That's Not Logical, Captain ~ Mr. Spock

I have mentioned that we are following the suggestion of one of Corey's doctors to help moderate his behavior. It's working very well compared to not doing it. We also have some other tricks and tools at our disposal that we use with some success. One of them is to have my mom let Corey stay with her for part of the weekends. This is great because it gives us a break, and because Corey's not being sent away for "being bad." He gets a break, too, and spends time with some of his friends.


The tools and methods we use, however, only take us so far. Some of the biggest problems we are having truly seem to stem from a breakdown in logic. Occasionally this causes smallish problems.


A couple of months ago, Corey had left home in the middle of the night and either got caught up with some gang members, imagined it, made it up... or some combination of those three (no, that's not the smallish part). When he went, panicked, to someone's house to ask for help, they (naturally) called the police and wouldn't let him in. Eventually he left their property, but the police did find him.


In the stress of the moment, Corey couldn't think of our house phone number or his address. He could remember my cell phone number, but didn't give it to the police because he's not supposed to give it out. So Corey told them the name of our apartment complex and they contacted the property manager, who had the pleasure of getting up and knocking on our door to let us know we needed to call to find out where to pick him up.


Yes, in our world, that is a smallish problem.


Last night Corey went to my mom's house. They had a great time, so she wanted to keep him a little longer than just after church today. We agreed that she'd bring him home this afternoon before the sun went down because I have been trying to get a particular shot of all of us for our Christmas card, and once it's dark, Mad's done for.


We put Mad down for her nap just after 1:00 this afternoon, and I went in to get some sleep, too. At some point, Tom joined us (the crib is in our room). A couple of hours later, Madelyn woke up and I brought her to bed to nurse a little bit. We must have fallen back asleep, because it was an hour later when she started playing around.


It was around the time Corey should have been home. I woke Tom up and he went to see. Sure enough, Corey was home. He hadn't been there for long, maybe a few minutes, but I could tell that he was agitated. Tom was too. He went into the kitchen and started doing dishes.


The next thing I know, Tom's asking Corey if he has any knives in his room. This is a recurring problem, but seemed like it was coming out of nowhere to me. Alas, no. When Tom had opened our bedroom door into the living room, there was Corey, pacing; he'd been carrying a knife. Tom wasn't randomly doing dishes, he was trying to account for all of the knives. We were napping with all of the doors in the home open.


We keep our knives locked in our office. Steak knives, butcher knife, paring knife. It's a little odd when we have people over for dinner if meat's being served.


Sometimes Corey will go into the office and get a knife while we're home, if the office is left unattended. He used to frequently "break in" to get them... or various other things we keep in there. I put not one, but two locks on the window, but it only meant he had to work harder to get in. I have placed a dowel in the window, which makes it impossible (so far). He's always one step ahead of us, though, so I have to be vigilant about checking that the dowel is still in place. For example, tonight while getting a knife, he also removed the dowel for later.


You're probably wondering why. Well, so are we. The best we can come up with ("we" being us, Corey and his team of doctors), is that he is arming himself out of a need for protection. The boy is hyper-vigilant about intruders and threats to his or our personal safety. Corey's explanation for tonight is that he was freaked out that our house was open, the cars were there, but there was no sign of us. Our bedroom door was shut, but he feared we might have been killed. Maybe the intruder was still there.


Have we ever had an intruder? No. Break-in? Nope. Well, one time our window was shattered... but that was an accident by a work crew at the apartment Corey and I shared back in the day. We were there when it happened, so there was no mystery. And our next door neighbor here had been burglarized, but it was from some creep who frequented his car stereo shop, not a random crime. That was solved in about six minutes (perhaps I exaggerate, but it was quick).


What caused this? I don't know. It seems to be clearly a mental health issue, but how did it start? As the mom, I figure I have to be to blame somehow. When it comes to this hyper-vigilance, the place my mind keeps going back to is that old apartment from back in the day. We moved there when Corey was about three and a half. When he was a little older (four? four and a half?), we played hide and seek. We only did it twice because he would get frustrated when I found him and so freaked out whenever he couldn't find me. Could that be the root of his problems? Or when he was in the fear-of-monsters-or-bad-guys-hiding age and I would take him from room to room and go through all of the closets and cupboards with him. Did that somehow start this ball rolling? It was something I would have liked for my parents to do for me when I was afraid (not that I'd thought of it then... oh, no... those doors had better stay shut!).


On the other hand, it's exceedingly difficult not to view this weapon obsession (knives aren't the only thing, just the focus of this evening) as some sort of a threat. With his occasionally explosive temper, the fact that he is taller than I and some of the comments he's made, it's hard not to worry. Nobody wants to be "that family" on the news, mainly because of what they have to go through to get there.

Tough Choices

When Tom and I first confirmed that I was pregnant, nursing came up pretty much right away. Tom mentioned looking forward to giving the baby bottles each evening or overnight so I could catch a break. Like a true zealot who was just begging to have her words fed back to her at some later time, I insisted that this baby was not having formula. I had nursed Corey for two and a half years, and while I didn't plan to let it go that long this time, there was no good reason to bring formula into the... well, formula.

Then I started thinking about why I nursed Corey for so long. My first husband turned out to be a bit of a nut job, something I realized halfway through the pregnancy. It was later confirmed when he lived on the corner at the end of my street. In a parking lot. With two other people who owned a car... they rotated who got to sleep in the car each night. "But he's breastfeeding" was my prepared response should Stephen ever demand custody or independent visitation. Thankfully it only came up once before the court ruled, and he didn't have the wherewithal to follow through on the threat. After that, I just let it go on because it was the easiest thing in the world, and because it was the most direct means of bonding with my beloved child.

Corey was so old when I stopped that we had a conversation about it.

Me: "There's no more nurch. Nurch all gone."

"No more nurch?" (short wail of despair)

"Mommy talked to the doctor and now nurch is all gone."

"Nurch all gone."

And then we snuggled and went to sleep (yeah, took me quite a few more years to get him out of my bed... baby steps, people, baby steps). He slept fine that night and never asked to nurse again.

When I took all of that in and combined it with the fact that Tom is not a nut job (or, as we say in my family, "You're weird, but you're my kind of weird and I like you"), I was relieved of the hyper-vigilance I carried around for Corey. I didn't have to nurse so that this baby wouldn't be stuck in the care of a man who put himself first (although not well) to the exclusion of the baby's safety and well-being. I could be like those mothers who declared how long they were willing to breastfeed, meet that quota and be done with it.

Sweet!

Most of the time I had figured that nursing for six months would be perfect. About a month before I returned to work, we spent $300 on a breast pump and I realized that I might as well pump for the whole first year. And if I'm pumping and giving Madelyn breastmilk in a bottle, why not just nurse when we're together, too?

I stayed home with Corey (and married to his father) until he was 11 months old. There was no pumping, there were no bottles, there was just me and him from his first day.

Madelyn started off with four days in the NICU due to a collapsed lung. There was no oral nutrition for the first day and then formula for the next 36 hours until the neonatologist agreed to let me nurse. With that kind of beginning, physically and emotionally, breastfeeding was tricky. Although she got the hang of it after about 10 days, it was hard to put it all behind me. My milk supply has been difficult to maintain. I have used herbal supplements, post-natal vitamins, extra pumping, extra nursing, massage... pretty much anything someone suggested, I did. Madelyn was almost six months old when we had to supplement with formula.

Over the past two months, my body has continued to wean her. The original plan was for Mad to get a formula bottle only when needed during the week if I didn't pump enough the day before for two full bottles. Within a matter of days that became 1-2 formula bottles a day during the week, and now we have to give her bottles on the weekend as well. My new goal is to get her through the majority of the cold and flu season.

You might be thinking that the tough choices to which I referred in the title are about choosing to add formula. Not exactly. Here's something you don't know about my life: the husband of one of my best friends, Nancy, is fighting leukemia. In February he was diagnosed with a "pre-leukemia" illness. In March we had a blood and bone marrow drive. A bone marrow donor was found, but not from our group. The extremely generous donor is in Europe (let's all say a little thank you for worldwide registries, shall we?).

Ken was supposed to have the bone marrow transplant last week, but the latest biopsy indicated that he now has "full blown leukemia," so it was postponed for two months while they put him into remission. I am on the list to be a blood and/or platelets donor and they finally called me this afternoon to schedule my donation. (I say finally because Tom and another of our friends have already been called twice!) I was so excited to be called, but it was a bit dramatic.

"Any surgeries?"

"I had episiotomy stitches in April."

"Let me check. (short pause) No problem. Are you breastfeeding?"

"Yes!" (with pride)

"Ooh. Oh no. I don't think you can donate. You can't donate."

"What?!? We're barely nursing. She gets about six ounces a day!"

"Hold on and I'll check." I heard her talking to someone else... "But she's weaning."

Turns out that weaning mothers are okay to donate, but I have to pump beforehand and not for two hours afterward. I guess I'd be really drained (ah ha... okay, I know it wasn't that funny). But in that moment when I didn't know the answer, I realized that I might have the biggest decision of my life to make. Do I keep breastfeeding Mad through the cold and flu season, thereby offering her antibodies to help keep her little body well or do I stop completely so that I can help Ken through this incredible fight?

I know what I'd do. I'm really glad I don't have to make that choice. I would if I had to.