A Week, Briefly (12/17/18)

Lola got an owie toe running through the house.  Belle is a good big sister to hold her and put ice on her owie.

It all came crashing down this week.  Skipping the gory details, the end result is that Brother has been temporarily given an anti-anxiety med to take to tide us over until his next psych appointment . . . on January 10th.

That's not really that long in the game of getting into state-funded psych treatment programs, and he is going to get good psychiatric care over time, but that means we're stuck through Christmas and New Year's Eve with nothing but the ER as a resource (and it's not that great of a resource--trust me, we've already been there this week!).

The message Brother wrote during his psych appointment--2 hours before we ended up in crisis in the ER.  Translated, it says, "I'm sorry, but I'm trying.  I'm sorry."  It's true--he is sorry and he is trying, but he is out of control, and he has become a danger to himself.  He does not qualify for in-patient treatment, though.

He's been on the anti-anxiety med for 24 hours now, and he seems to be coping.  He's not happy and well, but he's coping, he's not running, and we're managing.

I also was able to sign both Brother and myself up for therapy at a non-profit child abuse prevention organization.  With over 30 possible therapists to work with, the intake professional said they could offer comprehensive therapy options--including attachment therapy.  I felt heard and of value when I participated in the intake session, and I think we're going to get good care.


We had school on Monday.

We had Morning Meeting the rest of the week.

He was quite calm while we waited for the psych team in the ER.

Other than the girls being almost done with President Nelson's Book of Mormon challenge, and Nature Angel's incredible work on homemade gifts, that's about all of the stuff I can count as school, and that's all of the routine I've been able to maintain.

Brother truly threw us into a tailspin.

The interesting thing is that the rest of the kids kind of backed off and maintained a certain level of homeostasis.  Ladybug, for example, was a model of good behavior for the 7 days of crisis we lived in, and now that we're calming back down again, she's resuming the difficult behaviors she usually demonstrates.

I am grateful to a dear 83-year-old widow from church who called one day to offer to bring cookies and stories to our house for an afternoon.  She read and loved my kids, and they loved her in return.

Today we wrote thank you notes to her.

The best homeschool story of the week?

I had to take Brother to his regular pediatrician to ask for the anti-anxiety med.  The psychiatrist didn't offer because her work with him was too superficial at this week's appointment; the ER couldn't do it because of liability.  It was a 50/50 gamble that the pediatrician would even be willing, but we presented our case that we had psych appointment already on the calendar, and that the ER sent us to ask.

As he finished his interview with us, the pediatrician asked Brother, "What grade are you in school?"

"I'm not in a grade.  I'm homeschooled."

"Homeschooled?  Hmmmmm . . . What's 5 +1?"

I was ready to fly out of my chair and defend my child against such an interview, but I needed that medication, so I held my tongue, and I ended up glad I did.

Brother answered, "6."

The pediatrician responded, "Six is right.  That means you're smart.  And a smart boy knows better than to run away from home."

He followed with a gentle but firm lecture that was useless but well-meant, and I was grateful for the concern he offered my boy and the trust that we did in fact need that med.

And now, our goal is simply to survive the next few weeks . . .