What will our future hold?

Tonight we have our appointment with the pediatric psychologist. I'm nervous and excited ... hopeful, but afraid to be. We've had some really great days with Aus lately. He's been listening to Tim and me and he's going out of his way to be kind and thoughtful (running up to Maya's room to get something for her, making sure the cats have plenty of water and food, choosing the small gardening gloves because Maya wanted the big ones ... this list could be longer and more significant, but this will do).

Five days of good behavior were about all Austin could muster, though, and some of his pent up behaviors had to be unleashed ...

Austin was not allowed to ride the bus yesterday, because on the way home Tuesday, he punched Maya--in the face (for not scooting over in the seat so he could sit there too .... his reason: it was his "favorite place to sit and she was not sharing"). This was not the first problem he's had on the bus--far from it. The bus driver has had to talk to him many times about being mean to Maya (he isn't mean to anyone else, just Maya), and this was the last straw. So, deservedly so, he had a one day suspension (honestly, I expected at least 3 days, but the bus driver didn't want to inconvenience me too much ... nice of her, but I told her not to worry about that, I'd just be sure to convey that inconvenience to Austin). He is grounded from all electronics (TV, computer, GameCube and his Leapster) for five days and is not allowed to sit in the same seat as Maya on the bus for the rest of the year--even if she's in his "favorite" seat.

After school Tuesday, while I was at a PTA meeting, the kids were with the Latchkey group. It was a gorgeous day, so they were all outside on the playground. After about 45 minutes, the Latchkey coordinator brought Austin to me, saying that he had to be removed from the group because he and two other boys were covering a first-grader in mulch. (This offense is less troublesome to me than him hitting or hurting someone ... but, I still had the pleasure of having someone point out that my son is causing problems.) I thought for sure I would have to leave the meeting early--figuring that Austin wouldn't be able to sit quietly until it was over. But, since the meeting was in the library, I was able to sit him over next to the books. He sat completely quiet--and still--for the rest of the meeting (another 45 minutes) reading. I couldn't believe it. My constantly moving, noisy boy (usually he's making sounds for the imaginative play he's got going on in his head--spaceships flying, cars zooming, things crashing, etc.) was absolutely quiet and engrossed in books. He often sits still and quiet for long periods of time--if he's in front of something electronic ... but not usually that long for reading.

Except for working on writing homework last night, Austin had a really good day yesterday. He cleaned his room--completely. (Usually when I tell him he needs to clean up his room, he spends about 5 minutes and comes back to tell me he's done ... and he's not. I have to go up and give him specific instructions, step by step, for finishing the job.) He spent about 20 minutes putting together the game Mouse Trap--following the directions and doing it all by himself. He was good during dinner (I know that it helped that we had a "picnic" in the family room--he didn't have to stay in his seat and had some freedom to move around) and got ready for bed with no problems at all.

These good days really help keep me sane ... they give me hope and reassure me that we will have bright spots. Hopefully they'll be more and more frequent after our appointment tonight.

I want to make the right choice.

I am spent.

Tim and I have an appointment with a pediatric psychologist in 2 weeks to discuss Austin's behavior (and determine if he has A.D.D.) and whether or not he would benefit from taking medication. The questionnaires that I've filled out regarding all this seem to scream at me that he's a classic case for A.D.D. In all honesty, I've known for a few years in my heart that he's got it, but just haven't wanted to completely give in to it. [This whole topic of medicating for A.D.D. is such a hot one ... everyone has an opinion on it. We have generally not been interested in medicating him for this. We would rather try behavior modification strategies (that have mostly been working up until school started this year) ... but now we've reached a new point in all of this, so we're seriously re-thinking it all. It's a constant source of stress and doubt. We want to make the best decision for Austin ... I really don't want to mess this up.]

At this point, I'm quite tired.

I'm tired of blaming myself. I'm tired of feeling like I must not be doing enough as a parent to have avoided or fixed this. I'm exhausted from the constant work I do with him to redirect his behavior and guide him to making good choices--to no avail. I'm worn out from feeling like a failure. I'm tired of feeling embarrassed by his behavior when we're out somewhere. I'm tired of the dirty looks I get from other people ... like I'm a moron of a parent who does nothing to keep her child in line. I'm tired of seeing the sad look on my son's face when he talks about being frustrated in school because his teacher is always yelling at him ... and he doesn't know why or what he's done wrong most of the time. I'm tired of seeing other kids look at him like he's an idiot when he's running around, making squeaking sounds and invading their space during soccer practice--while he's entirely oblivious to that fact. I'm completely heartbroken when Austin cries because he doesn't have any friends--he used to, but they don't want to play with him anymore (because he does things that are annoying to the people around him). I'm so sad when I hear him plead with me to not have to go to school ... especially when I know that he loved school and his teacher last year.

I'm tired from all of this. I'm worn out. I'm exhausted. But more than any of that, I'm just sad. Sad that my son feels so isolated and alone. Sad that my little boy--who can be the sweetest and most dear little boy--has had his spirit crushed by his teacher this year, for behaviors that seem to be honestly out of his control. Sad that I can't fix this for him ... or seem to show him how to fix it himself.

So many of my days are a roller coaster of emotions. I'm frustrated with him, annoyed by his out-of-control behavior, challenged to stay patient and calm, angered by what seems to be his defiance of what I tell him to do. I'm also enamored by his loving heart, amazed at his creative thinking, intrigued by his view and perspectives on everyday events, amused by his sense of humor and laugh, touched by his sensitivity, thoughtfulness and caring nature, impressed by his intelligence. Some days--when things have been particularly difficult--after I've tucked him in, I feel absolutely guilty. Guilty for getting frustrated, annoyed, angry. Guilty for not being able to do more to help him. Guilty for not knowing what to do.

I hope I'll get some insight when we meet with this doctor ...

civic duty

Things are not always what they seem. Sometimes in life we find ourselves dealing with situations and events that seem innocent and innocuous enough at the time, but we realize at some point or another that our lives have been changed because of them.

May 2004 I was called for jury duty. I had never been called to serve on a jury before. I was actually excited. (I realize that most people don't get excited for jury duty, but I did.) An opportunity to fill a need in the community. Be a part of the system that seeks justice for all of us. I had no idea what I was getting into ... or how much my life would change because of it.

When I received an 8-page questionnaire in the mail that asked nearly 100 questions, I figured it was all part of the routine of picking a jury. Through the entire voir dire process (when the prospective jurors are asked their opinions regarding a variety of topics), I didn't realize the gravity of the trial at hand. When I was asked about my thoughts on the death penalty and life sentence, I just thought they were making sure they had people who would be objective and follow the guidance of the law--ensuring that they wouldn't be putting loony toons on a jury. When we were told that the trial had a change of venue because there had been too much local publicity regarding the crime and the defendant wasn't likely to get a fair trial, I figured it was because the small area of Cambridge, Ohio had little else to report on ... so they probably just reported the hell out of whatever it was. I had no idea that all of these were indicators of what the trial could possibly be about. I had no idea that my world was about to be rocked--to the core. I had no idea.

During the opening arguments, I quickly got the idea. The defendant, Marvin Johnson, had killed Daniel Bailey--the 13-year-old son of his ex-girlfriend, Tina. Marvin's attorneys conceded that. They didn't believe that he should be charged with aggravated murder, though, because they were going to argue semantics that Marvin didn't kidnap Daniel, as he was charged, because Daniel was already dead when Marvin gagged and hogtied him and dragged him to the basement. They also didn't believe that Marvin should be found guilty of rape and aggravated robbery (the victim of those 2 crimes was Tina). They would argue whether or not Marvin actually held the knife to Tina's throat while he sexually violated her, and the technicality of aggravated robbery because she was able to talk him into leaving the knife at the house while she drove him to the bank to get $1000. (It's not considered aggravated robbery--the more serious charge--without the weapon.)

As is the case with any trial, we were told NOT to discuss this case at all, with anyone--spouses, family, friends or other jurors--or to look for information regarding this in newspapers or on the internet during the trial. We were to hear all testimony and see all evidence before forming an opinion on the matters at hand. For me, that was hellish. I was dealing with the most horrific, violent, disturbing and unsettling event in my life completely alone. I felt isolated and empty. I couldn't share with my own husband or mom what was ripping me apart. I cried myself to sleep most every night of that trial, picturing poor Daniel and what he suffered at the hands of that monster ... and for his poor mother and all she must be riddled with--guilt for bringing that man into her family, for not keeping her child safe, the absolute heartbreak of losing a child, particularly in such a violent way, and for what must have been the most horrible moment of her life when she found her son--gagged, hogtied and bloody--and then tried to revive him herself. I still feel an absolute ache in my core when I think about the trial, and I still cry.

Through all the graphic testimony, photos and evidence presented, I was (and still am) able to close my eyes and picture the crime as if it were happening right in front of me, as if I were standing in the corner watching the entire thing happen.

I always knew that horrible things happened in the world, that there are terrible people who commit heinous crimes against others. Until that trial, all of that happened outside of my sphere of reality. I was aware that it existed, but I never lived it. Then, sitting in a jury box, I did. I sat in a courtroom mere feet from the most evil person I have ever encountered. It was at that point that my sphere of reality was punctured. The horrible, villainous events of that crime and every other felt like they were all happening to me in my world. That trial opened the floodgates of my emotional destruction. When I heard about soldiers who were being captured and beheaded, I felt like they were my sons being brutalized. I couldn't breathe. I mourned for each victim of crime like they were my family. I couldn't watch any form of the news without feeling overcome with sadness and devastation. I was overwhelmed with grief. I felt completely tormented.

It wasn't until months after the trial when most all of us on the jury got together that I realized I was dealing with something of grand proportion and out of my control. Several of us were reeling from our experience of the trial. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Depression. Anxiety. Disconnection from what we used to do and love. Inability to cope with setbacks or problems. About two weeks after our get-together, I went to the doctor and cried my way through the appointment. She prescribed an anti-depressant to help me. It worked. I was on medication for about a year.

I'm "fine" now. I am no longer overwhelmed by all of this, but I do still think about it. I check the inmate status of Marvin Johnson about once a month. I've searched the internet for information regarding his appeals. (I received an email from one of my juror friends yesterday--which is what brought this to the front of my thinking. Her daughter is doing a speech regarding the death penalty and found Marvin's appeal report from the Supreme Court of Ohio on-line.) I still feel sick and empty anytime I drive through Cambridge, Ohio. I will never serve on a jury again.

Deliberating the life of another person is incredibly daunting. Most all of us on the jury cried during the deliberation process. We shared opinions. We asked questions. We listened. We sat quietly and thought. We talked. We held hands and prayed. We hugged each other. We all struggled with the gravity of the situation. But we all agreed--imposing the death penalty is an act of affirming the value of life. When I voted in favor of the death sentence for Marvin Johnson, I was also voting for the life of Daniel Bailey.

Several of us from the jury went to the sentencing hearing in June (2004). We drove together to Cambridge and talked a lot about what an impact the trial had on us and our lives. After the hearing we met and talked with the judge, the bailiffs, the prosecuting attorneys and the lead detective on the case. They were all very grateful for our dedication and service to the community. We met Tina Bailey that day, too. She also thanked us for our service in bringing justice for her son and family. When I hugged her that day, I knew that, indeed, my life had been forever changed.