tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80056292873342237962024-03-06T01:55:47.830-06:00Glimpses of SkiffKristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-28458604722159610452020-11-13T05:22:00.000-06:002020-11-13T05:22:05.061-06:00The Insipid Seduction of Sameness<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicB2eLv2VF6cnNG4paejpOnTUxL_ovWSsCDkVoFkimnYg2K9Dg1xO_rfYD6G2fIkbKiL-9ttauzrosdl2gzIszXVVN06X9lB0-h9tjydH2grKvr17-sJJMqD4jycvVJpQyBTFNB4nRw9Qq/s1280/car-communication-3100980_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicB2eLv2VF6cnNG4paejpOnTUxL_ovWSsCDkVoFkimnYg2K9Dg1xO_rfYD6G2fIkbKiL-9ttauzrosdl2gzIszXVVN06X9lB0-h9tjydH2grKvr17-sJJMqD4jycvVJpQyBTFNB4nRw9Qq/s320/car-communication-3100980_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><div style="border-bottom: double windowtext 1.5pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<br />
</div><br />
<p class="firstparagraph">It's 3:30 am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
house is still and quiet except for my husband's steady snoring on the bed
behind me and the clattering of my keyboard keys as I type.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish that I was asleep, curled up next to
him and our dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I awoke with an
urgency to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to push it
down, close my eyes, and fall back to blissful unconsciousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the pressure only grew, spreading from my
heart into my fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew there
would be no rest until I laid out what has been heavy on my heart.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">Like so many of you, I have been concerned and heartbroken
by our country's tumultuous state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
past year has only served to spotlight the division, which has been growing
within our nation for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In many
ways, my marriage is a microcosm of that great divide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband and I exist on opposite ends of the
political spectrum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To say that this
election year has been strained in our house would be an understatement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have tried to erect a firewall and avoid
all political conversations, but that has become increasingly difficult. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The issues at stake are so important, and our views
and opinions are so strong on those issues that staying quiet feels like a
betrayal of our beliefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certain words
are sure to trigger a rousing "debate" between us; words like 'Trump,'
'Portland,' and 'pandemic' are off-limits according to our kids, who are tired
of hearing the same old arguments from us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">We are disconnected on a deep level and have each gravitated
towards groups of like-minded people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes
you just want to be heard and understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You don't want to have to defend your position or argue the merits of
your beliefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You want the comfort of
someone to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so it begins,
the quiet and insipid seduction of sameness.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">What we are experiencing here on a micro-scale is
happening all over the country on a massive level; more and more people are
leaving the public debate and sequestering themselves among others who are like
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn't only one side doing this;
it is all the sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are taking our
toys and going home, so to speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are
segregating ourselves more and more.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">Relationships that were prized above politics are now torn
apart; husbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters, grandparents
and grandchildren, and loyal friends have vilified each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those relationships are replaced with a
cacophony of like voices on social media and the news outlets we choose to
believe. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have exchanged relationships
for echo chambers, and the divides between us grow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">The draw to sameness is strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is reassuring; it is comforting, and it is
toxic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A look back at our not so distant
history teaches us the dangers of segregating ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Jim Crow years and the hard battle for
civil rights and racial equality should have taught us how devastating it is to
surround ourselves with only those who think like or look like us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we only hear our own thoughts and
opinions repeated back to us, we develop an us versus them mentality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The "us" is always right, even
righteous, and the them is always wrong, even "evil."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">We all want to be understood; to have our opinions
valued and validated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are tired of proving
our point and arguing our position, of hearing the rhetoric of the "other
side." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is so much easier to vent
to those who agree with us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">But we forget the fundamental truth of life; real
relationships take work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are not
always easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the time, they are challenging
on some level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is that tension,
that struggle, and that hard work that causes us to grow together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This process changes us as people and helps
us grow in our compassion and understanding.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="firstparagraph">Proverbs 27:17 says, "As iron sharpens iron, so
one person sharpens another." We need each other to grind off the rough
edges and to sharpen and focus us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, there
is a seduction to the ease of sameness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
the difficult struggle to understand those unlike us and the fight for their
understanding, we will change ourselves and our nation.<o:p></o:p></p>Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-36976980823121808102020-06-27T15:48:00.001-05:002020-06-30T10:28:55.470-05:00Cates to the Beach!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs01Ru_gBUiEmixfVZLQstrQVfX4A2qWN0p5jPlG3nU41F7ELUpOxNR3IS1Z5pGZBBQOn7Ovj-ohjf5xh2EiusQyzxgRJKeg0dZ65xWbXKstwj2VvDOilDTrHIycAvU5Rv9IlEtS-zepRi/s1600/FB_IMG_1586103938372.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="720" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs01Ru_gBUiEmixfVZLQstrQVfX4A2qWN0p5jPlG3nU41F7ELUpOxNR3IS1Z5pGZBBQOn7Ovj-ohjf5xh2EiusQyzxgRJKeg0dZ65xWbXKstwj2VvDOilDTrHIycAvU5Rv9IlEtS-zepRi/s320/FB_IMG_1586103938372.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;">
Let’s Send the Cates
to the Beach!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am starting a fundraiser to send the Cates family on
vacation to the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With all the
madness going on in the world, you may wonder why this family deserves your
support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is my pleasure to introduce
you to this fantastic family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have known the Cates family for more than ten years; we
have attended church together, our kids went to the same schools, and we
participated in the same community events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I met them, Cotton was an officer with the county sheriff’s office,
and Krysta was a stay-at-home mom de jour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was a leader in the PTA, the homeroom mom of every class,
volunteered to read to the kids in school…honestly, the list goes on and on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cotton coached the kid’s sports teams when he
wasn’t busy as an officer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They gave
more to the community than I can say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward ten years, the kids are all growing up, and
Krysta is now a teacher in a local middle school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is going well, the oldest is graduating
with honors, the other two kids are excelling in their classes and
extracurricular activities, and Cotton has been in the sheriff’s department for
20 years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cotton is a good man and an excellent officer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is the cop that we are all looking for
right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one who stands up and
says, “this isn’t right” when he sees wrong done in the name of justice, by the
very people who are tasked with upholding the law.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of being rewarded for standing up for
what was right, he lost his job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is
looking for a job but so far has had no luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The stress of the past year is wearing on the entire family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When asked how we could help, all they asked
for was a way to bring their kids to the beach for a short vacation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This way, they can have one last summer
vacation with their oldest before he heads off to college, and the entire
family can take a break from the incredible stress they face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We, as a nation, are demanding that good police, like
Cotton, stand up for what is right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
someone does just that, they deserve to be rewarded, not pushed out of their
job for breaking the thin blue line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
may not be able to change what happened to Cotton and his family, but we can
show our support to him and through him to the many other officers who have
paid similar costs for doing the right thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Let’s use our dollars to support this good man and his family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Donations can be made to venmo@Krysta-Cates.com<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you for your support.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-78347917371808727982019-06-29T13:38:00.001-05:002022-06-29T16:10:10.472-05:00A Glimpse of White Privilege<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIIurKEwfXfjhBwOo0xSJWZm_zCbIxm9nLQiyGhB2JKoL4a_ZYH5fAi2sxgapdLQUZa3Y_Zauu88SURtw5jiNxRjxD0Y-RV3wR2Zq8hFrxWyCOSXvWkvapeN5R_sCyLICZL7DXPUV-yRw/s1600/horse_with_blinders.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="477" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKIIurKEwfXfjhBwOo0xSJWZm_zCbIxm9nLQiyGhB2JKoL4a_ZYH5fAi2sxgapdLQUZa3Y_Zauu88SURtw5jiNxRjxD0Y-RV3wR2Zq8hFrxWyCOSXvWkvapeN5R_sCyLICZL7DXPUV-yRw/s320/horse_with_blinders.png" width="254" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">Good
Morning, friends. Because I've been so busy writing for work, my blog has
been neglected. I figured it was time to dust off the cobwebs and give it
some tender loving care. And how better than to take on the very
politically and emotionally charged topic of white privilege? You know me,
always ready to delve into the deep waters.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
The truth is that I have stayed clear of politics on this
blog, quite purposely. This blog is about Skiffdom and my thoughts while living
in our chaos. That fact has not changed; this is not a political
blog. This very Skiff experience led me to a deep understanding of what
white privilege is and how my family benefits from it.<br />
<br />
I have to be honest. I used to scoff at the idea of white
privilege. It wasn't that I was purposely racist. I just looked at my life and
couldn't understand how anyone would consider it privileged. I was raised in
poverty, where we didn't always know where our next meal would come from. My
Dad worked harder than anyone I have ever met, but with a family of ten, there
just wasn't enough to go around. Our pastor would often show up at our house
with groceries because he knew we needed them, even if we didn't talk about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> Our clothes were second-hand hand-me-downs, shoes
were worn-out, and the furniture was
given to us. This is not a complaint. Our house was always full of people, yet
my parents somehow managed to turn a widow's mite into enough to feed whoever
was there. They gave to others even out of our need. But I would not ever apply
the word </span><b><i>privileged</i></b> to my childhood.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I was bullied in school because I was always different from
those around me. My mom once said I was born old. I just came into the
world older than my years. My friends were in their late twenties and thirties
when I was still a teenager. I was the girl that stayed after class to
pick up all the spitballs the rest of the class had spat at me while the
teacher was in the hallway, the girl who matured physically too young, the one
who spent her time reading a book instead of playing with the other kids. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> I definitely wasn't </span><b><i>privileged</i></b>. My whiteness didn't stop the bullies, keep
food on the table, or stop me from being abused by others. It didn't keep me
safe or warm or make me feel secure. How is that <b><i>privilege</i></b>, I wondered?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Once married, my whiteness didn't protect me from having kids
with autism, it didn't make my marriage a good one, and it didn't keep the mental
illnesses from wreaking havoc in my children's and my husband's brains. It
didn't keep food on our table, a roof over our heads, our house heated, or any
number of other things that we lost or went without. In fact, my experience was
much more like that of many of my black friends than that of my white
friends. So, where was my <b><i>privilege</i></b>?<br />
<br />
My friends, I apologize from the depths of my soul. I was so
blind to the privilege until an experience in December tore the blinders from
my eyes in a most dramatic and heart-wrenching fashion. Is there any other way
in Skiffdom? LOL<br />
<br />
It was a typical day in Skiffdom. I was picking the
twins up from one of their last high school days before Christmas break when my
phone began to blow up. I couldn't answer one call before another number was
beeping in. When I finally could pick up without my phone disconnecting, it was
a police officer. He told me there had been an incident with my youngest son at
the bank two blocks from our house. My son was fine. How long would it take me
to get there? I was at the high school less than a mile from my house and
had been gone less than 15 minutes. When I left, everything was fine. What
could have happened in that short amount of time? Why was my son at the bank?
He didn't answer my questions. He just told me to get there as quickly as
possible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I got the story from the police and my older son later
on. It seems in the 15 minutes I was gone, he and his oldest brother had gotten
into an argument about who had to bring out the dog. My youngest, who was
closing in on a manic episode, just snapped. He ran out of the house barefoot
in a total meltdown and into the bank a block from our house, ranting and
waving his pocket knife around (why I don't know, he has no memory of doing any
of this, so I can't get answers from him).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
After the relief that he was safe, I ran over to my son and
hugged him; while hugging him, my first thought was, "Thank God he isn't
black, or someone would have shot him for sure." At that instant, my
blinders fell away, and I completely understood white privilege. White
privilege isn't that my life has been easy. It isn't that I have money or even
opportunity. White privilege is the fact that my mentally ill, autistic son
went into a bank, with a small pocket knife, in a meltdown and came out alive.
White privilege is that underneath all my excuses and reasoning, in a moment
when my soul was stripped bare, I knew that the only reason he was sitting on
that curb and not in an ambulance or a body bag was that he had white skin. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">This
is Texas. I can guarantee you any number of people in that bank were armed,
besides the bank security and the police. And I could hug my son and get him
the mental help he needed. I knew my good friend, who has two autistic
boys who are more severe than my son, would almost certainly have been unable
to do the same had it been one of her boys in the same situation. The
difference would only have been the color of their skin. That breaks me in ways
I can't even begin to put into words.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
This is how broken our society is. This is white privilege.
Now that I see it, I will do everything in my power to make sure it
changes. To my friends of color, I can only beg your forgiveness for my
years of blind ignorance. I am so sorry.</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-64685620579895402462019-04-09T13:50:00.005-05:002022-06-29T16:42:50.590-05:00A Glimpse of Vanilla<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganCFEynod9DTbwH5X4pNMZLVETwgWGcAlhu5bNOOJoIifsTiKVaJBYvfXntN5WOEKPWmyAThZayGYUu5tHp6LJY2PK4YDfPCOB8Ci8ZEYMYjY348mEGKHIsKmEHAHkvU_BgjlnV_XLoBX/s1600/vintage+icecream.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganCFEynod9DTbwH5X4pNMZLVETwgWGcAlhu5bNOOJoIifsTiKVaJBYvfXntN5WOEKPWmyAThZayGYUu5tHp6LJY2PK4YDfPCOB8Ci8ZEYMYjY348mEGKHIsKmEHAHkvU_BgjlnV_XLoBX/s200/vintage+icecream.jpg" width="149" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #666666; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">Hello,
my friends. I'm back!! A lot has happened over the past year (thus sporadic
posting). I've written and released a novel and a children's book. I'm writing
a second novel and have another children's book in the final stages of
illustration and editing. There have also been a lot of personal mountains to
climb, which I will address in future posts. But in my first post back, I have
something slightly more scandalous on my mind. Here is your warning;
things are about to get hilariously hot and spicy. So if you are easily
embarrassed or don't want to laugh out loud in the office, stop reading now!</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-size: medium;">
I like peppermint ice cream. I love peppermint ice
cream smothered in hot fudge, with whipped cream and a cherry on top. And hell
yes, I want sprinkles too!! The more whipped cream, hot fudge, cherries, and
sprinkles, the better. I'll sit down and devour every sinful bite, savoring
each lick of the spoon. Yes, I love a good sundae.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />
But there are days when I only want a good, old-fashioned
vanilla cone, just one scoop of vanilla on a plain Jane sugar cone. No, I don't
want a waffle cone. No, I don't want to mess with sprinkles. No, I don't want a
second scoop of your hand-made horchata cinnamon flavor. Yes, I do know that
there are 3.5 million flavor combinations available. But damn it, I just want a
simple, no fuss, no muss, vanilla ice cream cone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />
I'm like this with a lot of things. Some days I just want a
plain sugar cookie or a good old-fashioned McDonald's cheeseburger. Sometimes I
want to wear my old comfortable tennis shoes with my most comfortable pair of
worn-out jeans. And sometimes I like plain, vanilla, no-frills sex! There I
said it. Yes, I know toys are fun. Swinging from the ceiling in chains and
leather is exciting. But some days, I don't want the hassle. Some days I'm tired,
and I want comfort above adventure. And hell, some days I just want to close my
eyes, think of the Queen and get it over with (and I'm not even British).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />
I feel like, as a culture, we have decided that everything in
life needs to be a unique and exciting experience. We even want our coffee to
be a unicorn (looking at you, Starbucks Unicorn Frap). Every day has to
be a holiday and every holiday has to be an over-the-top celebration. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">When
I was a kid, we wore green on St Patrick's day and ate corned beef. That's it.
There were no leprechaun traps, green milk-covered Lucky Charms, or piles of
golden chocolate coins to be found at the end of a glitter-dusted rainbow. You
wore green so that you didn't get pinched and maybe, if lucky, colored a four-leaf
clover color-by-number worksheet at school. Then you went home—The End. Mom was
not up until four in the morning, hanging rainbows, setting leprechaun traps,
or coloring your milk green. And that was okay because you enjoyed not getting
pinched and color-by-number worksheets. But I digress.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I am blessed to run an online group for women where we talk
about sex and all kinds of scandalous things. The group was started by a dear
friend, Emily Dixon, after she wrote a revolutionary book<i>, Scandalous: Things
Good Christian Girls Don't Talk About -But Probably Should</i> (you can
find the book </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Scandalous-Things-Christian-Probably-Should/dp/1477645780/ref=sr_1_5?keywords=scandalous+things+good+christian&qid=1554833750&s=gateway&sr=8-5" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">here</span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">). If you are a woman and want an incredible,
supportive group of hundreds of women, you should check us out on Facebook
(sorry, guys, this is a women-only group). However, the group can get pretty
Scandalous at times. So be forewarned.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> I bring this up because I am fortunate enough
to interact with hundreds of women daily. And I have noticed that plain Jane
vanilla sex is no longer considered okay. Every sexual encounter should be a
combination of the Kama Sutra and a porn movie.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />
I was lucky enough to be the mother of young children before
this was a thing. I mean, sure, my husband and I had some exciting sex. But we
didn't have a fully outfitted BDSM dungeon in our basement. I didn't have
to worry about my anal beads and our babies' amber teething beads getting mixed
up (full disclosure: my kids didn't have teething beads either. Nope, it was
good, old-fashioned, BPA-loaded plastic teething rings for them). I wasn't
rushing to take down the sex swing to hang the Johnny Jumper.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">More
than swinging from the ceiling, I remember falling into bed dead, exhausted
from a day of keeping those tiny humans alive and bathed. We had sex
(obviously, we have five kids), and we even had some excellent, hot and heavy, toys-included
sex. But we also enjoyed a lot of plain vanilla sex because that was all we had
the energy for. Because sometimes it's about the comfort, not the thrill.
Sometimes you are just in the mood to have a quick vanilla ice cream cone. And
that is okay! It's normal. It's even healthy. Not every day is Christmas;
that's what makes Christmas special.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Also, if you need help keeping those anal beads and the
teething beads organized, this could be for you:<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn3TWhhAYJ23-7QuhqZnCvjb9S3sVjtRq0MXVd_oIzTq2PMfGsNY5VQW3tAnbUBKTSipsrSQUZ6MsRIpe2p5vX_8x6ViYtEqatv226OVUpaaRAiLk8hkWBC0Oog8d1mv7UJRtFJQyr1jg/s1600/butt+nuggets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="570" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn3TWhhAYJ23-7QuhqZnCvjb9S3sVjtRq0MXVd_oIzTq2PMfGsNY5VQW3tAnbUBKTSipsrSQUZ6MsRIpe2p5vX_8x6ViYtEqatv226OVUpaaRAiLk8hkWBC0Oog8d1mv7UJRtFJQyr1jg/s200/butt+nuggets.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">
I'm here to help. Much love, Kristine</span></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-21930242584141055732018-07-09T13:20:00.002-05:002022-06-29T16:21:37.677-05:00What If I Fail?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">Am
I strong enough to face my fears, all of them? Am I strong enough to fail, to
fail spectacularly? Am I strong enough to shed all my protective layers
and be honest? Am I strong enough to do what I dream without considering the
consequences? Am I strong enough to fight for the weaker, disadvantaged, and
those on the fringes of society, regardless of the cost? Am I truly strong
enough?</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmbC1oofIrSfPBpLM3qjgkICOxv4JSG29wGmLV8FdepE6V00XUt0CJfM3e4rRwx8zsGHKcNDQOgAO-YlZjMfv6Hkdot9AUE-KuY_6x2M_oGHxL1Xl_6Gw_zUepcPa737dstgFJZr23qpK/s1600/kintsugi-800x400.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="800" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmbC1oofIrSfPBpLM3qjgkICOxv4JSG29wGmLV8FdepE6V00XUt0CJfM3e4rRwx8zsGHKcNDQOgAO-YlZjMfv6Hkdot9AUE-KuY_6x2M_oGHxL1Xl_6Gw_zUepcPa737dstgFJZr23qpK/s320/kintsugi-800x400.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />
<br />
<br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You
know what, I no longer care if I'm strong enough or not. I've spent too
much of my life caring about these things. Now I have come to a fantastic
realization.....wait for it: No one cares! No one cares if I fail. No one cares
if I am strong enough or not. No one cares if I fight or lay down and bury my
head in the sand. If I choose to be an ostrich, no one will know that I
ever had the thought to fight. And if I fight, they will just assume that
is who I am and will have no idea or care about the internal battle it took for
me to get there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> Nobody cares because it's not about me! It
never was. It was only my insecurities and pride that ever made it about
me. So I no longer care. I no longer am going to wait to be strong
enough. I will no longer live my life trying to protect myself from failure,
even spectacular failure. I'm 41 years old and have so many things I've
wanted to do but haven't because I was too consumed with myself; my self-doubt,
fear of faiure, fear of what people think, and my all-consuming need to do it
right. Yet even with all that analysis and anxiety, I have still failed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I
have been broken into so many pieces that I couldn't even count them. And do
you know what has happened, even in that failure? I survived. I grew. I glued
myself back together into a whole different kind of woman. And then I
broke again. And once again, I pieced myself back together; this time, the
pieces came together more quickly. Failure happens. Breaking
happens. I no longer fear the process because I have survived and will
survive again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> So, I no longer care if I'm strong enough to
take it. I'm going to give it my best shot. To hell with success. To hell
with failure. To hell with me and my insecurities.</span><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> So, I no longer care if I'm strong enough to
take it. I'm going to give it my best shot. To hell with success. To hell
with failure. To hell with me and my insecurities.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"> None of it
matters. All that matters is: have I lived my life with true integrity?
Have I been kind? Have I been compassionate? Have I been honest, even
with myself? Have I loved fully and completely? Have I tried with
everything in me? Have I shot for the stars? Have I dared to believe I
could live the dream? Have I truly failed? Have I spectacularly failed? When
I die, I hope I can honestly answer that I have.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-36891841606299830412018-06-27T12:24:00.001-05:002018-06-27T13:32:40.435-05:00A Glimpse of the Avalanche<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday I was blessed to meet another special needs mom as we both waited for our boys to be finished with camp for the day. Her son is around the same age as my oldest. We talked about the struggles of having a child who is legally adult but in no way ready to "adult" on their own. There is a bond, an affinity, between special needs parents that is hard to explain. Whatever our race, creed or politics, it doesn't matter. We share a commonality in our daily life experiences that few can comprehend, much less understand. So we sat and commiserated for close to two hours, both of us ignoring the work we had brought to accomplish while waiting.<br />
I felt a distant rumble as I walked away from that conversation. It felt like the start of an avalanche, high in the mountains above, as you stand in the valley below. You stand in the warm spring air, the sun shining upon you, knowing that if you don't take emergency measures NOW you will be buried under tons of snow and ice. You start shouting and running, trying to warn everyone surrounding you of the frozen fury that is about to rain down upon them. But they look at the green grass and blooming flowers, feel the warmth of the sun and shake their heads. You are Chicken Little crying"The sky is falling". You point out the distant rumble that is getting closer every minute. They laugh and say it's just a train going by.<br />
So you do your best to fortify what you can and try to save your family. But there has never been an avalanche in this valley. There is no evacuation route. There are no shelters. You furiously start throwing together what you can with the limited time and resources that you have. Off in the distance, you see a person here or there doing the same as you are. You know if you could combine resources you would all have a better chance of survival. But there is no time. So you nod at each other, offer a slight wave and continue with your own preparations. All the while the rumble is getting closer and it is picking up speed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TwEZRTvtHbBbG_NNH5QHQQ6fXgEjN9hUw_yl8gZqFLR6JKgvev2gneMeHRrodxOgN5WMjS5dnvq4aFZIgau30VuPALGzCj7aICTOAxP7zOL2WTt5RM09sBQY4uwZ45pexfrr-SfdJOQ1/s1600/Lawine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="400" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TwEZRTvtHbBbG_NNH5QHQQ6fXgEjN9hUw_yl8gZqFLR6JKgvev2gneMeHRrodxOgN5WMjS5dnvq4aFZIgau30VuPALGzCj7aICTOAxP7zOL2WTt5RM09sBQY4uwZ45pexfrr-SfdJOQ1/s320/Lawine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
There is an avalanche coming to your community and it is coming quickly. My oldest was diagnosed at the forefront of the huge increase of ASD diagnoses. We could spend all day today and tomorrow discussing the WHY's of it all. But really the why doesn't matter at this point because the results are the same. In 1992 1 child in 150 was diagnosed as autistic, by 2006 that number was 1 child in 59 (statistics by the CDC https://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/autism/data.html). Children born in 2000, when we just starting to see the rise in diagnosis, turn 18 this year. They become legal adults. However many, like my oldest, are not capable of being independent yet. Legally, we as parents lose the ability to manage their medical and psychological needs, to help them navigate the legal world, to have a much needed voice in their education. Many of the services they currently receive they will age out of when they hit the magical 18 year mark. We as parents have the choice to get partial guardianship (a complicated and hard process), sue our own child for full guardianship (which is an expensive and heart wrenching experience) or just throw them on the mercies of the very ill prepared system.<br />
<br />
Many of you are reading this and are thinking "That's sad but it doesn't affect me or my family. I've got my own crap going on." Oh my friend, you could not be more wrong!! There is an avalanche coming for you and there is no place for us to direct it.<br />
- <span arial="" color:="" font-family:="" helvetica="" open-sans="" pen="" quot="" roboto="" sans-serif="" sans="">The U.S. cost of autism over the lifespan is about $2.4 million for a person with an intellectual disability, or $1.4 million for a person without intellectual disability.</span><br />
<div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: roboto, "Open Sans", open-sans, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.4 !important; list-style: initial !important; margin-bottom: 15px !important; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br />
-35 percent of young adults (ages 19-23) with autism have not had a job or received postgraduate education after leaving high school.</div>
<div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: roboto, "Open Sans", open-sans, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.4 !important; list-style: initial !important; margin-bottom: 15px !important; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">
-It costs more than $8,600 <b><u>extra</u></b> per year to educate a student with autism. (The average cost of educating a student is about $12,000)</div>
<div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: roboto, "Open Sans", open-sans, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; line-height: 1.4 !important; list-style: initial !important; margin-bottom: 15px !important; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">
-In June 2014, only 19.3 percent of people with disabilities in the U.S. were participating in the labor force – working or seeking work. Of those, 12.9 percent were unemployed, meaning only 16.8 percent of the population with disabilities was employed. (By contrast, 69.3 percent of people without disabilities were in the labor force, and 65 percent of the population without disabilities was employed.) (all statistics compiled by the Autism Society http://www.autism-society.org/what-is/facts-and-statistics/)<br />
<br />
For the last 18 years, we parents have absorbed much of the cost of caring for, treating and getting therapy for these kids. We have 5 kids with disabilities in our family. Even with that large number of diagnosed dependents, we did not receive a single dime of public assistance, with the exception of services provided by the public schools, until 4 months ago. Now we are only getting help because some amazing people found loopholes to get my kids further services that they desperately needed but we could in no way do on our own. I am not complaining. I don't begrudge my children the care they needed. We are parents. We simply did what good parents everywhere do, made it work for the sake of our kids. However, all those very needed therapies, interventions, etc we pursued for our children, on our private insurance or simply out of pocket, quickly begin to go away when they turn 18. Unless a plan is in place, our kids will lose all those services that make them as functional as they currently are. Without the necessary support, our kids begin to spiral out of control and we don't have the legal authority to step in to help. Quickly those young adults become a burden on the already dysfunctional mental health and legal systems. YOU, the taxpayer, will pick up a much more expensive tab because nothing was in place to help these kids transition into adulthood safely. The incredibly frustrating and heart breaking part of this is that the entire spiral is completely avoidable!! Keep in mind, we aren't talking about a couple of kids here or there. We are talking about 1 in 59 kids all coming of age within a few years of one another!!! That is a huge strain on an unprepared and at times willfully ignorant system.<br />
"How can we prepare?" you ask. Write your legislatures! Demand that they begin to fund transition services for special needs kids coming of age. We need educational outreaches for the parents of these kids. The process of getting any kind of guardianship is confusing. Setting up trusts for your kids future is extremely complicated, time consuming and expensive. Ask lawmakers to stream line the process for parents to get partial guardianship of their disabled children. Volunteer to be a mentor for a teen with special needs. Donate time or money to the underfunded, private organizations that struggling to give services to the multitudes coming their way. There is an avalanche coming your way. We few advocates are not enough to stop it from crushing not only our kids but also the entire system.</div>
</div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-42283805951753635002018-06-03T17:12:00.003-05:002023-03-26T18:51:27.849-05:00A Glimpse of the Cuckoo's Nest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">There are moments in time or things we
experience that have the power to change us forever, to define us, and bring
clarity to our callings. Such a moment happened to me two weeks ago amid a family crisis. It was one of the most heartbreaking,
shocking, and enervating experiences ever. It broke me in the
best way possible. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> I
write this today because most of you will never have the chance to experience
this moment. Most of you will never see the reality with your own two
eyes. Most of you will only get the sanitized version from the news or a story you
read online. You will never be privileged to see the truth or have your heart broken and your protective instincts fired. Even
after reading this, most of you will return to your sheltered
existence. Choosing to believe the experiences and sights I am about to share
with you could not possibly be as bad as what I am going to portray, and even
if they are..... well, those people had it coming. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> I know
this little blog post will have little impact on the grand scheme of
things. However, I would betray everything I stood for if I did not speak
out. If I did not use what little voice I have to scream from the rooftops how
broken and dangerous our mental health system is.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />
Here's my story. I swear to you, not a stroke of this
keyboard is an exaggeration or manipulation of what I have witnessed.
Sit back and read this with an open heart and mind. If we don't
make changes immediately, I fear for the future of our most vulnerable children.<br />
<br />
During the past month, my youngest son's behaviors had
started to spiral again, and he was experiencing side effects from one of his
medications. His psychiatrist advised that we change his medication under
his supervision; he referred him to the children's hospital for PHP (partial
hospitalization program). He was to go to the program 8 hours a day for
observation during the med changes and therapy. It took two weeks
after the doctor wrote the order for the program to have a slot open for B.<br />
<br />
On the first day of the program, we grabbed breakfast and
started bright and early. B was happy and chattering the entire hour and
fifteen-minute drive to the hospital. We arrived and were led to a
private room by a hospital therapist to answer the intake questions. There had
been a breakdown in their system; had they done things correctly, they would
have seen he had been a patient in their facility in September, and PHP was
ordered by one of their doctors. If any of these facts had been
communicated as they should have been, we would not have had to repeat the entire intake
process, and the rest of this story would not have happened. But as
is often the case in our healthcare system, there was a breakdown in essential
communication between coordinating facilities. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">If you have never done intake for psychiatric
purposes, it is a little more time-consuming than intake for your typical ER or
hospital visit. You must answer many questions concerning your mental
state, thoughts, home life, etc. It can be overwhelming to anyone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The process is especially challenging for my
youngest son, who struggles to discuss anything emotionally without breaking
down on his best days. Because he was there primarily to change his medication
protocol, I had not given him his medication either. He needed to see the
doctor and start his new regiment. My son started working up within two minutes of beginning the
intake process. Within five minutes, he
was in a full-blown meltdown.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">For those who don't know what a total
meltdown looks like, imagine a 250-pound, five-foot-nine teenager screaming,
hitting his head on the wall, scratching his arms, trying to run off, and swearing
at the doctors and security officers. To be clear, this is not a choice. He isn't
"acting out." His brain is so over-stimulated that his logical
thinking process has stopped. He doesn't even remember what happens during
these episodes once he has come out of them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> We
gave him medication, hoping to calm him enough to complete the intake. Instead, he worked up even further. The therapist apologized because
there was no way to admit him to PHP in this mental state ( an obvious
conclusion we all agreed upon). He needed to be placed in inpatient. It took two armed security guards to escort us to the "special" ER (
as I call it). We were in a room with a bed (with restraint hooks) attached
to the floor, a single chair made of the same material as the bed, and
NOTHING else. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">A doctor quickly examined him and ordered the
therapist to find him a pediatric bed at one of the area hospitals. Though we were already at the hospital, it was the children's hospital. They do not take children over 12 in their behavioral (psychiatric) ward. My son melted down for two hours, even after being given medication to
calm him. We spent the next eight
hours waiting as the hospital called every behavioral hospital with a teen ward
in the area, looking for a bed for my son. We live between two major
cities (Dallas and Fort Worth). More than a dozen behavioral hospital wards and
hospitals in our area matched the needed criteria (most of which I would not
recommend, but we will get to that later). It still took eight hours to
find a single pediatric bed. This is not unusual. It is normal for people
to be turned away from the hospitals when they seek help for their kids because no beds are available. This is also a problem for the adult population. But
for this article, we are focusing on the pediatric aspects of the mental health
system.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> After
waiting hours, they found him a bed at Dallas Behavioral Health in DeSoto,
Texas. We have been dealing with our kids' mental health issues for a while now,
meaning we have a working knowledge of the hospitals in our area. I had
heard some questionable things about this particular hospital. When I
told my husband where they wanted to send B, his initial reaction was the same
as mine, <b><i>no way! </i></b>But we had already spent eight hours in
the ER with the therapist calling and re-calling every hospital looking for a
bed. This bed was literally the ONLY bed available in all of North Texas. My husband did what research he could online. He found that the hospital had improved
its facilities and recently won a few awards for its behavioral unit. So
with reluctance and no other options, B was assigned the bed. It was voluntary, but they would have admitted him under the Baker Act
(non-voluntary admission) if I had not cooperated. That would have
severely limited my control in making medical decisions
for my son. So though we had a choice, we didn't have one.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">We waited for the ambulance to take us
the hour and a half to Dallas Behavioral in DFW rush hour traffic. The
entire ride, B was chatting away, asking questions about all the equipment in
the ambulance. The paramedic asked me twice if he had received the correct
transfer paperwork? Was B actually supposed to be transferred to DBH? Yes, I assured him the paperwork was correct.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3u0MjU5d-D9BtCMyju-ZXxqZhKNciMQnDsHn33Yshezpv0DPOC1tYHNiusdmR4SdIapU5V9nFenMinA9Cs5-V-siegV-sDRB4eo4GUzm5q-U7F0g3i7uhnhbGFu4sWbVglt0YE5J8IWV/s1600/lunatic-29530863.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1180" data-original-width="1300" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3u0MjU5d-D9BtCMyju-ZXxqZhKNciMQnDsHn33Yshezpv0DPOC1tYHNiusdmR4SdIapU5V9nFenMinA9Cs5-V-siegV-sDRB4eo4GUzm5q-U7F0g3i7uhnhbGFu4sWbVglt0YE5J8IWV/s320/lunatic-29530863.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">We exited the ambulance into a different
world from the one we left. Because B had been labeled a flight risk during
his earlier attempts while melting down, we were sent to the locked flight risk
intake ward. Before I begin, let me say I have gone through intake with
my kids on many occasions. As a missionary and parent, I have visited the behavioral ward of
different hospitals in many states. This was
not my first rodeo, and I am not easily shocked. However, this intake
waiting area managed to shock and horrify even me. I will try to capture the experience, but I don't think even I can do justice to the
absolute chaos that assaulted us as we were ushered through the large locked
doors.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />
The first thing I noticed when walking in was the
smell. The pungent odor is not new to me. I spent years doing
homeless ministry. I lived above a homeless mission and worked there full-time
for my college internship. The smell of un-bathed, inebriated individuals
with dirty clothes and no access to hygiene products is not new to me. It
was, however, new to my son. He immediately asked why it stank. Milling
around the narrow halls were adults waiting to be admitted. Some were rocking,
others were screaming, and one lady kept trying to remove her shirt and have
everyone feel her stomach and "baby." She would start
screeching and yelling if you did not acknowledge her imaginary baby. She was
demanding to leave so she could have her "baby." <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Around five police officers crowded the narrow
hallway as they brought in two patients. One patient was a young teen
girl ( I later learned she was 12). She had handcuffs over
bandages where she had attempted to cut her wrists and was held between two large,
muscular officers. Several of the male patients tried to touch her or engage
her. I was grateful to one officer for keeping them at bay while he was
there. Of course, he left as soon as he signed the admission papers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> To our
right was a large waiting room with more adult patients waiting to be
admitted. They were sprawled across chairs and on the floor. Some
had blankets; others just sat on the floor talking to themselves. They
wandered the halls freely, with no visible supervision. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">To our left was a room with teenagers. Adult patients kept wandering in and out, even though the nurse would kick them
out of the room the few times she walked past the door. Most of the teens were
unaccompanied, brought in by law enforcement. B and I were
instructed to stay in the cramped, loud, and poorly monitored hallway until the
staff could "get to us." They dealt with the patients brought
in by the police. B kept pushing himself between the wall and me, scared. He didn't know what to make of the chaos that surrounded us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> Finally,
they called his name. It was our turn to meet with the admission nurse. Our
belongings were locked in a locker (standard procedure at every psychiatric
hospital), and we were patted down and scanned with a metal detector
wand. I was surprised when they told me to bring B to the teen room. After standing in the hallway for over an hour, I thought we would be doing the
admissions paperwork. But instead, we were being shuffled off to yet another
waiting area. When I asked what was going on, I was told I could leave if I
wanted. I did not want to leave. At this point, I wasn't sure if I would
leave him at the hospital, the Baker Act be damned!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> As we waited several hours, more
patients were brought in by the police or nurses. Some were loud. Some
looked high; others looked utterly beaten down by life. Some were
violent. One began beating on the doors with so much strength he shook the
entire ward. The teens were terrified. One girl looked at me and asked if
he could break the glass windows of our room. I
assured her we were safe and that security would deal with him. After twenty
minutes of the nurses ignoring him and his behavior, they finally called
security. However, security took nearly 10 minutes to show up after they were
paged.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> One
adult patient kept stripping naked over and over again. They would barely get
clothes back on him, and he would take them off again. Having autistic kids, I
understood his behavior. But it made the teen girls very uncomfortable to
have a large adult male wandering around completely nude.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> While this happened, the teens were unprotected in an unlocked room with
adult patients wandering in and out. When the nurse returned, I asked that the
door be locked to protect the kids. She only complied after demanding to
know who I was. I explained I was a parent and knew that teens should be
separated and protected from the general adult population by law.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />
During our wait, I talked with the kids who were there. They
were dying to be listened to. Most of them had been in inpatient before and
began comparing the facilities with good food, the best staff, and places
with the best therapist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">One thin boy with the saddest eyes I've ever
seen told how he had been a patient at a different facility over the Easter
holiday. The nurses had sneaked patients Easter candy, and a kind doctor
had ordered the entire teen ward pizzas for dinner that night. He said he
had asked to be brought back to that facility when he had been removed from school
by police in handcuffs because he had been overheard threatening to hurt
himself. The sad boy explained that was the only facility where he had
made progress because the staff cared. But the officers said it was too
far, and they could only bring him to DBH.</span><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">As I sat there listening, my heart was broken
over and over. The beautiful girl brought in by law enforcement in cuffs
with her wrists bandaged began to talk to me. She had just been released
from inpatient two days before. She had tried to slit her wrists again,
so she was brought back in handcuffs after they bandaged her wrists. It is just standard procedure to handcuff our youth. So common, in fact,
the kids were all comparing their cuff bruises while we waited. Most of
the teens had been waiting 6-8 hours for a bed. They were not given food
or even water the entire time they waited. To get to the bathroom, they
had to wade through the sea of adult patients wandering the halls without
supervision.<br />
<br />
After three more hours, we were finally admitted. So for
those of you keeping count, we drove an hour to the PHP program, waited eight hours
for a bed to become available, and drove an hour and a half to the hospital. Then we stayed in the hallway for an hour and waited three more hours to be
admitted. And we were "rushed" because he was transferred from
another hospital, and I was making waves about the lack of proper security or
supervision for the kids who were alone with adult mental patients.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />
Once I looked over the ward where B would stay (well, what I could
see of it from where I was told to stand), I was reassured that he would be
completely separate from the adult population while on the teen floor. I
signed the last of the paperwork. They did a complete physical exam of B (again, standard procedure for psychiatric wards), documenting any scratches, rashes,
bruises, etc. They skipped any more intrusive exams because of his
autism. I am grateful for that. He would have been even more traumatized
if they had done a rectal exam.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />
B was there for eight days with limited visitation and phone
calls. Their doctors balanced his meds, which with B is no
small feat. However, the teens were allowed to put whatever they wanted
on the TV after therapy. They chose horror movies. My son had never been
exposed to graphic horror movies before his time there and has had nightmares
since returning. I don't understand how it is healthy for teens in a
mental facility for self-harm or violence to be exposed to violent, gory, rated-R movies with full nudity at the hospital that is supposed to be treating
them. The people on duty would watch the movies with the kids, so they
knew what was being played.<br />
<br />
Eight days later, B came home. The doctors had been
able to balance his medications, but the hospital experience was traumatizing
to him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I sleep haunted by the faces of the
kids I waited in the intake waiting room with. So many of these kids were
traumatized by things and situations in their lives. They are crying out
for help. Our solution to that trauma as a society is to slap cuffs on
them and stick them in an unsafe and traumatizing waiting area alone. Then we admit them to hospitals with little supervision, drug them and send
them back to the environments that traumatized them, to begin with, in
many cases. Kids have died in mental hospitals in our area.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />
We have a national mental health crisis with our young people
today. You only have to turn on the news to know I speak the truth. How
can we help them if the institutions meant to help are so overcrowded that
it takes nine hours to find one bed in a vast metropolitan area ( and we were
lucky to find that one, I was told repeatedly)? How can we help them when
they are dropped into traumatizing situations like I described, with no one to
advocate for them while waiting? How can we help them if, while
they are in the hospital, they are exposed to more violence, gore, and
sexualization?<br />
<br />
Some of you think this does not
affect you, so why should you care? Or maybe you think those kids have it
coming to them because they wouldn't be in this situation had they not earned
it. You are wrong. How many school shootings and mass public
attacks will it take before we as a nation wake up to the mental health crisis
we face? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> I want
to be clear that most people who suffer from mental health problems are not violent
(someone with a diagnosed mental illness commits only 3% of violent crimes).
You may be lucky. Maybe you or someone you love is not affected by
mental illness. However insulated you think you are, let me assure you that you
know someone that struggles with mental health issues. According to NIMH
(National Institute of Mental Health), 1 in 5 adults has a mental
illness. That is 20% of the adult population. Of those, only half receive
<b><i><u>ANY</u></i></b> treatment at all. I included a link to NAMI's
statistics on pediatric mental health issues <a href="https://www.nami.org/nami/media/nami-media/infographics/children-mh-facts-nami.pdf" target="_blank">here</a>. I encourage you to click the link. There is a lot of important information
there.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br />
This is a very long article, but I wanted to share our
experiences. We need to change our mental health care system in this
country. The only way those changes will happen is if we demand
them. The only way we can demand them is if we know the actual state of
the mental health care system in our country. Unfortunately, many people
in our society who need things to change the most cannot advocate for
themselves. So we must be their voices. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> I
reported our experiences to the hospital and, more importantly, our
insurance company. I am writing this blog. I purposely did not obfuscate
the institution we visited because I want to see changes. I demand better
for the most vulnerable members of our society.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-39490408080383708122018-05-05T19:55:00.001-05:002018-05-05T19:55:22.994-05:0041 Things I've Learned at 41<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjis1lup-MwcQ00N2NM9_ACrbstbRoDAs4wRF2ZvCiYZSNC6PnMx77OmahbdW-dp1EOXrMOsFbe12YmBzykur3eaj7Wkj0mdRFW1Vu7zFLs164WmrsNX45FBOImmR_udRjjv1CvhNrxuFiO/s1600/ladies-with-balloons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="673" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjis1lup-MwcQ00N2NM9_ACrbstbRoDAs4wRF2ZvCiYZSNC6PnMx77OmahbdW-dp1EOXrMOsFbe12YmBzykur3eaj7Wkj0mdRFW1Vu7zFLs164WmrsNX45FBOImmR_udRjjv1CvhNrxuFiO/s320/ladies-with-balloons.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Today is my birthday. In usual Skiff fashion, I spent the first few hours of it in the most dramatic way possible; at the hospital, on morphine, with a raging kidney infection. Fun times.<br />
Now that I am coming down off the drugs, I have decided to make a list of things I have learned over the past 41 years. The goal is to have 41 lessons I've learned at 41 but I'm not sure that I'm that wise. But we are going to give it the old college try.<br />
<br />
1) Live life laughing. Let's be honest, life can be crappy at times but if you find something to laugh about, the crap stinks a little less.<br />
<br />
2) Be nice to people. This is particularly funny coming from me today because coming down off pain meds makes me a raging bitch. But on the whole, I have found that if you genuinely smile and are kind to the people in your life, life goes much smoother.<br />
<br />
3) Live life charitably. When you see a need and you have the means to help, help out. It's simple. The high you get from giving is like no other. You honestly get back so much more than you ever could give.<br />
<br />
4) When you give, give freely, with no strings attached. It isn't truly a gift, unless you have let go of it and any expectation of what will happen to it. A gift with strings, isn't a gift, it's a tool to manipulate.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6xDnOKs1U8Ha_Ljg4C49isMVREPwMWibOohCkOLvgfMYEw8jP8PMOsFbG4791dyKWNDnSAK37ZwFQH4GusTcONQRZBOee0wIWq8WYrrbw4WeExbrdzr36QcY4HjpmQ57EMW-jf9ZYNtq/s1600/birthday+vintage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="218" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh6xDnOKs1U8Ha_Ljg4C49isMVREPwMWibOohCkOLvgfMYEw8jP8PMOsFbG4791dyKWNDnSAK37ZwFQH4GusTcONQRZBOee0wIWq8WYrrbw4WeExbrdzr36QcY4HjpmQ57EMW-jf9ZYNtq/s200/birthday+vintage.jpg" width="141" /></a></div>
5)Forgiveness is essential for your mental health. For real, unforgiveness led me to some very dark places.<br />
<br />
6) Forgiveness is not the same thing as forgetting, nor does it mean that you have to restore the relationship. Sometimes people are genuinely toxic for you or your family. Forgiving the wrongs the have done against you does not mean that you have to let them back into your life. You can forgive and move on without them.<br />
<br />
7) Have a few ,very close, friends. The kind of friends who will laugh with you at inappropriate things, who will hold your hands and cry with you through the crap that life slings your way and will help you bury the bodies, should the need arise. *I'm not saying that the need has arisen*<br />
<br />
8) Have some shallow friends and acquaintances. I'm just learning this one. We talk about shallow relationships like they are a bad thing. If ALL your relationships are only skin deep, that is an issue. But it is important to have people in your life that you just shoot the breeze with and laugh. They don't need to know all your crap and you don't need to know theirs. Not every relationship has to be strong and deep. It's good to have a little levity in your life.<br />
<br />
9) Be young while you're young. I grew up way faster than I should have. Looking back, I wish I had embraced my youth and had fun with it. I was too serious and too responsible way too early.<br />
<br />
10) Be grown when you're grown. You cannot relive your youth. For everything there is a time and a season. Enjoy the season you are in because once it is over, it's gone.<br />
<br />
11) Embrace your inner bitch. Now hear me out, I'm not saying that it is okay to just be nasty and bitchy all the time. (refer to lesson 2) However, there are times when you have to be strong, unbending and even short. If you are a woman, some idiots in the world will view that as you being a bitch. That's okay. Embrace it; not everyone has to like you.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZex_hThyphenhyphennZ_CU-psaG-U3lawUMVUs5z5ujarv0glXosfr9x-NpC0UH1YnAGNQ2_09efOmfby1lCgNIYlyznDbQwPTmnSL7FkC-NUfRIguvgKGOOJzhg-yn6HQ6LkvIO6w15iOZpLGaUI/s1600/birthday+fabulous.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="298" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZex_hThyphenhyphennZ_CU-psaG-U3lawUMVUs5z5ujarv0glXosfr9x-NpC0UH1YnAGNQ2_09efOmfby1lCgNIYlyznDbQwPTmnSL7FkC-NUfRIguvgKGOOJzhg-yn6HQ6LkvIO6w15iOZpLGaUI/s200/birthday+fabulous.jpg" width="140" /></a>12) This brings me to my next point: You cannot please everyone. Don't even try. Live life making the best choices you know to make, with a clear conscience. Live the life you want to live. If you live it trying to make other people happy, you will never succeed and you will be miserable because you aren't being true to yourself.<br />
<br />
13) Be true to yourself. The deepest betrayal, one of the hardest to forgive and overcome, is when you betray yourself. Live a life that allows you to like the person that you see looking back at you in the mirror. Forgiving yourself is the hardest thing to do. Believe me, I speak from experience.<br />
<br />
14) Have Faith, not religion. I have a deep and abiding faith but I no longer have a religion. For years I mistook religiosity as faith. I look back on those years in shame. Religion made me intractable and judgmental. Faith has made me grateful, loving and accepting.<br />
<br />
15) I don't know everything. In fact, I know less every year. I used to think I had the answers to so many of life's quandaries. Everything was so black and white; it was so simple. Then I grew up and experienced more of life's roadblocks than I had ever anticipated. I now understand that very few things in life are either simple or black and white. In deed, most of life is lived in varying shades of grey.....and orange....and blue....and pink....and yellow. Life is a veritable rainbow of life experiences. How sad and boring would it be if it really was only black and white.<br />
<br />
16) Date and date a lot. I grew up in the "I kissed dating goodbye" era. What a foolish notion that was! Dating is a skill, it takes practice to do it well. It takes time to know someone. How incredibly stressful is it to think that every first date is the person you are trying to marry!! Go on casual dates, have fun, get to know a person without the stress of a lifetime hanging over your heads. For the love of Pete, HAVE FUN!!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW215uPtyOfybykDKa57BNoZW3YGyUdKie0ePTEcZasZQ7gnYh8-22NcbBv5L2oM1RGPi70VkOZuSwfsNG71ZVMGzEUuRwdRliIkBnjPy5R38FL9TrboMx6P5VfhbGUvEZLa5Pssg1h2kc/s1600/birthday+cowgirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="371" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW215uPtyOfybykDKa57BNoZW3YGyUdKie0ePTEcZasZQ7gnYh8-22NcbBv5L2oM1RGPi70VkOZuSwfsNG71ZVMGzEUuRwdRliIkBnjPy5R38FL9TrboMx6P5VfhbGUvEZLa5Pssg1h2kc/s200/birthday+cowgirl.jpg" width="148" /></a>17) Make time for fun!! I am working on this one. Life is short and we only get one chance at it. Don't spend it so locked down that you miss out on fun!<br />
<br />
18) Have adventures!! Again, we only get to do this rodeo once. Make it a ride that others will talk about long after you are gone<br />
<br />
19) Speak truthfully and frankly. Don't couch everything you say in so much fluff that your point is lost. Speak your mind. Speak the truth.<br />
<br />
20) Balance your truthfulness and frankness with kindness. Being truthful does not mean you must be harsh. You can be kind even while being direct.<br />
<br />
21) Fly first class, at least once. Life is short, pay the extra money for the experiences at least once.<br />
<br />
22) If you need it, get therapy or take meds. Do what it takes to be healthy, not only in your body but also in your mind and soul. There is no shame in admitting you need help.<br />
<br />
23) Don't marry your "better half". Be the better half someone wants to marry. If you go into marriage expecting the other person to make up for your own lack, you are starting your marriage off ready to fail. Be the best you. Let them be the best them. Come together as complete, separate people who are choosing to journey together because you each bring your best self to the table.<br />
<br />
24) Find heroes. Find people that are worthy of your respect, people further along the journey than you. Listen to them, learn from them, spend time with them just absorbing the character traits you admire. You will become what you surround yourself with. Surround yourself with greatness.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYOo7MMrqX5wE0NDc33G4S66I5UzuBklAZjMXGaokDPVCsrXS9sGd1s1_-WUl4XcI0p5AS1-3FBKouxx8N6s7lli4n3-plBTa1ReFgY_EZhHmm-ZAmKNIZVYk1yjsV4qHMTEeTRzM-ohk/s1600/birthday+bathing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="323" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYOo7MMrqX5wE0NDc33G4S66I5UzuBklAZjMXGaokDPVCsrXS9sGd1s1_-WUl4XcI0p5AS1-3FBKouxx8N6s7lli4n3-plBTa1ReFgY_EZhHmm-ZAmKNIZVYk1yjsV4qHMTEeTRzM-ohk/s200/birthday+bathing.jpg" width="128" /></a></div>
<br />
25) You cannot control anyone or anything but yourself. It's a hard but real truth. Accept it and move on with your life. You cannot change anything or anyone but you. So work on yourself and stop wasting your time trying to force others to change.<br />
<br />
26) Being female does not make you less than. God did not create women as a lesser sex. We are created equal to men. Having a penis does not entitle someone to respect or deference. Respect only people who have earned your respect, regardless of their genitalia.<br />
<br />
27) Drive in city traffic (also known as Do the hard things). It will teach you patience, self control and sharpen your skills. Also, you will gain self confidence.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpmx-2ljamiNYjC5-tUWOkc-V3SWkuv7-n0y0xqQAGHHakx_j9P5Fb7ngaHwJr3W7qvuzdc4IKL-JhM8Hh-uDMxmckgt3k7wUVoA14hb_Orh_9LKsOuBAG31CAMRZ2jhCkB3ROqpsGG_T/s1600/birthday+shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="274" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpmx-2ljamiNYjC5-tUWOkc-V3SWkuv7-n0y0xqQAGHHakx_j9P5Fb7ngaHwJr3W7qvuzdc4IKL-JhM8Hh-uDMxmckgt3k7wUVoA14hb_Orh_9LKsOuBAG31CAMRZ2jhCkB3ROqpsGG_T/s200/birthday+shoes.jpg" width="136" /></a>28) Learn to fail. Don't Fail to learn. You will fail in life because almost everything we do in life takes practice. So learn to accept failure as part of the journey and learn from it. If you back away from every challenge out of fear of failure, you will never learn.<br />
<br />
29)Get the hair cut. Hair grows. Get that funky hair cut or dye your hair the crazy color. Do it!! If you don't like it, who cares. Hair grows.<br />
<br />
30) Do your make-up. Wear the dress. Wear the fascinator. Bling it out! We only live once. Do it with style and pizzazz. (if that's your thing) Don't walk around as a Neutral Nelly if you are Blingy Betty on the inside. Be true to who you are.<br />
<br />
31) Remember pain does not last forever. Whether emotional or physical, this too shall pass. Don't lose sight of the hope in the midst of the pain.<br />
<br />
32) Read all the books!!! You can never read too much.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VmTCMNsqPETXY-qS2M7905Ktu7Ul9oWJzKJlYJeR1oXbuBGElLU3Aud2_YYd9KbKtWsMx5m4wQB-MjuADh3CgTQS2BLt_w5i3oS6YPq_blFqOLI-KF0unoDmv63VEEmVeGTnHLoNDmo2/s1600/ca0ddfca42f6ecacb88d8cf7b05704b5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="607" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VmTCMNsqPETXY-qS2M7905Ktu7Ul9oWJzKJlYJeR1oXbuBGElLU3Aud2_YYd9KbKtWsMx5m4wQB-MjuADh3CgTQS2BLt_w5i3oS6YPq_blFqOLI-KF0unoDmv63VEEmVeGTnHLoNDmo2/s200/ca0ddfca42f6ecacb88d8cf7b05704b5.jpg" width="126" /></a></div>
<br />
33) Finish the books you start.....unless they are free on Kindle and completely unreadable!<br />
<br />
34) Memorize poetry. Make it a part of your soul. Quote it often and aloud.<br />
<br />
35) Listen to ALL the music. Sing it!! Sing it loudly!!! Make your very breath a song.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uRNmzb7rmkgZ5s4gdeS78AhJAkEVah24MAY_Pdfm6LWgyuq_U-OHlDtrHKxGV48mhInu_sf4BkrUSbQoStC5QC9xJfohGBv-N1nhTvDqjLSQ2IhQ6cn2CZ3_T44iwL4AdC3RIlvLr_Zb/s1600/KateGreenaway-3WomenGarden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="705" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uRNmzb7rmkgZ5s4gdeS78AhJAkEVah24MAY_Pdfm6LWgyuq_U-OHlDtrHKxGV48mhInu_sf4BkrUSbQoStC5QC9xJfohGBv-N1nhTvDqjLSQ2IhQ6cn2CZ3_T44iwL4AdC3RIlvLr_Zb/s200/KateGreenaway-3WomenGarden.jpg" width="140" /></a>36) Love art! Appreciate it!! Go to the art museums and admire the greats. Buy from the street artist! Collect what you can afford to collect! Support artist just starting out and artist that have been around a long time. Surround yourself with art that stirs your soul, not what has a great investment value.<br />
<br />
37) Create traditions for your children. Celebrate the holidays and birthdays. Show them the joy in celebration. Teach them the reverence of tradition. Tradition anchors them to the richness past while giving them something to look forward to.<br />
<br />
38) Don't treasure things. Treasure people and memories. Things are temporary and can be gone in an instant. The memories that we make with the people we love, last a lifetime. Pass those memories down to your children. It is important for them to understand where they come from.<br />
<br />
39) Make time to be alone. Make it a priority. Be comfortable and at peace in your own company. Take a vacation all by yourself. You need that time to relearn yourself, to ground yourself, to prioritize your life.<br />
<br />
40) Age is more than just a number, it is the mile marker of your life. It shows how long you've been on this journey and how much you have learned along the way. Learn to embrace your age (I'm still working on this).<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zb_m1f-HSBLs6Eh6PCZ3ODLVxYF7LnITAeiJPt8XwD4CBBeo5znNRWL8oxZ3x8AE_Lxycy7EqaoKd00oGwAFwiDyWZKjOHlgKcuHqXo9037XbDQaEd00XE6XMzfugKENQL-xpUNfcC3Q/s1600/4d585ce626641aff632eb55b99691ae7--pub-vintage-funny-vintage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zb_m1f-HSBLs6Eh6PCZ3ODLVxYF7LnITAeiJPt8XwD4CBBeo5znNRWL8oxZ3x8AE_Lxycy7EqaoKd00oGwAFwiDyWZKjOHlgKcuHqXo9037XbDQaEd00XE6XMzfugKENQL-xpUNfcC3Q/s200/4d585ce626641aff632eb55b99691ae7--pub-vintage-funny-vintage.jpg" width="151" /></a>41) Order the Pop Rock pancakes ( also known as: don't be afraid to do the silly things that make you happy). Once we went to Denny's; I ordered a special pancake that they had as a promotion for Star Wars. I didn't realize the pancakes came with Pop Rocks on them. My first bite was an explosion of sizzley, snapping, popping flavor and I LOVED it. My husband and son laughed at my Pop Rocks pancakes because they were so <br />
silly (all in good fun mind you). But I loved the fun they brought to my life. And the next time we went to Denny's you better believe I ordered the Pop Rock pancakes once more! I have no regrets.<br />
<br />
41 things for 41 years. If you made it this far, bless you. I know this has been a long one. However, 41 years earns you a few words (or in my case, more than a few). Happy Birthday To Me!!! Now go buy Pop Rock Pancakes!~ Kristine<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-6058172251294543052018-04-08T20:33:00.003-05:002022-06-29T15:20:05.316-05:00A Glimpse of the Sun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">My dark night of the soul is coming to an end. I
feel the sun breaking over the horizon; the light at the end of this tunnel is
warming my face. <span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbB1N4tHFAB0EpQXIDNzBWcUvvebTw7--rl1YsUQ0OrJ5tiaSW5k9ZIf0ezAFAOBi_nVDQus_OcxYmEPZ1h3wY96K_DVZR4_FUZEzV-WewNJMiuFI9uFqNu_BwLhKgPDZXu9E5t_5THScpd-bt6x5ISuFfcmMm36opsWtAFRrcAxQpJBlAu6VNWJ8Rg/s1280/hd-wallpaper-ge2b48bc59_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbB1N4tHFAB0EpQXIDNzBWcUvvebTw7--rl1YsUQ0OrJ5tiaSW5k9ZIf0ezAFAOBi_nVDQus_OcxYmEPZ1h3wY96K_DVZR4_FUZEzV-WewNJMiuFI9uFqNu_BwLhKgPDZXu9E5t_5THScpd-bt6x5ISuFfcmMm36opsWtAFRrcAxQpJBlAu6VNWJ8Rg/w400-h240/hd-wallpaper-ge2b48bc59_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"> I
came to the end of myself in a way that I never have before. In the past, when
I felt myself crumbling away, I found a way back; whether through faith or some
inner strength, I was able to claw my way back from the ledge. I feared
the abyss that awaited me over that cliff; I knew whatever lurked down there
was dark and deep. To fear the unknown is human; it's our survival
instinct to fear that which cannot be quantified. Even now, as I write
this, I struggle to relay the depths to which I plummeted when I no longer had
the strength or faith to avoid that dark and endless drop into the unknown.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I know the very moment that my last finger lost the strength to hold on any
longer. I was sitting in the neuro-psychologist office as she officially
diagnosed my thirteen-year-old son with Schizoaffective Disorder; when I
saw the tears that I didn't know I was crying hit the table in front of
me. That was the moment that everything that was left of who I used to be
crumbled away. I sat through the rest of the appointment as an empty
shell. The woman who walked into that appointment did not walk out. She
now lay in the rubble at the bottom of the abyss of her personhood.<br />
For a week, I functioned on auto-pilot. But I knew there was something very
wrong with me. The internal strength that had held me steady through all the
diagnoses, all the advocating, all the illnesses, homelessness, losing
everything....twice, the strength that I was known for and proud of, was
completely gone. When I wasn't on autopilot, I lay in my bed, tears that
could not grieve falling from my eyes. I was empty. I was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
After a week, I messaged the only two people in the world I knew I could trust
to tell me the truth; the only two people I knew would be there no matter what
shape I was in. I knew this wasn't something my husband or family could
help me with. They are too close, too much a part of the person that now lay in
pieces. So I called the only two people I knew I could trust with my brokenness.
Everyone needs these kinds of friends; if you don't have them, find them
now. Because one day, you may need someone to look at you as the pieces
of yourself are scattered on the floor and then sweep those pieces up and tell
you that you need help, real help. You may need them to hold you accountable to
get that help. You may need them to be the ones to find the help you need
because you don't have it in you. So, find your true friends in the good
times because if you ever get to that point, they will be the ones to sweep you
up and carry you to the people who can start putting you back together.<br />
<br />
I went into therapy. I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD. Yes, living my
everyday life has given me PTSD. I sat in my therapist's office, and she
told me if I did not do the work and make the hard choices now, she feared I
would lose the ability ever to come back from the sea of numbness and detachment
that surrounded me. I had disconnected from everything that was me; my
family, my emotions, the things I loved, the things I hated. Nothing of who I
knew myself to be was there<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">.<br />
My entire life, I have focused on fixing things for others and being reliable
and strong. If I made my list, I was the last thing on it.
But now, I had to choose to make myself the priority because if I didn't,
I would end up useless to everyone.<br />
<br />
I wish I could tell you that this was a fun process of getting a couple of
pedicures and soaking in a few bubble baths; self-care done. Check! Kristine is
back to being Kristine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
It has been an excruciating process of facing the pain that I haven't let
myself deal with because I was too busy dealing with life. It has been a
process of letting go. I had to admit that I am not enough. I am not
enough to fix my kids. I am not enough to cure my husband's MS and
Bipolar. I'm not even enough to fix myself. I had to admit that I
needed real help and hard changes had to be made.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I had to accept that my oldest needed emergency help to deal with his
issues, help beyond what I could provide. I had to admit that my youngest
mental illness is not something I can fix or even therapy out of him. He
has a chemical imbalance in his brain. The only way to manage it is the kind of
meds I never wanted to put my kids on. I had to let go of the illusion
that I was in control.<br />
<br />
I went back to work, but that was a journey of self-acceptance. I
had to face the fear that I had been out of the workplace too long, that I was
no longer relevant. I had to face my fear of failure and inadequacy.
Again one of my ride-or-die friends brought me the opportunity because I
wouldn't have fought those demons unless I was placed in a position where I had
to. I hadn't realized how much my self-confidence had taken a beating
over the years. But once working, it all started coming back. It gave me pieces
of myself that I thought I would never get back. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;">Most
people don't know this about me, but being a stay-at-home mom was very hard for
me. I am not naturally wired that way. I LOVE my kids, but I never
dreamed of tending the house and raising babies. I have always loved working
and having a career. Honestly, I rocked working. I gave it up
because I needed to stay home with our kids' unique needs. But it took a
heavy toll on my sense of self. Working has restored some of that for
me. I had to learn to be okay with the fact that I was doing something
good for myself. The mom guilt ran deep in me.<br />
<br />
Honestly, the things I had to face, admit and accept would take a book, not a
blog, to cover in detail. Suffice to say, to come back from the bottom of
the abyss of who I was, I had to examine each and every part of my fractured
self. Then I had to rebuild myself; that isn't even accurate. I had to
re-sculpt myself from new clay. The old me was not salvageable. The
me that emerged was different than the one who lay in the rubble at my feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I am still learning to live in this new skin of mine. I'm stronger
and softer at the same time. I am like a toddler in some ways, still unsteady
on my feet, still learning what this new me can and can't do. But for the
first time in nearly 20 years, I feel like the real me, not the me that simply
survived in the crises and chaos.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
The sun is rising. I don't know precisely how all of this is going to play out.
I can tell you that I am excited to see what the future holds. I have hope for
this new me, who is like the old me, only different. Thank you for your
support and love on my journey.<br />
If you are the place I was, please get help. Without my friends and
therapist, I would not be writing this blog right now. I honestly don't
know where I would have ended up. This is a journey that my family
could not help me with. It took people outside to drag me to the help I
needed. We cannot do this life alone. We are not enough, and that
is okay. To Donna and Becky, I love you ladies and owe you more
than I can ever repay. Thank you! As always, love, Kristine.</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-23947007652197460402018-02-28T12:49:00.000-06:002018-02-28T12:52:03.795-06:00A Glimpse of World's Apart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the past, I have written about the importance of having margin in our lives. It is so much easier said than done. I know this is a struggle in all families but it is amplified in a special needs family.<br />
My life consist of driving from one doctor's/ therapist/ case worker's appointment to the next; managing one crisis to the next. I joked with my therapist that one week I was going to show up to my therapy appointment without a single emergency or crisis from the week before to report. She literally laughed and said "Yeah, that's not going to happen". We had a similar experience at church. Here is a portion of what my husband wrote about it "one of the songs in church this weekend said something about God setting
order to the chaos in your life. I burst out laughing, right out loud
before clamping my hand over my mouth.. more because of the insanity
that is Skiffdom than theology...." <i>Usarian Skiff 2018</i><br />
I wish our experience was unique to us, that going through life bouncing from one crisis was confined to the four walls of our home. Though it feels that way at times, the truth is that we are not the only family that is balancing the tight rope between sanity and hospitalization or one paycheck away from financial disaster. In today's society, we all live life without much margin, running constantly at full steam, praying that our family's train is able to make it around the next bend with out derailing. The difference in our family, and in most special needs families, is that our trains don't run at full speed, they are always at turbo speed. We have to keep the engine's of our lives in overdrive, pushed beyond what they were ever designed to do. This leads to more maintenance needs and no time or resources to do said maintenance. When things start breaking down we are in another crisis, one that many of you would say could have been avoided had we just......(insert advice we already know here). However, we were stretched so thin dealing with the prior emergency that there was literally no way, time or money, to do blah, blah, blah (no matter how small a deal it may look like to those of you standing on the outside looking in at our chaos). So we are judged for not being able to handle the small things that are now big things.<br />
Our friends and families become overwhelmed just hearing about our lives, so they stop asking. Or they continue to ask and then become so overwhelmed by what we say, we know that by sharing even a small part of our world, we have become a burden. We know they love us and want to help fix the issues. But our problems are too big to be fixed by us and they are too big to be fixed by those who love us. The advice they lovingly give, we have already tried many times. So we stop answering when they ask because we hate always being a burden. Also, we don't have the emotional energy to handle their feelings on top of our own. We have also lost the ability to once again, tactfully say their advice isn't helping ; we don't want to hurt their feelings. <br />
This life is isolating by it's very nature. We are always on the go; balancing doctors, therapy, education, more doctors, more therapy. After that, there are still the regular life things like homework, school activities, cleaning, cooking, and paying bills, to handle.<br />
There is never extra money to do the fun things that friends and family want to do. We know that someone would offer to cover us financially, once again. But it is hard to always be the taker, always be the one in need. On the rare occasion that we have the time and money to hang out there is the issue of finding child care, which for special needs kids is not as easy as calling the teenage girl down the street . Heck my kids are the same age as she is or older anyway. So we just say no to the invitations and after a while we stop being invited at all.<br />
Our lives are lived in space that cannot be comprehended by most. If we lived life off the grid or in the shadows of society, people would at least have a point of reference. Instead our lives happen parallel to theirs, similar enough that they think they can understand until they look closer and realize ours is an entirely different world; a different dimension that somehow broke into their reality and set up house in their neighborhood.<br />
We long for connection, to break free of this loneliness so we try to enter their world. We attempt to go to their churches, shop at their stores, attend their PTA meetings. But it never lasts long. Their churches are too loud for those with sensory issues, our kids are too old for kids church but too young mentally for youth group. Shopping trips become nightmarish outings of meltdowns and judgementalism. PTA meetings have no place for our kids and they don't address the issues are kids are facing anyway. So we go back to our little worlds until the loneliness drives us out to try to connect once more, knowing the results will be the same.<br />
We come across the occasional fellow traveler, whose world is like ours so there is understanding. But like us, their train is plowing through life on overdrive, so there is limited time and resources for more than the occasional meet up. We find relationships online, our friends become global, and our interactions become a series of 0's and 1's flying across the web. These relationships are real, they are important, but they lack the personal contact that we all need and crave. It's hard to grab coffee on a whim when you are separated by oceans and continents.<br />
This is what it is to live in our words. These are the truths we don't share for fear that we will offend, overwhelm or burden most of our loved ones. Even the things we rejoice in often have an underlying sadness for those we love. When I become ecstatic that my son remembered to shower and wear clean clothes on his own, they remember how old he is and know this shouldn't be something I'm still having to deal with. They try to be excited with me but their grief for what could/ should be still comes through. I however stopped grieving what could be a long time ago. I truly do celebrate what is, even if it is 10 years later than when most people experience it.<br />
When we stop answering texts or messages, we aren't pulling away because we don't trust or don't love them. It's just that our world's don't match up anymore. We want to bring more to our relationships than the need for pity, judgement or grief. Honestly, we also want more from our relationships than those things. We long for relationships where we all can be real and equal. It is a real conversation ender when a friend share's the struggles they are facing with finding a good coach for their son's sport of choice; then they ask you what's going on with your child. I tell them how things are much better and leave it at that. Being a good friend, they press for details. I share that his behaviors are more under control since the doctors changed his meds during his last hospitalization. Then there is an awkward silence. Their struggle is as real as mine. Their worries about their son getting the right coach so that he can get the right scholarship, for the right college, are not less valid or concerning than what I am facing with my son. They are just very different. Our world's don't align. We live a life that has no margins; it doesn't even use paper most of the time. Their life stays at least on the page, if not within the lines.<br />
I'm not sure why I'm writing this today, it is more stream of consciousness than my usual post. guess the rain and our current set of crises have made me a bit melancholy and reflective. AS always, thank you for reading. ~ Kristine<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLH9CxFcdZSNS2c3S4yTTPnr32WQy_RKnLQ0shgzFxbo0SwDK9ydEi5F2Fyr7RzRGYAfQ0AVf5zyoFKYTmtS5awGPMFQRF7eFdCPrF094JYudBaWAMtNDDZjgURm0JbdzvLincMlbCVSR_/s1600/7dd6f8d750bbd4eadfe9ea99fc1f44f8--vintage-images-vintage-photographs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLH9CxFcdZSNS2c3S4yTTPnr32WQy_RKnLQ0shgzFxbo0SwDK9ydEi5F2Fyr7RzRGYAfQ0AVf5zyoFKYTmtS5awGPMFQRF7eFdCPrF094JYudBaWAMtNDDZjgURm0JbdzvLincMlbCVSR_/s320/7dd6f8d750bbd4eadfe9ea99fc1f44f8--vintage-images-vintage-photographs.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-11459564753888318502018-02-22T21:30:00.003-06:002018-02-23T14:41:39.065-06:00A Universe of Love in Pieces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I remember bringing him home from the hospital, wrapped tightly in
his brand new receiving blankets, so tiny he could fit in the palm of my
husband's hand. He was my first child; the love I felt for him from the
moment I laid eyes on his scrawny wrinkled body cannot be described.
Love is too small a word to describe the new universe of emotion that
exploded within me in that single second. It was as if every heartbeat
that I had now belonged completely to another being. There was no
sacrifice too great; no amount of pain too intense. No mountain was too
insurmountable when it came to protecting him. It was the purest and
truest form of emotion I had ever experienced. There are no real words
to sum the expanse and the depth of that feeling. Every mother
throughout history has tried to find the words and failed. As I looked
at the most beautifully wrinkled alienesque being that I had ever
seen, I whispered over and over "Mama loves you so much. You are so precious. I will keep you safe. I love you<br />
I
whispered those words through round the clock feedings, through scary
illnesses, through first steps, new siblings, meltdowns, first words,
first days of school, developmental problems, eventual Autism diagnosis,
long nights of homework, more meltdowns, homeschooling, surgery,
mental breakdowns and eventual mental illness diagnosis. I whispered
those words as I fought for accommodations at the schools. I whispered
them as I cried quietly in the night, my heart breaking for his
struggles. I whispered them when I could no longer hug him because the
feel of anyone touching him was almost painful to him. I whispered them
as he cried for the loss of his dreams of normalcy. I whispered them
nightly over him after his anxiety finally settled and he fell asleep. I
have whispered those words so often that I'm sure to him they are route
and hold little meaning. But each time I say "I love you, my precious
boy. Mama is here. I'll protect you.", I once again feel that universe
of emotion expanding, trying to reach through my very soul and somehow
make the the world understand just what this boy, now nearly a man,
means to me.<br />
So what happened I could no longer protect him from
his own mind, when his disability threatened his siblings who have their
own universes swirling around my soul? What happens when you have to
choose the safety of the many over the protection of your precious
child, who though almost grown still possesses the heart of a child?
Unfortunately, I know the answer to these questions. I know what it is
to have to shatter your own soul into pieces for the safety of all whom
you love.<br />
Our family is a family of unicorns. All five of my boys
are on the autism spectrum to some degree and have various mental
health co-morbid conditions. My oldest child was diagnosed as having
Gifted Asperger's (now gifted high functioning autism) in Kindergarten.
He always had major anxiety and OCD tendencies but we were able to
manage them. However once he hit 13, he had a full metal break. A
perfect storm of events coalesced to drive him that point but telling
that story would require an entire book, not one chapter.<br />
His
breakdown made it so that he could no longer leave our house without
severe panic attacks, the simplest things would set off large,
uncontrollable meltdowns. We lived years always on edge, emergency meds
within reach, waiting for the next thing to set him off. The most heart
wrenching part of this was that my son has always had a soft heart; he
would never purposely harm a fly. But when his brain chemistry would go
awry, he was no longer in control of his actions. Our saving grace was
that he was still small enough that we were able to physically restrain
him when he was in danger of hurting himself or one of his siblings.
That small reprieve lasted only a short time. At 14 he hit a growth
spurt that still has not ended; at 17 he was 6'2 and 300lbs. Still, we
were able to keep everyone safe by being ever vigilante to separate the
boys when they would start to work each other up, as brothers are want
to do. We had them all on a strict regiment of medications to deal with
their various issues and had emergency meds on hand to be administered
at the first sign he or his sibling was starting to spiral.<br />
It was
a well monitored powder keg, waiting to explode. We could only hope
that we would be able to minimize the damage when it finally went off.
Then the inevitable happened and all our contingency plans were not
enough. The powder keg exploded.<br />
It was evening, the most
liable time of day in our home because everyone's medications are
starting to wear off. The boys were getting ready to watch a movie and
drink hot chocolate. It was a an ordinary evening. Nothing seemed
amiss. Then, out of the blue my oldest son and my youngest son were at
each other's throats, loudly arguing (about what is still debated to
this day). In a 'normal' family, this would just be brothers being
brothers and it could be dealt with as such. But in our home there are
too many variables, too many syndromes and disorders that exasperate one
another. In our home a normal, brotherly, argument can lead to week
long in-patient stays on the mental health ward. My husband and I both
moved quickly to intervene. In the few seconds that it took us to
reach the boys, the argument had become physical. We separated them,
gave them each an emergency med and sent them to their separate bedrooms
to calm down. The plan was once they had calmed down we would deal
with whatever had caused the ruckus to begin with. In the past, this
plan of action had worked well. However, on this particular evening, my
oldest son decided he was not going to go to his room, that he was too
old to be told what to do. Again, this is a normal thing for teenagers
to do, every parent faces a moment when their teenager challenges their
authority. Unfortunately in our home, normal behaviors can become
extreme in an instant. This was one of those instances. When we
insisted he go to his room until he was calm, our son began to
physically attack his father, my husband. My oldest is 2 inches taller
and 50lbs heavier than his dad. Restraining him was not an option, he
was no longer in control of his actions. Talking to him, only increased
the outside stimulation, pushing him further into his meltdown and he
was not stopping.<br />
In that moment I had no choice but to make the
most difficult call of my life. On that night, I broke that whispered
promise I had uttered thousands of times to my son. That night I
fractured my soul into hundreds of pieces as I had to choose between the
safety of my husband and other children and protecting my oldest from
actions he could no longer control. I picked up the phone and I called
the police. While on the phone I informed them that my so was a minor
and autistic. I requested a mental health officer come out on the call.
The 911 operator was amazing and passed on all the information to the
responding officers.<br />
Three big officers arrived at our home in
a matter of minutes. Thankfully by the time they arrived, his
emergency medication had started to take affect. He was still emotional
but he was no longer being violent. The officers were amazing with
him. They talked to him calmly and stayed as he continued to calm.
Instead of being arrested, I was able to bring him to the hospital his
psychiatrist works out of.<br />
It worked out in the best possible way
but the fact remains I called armed police into my home to protect the
rest of my family from my son. I had made a choice and in that choice,
his protection had come secondary to the safety of everyone (including
him).<br />
I've only had to call the police about him on one other
occasion. We have been blessed that in both instances we had amazing
and caring officers come out. They understood my son's issues and
worked with us. But both of those situations could have gone very
differently. He could have become more agitated. He could have had to
be restrained. He could have been arrested. He could have had these
things on his criminal record. As a mother, this was the hardest choice I
have ever had
to make. It shattered pieces of my soul that I didn't know could be
shattered.<br />
Still I would not change the choice I made. It was the right
decision to make. Sometimes we as mom's cannot protect our children
from their actions, even when those actions are driven by brain
chemistry they cannot control. Sometimes protecting them is outweighed
by saving them and/or others. And sometimes we simply are not enough to
do both. Sometimes that universe of love looks like our heart breaking
into a thousand pieces. Sometimes that love looks like calling the
police on your own child, the same child you held within your body for 9
months, in your arms through their growing up years and in your heart ,
and all it's pieces, forever.</div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-65026171833137482792018-02-09T20:45:00.002-06:002018-02-16T12:50:09.644-06:00Breaking Bad Theology<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
I was asked to share my experiences as a child, now an adult, who was raised under the parenting philosophy of needing to break a child. This request came out of a blog post by The Transformed Wife, that was shared on a FB page for women that I manage <a href="https://m.facebook.com/thetransformedwife/#" target="_blank">link here</a>,(I DO NOT ENDORSE THIS WOMAN OR WHAT SHE TEACHES IN ANYWAY. Her teachings make me sick) I struggled to read past the intro statement that she used to share her post on FB. Here is a direct quote <span style="font-family: inherit;"> "<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Our job as parents is to break our children’s stubborn, rebellious, and sinful will and replace it with a will that first wants to please and obey their parents and when they grow older with a will that wants to please and obey the Lord"</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH08mE58xKLx8q6nuXtC-qHjJuKn7WzVZIW-W6bM_ezg1ZCRtO5pec4uWyI7HC3O7CXYXMCieNW0T9wjoWN4wxTC2WGugs8vgRLkTI5ECVXHG7SqVyQsPEm2PDgDCUEQuMupPaZaH2KgN8/s1600/screamphoto-1499012276815-a80b5512deae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="376" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH08mE58xKLx8q6nuXtC-qHjJuKn7WzVZIW-W6bM_ezg1ZCRtO5pec4uWyI7HC3O7CXYXMCieNW0T9wjoWN4wxTC2WGugs8vgRLkTI5ECVXHG7SqVyQsPEm2PDgDCUEQuMupPaZaH2KgN8/s320/screamphoto-1499012276815-a80b5512deae.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Before I truly begin I need to be clear, the stories I share here happened when my parents were not only young, impressionable, newly saved Christians but they were also young parents. Anything they did, they did from the doctrine they were taught in a church that they believed was teaching Biblical truth. This is not a post to bash them, as they are two of the most giving and loving people you will ever meet. That being said, the church we attended early on in their Christian walk and during my formative years, took what were good Biblical principals and twisted them into legalistic teachings that quickly morphed into an abusive and controlling theology. Looking back now, I can say with 100% certainty, we were in a cult, not a legitimate church. Unfortunately these twisted and perverted teachings, have invaded the main stream evangelical and Charismatic churches. It is because of this that I feel the need to share my experiences. If what I experienced and learned will save just one child or woman, then I will consider this blog well worth the emotional vulnerability I experience in sharing these things.<br />
<br />
My parents were married very young, both having come from dysfunctional homes. They were saved before getting married, in the mid 1970's during what was known as the Jesus Movement. Here is a link explaining the Jesus Movement for those who would like more info: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesus_movement" target="_blank">link here</a>.<br />
I was born at home, my parents were the original crunchies (home births, homemade tofu, the works. lol). The church they attended taught that women and children should be submitted under the headship of the man of the house. Children needed to have their wills broken from an early age through strict corporal discipline. A mother's submission to her husband and the church was judged by how her children behaved. Though I was protected by my parents, older, problem children and teens, were brought before the church elders to be "disciplined" by the church leadership. I learned very early that I was never going to be good enough to avoid punishment. I wasn't just spanked for doing things wrong, I was spanked for my atitudes or even for what my parents thought were my hidden attitudes and thoughts. By the time I was a young girl, I literally shook every time my father even said my name (for any reason). I have amazing parents, my Dad has taught me more in this life about everything from theology to a good work ethic to cooking and art than I have learned from any teacher or professor. My mom has taught me what true faith and worship look like. Unfortunately, early on, they were deceived by abusive teachings that were taught as Biblical fact. I can't count the number of times I was quoted Proverbs <span style="font-family: inherit;">22:13 "<span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child; The rod of discipline will remove it far from him." </span><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">or Proverbs 22:6 "</span><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"> </span><span 16px="" font-size:="" justify="" text-align:="">Train up a child in the way he should go, Even when he is old he will not depart from it." or Hebrews 12:7 "</span><span 16px="" font-size:="" justify="" text-align:="">It is for discipline that you endure; God deals with you as with sons; for what son is there whom his father does not discipline?"; all of which I had memorized before I was 4 years old.</span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The result of these experiences was that I not only had an unhealthy fear of my earthly father, I also was terrified of my heavenly father. I spent all of my childhood and most of my adulthood into my thirties feeling like a piece of shit person, that was so incredibly sinful and evil that the only way God could deal with me was to discipline me. I didn't deserve to be loved or accepted because I was sinful to my very core. When I was abused, well I had that coming because I needed to be disciplined. Fall down the stairs and nearly lose my babies, well I had that coming too because I must have been being rebellious and needed to be disciplined. After all, God only disciplines those he loves, right?</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was 16 my Dad brought me out on an ice cream date and sincerely apologized for the way they had "disciplined" me during my childhood. It broke his heart that I feared him so much that I felt the need to apologize as soon as he entered a room or that I would shake when he said my name. Our relationship started on the long road to healing that day.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It took a long time for me to overcome that fear of authority, especially men, that I had. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I share this because know there are other young parents out there that are being taught this same bullshit as the way to raise Godly children. Let me be clear, what you are being taught is unbalanced and is abusive. The Bible says in Ephesians 6:4 "<span 16px="" font-size:="">Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord." and "</span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven." Mark 18:10</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;">Jesus loves children. He encouraged the children to come to him when all the adults tried to send them away. When the disciples asked who was the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, here is how he responded </span><span style="font-size: 19.5px; text-align: left;">"</span><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;">He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them.</span><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;">And he said:</span><span 16px="" 25px="" font-size:="" text-indent:=""> </span><span class="red" style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;">“Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.</span><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;"> </span><span class="red" style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;">Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.</span><span 16px="" 25px="" font-size:="" styl="" text-indent:=""> </span><span class="red" style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;">And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.</span></span></div>
<div class="sectionhead" style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-indent: 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea." Mathew 18:2-6</span></span></div>
<div class="sectionhead" justify="" text-align:="">
<span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Parents love your children, guide them, listen to them and teach them the way Jesus taught us; </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;">lovingly, through stories and sitting with us instructing us in love. We as parents can not change the hearts of our children anymore than we can change our own hearts. But we can do real damage to not only our relationships with our kids but also to their view of God when we chose to break them. It's called breaking for a reason. It is damaging, it is abusive and it is not how scripture teaches us to instruct our children. </span><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: 25px;">My parenting goal is to raise healthy and whole leaders, not beaten down and broken down followers who will submit to whatever bully is the loudest.</span><span style="text-indent: 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> The only time Jesus broke out a whip and broke anything was in the temple where adults were hypocritically doing things in God's name (defiling the temple) that were abhorrent to God. He never "</span>broke"<span style="font-family: inherit;"> his disciples, even when they </span>abandoned<span style="font-family: inherit;"> him to the cross. Instead he loved them and showed that love in his </span>forgiveness<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of them, even in the most egregious mistakes. Let us use Christ as our ultimate example of Godly parenting.</span></span></div>
</div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-6928722882078694312017-12-09T16:02:00.004-06:002017-12-09T16:02:55.303-06:00Glimpses of Skiff: At a Loss For Words<a href="http://www.glimpsesofskiff.com/2017/12/at-loss-for-words.html?spref=bl">Glimpses of Skiff: At a Loss For Words</a>: Words, I have a deep and abiding love for words....all words. Words and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. My mother...Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-36419561276524948922017-12-09T16:02:00.002-06:002019-06-03T00:38:43.413-05:00At a Loss For Words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Words, I have a deep and abiding love for words....all words. Words and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. My mother often talks about just how early words found me. Well before I was one year old, I could string together a conversation or ten. From that point on, words and I have seldom been parted; even sleep isn't enough to separate us, much to the chagrin of any who has shared a room with me.<br />
Indeed, I love everything about words; the musical lilt of the vowels and consonance as they trip off the tongue, the little shiver that runs down my spine when the words meet to form a perfect, balanced and beautiful sentence. Their poignant beauty when put to music, the almost super human ability they bestow upon me to express anything from the most mundane thought to the complexity of the human heart and experience.<br />
My friend, Words, and I have experienced everything together: my first haircut, my first lost tooth, my first day at school, my last day at school, my wedding day, death, the birth of my children ( I had many LOUD words to say during deliveries). Words have stood by me through depression, diagnosis, accomplishments and boredom. Words have been there whether I was in a crowd or all alone. Always, for every situation, there have been words.<br />
But what happens when the words stop? What happens when you are in a situation that not only steals your breath but it steals your voice too; when no matter how hard you try there are no words to cry, to scream, to whisper......there are just no words?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBn0Uh0e8uT4UEKuXcwicAShZuHGIf5lM0Go5WUtQk3MHH7meQnj54-D3ZQ0LlfAKLqn2b8S01XOX6Lgi1sall3Ji3JmWFnKiCe-D6jfmk5ObyhLUOU3uUjHr_zawfs5K6V2o9hLbSVBJ2/s1600/winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="453" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBn0Uh0e8uT4UEKuXcwicAShZuHGIf5lM0Go5WUtQk3MHH7meQnj54-D3ZQ0LlfAKLqn2b8S01XOX6Lgi1sall3Ji3JmWFnKiCe-D6jfmk5ObyhLUOU3uUjHr_zawfs5K6V2o9hLbSVBJ2/s320/winter.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
This is the deepest grief for me. Grief that has clawed my soul so deeply that it has stolen not only my voice but also my vocabulary. To be fair, this grief is not a new grief; it has lived with me for a long time. In fact, it has resided in my heart so long that it has managed to numb me to almost all other sadness. This grief has burrowed so deeply that I was unaware that it was slowly and insidiously taking away my ability to vocalize it, one word at a time. I didn't know that if you grieve long enough, you can burn out your soul. I didn't know that you become so numb that you cease to feel the grief at all. It isn't as though I have lived in a place of sadness or depression. I have faced life rather pragmatically; just absorbing the punches, accepting each new tragedy, diagnosis, and trauma as it came. But every camel has one last straw that will break it's back, every bowl has a point at which it will overflow, and every heart has a point at which it can not handle one more loss. That is where I am now. Last week I met the diagnosis that broke me. It isn't a life threatening diagnosis but it is one that no parent ever wants to hear. I had even been prepared that this was a possibility. I had accepted the warning in my usual pragmatic way. I decided if this illness should make it's way to our doorstep, I would handle it as I had every other diagnosis that came our way. I would figure it out and do what needed to be done.<br />
Then the day came, the doctor spoke the words and then I broke; my breath caught and suddenly my words were gone. I sit here today, typing word after word ,and yet taken on their own or in their entirety, they cannot begin to convey anything. My heart has been poured out, wrung out, used up and now lays crumpled in a dusty corner. I cry empty tears that don't grieve. I say empty words that don't communicate. I eat food that no longer tastes. I laugh joyless laughter.<br />
This is what it is to burn-out on grief. This is what it is to lose your words. This is what brokenness truly feels like.<br />
I have the truest of friends who are worried for me. I have a loving husband that doesn't know how to comfort me; there is no comfort for<br />
a heart that grief has used up and burned out. I start therapy next week. I have meds. I have no desire to hurt myself or anyone else. I just have nothing left to give, not even words.<br />
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-52111571841908358502017-08-01T19:52:00.001-05:002017-08-01T19:52:37.625-05:00Glimpses of Skiff: Teens, Autism and Sex<a href="http://www.glimpsesofskiff.com/2017/08/teens-autism-and-sex.html?spref=bl">Glimpses of Skiff: Teens, Autism and Sex</a>: Skiffdom, once a land of mud ball fights, Lego towers, plastic dinosaurs and hyper little boys has been transformed. Now the Lego'...Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-23723488011312471962017-08-01T19:50:00.000-05:002019-06-02T23:31:41.328-05:00Teens, Autism and Sex <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMw0smHTkITMYm4nX0YmEK8_xS5A0o3ClDmKigpuw3-wqoKNgJpJib-1WGRYkPiV1beOnh-a_r4ISDEZqBysTYzgpMfJuAv2lkG-pMgmPjH-j-DqAuv8vkp9VFsXfRuvmUYWunECSovXw/s1600/shhhh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="400" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMw0smHTkITMYm4nX0YmEK8_xS5A0o3ClDmKigpuw3-wqoKNgJpJib-1WGRYkPiV1beOnh-a_r4ISDEZqBysTYzgpMfJuAv2lkG-pMgmPjH-j-DqAuv8vkp9VFsXfRuvmUYWunECSovXw/s320/shhhh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Skiffdom, once a land of mud ball fights, Lego towers, plastic dinosaurs and hyper little boys has been transformed. Now the Lego's stay in big plastic bins, the roars of toy dinosaurs have been drowned out by the battle-cries of video game heroes and playing with mud balls has been traded in for playing with a very different kind of balls.<br />
Yes, Skiffdom is now a land of teenage boys. My house constantly reeks of testosterone, apathy and frustrated sex drives. The average teen boy thinks about sex once every 15 seconds. That means in my house, during any given minute of the day, there are at least 20 separate sex related thoughts going on. That's 1200 sex thoughts an hour; 14,400 sex thoughts on any given 12 hour day. And that's not counting if my husband or I happen to be in a frisky mood.<br />
With all these hormones flying around, I don't have the luxury of pussy footing (no pun intended) around the awkward conversations. Here we talk about sex. We talk about sex a lot. We have blatant, in your face conversations about any and all things sexual. If they have a question, I answer it. If I think it's important, we talk about it, more than once.<br />
Here are some examples of conversations we've had:<br />
<i><b>What a woman's body looks like, the names of it's parts and how they function.</b></i> We are a family of all boys here, they just didn't know. My oldest thought they way you could tell a boy from a girl was that all boys have scars by their right eyes (he has a small scar by his right eye therefore all boys must. Autism brain in action) . I had no idea that's what he thought until at ten he was explaining to his brother's how to tell a boy cat from a girl cat.<br />
<b><i>How a man's body functions.</i> </b> Just because they have the equipment doesn't mean that they understand how it all works. My youngest thought his testicles where where his liver was located. His brother's straightened that one out before I could say a word. He still hasn't lived it down.<br />
<i><b>Who can they appropriately be interested in and pursue? </b></i> Most of my boys are emotionally and socially delayed . However, they are not physically delayed. That means that although they have the emotional understanding of someone 5 years younger, they have the raging hormones of a typical teen boy their age. As teens on the spectrum age, one of the largest dangers they face is getting involved physically or via the internet with someone too young for them. Remember, many spectrum kids are socially and emotionally delayed. Therefore, the people they relate to, consider their peers, and are often attracted to, are much younger. For this reason, it is imperative as parent of spectrum teens, we blatantly spell out who it is appropriate and who it is not appropriate to be in a relationship with. I made it simple, I told them until both they and the person they like are over 18, they cannot date or look at anyone even one year younger than them. <br />
That sounds harsh and unrealistic but too many of our autistic young men are getting arrested for child pornography and having inappropriate relationships (either online or in person) with people too young for them. Parents it is on us to protect not only our children but the children our kids may be attracted to. We do this by teaching our children what is appropriate sexual behavior. Teaching our kids about sex is just like teaching our kids about anything else; ambiguity, euphemisms, and expecting them to pick up on the social cues around them will only confuse them. We must be clear, concise, detailed and accurate in our teaching.<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Appropriate times and places to masturbate.</i> Yes, after some uncomfortable experiences, this was a conversation that took place. Most teens are embarrassed at even the mention of masturbation. However, kids with autism don't always have that natural shyness when it comes to personal behaviors. A lot of that embarrassment or even shame is picked up via the social cues that our kids miss. So yes, having a frank conversation on when and where can be beneficial to all parties and save everyone an awkward encounter. Also, as a side note, you may want to explain that your face cream is not to be used as a personal lubricant........ I learned that one the hard way. Tissues and some big pump bottles of inexpensive lotion are your friends. Just saying<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Porn is not reality.</i> Yup I'm going there. You may think your child has not been exposed to pornography but I can almost guarantee you that you are wrong. From kids at school showing porn to each other on their phones to the personal computer you think you have completely locked down to Netflix to the old fashioned magazines at the convenience store. Your kids have and will see porn. So talk about it. They need to know what they see portrayed on the screen is not what sex is really like. They need to know that most of those women have had cosmetic work done, that men's erections don't last that long in real life, that porn stars inject their penises to maintain an erection. They need to know that anal sex is painful for most girls and not what they should expect. That their first sexual experiences will not be what porn shows them. They need to be told these things because our kids first exposure to sex is not what we experienced. Hardcore porn that we would have had little access to is common place. Talk to your kids. Be real with them. I caught one of mine watching porn and I made him start it over and watch it with me. I pointed out all the the ways this was not real sex. Yes, he was mortified and I probably scarred him for life but I know that we have talked about it. We only got about 5 minutes in before I gave in to his pleas for mercy and turned it off.<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">How to properly apply a condom.</i> And all manner of safe sex talks. Yes, we teach our kids about abstinence but I also fully inform them about how to be safe if they choose to have sex. When it comes down to it, we do not control the choices our kids make about sex. We can only prepare them to the best of our ability. Part of that preparation is a full understanding of sexually transmitted diseases, birth control, condoms, and the importance of practicing safe sex if they choose to be sexually active.<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">No means no.</i> This one is self explanatory but it has to be taught, over and over again. No means no, all the time, any time. No means no if your date has said yes but changed her mind halfway through. No means no if you've had sex in the past. No means no if your partner is too drunk to understand yes.....even if she is saying yes at the time. No means no, no matter what she's wearing or how she's walking or what time of the night it is. No means no.<br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;">Sexual Identity.</i> I had one of my sons come to me and say he thought he may be bi-sexual. I told him that I loved him and would provide him any and all information on living a safe sex life as a bi-sexual. It turned out this was just an experimental phase for him. But being open and allowing him the freedom to express what he was thinking and feeling at the time, without judgement was very important. He now knows without a doubt, that I love him no matter what his sexuality and that I will stand beside him whatever choices he makes.<br />
These are just a few of the conversations we have had here in Skiffdom. These conversations are not always these drawn out serious things. Often they are short little talks as we are running errands. And more often than not, they are hilarious. I'm going to end with one of the hilarious conversations my boys had on the way home from the store.- Kristine<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Boy 1 (being silly): I am a being of pure energy. I bring enlightenment wherever I go.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Boy 2: You would never survive life like that. You wouldn't be able to touch yourself. We all know you can't go more than a few hours without masturbating.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Boy 1:I'd have tons of energy sex.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129;">Boy 2: So you're a Q?</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline;"><br />Boy 1: I don't have sex with Androids. I have standards.<br />Boy 2: Dude, you shame this family! Q's aren't androids, They're beings of pure energy. Go re-watch all the Star Trek's. You've brought us all nerd mortification.<br />Boy 1: If they're pure energy how do you know what kind of sex they have?<br />Boy 2: Because they take on human form so that people can comprehend them. Then they have sex like this (Alex holds out one finger on each hand and touches them together.)<br />Boy 2: The Q have sex in the ET position.<br />Boy 1: So when ET wants to phone home he's just horny?</span></span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-29575561514449989492017-07-16T21:17:00.001-05:002017-07-16T21:17:20.521-05:00Glimpses of Skiff: Decorate the Butterfly<a href="http://www.glimpsesofskiff.com/2017/07/decorate-butterfly.html?spref=bl">Glimpses of Skiff: Decorate the Butterfly</a>: I am itchy, restless. The winds of change have blown and permanently changed me. I am no longer the woman I was 5 years ago or eve...Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-58130455141272082812017-07-16T21:15:00.000-05:002017-07-16T21:15:22.744-05:00Decorate the Butterfly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWI-FETfdf0ZfE07wHl-i-8zDzeSEEIZcyZQaSZMPxtG-8ty1wt9waSxDvbeFPVid8fWB8eag6vhL_aymHALLiNgnv3c8J3CzeRWGImubLP9eDiUPnFnYNccKY32HRZQVg3PoN0GLa5hFs/s1600/vintage+butterfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="400" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWI-FETfdf0ZfE07wHl-i-8zDzeSEEIZcyZQaSZMPxtG-8ty1wt9waSxDvbeFPVid8fWB8eag6vhL_aymHALLiNgnv3c8J3CzeRWGImubLP9eDiUPnFnYNccKY32HRZQVg3PoN0GLa5hFs/s320/vintage+butterfly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
I am itchy, restless. The winds of change have blown and permanently changed me. I am no longer the woman I was 5 years ago or even 12 months ago.</div>
<div>
My passions have changed, my heart beats with new purpose. </div>
<div>
My soul has been set free, no longer bound by the ropes of legalism and religiosity. </div>
<div>
I am ready to soar, to shout my transformation from the rooftops.</div>
<div>
I am the butterfly fully formed, struggling to break free of it's chrysalis.</div>
<div>
I am changed yet I look the same. I need to be free of the woman I have always been. I want others to see me as I am now, not as who I used to be. </div>
<div>
Do I radically change my hair, an extreme hair style and/or color? </div>
<div>
Do I get that tattoo I've designed on my arm with a sharpie a thousand times?</div>
<div>
A new piercing? </div>
<div>
I don't know. But I do know that I am no longer comfortable in my own skin. I've never felt this way before. Even when I hated my body it was my weight that I hated. This isn't like that at all. I actually love my body now. I love my face, my legs, my hips, my breasts; whatever their current size. No, this is something different. I don't hate the way I look, I just feel like I've outgrown my current skin. I am new wine in an old, dried out wineskin. I am me but I am not. This is a very strange feeling. </div>
<div>
So here is the fun part, I am coming to you, my readers and friends for ideas on what I should do to make this outside look like the new inside. Help me decorate my new butterfly wings. Leave a comment with your suggestions. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnaIUXtMlydM-6p8KZUTszwkoFsiftUWg8RXyYC50tBWrmcr9lbq1kh_jwKa2n4okX1U6YBfTAPIgbfSy_1yQj2U1bLjA9olFgwzb6bwywQZ9CmkRjCnhCHE6LfU_9n8qYPtVArqKtHHO/s1600/18920712_10210468818130908_9133810190374890108_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUnaIUXtMlydM-6p8KZUTszwkoFsiftUWg8RXyYC50tBWrmcr9lbq1kh_jwKa2n4okX1U6YBfTAPIgbfSy_1yQj2U1bLjA9olFgwzb6bwywQZ9CmkRjCnhCHE6LfU_9n8qYPtVArqKtHHO/s320/18920712_10210468818130908_9133810190374890108_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
</div>
<div>
This is me, as I am now. Now give me all your ideas for a new me make-over friends. Once I take the plunge, I will post an updated photo. The only request that I have is that the suggestions be appropriate for this public forum. And go!</div>
</div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-41093693007425918652017-07-11T18:10:00.001-05:002017-07-11T18:10:56.869-05:00Glimpses of Skiff: Killing the Jackass in my Head<a href="http://www.glimpsesofskiff.com/2017/07/killing-jackass-in-my-head.html?spref=bl">Glimpses of Skiff: Killing the Jackass in my Head</a>: Merriam Webster's Dictionary defines a jackass as such: Jackass-1. donkey; especially: a male donkey 2. a stupid pers...Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-71157090468142007862017-07-11T18:09:00.000-05:002017-07-11T18:30:47.628-05:00Killing the Jackass in my Head<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJhbVbMLOQHlba8iIuU-bp8UgioPZ4pnbMq2qYLzDWh6IH590Nt4zCVx_L117UXHeqHUMisN9vuLax4VtIQMw1ins9L6ZobMAp2p509zPrPYlHCO9GmiZMKszWjH62vLed-mDtc_qBoxG/s1600/3de65a1a467cae30bd613df3a337ba6d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJhbVbMLOQHlba8iIuU-bp8UgioPZ4pnbMq2qYLzDWh6IH590Nt4zCVx_L117UXHeqHUMisN9vuLax4VtIQMw1ins9L6ZobMAp2p509zPrPYlHCO9GmiZMKszWjH62vLed-mDtc_qBoxG/s320/3de65a1a467cae30bd613df3a337ba6d.jpg" width="231" /></a></div>
<br />
Merriam Webster's Dictionary defines a jackass as such:<br />
Jackass-1. donkey; especially: a male donkey<br />
2. a stupid person: fool<br />
<br />
Several weeks ago I stopped at a convenience store between my son's therapy appointments. There was a man in a utility worker's uniform sitting at a picnic table outside of the store, talking on his cell phone. I paid him little to no mind; I was focused on getting drinks, eating and heading back to my son's second appointment. As I was stepping out of our car, he gave me a look of pure revulsion. He then raised his voice, I can only assume to be sure that I heard him, and said with derision "Oh my God, you would not believe the size of the woman getting out of a car here. I swear I can't believe she can even walk. People like her disgust me."<br />
Normally I would have said something to the jackass but my son struggles with severe anxiety. I did not want to upset him by drawing his attention to the situation, which he was oblivious to. So I swallowed my anger and continued into the store to get our drinks. After we were done, my son grabbed our picnic dinner from the car and we went to sit at a picnic table on the other side of the picnic area from the man, behind him, where he could not see us.<br />
He then stood up, literally stomped back to his AT&T truck, loudly talking into his phone again "I cannot believe this woman! She sat down at a picnic table here. Just seeing her ruins my appetite! I can't stay here if she is going to be here." <br />
I was furious but again my son, who was playing his DS game, was completely oblivious. So I kept my composure and did not give him the dressing down he deserved.<br />
<br />
Later that night, I relayed/ ranted the story to my husband.<br />
"How dare he talk like that about anyone? He acted like I was less than dirt because I didn't look like he thought a woman should look, like the kind of woman he is attracted to. Why in the world would he assume he is so important or attractive (he was neither) that every single person should go out of their way to be attractive to him. Who died and made him judge and jury on me, a complete stranger to him?"<br />
After my rant, I assumed I had worked my anger out of my system and didn't give him a second thought. I don't have time or energy to care what some random jackass's opinion is of me.<br />
A few weeks went by. One day as I was sitting in my car while one of my boys ran into the store, I realized I was avoiding going out in public because I didn't want anyone to see me.<br />
I have spent years learning to love myself, to not attach my sense of self to what the scale says, to find things about myself I truly love whatever my weight, to undo years of negative messages about my looks because of weight.<br />
Yet despite all that work and progress, it only took the words of one fool to make me start to retreat into myself, to feel like somehow my weight was so offensive that I didn't have the right to show my face in public. After I realized what I was doing, I started to force myself out of the car and into public. I made myself remember all those hard won lessons.<br />
The truth of the matter is that I owe it to no one to look a certain way just because they find it more attractive. The truth is that I am lovable and loved just the way I am. I have a husband who loves my body, even in the times I don't. I have friends and family who love me for who I am and what I bring to their lives. To them I am more than numbers on a scale, however high or low they may be. I have 5 son's who love me and depend on me. I carried those 5 boys inside this wonderful body that I spent so many years hating. I fed some of them with food this body produced. This body has carried me up mountains to pick apples and into the ocean to swim in the waves. This amazing body has been thrown up on during endless nights comforting feverish children, it has brought me great pleasure during long nights of lovemaking, it has sung in front of crowds and alone in the shower. This body has been operated on, has danced (badly but danced none the less), has played the piano. This body has grown me from an infant into the 40 year old woman I am now; it has hugged and kissed and kicked and jumped and walked and run and swam. I am thankful for this body, whatever it's size.<br />
In remembering all of this, I killed the small, hateful ghost of the jackass that had tried so hard to embarrass me and strip me of my dignity and self respect. My life is too full of love and beauty to let the words of a small minded fool make feel less than I am. I am beautiful and I am loved just the way I am.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4EcFibNFGGREjAH2VwY922O1NbTA1l6S9HIuIwLllXvMXgd9LwHyMQLp0VWyS4AYKekl_-FoAvruOTTPdtT2f0miYZMMDbNzSuImAb9ZspOVz6ZboVq4FH-l4gh8y2ue8ubhv2SKUDj5u/s1600/16142521_10209325490628435_3976677799769853909_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4EcFibNFGGREjAH2VwY922O1NbTA1l6S9HIuIwLllXvMXgd9LwHyMQLp0VWyS4AYKekl_-FoAvruOTTPdtT2f0miYZMMDbNzSuImAb9ZspOVz6ZboVq4FH-l4gh8y2ue8ubhv2SKUDj5u/s1600/16142521_10209325490628435_3976677799769853909_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-26257445938549278922017-06-30T15:17:00.001-05:002017-06-30T15:17:27.992-05:00Glimpses of Skiff: Living in a Teenage Wasteland<a href="http://www.glimpsesofskiff.com/2017/06/living-in-teenage-wasteland.html?spref=bl">Glimpses of Skiff: Living in a Teenage Wasteland</a>: It's noon; the time is upon me. Any minute now, they will awake from their hibernation, pasty skinned and bleary eyed. I look for a ...Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-78948886615016747692017-06-30T15:13:00.003-05:002017-06-30T15:13:59.669-05:00Living in a Teenage Wasteland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5aXKrhAQzELkfJOSMEFUCSdiRk38yx_EACrbfaPamTWBhHQqpekJ24a98-ayKp1CX4DvuPbx0In6kA9VkJZxa6zZfEmhkCMEJdyhvXizmSGQQCLILBJ4PxvkvZ2aDxctD6jnAHvEmGzD/s1600/ec3782da7746e836c347cb7aecfd82fd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5aXKrhAQzELkfJOSMEFUCSdiRk38yx_EACrbfaPamTWBhHQqpekJ24a98-ayKp1CX4DvuPbx0In6kA9VkJZxa6zZfEmhkCMEJdyhvXizmSGQQCLILBJ4PxvkvZ2aDxctD6jnAHvEmGzD/s320/ec3782da7746e836c347cb7aecfd82fd.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
It's noon; the time is upon me. Any minute now, they will awake from their hibernation, pasty skinned and bleary eyed. I look for a place to hide, if I'm very still, if I'm quiet maybe they won't find me. I stand perfectly still in the bright sunshine pouring in from the kitchen sliding glass doors; it has been said the light burns their eyes and pale, pale pasty skin. Thus I stand, quiet, barely breathing, willing the sweat on my brow to redirect it's trajectory away from my eyes.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hear them before I see them; indecipherable grunts and moans, the occasional crash as they stumble over the debris left from the midnight feeding frenzy. They round the corner, shielding their eyes from the bright sunshine. I hold my breath waiting for them to pass. All my hiding is for naught, my silhouette has been noticed.</div>
<div>
"ugh augh ooogh." Why I pause to translate the grunts to English I'll never know. It's always the same thing.</div>
<div>
"Mom, food.....eat?"'</div>
<div>
"It's noon. Make yourself a sandwich."</div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrCBjmyHgNgpdykwF-K0dDvMrdXY5CkiqxCFryGmqlI-Xm5yQRPSvzbic4AtReJUVh2yv9PWLPU1t71Shot60nAki9pZA667yljLkNcRga6VYY5dScXdBFRvCtnZoRhcXUJn-u82xPA5g/s1600/keep+the+kitchen+clean.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="420" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrCBjmyHgNgpdykwF-K0dDvMrdXY5CkiqxCFryGmqlI-Xm5yQRPSvzbic4AtReJUVh2yv9PWLPU1t71Shot60nAki9pZA667yljLkNcRga6VYY5dScXdBFRvCtnZoRhcXUJn-u82xPA5g/s200/keep+the+kitchen+clean.png" width="200" /></a>"I haven't eaten breakfast!"</div>
<div>
"It's noon, it's lunch time. If you want breakfast for lunch grab some cereal"<br />
A gallon of milk and a box and a half of cereal later, the war begins; gunfire, aliens invading, robot's exploding, a menagerie of dystopian worlds clashing in chaos.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zVQDwGnyIetktcfDTVuigFJNALBMFB1QKrfViuJca4AOM9jk1ZCPwMV4vvmOt-Bb50m4X60gwtfobu_QsyDEhONzKTdJlpXsIRO1k5ipbO_4TMAgHguv653eDEQlVrvgx1amAd_cFURu/s1600/07ea8d74b38a66aeef614fbcfbf30873--messy-room-funny-parenting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="547" data-original-width="700" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zVQDwGnyIetktcfDTVuigFJNALBMFB1QKrfViuJca4AOM9jk1ZCPwMV4vvmOt-Bb50m4X60gwtfobu_QsyDEhONzKTdJlpXsIRO1k5ipbO_4TMAgHguv653eDEQlVrvgx1amAd_cFURu/s200/07ea8d74b38a66aeef614fbcfbf30873--messy-room-funny-parenting.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
</div>
<div>
A smog settles over the living room. The smell can only be described as primitive; a noxious mixture of adrenaline, testosterone, grease and sweat. I cover my nose and make my way through the bodies that litter the floor, eyes glued to their respective screens. A trail of Lysol and Febreeze follows in my wake.<br />
"Pick up the dishes and run the dishwasher." I say to the zombie closest to me.<br />
"I did it last time"<br />
"I don't care. Y'all are not going to sit here all day and rot. Get up and do something productive."<br />
"I have to no problem getting up." cracks the wise-ass zombie<br />
"Yeah we all know how well you get up. We hear you getting up four times a day" replies the mind in the gutter zombie.<br />
I remember how quickly my cold cream is disappearing and I have a horrific thought.<br />
"Which one of you is using my face cream?"<br />
The silence is deafening.<br />
"Do NOT use my face cream to masturbate!!! I will buy you your own lotion for that!" Disgust overwhelms me as I rush to the bathroom to scrub and disinfect my face.<br />
After thoroughly scrubbing my face and throwing away my mostly empty jar of cold cream, I return to a sink still full of dishes.<br />
"That's it!! Devices off!! There will not be another gunshot, zombie apocalypse or robot dance until this house is clean! You weren't raised in a barn, don't act like you were." nice mama, rational mama has been replaced with crazy, I just scrubbed my face raw, mama.<br />
"The dishwasher isn't working!"<br />
"I blew up the vacuum cleaner by accident!"<br />
"Why should we mow the grass anyway? It's just going to grow again! It's a waste of my time!"<br />
(because laying around and playing video games whilst your filth accumulates around you is such a GREAT use of your valuable time!)<br />
"I'm hungry!!!"<br />
"I'm thirsty!!"<br />
"I have a headache!"<br />
"He won't stop humming!"<br />
"He won't stop telling me what to do!"<br />
One load of dishes done and the living room "picked" up. I call it a win and start counting down to bedtime....my bedtime. <br />
<br />
Finally night falls. I escape to my bedroom before the zombie's truly awake. Night time is when they feed. The night is filled with juvenile double entendres, fart jokes, animee and technical jargon. Night is when more of their kind come out to play.....night is when the teenagers reign supreme.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinge0X1lrAszkd-VzjbHUZSB7JAzpPOfXAi4F8lyvW7ld9F6_mobKW-_whrouVlfTX76WdCnffn4aP2g2Ya9k7wTkoQtLn5LpQEsbHQpTCc5j04wnBRuDXXUWRwwGQyHWJedC0CRZJ_69h/s1600/cc855b9955451e25556d435d3fcdae6d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinge0X1lrAszkd-VzjbHUZSB7JAzpPOfXAi4F8lyvW7ld9F6_mobKW-_whrouVlfTX76WdCnffn4aP2g2Ya9k7wTkoQtLn5LpQEsbHQpTCc5j04wnBRuDXXUWRwwGQyHWJedC0CRZJ_69h/s320/cc855b9955451e25556d435d3fcdae6d.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-8264121912277447892017-06-24T18:37:00.001-05:002017-06-24T19:20:41.503-05:00Runaway Bay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The scream bubbled up from deep down in her soul, forced it's way past her throat and finally through her lips. The sound reverberated through the interior of the truck bouncing from the windshield to the windows and back again. Still the screams kept forcing themselves out of the depths of her soul. Onward she drove, eyes dry, screams being torn from the very center of her being. She drove without purpose or destination. She would drive until the need to runaway, the need to escape the chaos and pain subsided; until the screams could be pushed back down and the pain was buried beneath the sense of purpose that drove her. She knew she could not truly escape, nor did she really even want to. There were too many who depended on her, too many whom she loved; it wasn't in her to abandon them. So she drove on, waiting for the panic to die down, for the feelings of failure to slowly ebb away and finally for the screams to replaced with healing tears.<br />
<div>
She came to a rundown town on the lake called Runaway Bay. The name called to her, the dilapidated buildings resonated with her emotions. She pulled the truck into the parking lot of an old, abandoned restaurant with an ancient For Sale sign dangling crookedly on one hook. The restaurant had a small dock in the back. There she sat in the cold rain and finally the tears came. She cried out all the pain, terror and anger she had been swallowing for the past week. She thought back on the events that had led her here, sitting on an abandoned dock the day after her 40th birthday; a birthday that had been lost in the craziness of what had happened in the last week: one kid hospitalized for self harming, one who had physically attacked her after missing his medication and another who was on the verge of hospitalization because of his extreme emotional liability (on the verge as in the doctor started filling out the forms to commit him). One week and her entire world had been shattered. The one thing she had taken for granted, the fact she was a decent mother, now lay shattered at her feet like the shards of a broken mirror. So she sat, she cried and she willed herself to pull her shredded insides back together for the sake of those she loved. She would face these challenges, she would make changes and her family would not only survive, they would thrive. This is the vow she made sitting on a rotting dock in a town called Runaway Bay.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_yNb_cysEX3c85P2TxZwK84TnRwlQ0DDrG96lZ6plnnkIDmgGlJvJnDdvKc6aTLFC09iC6O2umTlQh5oF0Sg4P5rA3Spm56ugShlavipu71Ays5YChHYdBztCLmWCpY-SMRwAX-j6QWw/s1600/The_Scream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_yNb_cysEX3c85P2TxZwK84TnRwlQ0DDrG96lZ6plnnkIDmgGlJvJnDdvKc6aTLFC09iC6O2umTlQh5oF0Sg4P5rA3Spm56ugShlavipu71Ays5YChHYdBztCLmWCpY-SMRwAX-j6QWw/s1600/The_Scream.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
Today I'm going to write about a subject that is uncomfortable, one that often gets swept under the rug because it's easier to hide the elephant in the room than it is to address it. Today I'm going to talk about mental illness, what happens when mental illness is not properly managed and treated. I'm going to share these things because we have faced the nightmarish reality that happens when mental illnesses are not properly treated. We have had a child who would not leave the house for three years because his anxiety disorders took over his life so completely, one who became so clinically depressed he started self harming and picked up scissors to slit his wrist (all the knives had already been locked away) and a child whose mood disorder was so completely out of control that he was having four and five violent meltdowns a day. We have walked these horrific roads and if our experiences can save even one family those nightmares, then maybe a little good will come out of this suffering.<br />
I am not new to this whole autism thing. *STOP* Rabbit trail time. Let me be clear, I do not think autism is a mental illness. However, many of the co-morbid conditions that often accompany it are. These co-morbid conditions often get worse in the teen years and require serious medical intervention because if they are not managed the child's education can suffer or worse someone will get hurt. Our boys suffer from several of these co-morbid conditions including: ADD/ADHD, GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder), Social Anxiety Disorder, Extreme Depressive Disorder, OCD, and DMDD (Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder). *Okay, back to your regularly scheduled blog.*<br />
I have been advocating, therapy-ing, and even medicating our children for years now. At first I fought medicating them. I wanted their brains to develop naturally, without psychotropic drugs or stimulants affecting that growth. I twisted myself into a pretzel to make sure our boys received all the therapies they needed to live a "normal" life. I advocated hard, alienating myself from the school district the boys were attending in the process. And for a while all my hard work and the hard work of the therapists and teachers and most importantly our boys, paid off. They were making huge strides forward. They were learning how to navigate this world and succeed. I was proud of all the progress they had made. <br />
Then the teen years hit and all the things that had worked no longer worked. We tried new strategies and they still didn't work. Eventually, one by one, I accepted the fact my boys would need to be medicated. We found a psychiatrist and a psychologist. We poured hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars into medication and therapy and though we saw small improvements our boys were not really getting better. But we were doing everything we could, right?<br />
Then the first week of May 2017 happened. All the things in that story above (plus a few other things) happened that week. I was devastated. Let me be clear, our boys were receiving mental health treatment at the time of these breakdowns. What I did not realize was they weren't receiving the correct mental health treatments. Sitting in the visiting room of the psychiatric unit, waiting to see our son for the 45 minutes a day we were allowed, my husband and I came to the conclusion we needed to reevaluate EVERYTHING we were doing for our kids. There were no sacred cows, everything was up for change if it meant our boys would get the help they needed<br />
After days of talking and reevaluation we came to the decision that our boys needed new psychiatrist. That part was easy. We had already been in the process of changing anyway. We now have 2 different psychiatrist for our boys. Each one uniquely suited to the boys they see. All the boys medication regiments have been changed and the difference we have seen is astonishing. Our house is now mostly peaceful, the boys can actually play together and their meltdowns (the few they have had) are much shorter and are completely manageable.<br />
Then we had to reevaluate of psychologist. This was harder because I genuinely love our original psychologist. She is an amazing person. But we had to be honest and admit her form of therapy did not work for all of our children. We could no longer be a one size fits all mental health family. <br />
So we found new psychologist and therapist for three of our children. One is now in equine therapy which has been amazing for him. He opens up to this therapist, while taking care of the horses. This gives his hands something to do while talking and the horses relax him.<br />
Another is with a psychologist who himself is autistic. He has a completely different approach with this child. He focuses on this son's strengths and helps him develop plans and strategies to build on those strengths instead of talking about the problems. He also has this son, who has extreme anxiety issues, in a role playing group with other kids. The psychologist writes the scenarios with specific therapeutic goals in mind and the kids have a blast playing the games while receiving therapy.<br />
This new way of life means that I am often driving from one side of DFW to the other several times a week. It is a crazy schedule but I would much rather do a crazy amount of traveling than have crazy, out of their gourds kids.<br />
What does all this mean? What am I trying to communicate? In all this rambling, I'm not sure what I want to say is clear. So here it is simplified.<br />
1)Mental illnesses are serious and need to be treated as such. <br />
2)They are not shameful and should not be hidden rather than dealt with.<br />
3) In many cases mental illnesses must be managed with medication, not treating them is dangerous and could lead to serious problems. <br />
4)Even if you are treating them do not be afraid to reevaluate and change therapies or doctors if you are not seeing the results you need. It is easy to let the connection we make with a particular doctor cloud our judgement in seeking a second opinion.<br />
5) One size does not fit all in mental health. Unlike with a pediatrician, you may need different doctors and types of therapy for different kids.<br />
<br />
We have made other changes in how we deal with things in our home as well. But the largest changes were made in the treatments our boys receive. The past month has been busy but it has also been much more peaceful. Change is hard but it is well worth it.<br />
One last thing, though admitting our son to the behavioral unit at the hospital for in patient treatment was terrifying and absolutely the hardest thing I have ever had to do as a parent, it made a huge difference for him. If you have a loved one who is self harming or threatening suicide, please seek treatment for them. It can literally mean the difference between life and death.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry that my last few blogs have been heavy. I do prefer to write light and funny things but light and funny isn't the season of life we have been in. I try at all times to be as open and honest as I can in a public forum. To pretend to be in a place we are not does a disservice to you, my friends and readers. Thank you for sticking with me even though the blogs have been sporadic at best. I'm hoping that as our family life continues to stabilize I will be able to devote more time and energy to writing again. Honestly, I miss it and I miss you all. As always I send you my love, Kristine<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-76273524359170997902017-04-11T19:03:00.000-05:002017-04-11T19:05:14.596-05:00My Blue Reality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today I had a moment; a moment of weakness, a moment of sadness and grief. To be clear there was no huge tragedy that befell us, not even a small emergency. All I did was open Facebook and scroll down my news feed. I laughed at the usual memes, sighed and scrolled past the political rants, smiled at my friends day to day lives, even prayed for a few who have hit hard times. Then I came to a post celebrating one of my friend's children being inducted into the National Honor's Society. Then another friend's child won an award for the athletic achievements. And another's child had a poem published. I was so excited to read all these accomplishments. I have awesome friends and they are raising great kids. And then I had my moment. It's a moment that you may be familiar with, if you too are blessed with kids that are special needs or a little different. You are smiling and happy, celebrating for your friends and then suddenly your reality hits in stark contrast. A reality that is filled with therapy and specialist and more doctors appointments than I can count. A reality that includes medication schedules and ARD meetings and long calls from the school. A reality that has meltdowns, and failing grades and long sleepless nights. A reality where leaving the house to go for a walk is cause for great celebration, where lasting through the entire field trip is the equivalent of scaling a mountain and remembering to put on underwear and deodorant are huge milestones.<br />
This month I light it up blue to celebrate neurodiversity and autism. I have been blessed to be a wife and a mother to some amazing people with ASD (autism spectrum disorder). There isn't a day that goes by that I don't get the chance to learn and laugh with these boys.<br />
That being said, there is another reality. The reality that has me praying through my tears and signing my son's up for services for their adult years because some of them may not be fully independent. This is my daily reality, one that is my ever present and mostly accepted companion. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZNRCMFEJVxqcKfh40dDNYx8991FdR0WqvfArdQb1sIDxUeboacADNK85jWZm1LkWUKkGs7augVCeop8-9Z3EDD6zKddOeiBZmKQ07iHL0TKKZ-daw_BoNxk3IEngC_-mxUb9ZCx2Rhbb/s1600/sadness2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZNRCMFEJVxqcKfh40dDNYx8991FdR0WqvfArdQb1sIDxUeboacADNK85jWZm1LkWUKkGs7augVCeop8-9Z3EDD6zKddOeiBZmKQ07iHL0TKKZ-daw_BoNxk3IEngC_-mxUb9ZCx2Rhbb/s200/sadness2.jpg" width="130" /></a></div>
I don't think twice about the fact my 12 year old is incapable of doing an eye exam without me holding his head still for the optometrist. Or that my 16 year old is watching Sponge Bob and fighting off anxiety attacks while other boys his age are driving and going on dates. Or that I have to make sure my 14 year old is wearing underwear before he leaves the house.<br />
But every once in a while it hits me like a ton of bricks, when I watch the kids that they've grown up with moving on, growing up and accomplishing things that aren't even on our radar yet; things that may never be on our radar.<br />
Don't get me wrong, I'm excited for my friend's and their children. I'm so happy to see all they are doing. I don't envy their achievements. I want to see all the wonderful things to continue.<br />
But there is a reality, my reality, maybe some of you , my reader's reality, that for a moment causes the grief and sadness to threaten to overwhelm. Our lives are different, our achievements and milestones are on a different chart, our proud parent moment's are hard won and very often delayed.<br />
Ours is a reality of persistence without the guarantee of results. A reality where therapies and medicine replace sports and ballet. A reality where a hard won C is as exciting as a 4.0 <br />
in other families.<br />
To truly celebrate neurodiversity one cannot whitewash the hard things that come with that diversity. Truly accepting and celebrating neuro differences is to be honest in our triumphs and in our struggles. So this year I am celebrating Autism Awareness month through my sadness and grief. I celebrate our achievements and I rededicate myself to our struggles. This is my reality. This is my celebration. Peace and love to you my friends-Kristine<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZgiM6T3xcUfOWPC05Po07LmTiVT7eE4pQ730XtTBpKr1_LIHe7ZdqvQaYDqbnXG5NDJalUuQ4V0yAP536en1hYqL9JiEgx_jDZRe1nABMguvKF38THlpWFKzFaPSOGzKNlM-8m7JGn6E-/s1600/lightitup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZgiM6T3xcUfOWPC05Po07LmTiVT7eE4pQ730XtTBpKr1_LIHe7ZdqvQaYDqbnXG5NDJalUuQ4V0yAP536en1hYqL9JiEgx_jDZRe1nABMguvKF38THlpWFKzFaPSOGzKNlM-8m7JGn6E-/s400/lightitup.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8005629287334223796.post-43771731164704604352017-03-16T19:26:00.000-05:002017-03-21T03:50:44.905-05:00 Ways to Shame Our Mother by All The Skiff Boys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today, after my son cursed in front of the landlord (not a simple hell or damn, no he went all out saying words that would cause a sailor to blush) I decided it was time to come clean you, my blog friends. We all have moments where we wish the floor would just swallow us whole. Unfortunately, in Skiffdom that is an almost daily occurrence for me. This is a list of the last three months, it isn't all inclusive by any means. It just hits some of the highlights....or low-lights if you will. Please feel free to laugh at my pain; I do all the time.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3HeoBCTvPhUr0LVnoK3Z3nJzzlcKvoVWH2O-MTCg6h7AVVp48Z-vVNV2trLFWOc4klR5WNM3kYKgMylIgZCXU79Dpo4iI9DGl837JC1PTGRjYv0o83Uy1e6hqvqnibbCpv9Li9pMjdF_/s1600/6c4d4-embarrassed-chimp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3HeoBCTvPhUr0LVnoK3Z3nJzzlcKvoVWH2O-MTCg6h7AVVp48Z-vVNV2trLFWOc4klR5WNM3kYKgMylIgZCXU79Dpo4iI9DGl837JC1PTGRjYv0o83Uy1e6hqvqnibbCpv9Li9pMjdF_/s320/6c4d4-embarrassed-chimp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Go to school and curse out your teachers.....repeatedly.<br />
2. Go to school and claim the reason your cursing them out is because there is NO food at all in the house. Then force your mother to explain how you do indeed have food in the house, you just aren't happy that you had stir-fry and not McDonald's last night....to three different school teachers, administrators and therapist.<br />
3. Go to the doctors and have a huge meltdown....the first time he meets you....and your mother.<br />
4. Go to the NEW doctor and claim you have no healthy food in the house so that's why you have to eat junk ALL DAY, EVERY DAY. Then tell him your mom refuses to cook anything that isn't meat related. Ignore the fact there are veggies and fruit currently going bad in the fridge at home because you refuse to eat them because they don't count as food.<br />
5. Curse in front of the landlord.<br />
6. Loudly claim, at the therapist office that your mother drinks alcohol ALL The Time. Then ask if drinking red wine in healthy for your heart or does it make you an alcoholic.<br />
At this point, I wish I did drink All The Freakin' Time.<br />
7. Sneak out of the house and walk down one of the busiest streets in the city, in a Santa hat, at midnight, in the freezing rain....to go dumpster diving at Game Stop (after watching a YouTube video about how cool this is), even though you had been forbidden from even thinking about it. Have two cops bring you home, to your grandparents, and plead your case, claiming you shouldn't get into too much trouble because you are a great kid and you already promised to never do it again.<br />
8. Ask about oral sex, loudly, at the grocery store.....in front of a mother and two small children.<br />
9. Make masturbation jokes in front of mixed company.<br />
10. Make inappropriate sexist jokes, LOUDLY, while waiting at a stop light in front of Texas WOMEN'S University. Cause your mother to get many death glares.<br />
11. Tell the BRAND FREAKIN' NEW Doctor, you are too smart to have to do your homework or pass your classes.<br />
12. Get in arguments in class, with a large Hispanic population, supporting Trump.<br />
I blame their father for this.<br />
13. Argue that Islam is a religion the oppresses women with the Islamic girl in your class who wears a hijab. Have your teacher email your mother that though you have amazingly thought out opinions, it would be better if you learned appropriate times and places for such discussions.<br />
14. Watch porn while at your grandparents, in your mother's guestroom, causing questions to be raised about her sexuality and proclivities.<br />
15. Cause your mother to write a blog about all the ways you've shamed her and all the best stories can't even be put on the list because they would embarrass you once you've grown some common sense.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Kristine Meier-Skiffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16882849845877860192noreply@blogger.com0