I am not a big fan of New Years. I never really have been. One year I went to a rockin party and had an absolute blast. That was my favorite New Years ever!

I was eight years old though.

Truly, I’m not a fan of going out with the crazies, getting sloshed or the oh so lovely: see how many women are sobbing in the bathroom because they have no one to kiss at midnight.

The thing I like least about New Years is the resolutions. The lists that people make of things they intend to be better about in the New Year. The reason I despise this practice is simple: People never stick to their resolutions and then about mid-February everyone feels bad about themselves and gives up. Basically making resolutions is just another excuse for us all to fell bad about ourselves. I am good enough at feeling guilty, I don’t need to make a resolution to do so in a month or two.

Instead, I’m going to make my best of 2008 list. My favorite post, one (or three, whatever) for each month I’ve been blogging.

ISSA’S Favorites of 2008:

July: Things not to say to a pregnant woman. That’s a decaf latte, right? Actually bitch it’s not. I just heard this in Starbucks. Literally half an hour ago. Like it’s any ones business. Today I decided that I can’t do decaf anymore. I’m just not sleeping and I needs me some caffeine. So real coffee here I am, I’ve missed you.

August: The cracked ceiling. My babies are six and a half and four years old. One wants to be a Supreme Court Judge and the other a Transformer. Funny, yes, but dream big is what I tell them.

Last night Hillary Clinton made history; she changed history for the better and I thank her for it. I want a better world for my children, a world that is safe and free, a world where there is no limit to what they can be.

September: Happy birthday Babe. On this day, every year, for as long as we’ve been together, I send my mother in law a gift. I call her and thank her for giving me the greatest gift in the world, for giving me her son. Because she raised one of the best men I know and she deserves to be told what an amazing job she did.

Small Harrison update. And plus, I had to stare at my son. My son, so strange to say, but so awesome.

October: Harrison Thomas. Harrison Thomas was born at 8:08pm, September 25th, 2008. He weighed 8 pounds, 6.4 ounces, was 20 inches long.

November: Ha, November was a good month for me, so I had to pick three.

We were playing doctor, really we were. What you didn’t think I’d post all sweet and sappy ones did you?

Bittersweet Victory. Today is a happy day for the US. I am happy, I truly am. But there’s a bitterness there too. An angry piece of me, that has no outlet. I just want to shake the world right now and say, these two belong together, how can you not see that?

Long lost parenting tips. I did the only thing I could think of, I pulled her into the bathroom and made her open her mouth and I shoved a small stick of soap in there.

December:

For my favorite posts of this month, I’m going to pick two of mine and one of someone else’s. One of mine is from this month and one from August I believe. They are both about ADHD and how it affects our family. I think more people need to see the face of ADHD. To know the realities and see the truth behind some of the behaviors.

I have this feeling that Aaron and Morgan would get along really well.

Reality. The reality is that the world sees my child as a pain in the ass. Not all people, not people who know her, not even people who have been around a child with ADHD and know the signs. But to the majority of people.

Medicate or not, this is the question You know that saying, when she’s good she’s very, very good? Well that was Morgan. On her good moments, she was a doll; sweet, caring, loving and creative. On her bad moments, the Tasmanian devil on crack. Trouble was, we never knew what we were going to get. Unpredictable to the core. You could look at her wrong and she’d melt into a puddle of tears; tell her to put her shoe on and she’d throw a two hour tantrum; she was out of control. This was the first time we considered medicating her.

This month has been a hard month for me. I lost my grandmother, which only made me realize that I’ve not really grieved for my grandfather. The reality of these losses is just beginning to sink in. 2008 has been a long year. There have been great things, the most notable in my family being Harrison. I can not even begin to tell you how thankful I am for this little boy. My little boy. I could say it all day, every day, but it wouldn’t be enough. I adore every single piece of his rolly polly little self.

But there’s been a lot of grief as well. This year we lost three people in our family, my grandparents and Logan’s grandma. We also have family that is struggling to make it. One with liver cancer, one with breast cancer and one with a bum heart. We’re trying to think positively, but there may be some losses next year as well.

One of the things that I am thankful for the most for this year, is all of you. You have supported me and helped me, more than you could ever know. I appreciate each and every one of you.

I hope you all have a great New Years Eve. I’ll talk to you next year.

Every morning until the last few months of her life (when she never left it any more), my grandma made her bed as soon as she had showered. Military corners on the sheets, perfectly straightened bedspread, pillows perfectly fluffed. It was her thing, one of many things that I as a child, thought made her a little weird. I mean really, who makes their bed if company isn’t coming over? Certainly not me.

She had this deal, where you don’t mess up a bed that has been made. You don’t put anything on it, you don’t mess with it and you definitely don’t sit or lounge on it. That is what couches were made for, she told me once. I think I was about seven years old the first time I remember being told this.

I’ll let you process that for a second. She told a seven year old child that beds were not for lounging or touching. They must not be messed up all day long.

In my house, our beds were the exact opposite. I was, at the time, being raised by a single mother. A mother whose bed was the fold out couch in our living room. We lived in a one bedroom apartment, where my brothers were sharing a full size bed and I had a twin bed. Both beds barely fit in the one room. So basically, our whole bedroom was one big bed. All we did was play on it and under it. We ate breakfast every day while laying in my mom’s bed and watching cartoons. Some days, she never even made it back into a couch. We just all laid around on her bed. We liked it this way.

But back to my grandma. I remember looking at her like she was from outer space. There was no way that she was serious. Oh but she was.

I did what any seven year old child would do. I waited until she was out of the room for awhile and I sat my little seven year old butt on her bed. Then I snuck off, laughing too myself. A few hours later I remembered what I had done and went to go see. The bed was perfectly made, not a crease could be seen. This time I jumped into the middle, rolled around and then ran off, giggling too myself. When I went back later, it looked like I had never touched a thing. Not a wrinkle in sight. Well I wasn’t a dumb kid and you didn’t really cross my grandparents, so I decided I’d had enough fun for the day. I’d gotten away with it and that was enough. We left the next day and before we did I couldn’t resist going in there and rolling around on her bed one more time. This time I left a note. Bye grandma, I had fun. Love, me.

Every time we went to visit, I did this. Generally only once and not usually on the first day, but every single time. Probably until I had kids myself. Maybe even once or twice after that as well. Although by then, we generally stayed in a hotel when we came to visit. She never said a word. I thought she’d go to her grave not saying a thing. But last year, when we were there for Thanksgiving, she called too me as I got up and went to the bathroom. Melissa Annie, she said too me, if you sit on my bed, you will have to remake it. I am too old to make it more than once a day. Grandma, I said as I came over and kissed her cheek, I am too old to mess up your bed on purpose, I promise. Everyone in the room thought we were insane, so she told them the story. I was shocked, but she’d never even told my grandpa. She just thought it was our little inside joke.

I will say, I don’t make my bed unless someone is coming over and even then, I’m likely to just shut the door. When I do though, I don’t like it too be sat on all day. Of course, when you only actually make your bed once a month, it’s much easier to keep people off of it.

Thanksgiving 2007:

Grandpa had been rushed to the hospital during Thanksgiving dinner, we thought he’d had a stroke. My mom and uncle had made the decision that Grandma had to stay home. That with the cancer, her immune system couldn’t handle a trip to the hospital. My mom went with Grandpa in the ambulance and my step-dad, uncle and aunt followed in the car. Logan took the girls back to the hotel to swim and my brother and I sat with Grandma.

She paced for the first 20 minutes, talked on the phone for the following 40 minutes and then argued with…I think the wall for a few more minutes. She then looked at me and Justin (my bro) and said, this waiting just doesn’t work for me. We’ll sneak you in I said. Mom and Jim won’t know until you are in the room. Then what will they do? Kill me maybe, but they won’t make you go home.

We drove to the hospital, found a parking spot and walked into the lobby. Grabbed Grandma a wheelchair and a mask and we were good to go. They’d already moved him into a real room on the intensive care floor, so we were given, basically a treasure map to try and find him.

I’ve always despised this hospital, Grandma said. We always get lost. Whoever made it, didn’t like people much. Newer hospitals are not set up like this. Did you know your mother was born here? Yeah, she was almost born in the hallway, because we couldn’t figure out where we were supposed to go.

Justin stopped at this point and asked me to push Grandma. Why, what are you doing, I asked? He took the pink map and started tearing off teeny pieces. Then as we walked, he dropped a piece every so often. At some point Grandma noticed what he was doing. Why in the world are you littering, she asked him. Breadcrumbs Grandma, I’m leaving us breadcrumbs, so we can find our way out. I don’t want to live here, you know?

Breadcrumbs? Like Hansel and Gretal she said. Then, she laughed and we laughed. It was possibly the funniest thing in the world. At that moment, laughing at breadcrumbs made us not sad. At that moment, my brother was the funniest man in the entire world. We laughed as we made our way through the entire hospital. We continued laughing until we found Grandpas room. Breadcrumbs.

Saturday afternoon, December 20, 2008:

The service was held graveside, it was the only way to get it done this weekend. It was cold and windy and really sad. But it was beautiful as well. The flowers were gorgeous, the service was short and sweet. There were a ton of people there. We buried her how she wanted it done. We placed her in her spot, where she wanted to be. Beside her husband, the love of her life. Right next to her parents, as she was their only child. She had a great send off.

As we were walking away, my brother asked me if he thought they check the body before they bury it. Check it for what, bombs? No he said, just check her again? You know, make sure nothing was placed in her coffin? OK, what did you do, I asked? At the funereal home, before we came out here, I went in and said good-bye to her. I also stuck three bright orange post-its in her pocket of her pants. I told her to leave me breadcrumbs and one day, I’ll be able to find her.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But I thought of her and of that day. I thought about her laughter that day and I just burst out laughing. I doubt they checked her, I’m sure at that point what gets put in her coffin is between us and her.

We got in the limo with our parents and a few aunts and our uncle and we just laughed and laughed. We had to explain it too them, but they all though it was funny. We laughed all the way to my uncles house.

Breadcrumbs.

PS. I’m going to spend the next few days telling you shorter stories about my Grandmother. I am too tired and I have too much too do to write about her for hours, even though that’s what I want to do. But this week is Christmas and I’m going to have a houseful of people so I have to get this house ready. Gone for one day, one freaking day and my house looks like it was hit by a hurricane.

Plus, I’m sure all of you have much better things to do than read my long-winded ramblings.

I’m having trouble with this loss. Losing her just hurts. One more on top of so many this past couple of years. You’d think it’d get easier, but it doesn’t. Just harder. It just hurts.

Three and a half years of knowing that this could be the last visit, the last phone call, the last I love you. Somehow you are still never prepared. I know she’s someplace better. This, I know I believe in. I know she’s with him; the love of her life. I know she was in horrible pain. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Doesn’t make me not want to fold into myself; lie in bed for days, weeks even; alone with my head.

They’re gonna have the service tomorrow afternoon. Try and make it as painless as possible, so people can get home for Christmas. Christmas, I don’t even want to think about Christmas anymore. If it were up to me, I’d take it all down and pretend it didn’t exist. I can’t and I won’t. I do want to. How do you find the holiday spirit when your spirit feels beaten and broken? When your heart has been shattered into so many pieces that no one can find all of them.

I can’t handle much more drama and pain. I don’t know what I’ll do if one more thing goes wrong, one more person I love, gone.

As a child of divorce, the holidays were never the amazingly fun experience that my children have. It was filled with hard feelings and worry about the other parent. It was each of them, in their own way, trying to out do each other. It was filled with, whose turn is it, you had them last year, like we were shoes or a kite and not small children. The years we went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house with my mom, those were my favorite Christmas’s. Christmas to me, it was best with them. They always did it at their house. Any child was welcome, along with their family, even their in-laws if they wanted. But they never, ever, didn’t do it at their house. They had a massive tree, tons of treats and gifts. Christmas Eve we walked through the college and ooohed and awed at the lights. Dinner was at 2pm and gifts were opened after. It was the same, it was tradition. I am trying my best to do that with my kids. Make traditions for them, lasting good memories. For Christmas to be about our family, no matter what everyone else thinks. But Christmas is not Christmas without them. They were the rocks of this family. Now they are both gone. Three months and a week apart.

Yesterday would have been my grandfathers birthday. But he’s been gone over three months. I’m not over this one yet. I haven’t gotten to the point where I don’t cry when he is mentioned; where I don’t smell a man with his aftershave and a hint of listerine and it not make me weak with grief. I don’t hear a song that reminded him of me and not break down, no matter where I am. It’s hard to look at his pictures, to think about the places we were when they were taken. I didn’t name Harrison after my grandpa, because I wasn’t to the point that I thought I could say his name all the time. I wanted too, but I just couldn’t. I pray that one day, when I’m ready, I get the chance too have another boy and name him after him. I’m just not ready to go through this again. I don’t know how to lose people gracefully. How do you say good-bye for good?

I’m sinking. I feel it. I’ve eaten all day, but I can’t tell you what any of it was. I haven’t been hungry. I was angry at stupid stuff earlier, because it was easier to be angry than too feel. Now, I could care less about plane tickets, spilled ice tea or anything else so trivial. I am feeling the loss and it’s eating me up inside. I have to get up at 3am to go to the airport. Fly two hours, drive three hours, go to a funeral and then turn around and do the same thing on Sunday to get home. I’m not taking the kids. Logan thinks it will be too hard on them, too much for me. He’s right, I’m sure. I wish he was going. I need him, my babies. Mostly right now, I need him. He knows and it’s killing him too. But our kids need him too. They are grieving too and they need one of us here. We have people. People who offered to keep them, the dog, stay here even. But I’m going alone.

I should sleep. But I just can’t. I can’t go to sleep. If I go to bed, I won’t get up and go at 3am tomorrow. If I go to bed, I will stay there. Maybe in a few days, when I get home, I’ll feel different. But this is how I feel right now. I feel like if I go and lay down, I won’t make myself go and say good-bye, because I don’t want to say good-bye. No matter what though, she’s gone and she’s not coming back. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t go. Put flowers on her grave and his too, say good-bye.

I am sad. This week has put me through the ringer.

Ok, I’m going to bed now. My husband swears he’s making me get up in oh 4ish hours or so. He says to trust him and I do. More than anyone in this world, I do trust him. He’s my person. I’ll be better in a few days, I will. For my kids, for my grandparents who would want me to snap the heck out of it. In a few days I’ll come back and tell you how amazing my grandmother was.

For now, I’m just gonna be sad. I’m trying so hard not to sink. My head is just above the water. But I can swim.

When you look at her what do you see? Do you see her inner beauty? Her outer beauty? Do you see the little girl who gave away her gloves, scarf and hat to a friend who needed them? Do you see the independent spirit that believes she can rule the world? Change the world? Make the world a better place? Do you see the creativity that pores out of her all the time? Do you see the little mother in her who loves to sing her baby brother to sleep? The girl who spends hours trying to get her little sister to ride without training wheels? The girl who walks her dog around the backyard on a leash, because she can’t handle the brute on the street? Do you see the athletic side of her, the side who can pick-up and play any sport? Did you notice the way she reads aloud? Like a twelve year old, instead of a just turned seven year old child? The way she does math in her head? The logical way she figures things out?

If you don’t know her, you probably don’t.

You notice the bouncing and the twirling. You possibly notice the incessant chatter. Maybe you notice how she interrupts people mid sentence, saying, I know and then moving onto the next thing. Her inability to finish a whole thought or story. You notice her inability to sit down for a whole meal. You might notice the tantrums, which are more prevalent in places like Chuck E’ Cheese, Disneyland, holiday parties and crowded soccer games. They can happen any place really, where she has been over stimulated to the max. Maybe you’ve noticed the tapping of the pen, the clicking of the jaw, the twirling of her hair, the constant movement of her hands and feet, which at some point has either bugged you to no end or made you think she is doing it to piss you off.

Maybe you think it is lack of parenting on our parts. If we were harder on her, more consistent, more demanding, less demanding. More.

This is the face of ADHD. This is the reality of ADHD. Last week, we put Morgan on Adderall. We spent years and years going back and forth on medicating her. A hyperactive four year old is easier to ignore. I currently have a very active four year old. There are subtle differences in her behavior and Morgan’s at that age. But to an outsider, a person in a store, a teacher, a relative; it can be harder to see. I know the difference, we point it out to each other all the time. but we are their parents. We’ve done many types of therapy: talk, play, art. We’ve done relaxation techniques with her since she was two years old. She can do them now herself and does, throughout her day. To make it through her day. Let me say that again, my child does relaxation techniques on herself, to get through her day.

We have tried vitamins, a non-sugar diet and Homeopathy. We taught her techniques to deal with her energy in times where she had to sit still. She jumps on our trampoline for almost two hours a day, just too work off the extra energy. A four year old who sits to color, but taps her fingers and moves her feet, is an accepted child. A seven year old who does it, is seen as a trouble maker, someone searching out attention, a child being a pain in the ass.

The reality is that the world sees my child as a pain in the ass. Not all people, not people who know her, not even people who have been around a child with ADHD and know the signs. But to the majority of people. People sigh when she asks too many questions, some people roll their eyes at her. She’s had a few substitute teachers lately who have been down right horrible. And she knows it, she feels it all and it hurts her. Deep, where a kiss and a hug, or a few band-aids won’t help. It is changing who she is. Making her second guess herself, but at the same time, she’s already doing everything possible to stop it. So much so, that it’s created a few ticks in the last few weeks. Ticks from trying to suppress the urge to jump and bounce in place. That energy then comes out in different ways.

There is a stigma as a parent, that comes from medicating your child. It is seen as the easy way out. That we couldn’t hack it, couldn’t deal with it, didn’t know how to deal with her. This is a cop out. Not a cop out on me, but a cop out on the people who say it. Every child with ADHD is different, just as every child is different. Maybe all the other things worked with your child. For this I am thrilled for you, but for me, for her, it didn’t work.

Truly, we didn’t medicate Morgan for us. We can handle her, we can deal with her. We’re used to the symptoms, the different ways of parenting, the ADHD. For us, it’s not a huge deal. The ADHD isn’t her, it’s a small portion of who she is. Just like I am partially blind in one eye and my husband is dyslexic. A part of us we can’t give back, a part of us we had to learn to life with. But it doesn’t define us and we don’t want ADHD to define her.

Don’t get me wrong, it has been a long time to get to this point. If I was going to medicate her for me, I’d have done it 3 years ago. Logan would have done it 5 years ago. We didn’t put her on Adderall for us, we did it for her. I can’t have my child trying to suppress who she is, not now, not ever.

Let me repeat it, we put her on medication for her. Because she is our daughter, our first born, one of the three lights of our life. We want the world to see what we see. The little girl from the first paragraph. The loving, caring, giving, creative, independent child who is currently lying underneath my Christmas tree with her footed Jammie feet sticking out; singing I’ll be home for Christmas to her sister. Our daughter. Our Morgan. This is why we put her on Adderall. For her.

So to you lovely asshat who made the accusations in my earlier post, that I am poisoning my child; I hope you can see the facts. Saying that there are other ways to deal with ADHD and meds are poison is a generalization. A gross generalization to make me feel bad about my choice. Your way works better, I am the one poisoning my child, this is simply not true. Life is not so black and white, it’s more of a lovely shade of gray.

Like my friend Kim said in the comments, some see giving antibiotics as a horrible thing, others see not doing it as a horrible thing. Please don’t go around flinging bags of flaming poo at people without the facts. Try and remember, your way isn’t the only way. My child isn’t your child. Mine needed to try this. For her self esteem and security in who she is, more than anything else. At first I was so angry and now I’m just sad. Sad that people can be so close minded when it comes to life. Sad that people can’t see that my way can be just great, if it works for me, but your way might be great too. Sad that my baby has to go through this. Sad that anyone would look at her and not see how amazing she is.

I’m just sad.