I keep having these imaginary conversations in my head. Outwardly I'm driving or cleaning or folding laundry but inside I'm screaming, ranting, finger-wagging, castigating. Making that perfect point that puts my imaginary listener in his/her place. Makes them widen their eyes and take a step back before bowing their head and walking away, out of my life, forever.
Why do we do this? I get in this state when there are too many things coming at me at once. I suppose I'm fantasizing that if only I'd responded perfectly the first time then those stressors would've gone away forever.
Or maybe I'm just wanting them to feel the pain that now I'm suffering due to their stupidity. I never said I was a saint.
Or maybe this endless replay of past events is akin to why we worry about future events. If I can just rehearse and rehearse until the grooves are worn smooth in my brain then I'll be prepared for next time...
Here are the additional stressors that have frozen my neck muscles perpetually hunched around my ears.
1. We have a house painter who is a nightmare. A 2-3 week job is now in its sixth week and he hasn't even begun the actual painting. He's broken gates, windows, fence slats, and his own power tools. He's blamed us each time with asinine excuses. He has had to redo hundreds of hours of work because when he was supposed to replace some of the wood siding on the house he wandered over to our neighbor's yard and picked up some old, junky wood off the ground, and nailed that to our house. I'm. Not. Kidding.
And the owner of the business whom we actually hired (who then subcontracted to this moron) won't replace him so now we're stuck.
But that isn't even the worst of it. The utterly intolerable stressor is that this idiot insists on leaving our gates open as he comes in and out. We have three small children. And a puppy. On a rural road that people fly down. Even minute that this selfish little pisser is at my home I live in fear of hearing squealing brakes and then that sickening thud.
Six weeks of telling him to shut the damn gates and he still acted surprised when I confronted him about it AGAIN in front of his boss. The boss said, "So, to clarify, shutting the gates means latching them," and then the little shit acted like he just now understood. Because me saying, "when you leave the gates open you put my children in danger of getting killed on the road" wasn't clear enough for him. But when a fellow male said, "to clarify..." since we all know no man can understand the words of hysterical females, well, then he got it.
So, each time my blood pressure rises when I see the gate swinging open in the breeze I think I'm justified in having just a few more screaming matches with that little prick in my head.
But wait, that's not all.
2. A week ago the two youngest social workers, each 21 yrs old and with less than six months experience between them combined, were at my house and I, so, so, so stupidly, mentioned that I was concerned because the girls had begun acting out behaviors such as being spanked. They'd begun talking to me about people from their past who'd hurt them and even acted out some stuff on their dolls.
The social workers rushed the girls upstairs and began pumping them with questions: does Mama Beth spank you? Where did she spank you? Did Mama Beth give you an owie? Where is your owie?
I know they said those exact words because I was at the bottom of the stairs listening. It's supposed to be this big secret thing where they take the kids off to their bedroom and have this private talk where the kids reveal the gruesome torture they're undergoing at the hands of the evil foster parents. In reality, I've listened to most of those conversations and I'm betting so have most other foster parents.
So, Clueless and Zealot pumped the questions at the kids and I heard Kate, who is 2 and 1/2 remember, parrot everything they said, "Mama pank? Mama owie?" in a questioning voice trying to figure out what they said. Meanwhile, Jane, who is eager to please and plays pretty fast and loose with the truth anyway, confirmed, "Oh yes! Spank! Owie! I have an owie! Right here! See my owie!" (showing mosquito bites on her leg).
It was so obvious what was going on I actually, again so, so, so stupidly, wasn't even that concerned. When they came down and asked me about it I confirmed that I'd been listening and they downplayed the entire event as more paperwork but nothing else. Yes, they'd have to file it but no, nothing would happen. I believed them. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Three days later I get a call that a CPS report has been made on our home. CPS denied it. (God bless the one sane bureaucrat in the state.) But, now the agency had to open a "special investigation" into our home. And, if it's found that we are using corporal punishment then we have to attend a training seminar to learn how to parent.
I literally want to vomit.
a) Moron #1 and #2 didn't even use a name for me that the girls have ever once called me.
b) They could've asked for the names of the people the girls told me hurt them in their past and I'd have told them. Nope; too lazy for that.
c) When children pause, confused, and then parrot your words--that isn't confirmation.
d) When children have no extra details to offer--or provide clearly misleading details like pointing to a mosquito bite--that isn't confirmation.
So, I've written an email with all this information to their supervisors. I've stated that those two twerps are never to step foot in my house again. I've informed them that this is now the second serious screw up that has caused harm to my family and if there's a third I'll file a formal complaint. I've instructed them to complete the adoption paperwork immediately and be gone from our lives forever.
I wrote it all very professionally. Read it over and edited it down over several hours. Modeled how competent adults behave.
But inside my head I'm screaming. Ranting. Wailing. Slapping that superior look right off their Millennial faces. How dare these fucking fuckers endanger my children?!? How dare they add even an ounce of worry that the girls could be removed?!? Damn bitches.
Awhile ago one of the social workers told me everyone at the agency was confused about why their foster care parents didn't come to their Appreciation Dinners anymore. Gosh, I wonder why.
Why do we do this? I get in this state when there are too many things coming at me at once. I suppose I'm fantasizing that if only I'd responded perfectly the first time then those stressors would've gone away forever.
Or maybe I'm just wanting them to feel the pain that now I'm suffering due to their stupidity. I never said I was a saint.
Or maybe this endless replay of past events is akin to why we worry about future events. If I can just rehearse and rehearse until the grooves are worn smooth in my brain then I'll be prepared for next time...
Here are the additional stressors that have frozen my neck muscles perpetually hunched around my ears.
1. We have a house painter who is a nightmare. A 2-3 week job is now in its sixth week and he hasn't even begun the actual painting. He's broken gates, windows, fence slats, and his own power tools. He's blamed us each time with asinine excuses. He has had to redo hundreds of hours of work because when he was supposed to replace some of the wood siding on the house he wandered over to our neighbor's yard and picked up some old, junky wood off the ground, and nailed that to our house. I'm. Not. Kidding.
And the owner of the business whom we actually hired (who then subcontracted to this moron) won't replace him so now we're stuck.
But that isn't even the worst of it. The utterly intolerable stressor is that this idiot insists on leaving our gates open as he comes in and out. We have three small children. And a puppy. On a rural road that people fly down. Even minute that this selfish little pisser is at my home I live in fear of hearing squealing brakes and then that sickening thud.
Six weeks of telling him to shut the damn gates and he still acted surprised when I confronted him about it AGAIN in front of his boss. The boss said, "So, to clarify, shutting the gates means latching them," and then the little shit acted like he just now understood. Because me saying, "when you leave the gates open you put my children in danger of getting killed on the road" wasn't clear enough for him. But when a fellow male said, "to clarify..." since we all know no man can understand the words of hysterical females, well, then he got it.
So, each time my blood pressure rises when I see the gate swinging open in the breeze I think I'm justified in having just a few more screaming matches with that little prick in my head.
But wait, that's not all.
2. A week ago the two youngest social workers, each 21 yrs old and with less than six months experience between them combined, were at my house and I, so, so, so stupidly, mentioned that I was concerned because the girls had begun acting out behaviors such as being spanked. They'd begun talking to me about people from their past who'd hurt them and even acted out some stuff on their dolls.
The social workers rushed the girls upstairs and began pumping them with questions: does Mama Beth spank you? Where did she spank you? Did Mama Beth give you an owie? Where is your owie?
I know they said those exact words because I was at the bottom of the stairs listening. It's supposed to be this big secret thing where they take the kids off to their bedroom and have this private talk where the kids reveal the gruesome torture they're undergoing at the hands of the evil foster parents. In reality, I've listened to most of those conversations and I'm betting so have most other foster parents.
So, Clueless and Zealot pumped the questions at the kids and I heard Kate, who is 2 and 1/2 remember, parrot everything they said, "Mama pank? Mama owie?" in a questioning voice trying to figure out what they said. Meanwhile, Jane, who is eager to please and plays pretty fast and loose with the truth anyway, confirmed, "Oh yes! Spank! Owie! I have an owie! Right here! See my owie!" (showing mosquito bites on her leg).
It was so obvious what was going on I actually, again so, so, so stupidly, wasn't even that concerned. When they came down and asked me about it I confirmed that I'd been listening and they downplayed the entire event as more paperwork but nothing else. Yes, they'd have to file it but no, nothing would happen. I believed them. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Three days later I get a call that a CPS report has been made on our home. CPS denied it. (God bless the one sane bureaucrat in the state.) But, now the agency had to open a "special investigation" into our home. And, if it's found that we are using corporal punishment then we have to attend a training seminar to learn how to parent.
I literally want to vomit.
a) Moron #1 and #2 didn't even use a name for me that the girls have ever once called me.
b) They could've asked for the names of the people the girls told me hurt them in their past and I'd have told them. Nope; too lazy for that.
c) When children pause, confused, and then parrot your words--that isn't confirmation.
d) When children have no extra details to offer--or provide clearly misleading details like pointing to a mosquito bite--that isn't confirmation.
So, I've written an email with all this information to their supervisors. I've stated that those two twerps are never to step foot in my house again. I've informed them that this is now the second serious screw up that has caused harm to my family and if there's a third I'll file a formal complaint. I've instructed them to complete the adoption paperwork immediately and be gone from our lives forever.
I wrote it all very professionally. Read it over and edited it down over several hours. Modeled how competent adults behave.
But inside my head I'm screaming. Ranting. Wailing. Slapping that superior look right off their Millennial faces. How dare these fucking fuckers endanger my children?!? How dare they add even an ounce of worry that the girls could be removed?!? Damn bitches.
Awhile ago one of the social workers told me everyone at the agency was confused about why their foster care parents didn't come to their Appreciation Dinners anymore. Gosh, I wonder why.
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