Tales from the Shark Tank

I’ve figured out why this case is bugging me so, and it’s not that I’m going to have to tell my client what s/he doesn’t want to hear. It’s that it doesn’t add up. I’m missing something, and I can’t for my life figure out what. “A” and “B” cannot coexist in the same space-time continuum, and yet I am being assured quite vehemently that they do.

All right. Logic problems I can deal with, and I’ve been gaming long enough to apply that twist of mind as well. I think I shall sleep on it, and start figuring out just who is making 2+2 look like it’s equal to 4.329.

I have spent a whole lot of time on the phone with various and sundry therapists today, and reached a most unpleasant conclusion. Lacking a crystal ball or a time machine, I will never know what happened to a set of small children for whom I have accepted responsibility. Nor will anyone else. And the way that those charged officially with their protection have gone about it, I have many more hoops to jump through than I otherwise would.

I don’t have any way out of the case, either. My priority is not my client, although professional ethics say that s/he should be. My priority is the children. I’ve always been that way. I would count myself lucky if I could tell my client what s/he doesn’t want to hear and get myself fired, but that’s not going to happen. Client trusts no one else in this (with cause), but does trust me. So that leaves me waiting for a formal report and recommendation, and then going through the process of rebooting, first my mindset, and then if possible my client’s. I haven’t decided what to do if Client doesn’t accept what I expect to be saying.

The people who convinced me to take this, to listen to the multiple voices of desperation against my own better judgment, know very well what sort of idiocies and miscarriages of justice I can’t stand back and watch. They told me exactly the right things to push my buttons. I’m not ascribing either manipulation or malice there; they were expressing what their greatest fears were to the person in their circle of contacts who could best answer them. But it still had that effect. I got into this because I couldn’t let it pass unanswered, because I truly hate bullies and bigots and institutional steamrollers. But now it looks like I’m going to have to go where I most did not want to for my own sanity, and there is no ethical way back out. Oh, well, hindsight is 20/20 by definition.

I now know where another weak spot is; I’ll be much harder to drag another time. I suppose I should be grateful for that. Maybe later on I will be. Tonight I’m just tired.

Clipping Joseph’s claws er, fingernails always involves a certain amount of sturm und drang. I have learned that it is a common problem among autistic children. Today, however, was classic.

“Joseph, I need to trim your fingernails.”

(Running and shrieking) “No, no trimming!”

“Never mind, I can’t find the clippers”

“Mwa-ha-ha”

“Joseph, did you hide the nail clippers?”

(Very smugly) “Yes, I did.”

“It’s a good thing you’re cute!”

I had plans tonight. I was going to run away for a brief mental health break, gather with some friends in Louisville for dinner and a pleasant evening, stay over and come home in the morning. I had even baked ginger cakes to take with me as my contribution to the feast.

The universe had other ideas. Yesterday Joseph’s stung hand was almost back to normal, and I figured all was well. Today I noticed that the remaining swelling wasn’t going down, it was going back up. His arm was starting to swell, too, and that hadn’t happened with the stings. To the doctor we went, post haste. I was told his hand is infected, and given antibiotics for it. I was also told what to watch for and under what conditions a trip to the nearest E.R. would be indicated. Evidently this is the predecessor of blood poisoning – ick!

Wick has obligations tomorrow, and I really wasn’t in the mood to try to drive home at midnight. Besides, I knew if I went I’d spend the whole time worrying. So I’m staying home. These things are in the Mommy Contract, and I know it. But I’m still grouchy. If I were Lucy, Linus would be putting out the flares.

Yesterday was not a good day for getting adult work done. My son, poor little guy, went out to play in the back yard, watched by our housemate. He couldn’t have been out there more than five minutes before I heard shrieks that sounded like he was being murdered on the spot. I didn’t even take the time to run downstairs; I just raised the window, leaned out, and asked what had happened. It turned out he’d been stung three times on the back of one small hand.

I put baking soda paste and cool water on it and gave him benadryl, but the real cure was the mommy-lap. He didn’t budge therefrom for several hours, and kept asking me if I could tell the bees (I think they were wasps) that they were naughty and make them say they were sorry. He also wanted to know what I would do to them. I explained that the bees didn’t understand the concept of being naughty, but that I would make them go away and leave him alone. I intend to do that with insecticide; I don’t know any other quick way to discourage wasps. His hand was fine this morning. I can see where the stings were, but the swelling is gone and he shows no hesitation to use it. On the other hand, he is now terrified of the back yard. I must admit I’m not too thrilled myself.

A bit of investigation today showed that the deck has a large wasp population. I spotted a nest on the bottom of Joseph’s toy workbench, and I suspect there are others. We are using the front door, and have declared the deck strictly off limits to small boys. That’s a pity, as he loves to run his trains there. But until we figure out where the wasps are hiding and how to send them to the insect afterlife, I think it’s got to be that way.

I can’t remember when I first heard the expression “the wheels of justice turn slowly, but they do turn.” In this instance, it’s been more of a grinding of gears with the executive branch of our federal government throwing sand into them at every opportunity, but the Supreme Court seems to have finally said “No. This is America, and the Constitution does not allow this.”

About a week ago, the Supreme Court ruled that the prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba were entitled to access to American Courts. They said it applies to everyone, citizen or foreign national. They didn’t buy the disingenious, self-serving logic that had put those men into a legal limbo. They didn’t buy the argument that if they are held on foreign territory, American courts don’t have jurisdiction, but that since it is the American military holding them no one else’s courts do either. I can’t say I’m glad, exactly. But I am deeply relieved. The way I see the law applied too often has shaken much of my idealism. But this time, the Supreme Court came through. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

My small son’s current greatest passion is to have me come stalking him. I’m supposed to be the hero, coming to get the Bad Guy. This gives him an excuse to a) be grabbed and b) practice his evil cackle. I keep interrupting the game by laughing at what he considers the most inappropriate moments. But right now, I would be hard pressed to think of anything funnier than a six-year-old’s attempt at mwa-ha-ha. Take a good evil cackle, (The Wicked Witch of the West is a fine sample) put a big theatrical grin behind it, and raise it about 2 octaves, remove all hint of resonance, and you might begin to have a clue.

But he remains undeterred by my laughter, runs and hides under his quilt, and then announces his presence with his own personal sound effects. And dutiful mommy that I am, I pretend to look in all sorts of unlikely places (“Is he on top of the curtain rod?”) and plaintively request clues as to his whereabouts. At each such request, he cackles again. Finally, when he can’t stand it anymore, he pops his head out. “Mwa-ha-ha. I’m here in my hideout, and you can’t find me. Mwa-ha-ha.” That, of course, is my cue to grab him and hold on while he shrieks and wiggles gleefully.

Yes, I want another job. But you know, being home definitely has its compensations. Joseph is most of them.

As previously commented, I am weeding through the contents of closets, drawers, storage tubs, the garage, etc., ad nauseum in an attempt to reduce the sheer volume of stuff in this house.

So today, in the process of getting dressed, I tried on a pair of pants designated for Goodwill in the course of yesterday’s efforts. Lo and behold, they fit again. And there was great rejoicing! I’m even wearing them today, as they are pure linen and perfect for the weather.

I am being dragged back into the fringes of living history, rather whether I will or no. Too many of my friends hang out there, and now I’m taking my housemate to meetings and helping her plan garb for a local gathering. I can’t just drop her off and leave because I know too many of the folks around there. The gathering is at the end of the month, so today was fabric hunting day. Seeing as how both of us are more broke than we care to acknowledge, the first option was the clearance table at the local Wally World. At a buck or two a yard, even we can afford it.

I found some wonderful stuff and went looking for someone to cut it for us. No luck. I asked the back customer service desk to page. They did. Still no luck. I went back to the customer service desk. This time a manager went back to the department with me, commenting that she didn’t know how to cut, but she’d give it her best shot. I allowed as how I knew very well how to cut, having done it professionally. I just didn’t know how the scanner worked. Ok, we had a plan; I would measure and cut, showing her how in the process, and she would price. So she had me show her how to cut fabric, fold it where appropriate and roll it back onto the bolt where I’d bought it all. She cut the last length herself, with me over her shoulder making suggestions. She kept thanking me for the education and apologizing that I had to do my own work, and I kept smiling and telling her it was ok; I was glad she was flexible about it. The upshot? She gave me a major discount on the whole thing, telling me that it was to say thank you for being so nice about the problems. I can deal with that.

Little by little, I have been making valiant efforts to reduce the clutter factor in our house. It’s so far past time that Cinderella is standing looking in bemusement at a pumpkin. I think the dust bunnies are developing artificial intelligence. To that end, a friend and I had been trying valiantly to plan a Goodwill run. For one reason or another, it kept getting delayed.

We were down to the wire, so we decided that come hell or high anxiety, we were by heaven going to get our stuff to Goodwill yesterday. We were using my wheels because I drive a minivan these days, and whatever else it may or may not have, it has cargo space. Lots and lots of cargo space. So I began loading boxes, crates, trash bags, and so on, all the while keeping an eye on my small son. I had the car mostly loaded when I came down the stairs to hear “Don’t look at me.” Now, that is always a bad sign. A few days ago it meant “I tried to make cat food out of ketchup and Rice Krispies and eat it like a kitty and dumped the bowl upside down on the oyster-white (purchased way pre-kid) sofa”. So with some trepidation I put down what I was carrying and went into the family room. Joseph was sitting curled up on the chair, absolutely starkers. Suffice it to say that cleanup involved a sponge bath, a load of laundry, and some further thorough scrubbing hither and yon. Then I got my son dressed and into the car about an hour after I originally intended to leave, and just in time to have to dodge rush hour traffic.

We loaded the car from assorted places, and headed for where she recalled the Goodwill to be. It is now a private second-hand store. So ok, I was quite determined that my containers were not going back to my house. So we headed for the donation center for the local battered women’s shelter and transferred the loot into their custody. Then we went to drive my friend home. On our way we passed the new location of the Goodwill donation center, so now we know where it is. Those containers did not return to my abode, and I’ve more ready to go already. Go me!