy of play in it, one that will chase the balls and gnaw on the catnip mice that Annie Mae won’t give a second glance to. A sweet feline to cuddle under the covers, sharing its time equally between three teens who could all use a furry ear to whisper into.
And that’s about the time I click on the websites and read the classifieds. Then — this shows you how sabotaging addiction is — I post pictures of adoptable kitties on Facebook, just like all the other addicts out there posting similar pictures.
It’s sort of how I often approach deadlines, like the one for this column. Heat the water slo-o-owly until it is at boiling point, until the pain forces a leap of action.
By posting those images, all the other cat ninnies understand their cue. “GO GET A CAT ALREADY,” my daughter will reply. “DO IT,” my friend Amy — potential cat lady in the making — will type in. “So cute!” “Oh, how precious. What will you name it?” The positive feedback just pours in.
My kitty crush validated times 1,000. At that point I’m euphoric.
Now comes the battle of wills within myself. I’m at my desk, say about 3 p.m. I have another hour, hour-and-a-half of work. I think, “I should take a break. Get my blood pressure down. Drive over and see animals.”
THAT is the exact moment I have to become sane, slap myself around a little and hide my car keys from myself.
It would be so easy to just indulge. Just a tiny taste of kitty madness. However, my past informs my present. Because my Nana was a cat lady.
Oh, my goodness.
Not the kind of cat lady you see in the movies, cheerfully feeding masses of purring fur and tails. Nana was the sort you see on those hoarding reality shows, living with as many cats as they have bundles of newspapers “just in case.” She was dialed back a bit from that extreme, but at one time in my childhood we had 40 cats living at this house. Mostly outside, but close your eyes and imagine 40 cats, and not very healthy ones, in your yard. Go on.
See? Those are the genetics I’m up against. I’m going to start a support group soon, Cat Lovers Anonymous.
OK, now you know more about me than you wanted to. I’m out of here, just looking for my car keys. What? Of course I am driving straight home. I’m not even thinking about going past the Humane Society. At 7 E. George St.
It’s not like there’s a little black bundle named Midnight that I’ve had my eye on, or anything. Or the lovely Stella. Or Bruce, that little cutie…

Filed under: Happy Cat series, My house, our traditions, Blue Mountain Humane Society, cat lovers, cat tails, Home Place, kittens, Milton-Freewater, pet adoption, Sheila Hagar, Walla Walla, Walla Walla Union-Bulletin

This choo choo is ready to roll

Out of the blue, Camo Man turned to me last night and said, “I really want to take a train trip with you. Let’s go on the train somewhere.”
We have not known each other long enough for my husband to be aware of how big this moment was, and not just that we finally are at least talking about realistic vacation possibilities.
Because me? I come from train people.
When I was growing up, my grandmother would often take the grandchildren she was raising on the train. We boarded in Pendleton, hoisting bags of food aboard — as if we would starve on what was about a six-hour trip – and carrying books to read. Our destination was always Portland, and it was expected we would breakfast in our seats and read quietly, under the always-strict eye of Nana.
On the train, however, something magical happened to Nana. Within mere minutes, she transformed into a carefree woman who was filled with the joy of travel, doling out sandwiches and Fritos wrapped in wax paper, maybe the extremely rare Twinkie. Cut into thirds, of course, lest my brothers and I get too accustomed to treats.
She would nibble a bit herself (I promise you, I never once saw Nana take more than a few bites at a time. I have no idea when and if she really ate), then shake out the once-hefty Oregonian newspaper.
Our grandmother would settle back in her seat and begin what promised to be a happy couple of hours, devouring political and regional news. And with that, we were free.
Oh, boy, were we free. While Dwight stayed in his seat, content to watch the land slide by mile by mile, my middle brother and I took to the aisles.
Up to the top of the Vista car to act like Lewis and Clark, down through the meal car to be jealous of such cosmopolitan behavior of ordering breakfast in the train, past the closed doors of the sleeping cars, avoiding porters by dodging into bathrooms.
We should have been reported and returned to our grandmother, but that never happened. Life on a train was glorious respite from all ills.
And somehow, a special osmosis has happened and Camo Man feels it, too.
I wish I could call my dad this instant and pick his brain about where to go and how to go about this — he was the trainiest of us all.
But today is the anniversary of his death in 2008, so I am turning to readers in his place. If you have a train story, Camo Man and I want to hear it. Train advice? Bring it on. Best trip by train to take? Yes, please.

Filed under: Camo Man, From the life I used to have, Love, our traditions, What if...?, Camo Man, Sheila Hagar, train travel, vacations, Walla Walla, Walla Walla Union-Bulletin

Dear Santa (and still waiting for delivery)

What I said in the newspaper this week:

Dear Santa,
It’s been a few, huh? I haven’t written since the kids were little and all I really wanted was time to take a bath and read a few pages of a book.
Well, yes, if you insist on reminding me, I did ask for a break in laundry and chauffeur duties, as well. Whatever.
Now I need to ask for something else. I blame Gretchen. She will definitely need coal in her stocking, Santa.
Thanks to her, it recently became apparent to Camo Man and me that we do not know how to take a vacation.
I know, it’s completely embarrassing. That’s why you’re hearing from me now. I need to add “Learn to travel” to that list I sent last month.
As you know, Santa, trips in our previous lives looked much the same. He took the wife and kids to the coast and the mountains, drove to see friends and family. The Hagars did likewise, minus the hunting trips, of course.
Yup, you do remember correctly, I flew hither and yon a few times for writing conferences — for work — and I had a couple of weekends with just friends.
But those vacations you see in glossy travel brochures and on the pages of lifestyle magazines? No, and the sad part is, we haven’t the slightest clue how to vacation like there’s no tomorrow.
This whole mess is Gretchen’s fault.
Gretchen works at the bank where I have my home loan. This summer I was at a wedding shower (it was the summer for weddings, Sir, meaning you gave a fair number of couples that particular wish on last year’s Christmas lists) and sat next to a banker.
We made small talk, you know how women and elves are. She said she was staying busy at work, what with the great interest rates and all.
Low interest? Lower than what I was paying? Which, I will just say, I was told “It will never get lower than this!”
Oh, but rates did drop, and by nearly two more points.
So I did the “refi” shuffle and ended up with a little chunk of change at the end of things. “Of course,” I noted in pious tone to Gretchen the Banker, “I’ll stick this right back into the principal.”
“Pfft,” Gretchen said, more or less. “I’d go on vacation with it.”
“Ha ha ha,” I replied. “I never go on vacation.”
And there it was, firmly planted — the worm.
Not that I realized that at first, Santa. It’s like when you brought me the doll with pink hair … who knew it would become my favorite doll and I would be devastated when my brother cut off those pink curls.
Now it’s like I have to go on vacation or die trying. We have friends who flit off all the time. Hawaii, Europe, Mexico, they’re more gone than home.
Camo Man and I, however, have a missing travel gene or something. We have no idea of where, how or when.
Choices, even in our econo-budget range, are overwhelming. What do we do when we get there? What if we miss out on something? How do we decipher vacation packages?
When I spoke of these woes to my friend Lara, she sat at my desk — hey, Santa, is it too late to add a new desk to my list? — and talked to me about going to exotic locales.
“Oh, I don’t want to have to get a passport,” I whined in ungrateful fashion.
“I can’t help you then,” Lara said.
“Right? I know, we’re hopeless.”
Recently Pilot Dude, who, as you know, Santa, flies lots and lots of people to their dream vacation spots, sent over some literature about Hawaii. Camo Man looked at what his buddy had picked for us to consider and looked at me.
“He thinks we can do this, Babe.”
We both laughed, loud and long, and ended with a sort of hiccup-sob.
Because the idea of boarding out our three teens and two dogs, packing for warm weather and disappearing into the beckoning skies seems like as big of a myth as you are, Santa.
Santa? Wait, that didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean it that way … um … anyway, I’ve been real good this year, Santa.
Love,
Sheila

Filed under: Camo Man, It's that simple — I'm an idiot, My Man, our traditions, what you can do to help, Camo Man, Home Place, Sheila Hagar, Walla Walla life, Walla Walla Union-Bulletin

Please help me torture Camo Man

It’s his birthday today.

I’ve discovered my man is VERY uncomfortable with being given presents or any sort of acknowledgement of a personal occasion.

I find it aggravating and adorable at the same time. I love that Camo Man is shy about being fawned over — the party I threw for him last year about put him over the top — but hate that he’s a lousy gift receiver. When I got him a giant birthday gift a little earlier this year, it sat in the living room for a few days before he could even look at full on. Even then, he could barely speak of it’s existence. Still can’t. “I don’t want you doing that,” is all he will say.

His son, Techno Dude, came over last night with a fancy-schmancy filtering water bottle that, basically, promises sparking water from the nastiest sources. My man visibly fidgeted about being the receiver of such a fine birthday gift. He changed the subject right away, stuffed his new toy back in the box, then averted his eyes.

Later, as we prepared for sleep, I told him his gift-getting sucks. He doesn’t see it exactly the same way.

So I have decided to alert the universe that today is when the world welcomed a baby boy who would someday be Camo Man. I hope those of you with his phone number fill his voice mail to the brim with birthday greetings. I hope others will leave comments here or on Facebook. I hope those of you working with him today (you know who you are) will appropriately torture him with happy wishes.

I know, it’s not nice. I never said I was nice. Just over the moon in love.

Filed under: A new love, Camo Man, Family, Happy!, My house, My Man, our traditions, what you can do to help, Camo Man, Home Place, Milton-Freewater, Sheila Hagar, Walla Walla, Walla Walla Union-Bulletin