Bob Loblaw

We had an unscheduled visit Friday from Child Protective Services. The case worker seems nice, probably genuinely wants to help. this was not entirely unexpected. Let’s face it, it they are trying to get a genuine view of the environment in which children (specifically, our grandchildren) are dwelling, some visits need to be unscheduled.

In fact, the case worker did call ahead, I’m sure this was so as not to make a 20-mile drive (one way) to arrive at an empty house. No worries.

Sooo, all seemed to go well. She brought us some papers, no doubt looked around a bit, didn’t find a dungeon with chains (We don’t have one to be found.), munchkins looking healthy. All good things.

She did compliment us (my wife really, I was at work) on our sticking to “the plan.” Well, duh! I know that not everyone does. I’m also aware of the potential that our grandchildren, and possibly even our children that remain with us, could be taken away and “put into the system.” One doesn’t even need to see this to grasp that the danger there is very grave indeed.

In short, good visit, quiet time is rare in our house, Criminal Investigation still underway.

Go, Ducks.

Friday, we had a scheduled visit from our/our Grandchildren’s Child Protective Services Case worker. She seems nice, although i am not deluded to the point of thinking these folks are my friends.

At this point, our grandchildren are under the care of my wife and myself. While no one actually think my daughter hurt her kids, she voluntarily submitted a list of persons that had been alone with the children the week before the visit to ER at Doernbecher. (see entry Dear Lord… and forward.) that included her. So, it seems, that rather than actually investigating the people on the list, the Detective made a brief phone call to at least a few of them, asked directly “Did you shake the baby?” and, after receiving a 100% negative response invited a few of them downtown for a polygraph test. Some accepted, no one has shown up for one, to the best of my knowledge.

Because the Detectives believe they have the right person (but not enough proof for the DA) they seem uninterested in legitimately checking any other leads. they seem to think my daughter’s boyfriend did it, and told her as much, and that she is protecting him. They have “requested” she take a polygraph test as well, and will hold her as a suspect until she passes said polygraph, or until the previously mentioned BF confesses (I suppose.)
Anyway, Child protective Services says they feel the lil’ ones will be safe here. Indeed they are, except for occasionally running with scissors and knives, and the fact that we feed the foods high in carbohydrates and cholesterol. (I made a fritatta with Spam™ and some lovely Medium cheddar. Everything as lovely, I could feel my arteries closing as I cooked it. Served with seasoned oven-roasted red potatoes, topped with margarine and sour cream. Yum-O!)

Sooo, D#1 is now taking some courses at the Community College, and working a 40-hour week. These are good things. And she has promised to help with the expenses for living; rent, food, etc. Meanwhile, we’ll just enjoy these little guys, and eke it out as best we can.

A Sunday night. It was a Sunday a few weeks ago when we got that horrific phone call. (See the entry for July 18th, Dear Lord, …)

In retrospect, we are all doing better than we deserve. We are still under the scrutiny of Children Services Division, and possibly will be for some time, although the Case Worker is anxious to close the case (the Detective is not, but CSD can close the case, & the Detective can keep it open.)

Baby is doing well.  She’s now about 6mo, and starting to get up on her little knees. (did you know they don’t have kneecaps until they’re a couple of years old? Me neither!) The doctors has said she is developing within normal parameter, they’ve determined that there is no need for further eye exams (at least related to this injury.)

Since D#1 and her 2 kids could not continue to live with Suspect#1 (well, *she*could, but she’d have to give up the kids, and she is not going to do that easily), they were instructed to live with us. That makes seven (count ‘em! 7!) persons living in this house.

D#1 got herself a job, working graveyard at the local mega-mart. Since she’s working nights, and supposed to be sleeping days, and I’m working days and supposed to be sleeping nights, she uses the master BR most days. (Whiny portion here.) This can be an inconvenience, since it blocks entry to one of the bathrooms in the house and means that I need to try to nap in the living room. (She still needs a ride to work, and she starts at 11 pm, I am designated driver, Sweet Baboo stays at home with the under-10 group. I start work at 7 am. Getting home at approx. 11:30, in bed by midnight, getting up at 5:30 am, work my 8 in a (currently very warm) warehouse, come home ane start all over again. Oh, yeah, since she sleeps til 10 pm, or so, I can’t get in a shower until after I drop her off at work. UCK!!

(Hopefully, the whiny portion ends here.) So, two of us have jobs. Sweet Baboo (aka “Gramma”) is basically watching the kidlets 24/7. I believe D#1 has most, if not all, her stuff moved our of the house she was in. There is more stuff in a friend’s garage, and that will also need to be moved, but for the most part, she should be spending more time on this side of town.

Let’s see, more positives… D#1 should be getting her first paycheck soon. I think she has it spent about 15-times over, but logic, cold and crewel (SIC), with impress itself upon her spending. She has promised to kick in on the rent, utilities, food, et al. We’ll see.

We have food. We have a house. Are are still on track eliminating our debt. (It’s slowed somewhat, but still progressing.) We are all healthy. We live in a country where it is still legal to get, be, and remain outrage and vocal about our elected officials. We have elected officials. We lost no relatives in 9/11.

We are blessed.

(Not A Dylan tune, I know. So sue me.)

Here I am, after a near 40-hour work week in a rather warm warehouse. I’m tired. I’ve been presented with the task of wrangling Grandson #1. gs#1 is 2. Very much so. He has limited vocabulary. He’s very confident with his use of “No,” “down,” “car,” and “ow.” Less confident with “Please,” “Thank you,” and quotes from Robert Frost and Walt Whitman, much less so Shakespeare, Francis Bacon, and Chaucer … doesn’t know a word from Adam Smith, Karl Marx, Groucho Marx, or J Danforth Quayle.

He is tired, too, but 2-year-old’s seem habitually in denial about naps. those of us in the 50-something range have a greater tendency to like naps. He’s frustrated, and has just stopped saying “ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow” for a little while. He’s also stopped jabbing me in the ribs, kicking me in the privates, and only occationally trying to throw himself backwards over the arm of the chair.

We both need naps. I need several naps. I need a shower, for humanitarian reasons, the greater good.

So, I’ve decided to blog, listen to Pandora (which, from my eclectic musical preferences seems to have settled on a ragtime/jazz piano set with some George Jones, Freddy Fender, Vince Gill, and Ladysmith Black Mambazo thrown in, and is now playing Somebody Stole My Gal by Errol Garner, and now Harry Connick Jr.  I wonder when it’ll switch styles again.) And ignore all pleas for “Down.”

Well, Grandma has taken pity on his little whinny hide, and rescued him from the awful fate of being forced to sit still and listen to Grandpa’s music. She’s also recommended I take that shower. “Recommended” means she all but swore out a warrant for my arrest if I don’t comply. Well, when she’s right, she’s right. Gottago.