"Isaac, let's come up with some creative words." I shift in my seat next to him on the bench at the kitchen table, while Isaac forcefully lays his head on the table. Working on writing and using adjectives is a challenge.
It has taken a good hour to get homework into a rhythm, and things have started slide off tempo.
Then again, Isaac always has marched to the beat of his own drum.
"This is too hard." He says. In my mind, I have to agree. Lately, Isaac's focus and body control has been a struggle more than ever before. I know he is growing: Physically, he is blowing by the hand-me-downs I had saved from when Ethan was his age. I know that amazing brain of his is struggling to keep up.
How do I explain...
Have you ever tried singing along to a song that had an awkward cadence? Those songs that have time signatures that seem to be so complex, you struggle enjoy them because you can't grasp their meter? Those songs where you start singing along and right when you feel you have the beat, it shifts. You're left humming something unfamiliar.
This can be life with Autism.
"Let's come up with those creative words, okay?" I help Isaac bring his focus back to his homework assignment.
Eventually, we finished. His paper was full of words like "fluffy," "giant", "soft", "stinky," and "interesting." When we were putting his paper in his homework folder, he asked, "Mom, so what does interesting mean?" "Well...it means...exciting. It gets your attention and keeps you focused."
Isaac nodded. "Like my cars?" His eyes flitted to the bin of Hot Wheels that he keeps in the kitchen.
"Yes, like those." Before I could finish, he was making race car noises and running to the bin.
I don't write music, and I barely read it. I don't know much about epic symphonies or movements, but I do live with one.
Isaac has never been intrigued with slow songs. He doesn't have a tempo
for slow. He is either full speed or complete stop, and working with
him on how to self-regulate so he can find a happy medium has been the
hardest thing I have ever done. And it has gotten harder.
Sitting in a small office at Isaac's school yesterday, I listened as his teachers and advocates discussed Isaac's life, personality, his skills, and his distractions. I added my concerns and my requests. Our yearly IEP session was one that reminded me both of how much progress Isaac has made, but also how much work he will need to accomplish. I am always filled with hope and dread, one never overtaking the other as boxes are checked, goals are enumerated, and testing requirements are named. I think every parent with a child on the spectrum gets that feeling.
Being high-functioning means Isaac can fit in, yet, if I am being honest, he won't truly. In a world of smooth cadence and expected rhythms, he will always have a unique time signature. Unique is interesting...but it isn't easy.
He is the most complex, beautiful song I have ever tried to sing along to. Even if I don't know the words...
I will continue to hum along. Even when the beat drops and I can't keep up, I hum along. Even if the drummer can't find the rhythm, I hum along. Quietly, reassuringly, humming: Patiently, until we pick up the cadence again.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
Saturday, February 6, 2016
breathing into paper bags
Well, hello. It has been awhile.
You know the adage, "no news is good news?" It does apply in this situation. Mostly.
The past few months have been quite adventurous for our little family. Instead of gifts for Christmas, we took an idyllic winter trip, just the 4 of us, to Cancun in December. This vacation was just like pressing the reset button on life. I highly recommend this. (Although, when we booked the trip, the boys were going to miss a week of school since we opted to go prior to the high season of travel...after I breathed into a paper bag for a couple of hours, talked to myself in a corner while rocking back and forth about the make up work, I got over it--and I am so glad I did!)
We did some amazing things as a family. We all snorkeled for the first time; swam with dolphins; Isaac even ate shrimp. SHRIMP, people. He ATE THEM. We rode Mexican buses, fed sea turtles, sat on the roof and looked for meteors. It was a trip that will forever be embedded in our memories, and will produce topics of conversation around the dinner table when we have grandbabies. I would say that's a gift that keeps giving.
Isaac also celebrated his 9th birthday, to which I also breathed into a paper bag for a couple of hours, talked to myself in a corner while rocking back and forth pondering how my baby is 9. After getting some LEGO sets and completing them in record time, Isaac announced, "this is my favorite birthday." He is entitled to this opinion, since his birthday falls around the holidays, he gets, oh, about 4 birthdays over a two week period. He took cupcakes in to his class to celebrate in January, so just think about that for a second. Whoever said having a birthday the week of Christmas wasn't useful didn't have a clue.
We also had our share of trials, because, let's remember, this is life and we are human.
Ethan had the flu which developed into a terrible case of pneumonia. His first experience with an IV, a trip in an ambulance, and an overnight stay at the hospital was, for the most part, pleasant. No one likes to see their children ill, and as a mom, it strikes a chord in your heart of hearts to not be able to put a Band-Aid on and kiss it to make it better. I have to say, though, I had my handy-dandy paper bag to breathe into and a corner to rock in, so I was just fine.
Two days before Ethan went to the hospital, we gutted our upstairs bathroom. Then, in my wisdom, I thought I might as well finish Isaac's bedroom that I had wanted to do for months, because this is what you do when you binge watch HGTV with your sick kid who has been home for a week. My husband and I are a great team, and when we start a project, we are usually good about completing it in a timely manner. But, setbacks happen...life happens. Frustrations set in. Now, things are a little chaotic and disheveled. To top it off, my dear friend texted me to say that her little boy broke his leg and would be needing help. I wanted to be available, and struggled with feeling guilty about not having time. Paper bag, anyone?
Breathing is living. When we aren't breathing correctly, we can't catch our breath. We breathe into ridiculous paper bags that do nothing but rob us of oxygen--of life--and we get dizzy and lose focus.
The story of Job makes me cringe but it is in the Word of God for a reason. Job 33:4 says "The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty has given me life." Here is a man who suffered as no one could imagine. His friends had nothing but empty things to say, and he himself found himself in a corner with a paper bag, trying to breathe the breath of man, and not of God.
We were not made by ourselves. We cannot sustain ourselves. Breathing into paper bags is useless. There is no magical inward source of life that we can tap into apart from God. We are renewed and regenerated by the work of the Holy Spirit in us, and that's not according to what we do alone.
The past few months have been a time for me to re-examine where my strength and source of life is found. It isn't found in doing things for others (although this is wonderful). It isn't found in having perfection (which is a daily struggle for me). It isn't found in control (because, why is this even a word?) My life comes from the Almighty. He made me, and He alone sustains me.
I pray the same goes for you.
Breathe in His truth, breathe out His grace. Repeat.
Live.
You know the adage, "no news is good news?" It does apply in this situation. Mostly.
The past few months have been quite adventurous for our little family. Instead of gifts for Christmas, we took an idyllic winter trip, just the 4 of us, to Cancun in December. This vacation was just like pressing the reset button on life. I highly recommend this. (Although, when we booked the trip, the boys were going to miss a week of school since we opted to go prior to the high season of travel...after I breathed into a paper bag for a couple of hours, talked to myself in a corner while rocking back and forth about the make up work, I got over it--and I am so glad I did!)
We did some amazing things as a family. We all snorkeled for the first time; swam with dolphins; Isaac even ate shrimp. SHRIMP, people. He ATE THEM. We rode Mexican buses, fed sea turtles, sat on the roof and looked for meteors. It was a trip that will forever be embedded in our memories, and will produce topics of conversation around the dinner table when we have grandbabies. I would say that's a gift that keeps giving.
Isaac also celebrated his 9th birthday, to which I also breathed into a paper bag for a couple of hours, talked to myself in a corner while rocking back and forth pondering how my baby is 9. After getting some LEGO sets and completing them in record time, Isaac announced, "this is my favorite birthday." He is entitled to this opinion, since his birthday falls around the holidays, he gets, oh, about 4 birthdays over a two week period. He took cupcakes in to his class to celebrate in January, so just think about that for a second. Whoever said having a birthday the week of Christmas wasn't useful didn't have a clue.
We also had our share of trials, because, let's remember, this is life and we are human.
Ethan had the flu which developed into a terrible case of pneumonia. His first experience with an IV, a trip in an ambulance, and an overnight stay at the hospital was, for the most part, pleasant. No one likes to see their children ill, and as a mom, it strikes a chord in your heart of hearts to not be able to put a Band-Aid on and kiss it to make it better. I have to say, though, I had my handy-dandy paper bag to breathe into and a corner to rock in, so I was just fine.
Two days before Ethan went to the hospital, we gutted our upstairs bathroom. Then, in my wisdom, I thought I might as well finish Isaac's bedroom that I had wanted to do for months, because this is what you do when you binge watch HGTV with your sick kid who has been home for a week. My husband and I are a great team, and when we start a project, we are usually good about completing it in a timely manner. But, setbacks happen...life happens. Frustrations set in. Now, things are a little chaotic and disheveled. To top it off, my dear friend texted me to say that her little boy broke his leg and would be needing help. I wanted to be available, and struggled with feeling guilty about not having time. Paper bag, anyone?
Breathing is living. When we aren't breathing correctly, we can't catch our breath. We breathe into ridiculous paper bags that do nothing but rob us of oxygen--of life--and we get dizzy and lose focus.
The story of Job makes me cringe but it is in the Word of God for a reason. Job 33:4 says "The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty has given me life." Here is a man who suffered as no one could imagine. His friends had nothing but empty things to say, and he himself found himself in a corner with a paper bag, trying to breathe the breath of man, and not of God.
We were not made by ourselves. We cannot sustain ourselves. Breathing into paper bags is useless. There is no magical inward source of life that we can tap into apart from God. We are renewed and regenerated by the work of the Holy Spirit in us, and that's not according to what we do alone.
The past few months have been a time for me to re-examine where my strength and source of life is found. It isn't found in doing things for others (although this is wonderful). It isn't found in having perfection (which is a daily struggle for me). It isn't found in control (because, why is this even a word?) My life comes from the Almighty. He made me, and He alone sustains me.
I pray the same goes for you.
Breathe in His truth, breathe out His grace. Repeat.
Live.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
icebergs and other snags
We are in a new phase of infatuation here in the Hladky house. It is mostly Isaac's infatuation, but, when he is all about something, we ALL experience the gusto. Most of the time, I don't mind. It's fun to learn about things that aren't necessarily on your radar of fun. I have come to find ultimately, as a mom, I have no choice. If you can't beat em', join em'.
Isaac's love of all things transportation has gone from a summer of steam locomotives and Amtrak to the sea. We are all about ships here, and one in particular: The Titanic.
It was fun at first. I love history, and so when Isaac expressed an interest in knowing more about the RMS Titanic, we did our research: One of the White Star Line steam ships, built in 1909, launched 1911, and sailed its one and only voyage April of 1912. On the 14th, at 11:40 pm, the ship hit an iceberg and sank 2 hours and 40 minutes later.
Of course, Isaac wanted to know more. How did the people die? How many people died? What did the ship look like? How many tons was it? Can we see what it looks like at the bottom of the ocean?
The journey for information continued. I allowed him to watch a few videos on the rise and fall of the Titanic. He began quoting random numbers and statistics I couldn't verify. "Where did you hear that?" I would ask. "Trust me, Mom," he would answer. He would bring home sketches and drawings of the Titanic. He would reenact scenes and a play-by-play of the ship's sinking by filling up bowls of ice water (it had to be filled with ice because, well, icebergs) and using pencils as the ship because it would have to break in half--one half sinking and the other floating until it too went under. We have no more unbroken pencils in the house. (Oh, we need those to do homework?)
He has made me watch numerous Titanic videos on YouTube Kids--some of actual model ships, built by men from Germany with WAY too much time on their hands--only to be sunk with Go-Pro cameras attached to their hulls so my son can see first hand what that would look like. Isaac's eyes would get big and he would jump up and down "Mom!" I put a hand up and closed my eyes. "Nope. We are NOT building a model ship and sinking it." He used LEGOs instead.
Speaking of LEGOs, we have watched videos of stop-action animation using LEGOs to create a true-to-movie reenactment of the James Cameron film. I'm not kidding. There are videos out there, folks. We have watched the actual sinking sequence from the movie, Titanic. Until you judge me as a parent for allowing my child to watch such a horrible scene of lives perishing, please know, we also watched it IN REVERSE, so Isaac could see the ship being put back together, and the people surviving. Thanks, YouTube.
I thought this would somewhat pass. I had hoped that feeding the information monster would quench the hunger...but it just seems to be taking over. It's all he talks about; all he wants to discuss and play. I have had to tell him, "Isaac, I don't want to hear about the Titanic right now, okay?"
I knew it had gone too far when Isaac was making his bed this morning. I was pouring myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen when I heard him humming "Nearer My God to Thee." (For those of you who don't know the song's relevance to the Titanic--Google it, and you'll know.)
As I stood, leaning against the kitchen counter with my coffee, I tried to think of what I could do to get his mind off of the Titanic because frankly, I was sick of hearing about it all. Then...I thought...how many times have I gotten stuck on something that I haven't been able to shake or stop thinking about? How many moments have I rammed into an iceberg of thoughts that have steered me off course of what I should have been thinking? I'm sure God didn't tire of hearing me hum "Nearer My God to Thee" when I just couldn't see a way out...
They're a common infatuation, sinking ships...
Isaac's Titanic is familiar to me, because I have similar infatuations. I can get caught up with worry, or doubt. I can get fearful of the unknown. I can look in the mirror and get stuck on how I don't measure up--how my child doesn't measure up--to the expectations surrounding me. I play "video" in my head of how I know things are, yet I force myself to watch it IN REVERSE to see where I made the mistake and went wrong.
Being passionate about something is very different than an infatuation. Isaac is passionate about ships and facts and events, and his imagination is drawn to create. His passion is a part of the bigger picture of how he thinks and sees and interprets. He can have time to imagine and create, but we can put a limit on that time and allow him to transition to something else for awhile--have balance. I can help him to continue to be passionate about his perspective, but not allow it to be all-consuming or detrimental to his social behavior or well-being.
The same can be said for myself. I need to guard my heart and mind from infatuation--but encourage it in passion. Just like Isaac loves facts and statistics, I need to love what is real and true. I need to be careful that I don't allow feelings to overshadow what is really taking place, or who I am created to be--or who Isaac is created to be.
I bought a new box of pencils yesterday. I am sure they will be encountering icebergs later this afternoon when Isaac gets home...but we won't be sinking anytime soon.
 |
| One of the many drawings of RMS Titanic Isaac has made--this one is framed in his room I think he did a great job! |
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
clouds and stars
Summer is winding down. I am in denial. Still, I can't ignore the familiar pleasant feelings of late August: the evening breeze that turns heavy and cool, with islands of white masses moving swifter than usual through a darkening blue sky.
Isaac and I stood outside in the driveway last night watching the clouds open and close like stage curtains. Every now and again we would see flashes of bright stars, and then the "curtains" would close and we would patiently wait.
I looked at Isaac as he stared at the sky. In a moment's time I replayed his growth in time-lapse through my mind's eye: a newborn, full of potential, the future broad and gleaming...a toddler, hitting every milestone, a joy...2 1/2, throwing all into reverse and feeling like starting over, only with questions unanswerable, fears mounting, language crumbling, inside ourselves and beside ourselves...preschool, with hope again--with tenacity, with grace, with tireless focus on goals as a team...grade school, progress that has no words to describe, and set-backs that seemed to crack the foundations of what we have done thus far...repairing cracks and building, stronger. I flashed back to the driveway, coming to with a tug on my arm from the 8 year old boy going into 3rd grade beside me, jumping up and down.
I pulled him close to me and he smiled with his tight-lipped smile that has replaced his broad toothy grin. I noticed how tall he had grown in the past couple of months, and for a split second, I saw into the future...
A young man, much taller than his Momma, with azure baby blues that bounced when he talked: busy hands shifting in his pockets, feet shuffling back and forth as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. His clothes match and are correct for the season, thank God. He smiles that tight-lipped smile, only with a face that no longer has the look of a little boy. He hugs me and my head rests against his chest. He loves the smell of coffee, but doesn't drink any with me. He chooses Root Beer. We have a conversation on a topic of his choosing, and I listen and watch in amazement...like I am watching the skies open to reveal a stage of shining stars, and the most brilliant one is telling me one of his many adventures.
"Mom, can we let the balloon go now?" I snap back to the present. Earlier that day, Isaac and I had taken a "date" for frozen yogurt and then stopped at the Dollar Store for a couple of last minute back to school items. I had let him buy a plastic Orca Whale for the bathtub, and a yellow smiley faced balloon. "Are you sure you want to let your balloon go, Boo?" I made sure to ask because often, I need to remind Isaac of the next step in his decision. "Once you let it go, it's not coming back, remember..." Isaac looked at me in the dim light of the evening, and with a serious face and non-chalant voice he said, "I know, Mom."
The wind had picked up, and deeper, darker clouds were flying in overhead. I waited for Isaac to let the balloon go. This was unusual for him. He didn't like to let things go. Broken toys, even deflated balloons that had sat, undisturbed in the playroom for weeks and had sadly shriveled up weren't to be thrown away.
I joined Isaac in a dramatic countdown: "10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!" Without hesitation, he launched the balloon into the navy sky. We watched it elevate until it was a black speck in the distance. We talked about how it might travel over the ocean, or hopefully, to another state. Then, as the balloon was almost invisible Isaac sighed and said, "Have fun on your journey, balloon. Your eyes were creepy anyway."
I laughed outloud, and Isaac turned to me with a serious face, "It's true, Mom, I didn't tell you, but that smiley face made me nervous. I only bought it because you liked it so much, and well, because the string got tangled around my Orca's tail in the store."
I admire my son's ability to hold onto the things that matter--to be cherished and enjoyed. I also admire his truth, to a fault, because I saw that evening in our driveway, that he can love outside of himself. He can give and take without being caught up in selfishness. He also is very, very good at wanting to please others, but still knowing when to draw the line in what makes him uncomfortable. Isaac has a gift for being authentic.
We had a great day. But as the clouds rolled in for the final curtain-call of the night sky, Isaac and I raced to the back door, giggling.
Clouds or stars; the stage of life is full.
[End Scene.]
Isaac and I stood outside in the driveway last night watching the clouds open and close like stage curtains. Every now and again we would see flashes of bright stars, and then the "curtains" would close and we would patiently wait.
I looked at Isaac as he stared at the sky. In a moment's time I replayed his growth in time-lapse through my mind's eye: a newborn, full of potential, the future broad and gleaming...a toddler, hitting every milestone, a joy...2 1/2, throwing all into reverse and feeling like starting over, only with questions unanswerable, fears mounting, language crumbling, inside ourselves and beside ourselves...preschool, with hope again--with tenacity, with grace, with tireless focus on goals as a team...grade school, progress that has no words to describe, and set-backs that seemed to crack the foundations of what we have done thus far...repairing cracks and building, stronger. I flashed back to the driveway, coming to with a tug on my arm from the 8 year old boy going into 3rd grade beside me, jumping up and down.
I pulled him close to me and he smiled with his tight-lipped smile that has replaced his broad toothy grin. I noticed how tall he had grown in the past couple of months, and for a split second, I saw into the future...
A young man, much taller than his Momma, with azure baby blues that bounced when he talked: busy hands shifting in his pockets, feet shuffling back and forth as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. His clothes match and are correct for the season, thank God. He smiles that tight-lipped smile, only with a face that no longer has the look of a little boy. He hugs me and my head rests against his chest. He loves the smell of coffee, but doesn't drink any with me. He chooses Root Beer. We have a conversation on a topic of his choosing, and I listen and watch in amazement...like I am watching the skies open to reveal a stage of shining stars, and the most brilliant one is telling me one of his many adventures.
"Mom, can we let the balloon go now?" I snap back to the present. Earlier that day, Isaac and I had taken a "date" for frozen yogurt and then stopped at the Dollar Store for a couple of last minute back to school items. I had let him buy a plastic Orca Whale for the bathtub, and a yellow smiley faced balloon. "Are you sure you want to let your balloon go, Boo?" I made sure to ask because often, I need to remind Isaac of the next step in his decision. "Once you let it go, it's not coming back, remember..." Isaac looked at me in the dim light of the evening, and with a serious face and non-chalant voice he said, "I know, Mom."
The wind had picked up, and deeper, darker clouds were flying in overhead. I waited for Isaac to let the balloon go. This was unusual for him. He didn't like to let things go. Broken toys, even deflated balloons that had sat, undisturbed in the playroom for weeks and had sadly shriveled up weren't to be thrown away.
I joined Isaac in a dramatic countdown: "10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!" Without hesitation, he launched the balloon into the navy sky. We watched it elevate until it was a black speck in the distance. We talked about how it might travel over the ocean, or hopefully, to another state. Then, as the balloon was almost invisible Isaac sighed and said, "Have fun on your journey, balloon. Your eyes were creepy anyway."
I laughed outloud, and Isaac turned to me with a serious face, "It's true, Mom, I didn't tell you, but that smiley face made me nervous. I only bought it because you liked it so much, and well, because the string got tangled around my Orca's tail in the store."
I admire my son's ability to hold onto the things that matter--to be cherished and enjoyed. I also admire his truth, to a fault, because I saw that evening in our driveway, that he can love outside of himself. He can give and take without being caught up in selfishness. He also is very, very good at wanting to please others, but still knowing when to draw the line in what makes him uncomfortable. Isaac has a gift for being authentic.
We had a great day. But as the clouds rolled in for the final curtain-call of the night sky, Isaac and I raced to the back door, giggling.
Clouds or stars; the stage of life is full.
[End Scene.]
Thursday, June 25, 2015
finding my marbles
"So...do you guys want to go see a movie today?"
"YES."
For the first time since summer vacation started, I found myself out of ideas. The weather has been wetter and chillier than summers before, and there are only so many hours one can force kids to play video games. (Yes, insert thick sarcasm). The boys were more than happy to spend an afternoon in a movie theater, and I was happy to save a dollar a ticket because it was a Discount Tuesday (love when that happens).
We all had wanted to see the latest Pixar film, Inside Out, so I roped my sister-in-law in along with my niece and nephew, and we settled in with popcorn.
I cried. Hard.
*Spoiler Alert*
It wasn't just that the story revolved around a young girl dealing with change who happened to be the same age as Ethan (can we say pre-teen?). It wasn't just that the characterization of the emotions working inside the little girl's head gave me perspective as to how Isaac processes moments--sometimes, at a much slower rate and with more of the emotions "arguing" over who gets to call the next response.
It was Joy and Sadness.
The journey of Joy and Sadness was the best part of the movie, and here's why.
As an adult, especially with a child on the spectrum...a child who dislikes crying and change...this journey was a valuable teaching tool. A brilliant one.
If you haven't seen the movie, you'll want to skip this next part...but even if you haven't seen it, and read on, you won't be sorry. See the movie anyway. And take tissues.
Close to the end of the movie, when Joy and Sadness have managed to find their way back to the main control center of the little girl's mind, I watched Isaac out of the corner of my eye. He had been on the edge of his seat the entire movie, even repeating phrases out loud during the film (remember the sensory processing I brought up earlier--he needs to repeat sometimes to "get it.") I watched as he stared, fixed to the giant screen, the light of the movie flickering on his slightly sunburned face from the water park the day before.
This is where Sadness became the hero, and Joy had to take a backseat to running the show.
As a melancholy and an introvert, I'm okay with sadness. I have learned through life's experiences that "...weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." (Psalm 30:5) There is something so cleansing and refreshing when I can have a good cry. But as a child, one who dislikes tears and sadness in himself and in others, this was a lesson that allowed him to see sadness as a partner with joy, rather than an enemy.
Isaac watched as the little girl succumbed to the sadness of her situation; her memories, her parents, her not-so-great choices. I watched as Isaac took his zipper hoodie and put it over his head. I gently nudged him and whispered, trying not to let him hear the crack in my voice from tears, "Do you want to sit on my lap?" He nodded, looking like a blob under his sweatshirt.
I carefully peeled the sweatshirt from his face, and he turned to me. I couldn't hide the tears in my own eyes, and he looked at me, startled. He didn't speak, but turned to watch the rest of the scene.
The little girl was hugged close by her parents. She nestled into her daddy's chest, and let the tears fall. She stopped pretending everything was okay. And then, inside her head, the emotion of Sadness actually looked happy; relieved, almost...and called Joy over to her side at the control panel. "It's your turn now," she said, and graciously gave over control to Joy. Then, as Joy, surprised and bewildered, took control, we watched the little girl, still in her father's arms, smile with tears on her cheeks.
Isaac looked at me. I smiled with tears on my cheeks.
After the movie, we talked about memories and marbles (each memory the little girl has are portrayed as "marbles" that are filed away in a large library of sorts...each a different color for different emotions experienced at that time--sadness is blue, joy is yellow, etc.). We talked about emotions. Isaac told me has all of those emotions in his head, but "at least a couple more too." And "lots, lots, LOTS, more marbles."
Most importantly, we talked about how sadness is essential to knowing the true value of joy. We will never completely understand joy (contentment, happiness, fulfillment in any circumstance) if we don't realize that we are hurt and broken and in need of hope. Sadness can lead to joy. They can ebb and flow into one another. Our choices determine our emotions, and we alone can put Joy in charge of our thoughts and our actions.
I watch Isaac from across the room now. He catches me looking at him. He smiles a goofy smile and I say to him, "Did you just make a marble?" He laughs. "Yep. A yellow one."
Keep making marbles, and even if they're blue, they'll someday, with hope...lead to joy.
"YES."
For the first time since summer vacation started, I found myself out of ideas. The weather has been wetter and chillier than summers before, and there are only so many hours one can force kids to play video games. (Yes, insert thick sarcasm). The boys were more than happy to spend an afternoon in a movie theater, and I was happy to save a dollar a ticket because it was a Discount Tuesday (love when that happens).
We all had wanted to see the latest Pixar film, Inside Out, so I roped my sister-in-law in along with my niece and nephew, and we settled in with popcorn.
I cried. Hard.
*Spoiler Alert*
It wasn't just that the story revolved around a young girl dealing with change who happened to be the same age as Ethan (can we say pre-teen?). It wasn't just that the characterization of the emotions working inside the little girl's head gave me perspective as to how Isaac processes moments--sometimes, at a much slower rate and with more of the emotions "arguing" over who gets to call the next response.
It was Joy and Sadness.
The journey of Joy and Sadness was the best part of the movie, and here's why.
As an adult, especially with a child on the spectrum...a child who dislikes crying and change...this journey was a valuable teaching tool. A brilliant one.
If you haven't seen the movie, you'll want to skip this next part...but even if you haven't seen it, and read on, you won't be sorry. See the movie anyway. And take tissues.
Close to the end of the movie, when Joy and Sadness have managed to find their way back to the main control center of the little girl's mind, I watched Isaac out of the corner of my eye. He had been on the edge of his seat the entire movie, even repeating phrases out loud during the film (remember the sensory processing I brought up earlier--he needs to repeat sometimes to "get it.") I watched as he stared, fixed to the giant screen, the light of the movie flickering on his slightly sunburned face from the water park the day before.
This is where Sadness became the hero, and Joy had to take a backseat to running the show.
As a melancholy and an introvert, I'm okay with sadness. I have learned through life's experiences that "...weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." (Psalm 30:5) There is something so cleansing and refreshing when I can have a good cry. But as a child, one who dislikes tears and sadness in himself and in others, this was a lesson that allowed him to see sadness as a partner with joy, rather than an enemy.
Isaac watched as the little girl succumbed to the sadness of her situation; her memories, her parents, her not-so-great choices. I watched as Isaac took his zipper hoodie and put it over his head. I gently nudged him and whispered, trying not to let him hear the crack in my voice from tears, "Do you want to sit on my lap?" He nodded, looking like a blob under his sweatshirt.
I carefully peeled the sweatshirt from his face, and he turned to me. I couldn't hide the tears in my own eyes, and he looked at me, startled. He didn't speak, but turned to watch the rest of the scene.
The little girl was hugged close by her parents. She nestled into her daddy's chest, and let the tears fall. She stopped pretending everything was okay. And then, inside her head, the emotion of Sadness actually looked happy; relieved, almost...and called Joy over to her side at the control panel. "It's your turn now," she said, and graciously gave over control to Joy. Then, as Joy, surprised and bewildered, took control, we watched the little girl, still in her father's arms, smile with tears on her cheeks.
Isaac looked at me. I smiled with tears on my cheeks.
After the movie, we talked about memories and marbles (each memory the little girl has are portrayed as "marbles" that are filed away in a large library of sorts...each a different color for different emotions experienced at that time--sadness is blue, joy is yellow, etc.). We talked about emotions. Isaac told me has all of those emotions in his head, but "at least a couple more too." And "lots, lots, LOTS, more marbles."
Most importantly, we talked about how sadness is essential to knowing the true value of joy. We will never completely understand joy (contentment, happiness, fulfillment in any circumstance) if we don't realize that we are hurt and broken and in need of hope. Sadness can lead to joy. They can ebb and flow into one another. Our choices determine our emotions, and we alone can put Joy in charge of our thoughts and our actions.
I watch Isaac from across the room now. He catches me looking at him. He smiles a goofy smile and I say to him, "Did you just make a marble?" He laughs. "Yep. A yellow one."
Keep making marbles, and even if they're blue, they'll someday, with hope...lead to joy.
Friday, April 10, 2015
flashlight
There is something to be said for hope.
My heart was filled this morning when a friend came over with her little ones to visit. I can't explain how we are able to pick up where we left off, connect as if we had seen one another just yesterday. She brought donuts, I supplied the coffee. Our boys began to play. We hugged, laughed, and then the heavy, tactical talk about our children commenced. There, cross-legged on my living room rug, were questions and fears that came up as we talked about developmental delays. I was brought back to the emotions I had experienced when Isaac was around the 2 1/2 year old stage--or, the stage I personally refer to as "the dark time."
We all have those segments of time in our hearts that, after time has passed, we can look back without panic or resentment or fear. For me, it was when Isaac was a toddler. It's hard for me to go back there. In those days, I had gone through a sort of solitary confinement of the soul: A time where tunnel vision seemed to be the only way I could see (and that was only a foot ahead of me)...a time where numbness to every other meaningless struggles of my days paled in comparison to the looming challenge of finding the answer to where did my child disappear to? What happened to the babbling, giggly baby boy who called me "mama" and looked me in the eye? How do I have conversations with people...how do I explain why my son just isn't like everyone else? How do I find him? How do I find myself? So many questions hovered like a swarm of bees that followed my mind every second of the day.
In the moment when darkness looms, and we find ourselves in the space of the unknown, we are mortified. We lose track of when and where we are as we try and focus to see something...we grip tightly to our identity as a parent--a good one--and then everything we thought we knew how to do, we have to let go of. The ideals we thought made us the right one for this mom-job turn into failure in our arms. Sadness. Loss. Regret. Fear. Anxiety. Desperation.
I remember the day when I embraced hope after dropping all of those mom expectations. It came as I was driving in my van. Isaac had just started his time at preschool, and I had a few moments to myself. I was listening to a radio program, and it was about the biblical story of Abraham and Isaac. I felt like the minister speaking should have said my name, because it was just for me. He said: "God couldn't do the work He had intended, or proved to Abraham his covenant of promise to provide until He was able to give Isaac willingly back to His care--His love." All of my emotions broke free from my body like the Hoover Dam exploding. I had to pull over into a Target parking lot and cry and scream and shake. I needed to rededicate Isaac to God's care, and allow HIM to direct the steps and literally, be the light that would get me out of the fear. If Abraham could do it with his Isaac, who was I not to try with mine?
Hope was the flashlight in that darkness. It was, and is, a strong and confident expectation of something that I believe is and will be...something that can't always be seen or touched, but can be reached. Hope is what fuels us for each new day. I don't place my hope in my own abilities. I place my hope in the knowledge that there is a hope and a future for my son. I shine the truth on the doubts and watch them slowly dissipate. I have seen how God has worked all things together for Isaac's good, and I believe while resting in that truth. I am who God has made me, and Isaac is who God has made him--we grow from there. Together.
I get weary. I get scared. But I have hope. I get confused. I get angry. But I have hope.
I know Isaac does too.
“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.”
― Shel Silverstein
― Shel Silverstein
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
waves of mercy
It has been a challenging month, to say the least.
Parenting comes in waves. One moment, you're paddling out, feeling confident with the sun on your face and back. Then, you crest the top of a massive swell, and feeling strong and proud in your "I've got this" attitude, you ride it...until it crashes on top of you reminding you that you are still at the mercy of the elements of life. You don't make the waves, but you certainly have to navigate them.
Navigating these past 4 weeks has been a series of attempts and fails, until last Tuesday.
There is really no way to sugar-coat the fact that my son has been habitually stealing. He has been taking things that don't belong to him: Small toy cars from play time, coins off of friend's desks at school, even his friend Rylee's headphones that she needs during the lessons in the classroom--somehow those ended up in his backpack, according to his testimonial to Sister Sharon. "Look what I have in here!" Isaac said to his teachers a couple of weeks ago. "How did THESE get in MY bag?" he said with an exaggerated expression. "Hmmm, how DID those get there?" Sister Sharon responded with equal overemphasis.
There is an element of compulsiveness that I believe contributes to this behavior with Isaac, and some of that can be contributed to his inability to stop and think before reacting. Still, I don't believe this is an excuse for behavior that I know he can work through. When driving home from school after the 3rd report of his pilfering from desks, I was so disheartened that I pulled the van over in a bank parking lot and snapped. "Isaac. Please tell me why you are taking things that aren't yours? I seriously need to know how to help you, and I am confused and hurt." He looked at me, blank faced and matter-of-factly said, "Because I see it and I want it." I sighed and looked away. As a parent, I was completely clueless. Was I not doing something? Was I doing too much? Not enough? The thoughts raced around in my head, and Isaac interrupted my pity party with "Holy MOLEY! Mom, did you see that Corvette that went by!?" How could we deal with the compulsive decision making without having a foamy wave of disconnect crash on us every opportunity? I was trying to force a teachable moment, and it just wasn't happening.
I would drop Isaac off at school every morning, asking him the usual questions: "Are we going to make good choices today?" "Yep!" would be the enthusiastic response from the back seat. "Are we going to ask before we take things that aren't ours?" "Yep!" More yeps and smiles and thumbs up. Then, when the end of the day came, Isaac would be escorted to the van in the carpool line and my heart would drop as I saw his head hang down and his feet drag. "Mom, you're not going to be happy with me AT ALL today." I again would brace myself for impact. Another crashing wave on my psyche--another notch in my parenting fail belt.
Dan and I rallied to impress on Isaac the severity of his actions. We pulled out the big guns: long talks (making Isaac sit still is punishment enough), grounding from the I-Pad and the TV, even a spanking from Daddy on the 3rd offense. There is nothing more heartbreaking as a parent than having to spank, because I believe it allows you to suffer with your child, and to remind them that we feel the pain too. (And yes, we DO believe in spanking--just not in every situation or for every child at every age and NEVER in anger.)
Then, just two days after that episode, thinking we had made a point, I was sitting in the carpool line. It was one of the first mildly spring-like Tuesdays and I was basking in the warmth with the sunroof open, sunglasses on. I saw Isaac's reading group teacher, Mr. Ratkovsky, helping some other students to their vehicles. I have had the privilege of knowing Nathan since Isaac was interviewed at JB the summer before Kindergarten. He is a wonderful teacher, and Isaac looks up to him and has learned a tremendous amount from having him as a reading teacher for two years. I smiled and said, "Hey! How are you doing?" He paused and I said, "Everything ok?" He walked closer to my open driver's side window and lowered his voice. "Well, Isaac took my cell phone today from the table in reading groups. I found it only after I had tried calling it and heard it vibrating in his desk. So...yeah..." I had no words, except, "I am so sorry." Enter the tidal wave.
I had reached rock-bottom of emotions. I had been through them all. And I was all out of conversation starters as Isaac tried to tell me about his day, tried to tell me that he was sorry. I was numb to how to listen and how to feel like anything I did to help mattered.
That day, Ethan had Writer's Club after school, so Isaac and I went to Target for our weekly homework date: I would get a coffee and he would get a cake pop from Starbucks. Not only did Isaac look forward to the routine, but I also looked forward to just he and I time.
Isaac didn't chat in his normal non-stop way to fill the heavy silence as I walked slowly, feeling crushed. We got inside and into the line for our usual treats. Neither of us spoke. I had taken Isaac's choices and made them my own. I had allowed his rule-breaking, to in essence, break down the trust I had in him and the trust his friends and teachers were losing in his behavior. How could I show him I loved him despite the choices that had made me so sad and so desperate to understand him?
Mercy.
The word popped into my head and heart just as the barista behind the counter asked "What can I get you?"
I felt like responding "A venti mercy please." But, that was what I was supposed to give, and not get just then.
I ordered quickly, trying to smile. As the girl went to make my drink, I felt a different type of wave wash over me. It wasn't drowning me or suffocating me--it was freeing and weightless. I took a deep breath and kneeled down, right there in the line at the Starbucks counter.
Isaac looked at me, surprised. "Isaac, you know what I'm going to do?" He shook his head slowly, eyes wide and round. "I am going to show you mercy. Do you know what that means?" Again, he shook his head, his blue eyes never leaving my own. "It means I am going to give you a cake pop, even though you have broken the rules and broken mommy and daddy's hearts. I am going to forgive you and start fresh and clean, and you are going to stop taking things that aren't yours because it's hurting those who love you." It was as if time stopped, and it was just he and I, face to face in that Target store. I didn't say another word. I just whispered a prayer in my heart, thanking God for the strength to show the same kind of mercy to my son that Christ has shown me every day of my life--in spite of my pride and selfishness.
The next day at school, I went in to talk with Isaac's teachers about his stealing and about his behavior and grades. "Isaac is doing wonderfully in his academics" his teachers praised. We laughed about some of his comments, and we were encouraged by his desire to please and help. Then, when the topic of the stealing came up, I mentioned how we had tried all forms of correction, and it wasn't until mercy came into the picture that I had sensed some form of understanding on Isaac's part. His teachers were quiet for a minute and then, Sister Sharon smiled, "You know," she said, "that's exactly what he told me this morning. He said, 'My mom showed me mercy and I don't want to take things anymore.'"
Mercy is sweet, like that cake pop Isaac ate silently across from me at the table in Starbucks. It isn't easy to give, and is a result of cultivating a relationship with Jesus that responds to His love for us. It doesn't come out of a selfish desire to get something, but it comes from a desire to put ourselves in someone else's shoes, seeing with their eyes, and feeling with their heart. I know that won't be the last time we deal with mistakes or selfish behavior with Isaac, but I am so thankful I was allowed to see that waves of mercy are just as great, and if not greater, than those waves of life that seem to crush our desire to grow.
Paddling out to the next swell...
Psalm 103: 8-11 (amplified)
The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy {and} loving-kindness. He will not always chide {or} be contending, neither will He keep His anger forever {or} hold a grudge. He has not dealt with us according to our iniquities. For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great are His mercy {and} loving-kindness toward those who reverently {and} worshipfully fear Him.
Parenting comes in waves. One moment, you're paddling out, feeling confident with the sun on your face and back. Then, you crest the top of a massive swell, and feeling strong and proud in your "I've got this" attitude, you ride it...until it crashes on top of you reminding you that you are still at the mercy of the elements of life. You don't make the waves, but you certainly have to navigate them.
Navigating these past 4 weeks has been a series of attempts and fails, until last Tuesday.
There is really no way to sugar-coat the fact that my son has been habitually stealing. He has been taking things that don't belong to him: Small toy cars from play time, coins off of friend's desks at school, even his friend Rylee's headphones that she needs during the lessons in the classroom--somehow those ended up in his backpack, according to his testimonial to Sister Sharon. "Look what I have in here!" Isaac said to his teachers a couple of weeks ago. "How did THESE get in MY bag?" he said with an exaggerated expression. "Hmmm, how DID those get there?" Sister Sharon responded with equal overemphasis.
There is an element of compulsiveness that I believe contributes to this behavior with Isaac, and some of that can be contributed to his inability to stop and think before reacting. Still, I don't believe this is an excuse for behavior that I know he can work through. When driving home from school after the 3rd report of his pilfering from desks, I was so disheartened that I pulled the van over in a bank parking lot and snapped. "Isaac. Please tell me why you are taking things that aren't yours? I seriously need to know how to help you, and I am confused and hurt." He looked at me, blank faced and matter-of-factly said, "Because I see it and I want it." I sighed and looked away. As a parent, I was completely clueless. Was I not doing something? Was I doing too much? Not enough? The thoughts raced around in my head, and Isaac interrupted my pity party with "Holy MOLEY! Mom, did you see that Corvette that went by!?" How could we deal with the compulsive decision making without having a foamy wave of disconnect crash on us every opportunity? I was trying to force a teachable moment, and it just wasn't happening.
I would drop Isaac off at school every morning, asking him the usual questions: "Are we going to make good choices today?" "Yep!" would be the enthusiastic response from the back seat. "Are we going to ask before we take things that aren't ours?" "Yep!" More yeps and smiles and thumbs up. Then, when the end of the day came, Isaac would be escorted to the van in the carpool line and my heart would drop as I saw his head hang down and his feet drag. "Mom, you're not going to be happy with me AT ALL today." I again would brace myself for impact. Another crashing wave on my psyche--another notch in my parenting fail belt.
Dan and I rallied to impress on Isaac the severity of his actions. We pulled out the big guns: long talks (making Isaac sit still is punishment enough), grounding from the I-Pad and the TV, even a spanking from Daddy on the 3rd offense. There is nothing more heartbreaking as a parent than having to spank, because I believe it allows you to suffer with your child, and to remind them that we feel the pain too. (And yes, we DO believe in spanking--just not in every situation or for every child at every age and NEVER in anger.)
Then, just two days after that episode, thinking we had made a point, I was sitting in the carpool line. It was one of the first mildly spring-like Tuesdays and I was basking in the warmth with the sunroof open, sunglasses on. I saw Isaac's reading group teacher, Mr. Ratkovsky, helping some other students to their vehicles. I have had the privilege of knowing Nathan since Isaac was interviewed at JB the summer before Kindergarten. He is a wonderful teacher, and Isaac looks up to him and has learned a tremendous amount from having him as a reading teacher for two years. I smiled and said, "Hey! How are you doing?" He paused and I said, "Everything ok?" He walked closer to my open driver's side window and lowered his voice. "Well, Isaac took my cell phone today from the table in reading groups. I found it only after I had tried calling it and heard it vibrating in his desk. So...yeah..." I had no words, except, "I am so sorry." Enter the tidal wave.
I had reached rock-bottom of emotions. I had been through them all. And I was all out of conversation starters as Isaac tried to tell me about his day, tried to tell me that he was sorry. I was numb to how to listen and how to feel like anything I did to help mattered.
That day, Ethan had Writer's Club after school, so Isaac and I went to Target for our weekly homework date: I would get a coffee and he would get a cake pop from Starbucks. Not only did Isaac look forward to the routine, but I also looked forward to just he and I time.
Isaac didn't chat in his normal non-stop way to fill the heavy silence as I walked slowly, feeling crushed. We got inside and into the line for our usual treats. Neither of us spoke. I had taken Isaac's choices and made them my own. I had allowed his rule-breaking, to in essence, break down the trust I had in him and the trust his friends and teachers were losing in his behavior. How could I show him I loved him despite the choices that had made me so sad and so desperate to understand him?
Mercy.
The word popped into my head and heart just as the barista behind the counter asked "What can I get you?"
I felt like responding "A venti mercy please." But, that was what I was supposed to give, and not get just then.
I ordered quickly, trying to smile. As the girl went to make my drink, I felt a different type of wave wash over me. It wasn't drowning me or suffocating me--it was freeing and weightless. I took a deep breath and kneeled down, right there in the line at the Starbucks counter.
Isaac looked at me, surprised. "Isaac, you know what I'm going to do?" He shook his head slowly, eyes wide and round. "I am going to show you mercy. Do you know what that means?" Again, he shook his head, his blue eyes never leaving my own. "It means I am going to give you a cake pop, even though you have broken the rules and broken mommy and daddy's hearts. I am going to forgive you and start fresh and clean, and you are going to stop taking things that aren't yours because it's hurting those who love you." It was as if time stopped, and it was just he and I, face to face in that Target store. I didn't say another word. I just whispered a prayer in my heart, thanking God for the strength to show the same kind of mercy to my son that Christ has shown me every day of my life--in spite of my pride and selfishness.
The next day at school, I went in to talk with Isaac's teachers about his stealing and about his behavior and grades. "Isaac is doing wonderfully in his academics" his teachers praised. We laughed about some of his comments, and we were encouraged by his desire to please and help. Then, when the topic of the stealing came up, I mentioned how we had tried all forms of correction, and it wasn't until mercy came into the picture that I had sensed some form of understanding on Isaac's part. His teachers were quiet for a minute and then, Sister Sharon smiled, "You know," she said, "that's exactly what he told me this morning. He said, 'My mom showed me mercy and I don't want to take things anymore.'"
Mercy is sweet, like that cake pop Isaac ate silently across from me at the table in Starbucks. It isn't easy to give, and is a result of cultivating a relationship with Jesus that responds to His love for us. It doesn't come out of a selfish desire to get something, but it comes from a desire to put ourselves in someone else's shoes, seeing with their eyes, and feeling with their heart. I know that won't be the last time we deal with mistakes or selfish behavior with Isaac, but I am so thankful I was allowed to see that waves of mercy are just as great, and if not greater, than those waves of life that seem to crush our desire to grow.
Paddling out to the next swell...
Psalm 103: 8-11 (amplified)
The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy {and} loving-kindness. He will not always chide {or} be contending, neither will He keep His anger forever {or} hold a grudge. He has not dealt with us according to our iniquities. For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great are His mercy {and} loving-kindness toward those who reverently {and} worshipfully fear Him.
 |
| Riding the waves...summer vacation, 2011 |
Thursday, February 19, 2015
fun and games
There are a few explicit emotions that surface when my kids realize, "Wait, Mom is still in bed, and we are supposed to be getting ready for school." From what I could hear coming from downstairs this morning, it's safe to assume utter jubilation is putting it lightly. Being told you have a snow day is apparently the equivalent of telling an adult they've won the lottery. Now, with the "lucky" weather we've been having, my kids are now snow day bazillionaires.
"Good morning boys" I announced as I came down to the kitchen, unsuccessful at sleeping in like I had hoped. "Morning, mom." Ethan was already in his simultaneous electronics mode--ear buds attached to his I-phone and his ears, a Nintendo 3-DS being played in his lap (at least he heard me). Isaac was playing at the kitchen table, already having created a scenario that looked like the dance hall scene from West Side Story with Hot Wheels. They were fully emerged in their day off.
As I ground coffee and put water on to boil, I took a deep breath. Today was the first day we had "blizzard bag" work from school sent home. For many parents, this is nothing new. For us? It's sacrilegious. Now, I'm not that great at being lazy, but when snow/cold days happen, I am happy to stay in PJ's and watch "Stampy" Minecraft videos on YouTube with the boys, play Cranium, catch up on our Pokémon, you know, the usual. They are unexpected treats, snow days. Not any longer.
I waited to tell Isaac about the "fun" packets sent home for him to work on until AFTER I had my coffee. The boys had breakfast, and then, I broke the news.
"So, we have some work to do today, Booder."
"What?"
"We have some packets from school to do. See?" I put the two packets on the table in front of him: one math, the other phonics/reading. "How about we start with one page of each, and then add a few more through the day? You can still play, just a few breaks for work."
Isaac looked at me like I had sprouted a second head with flames shooting out of its eyes.
I attempted to transition from theatrical Hot Wheels games to "fun" math games. I tried explaining how he can earn I-Pad time if he can complete just two pages of his packets.
The second head sprouted ANOTHER head, and was that....yes, lava pouring out of its eyes this time.
"Okay, buddy, let's give it a try, ok?" I tried having him clean up his cars for a better work space. Nope. I tried writing "Unexpected and Expected" behaviors on the chalk wall to help motivate him (this is a great technique used at school to help the kids self regulate their behaviors). Nope. I gave him a squishy platform for his feet, and piece of gum to chew (this helps him focus). Nope. I tried being strict, then I tried sitting next to him and helping him stay on task.
I felt like the tri-headed monster Isaac was imagining from earlier.
I had to step away while Isaac cried, slammed his head on the table and yelled, "I can't dooooooo thiiiiiiiis!" I had to stand by the sink and stare outside at the icicles hanging from my neighbors house and listen to Isaac try and do a few problems, only to get frustrated and throw his pencil. He kept drifting off, losing his place, and getting angry. I know he knows how, and I know he can (he had already completely 3 rows of problems on his own). It's finding the strength to allow your child to figure out that learning means not knowing everything. I reminded myself of that fact as I walked over to encourage him.
"Buddy. Bud, look me in the eye please." Isaac rubbed his eyes so hard (he hates tears) his face was red and splotchy. I took his face in my hands and kissed his cheeks. I held him close and then looked at him. "You can do this." (More protesting from him) "I believe in you, and I know you can. I can help you, but I can't do your work for you." I gave myself the pep-talk as much as I gave it to him. He had been working on this one worksheet for an hour and 10 minutes already.
As I looked down at the worksheet, I noticed he had completed another row, plus some. He had also decided to cross out the "fun" in "fun and games" that was written in the right margin of his paper. I agree, buddy.
After this page was completed, we celebrated. We jumped around the kitchen, ran in circles around the dining room table, and toasted with some Green Goodness. As I type this, he has already finished 4 more pages from his packets. As with most things I work through with Isaac, it's like climbing a mountain: it's hell climbing up, but once you reach the summit, you see how far you've come and get strength and momentum for the descent...until the next climb comes soon after...
And we keep climbing.
.JPG) |
| No fun. |
Sunday, January 18, 2015
glittering eyes
"I don't know, guys...it's already pretty late..."
"Mom....pleeeeease?"
I take a deep breath, slowly let it out, and close my eyes. "Alright. Go get your pajamas on, we will read ONE more chapter before..." I don't get to finish the sentence. Ethan and Isaac are already rushing upstairs like a herd of dehydrated, wild buffalo heading to a watering hole. I could complain, but isn't the point of raising your children to love reading and books and time together to instill joy and excitement for those very things? Yeah, yeah...well, all that love is crowding my school night schedule.
Tossing my "mommishness" to the side, I climb under Ethan's navy blue quilt, right in the middle of the double bed. I hear 2 toothbrushes from the bathroom down the hall moving at a feverish pitch, and I smile as I open the book in my lap to the earmarked page where we had stopped reading "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" by Roald Dahl the night before.
The herd rushes in and I brace for impact.
After a few minutes of arranging bodies, getting comfortable, and listening to a few fart jokes, I get the boys to settle. "Okay, guys, ONE chapter." I look down to my left, Isaac's face pressed into my arm, already starting to read the words to himself...I look to my right, Ethan has his eyes closed, hands folded up behind his head, smiling. So we begin.
Before I realize, these innocent tricksters have swiftly negotiated more chapter reading. I can't argue with the cuddling and laughs. I am easily swayed when it comes to book reading.
We felt sadness for Charlie because he was so hungry. We panicked when Augustus ruined the batch of chocolate by falling in. We laughed when Willy Wonka poked fun at various adults who had allowed their children to spoil. (We had some serious discussions about what "spoil" means.)
We also had to pause and explain to Isaac that no one turns into blueberries after eating blueberry pie, and there is no such thing as "juicing" someone after such an event. I am also pretty sure that despite our best attempts at a more logical explanation, Isaac still thinks whipped cream really does happen by whipping cows. We discussed snozzberries and Oompa Loompas--if they could exist. I watched as my analytical Isaac struggled to blend the abstract with the fantastical. And I relished in the processing and joy. Pure imagination...something I am so grateful to see blossom.
I slowly close the book. My eyes are tired, and I yawn. Still, I felt like I had been given a magical moment.
I look down to my left--Isaac is drooling on my arm, eyes closed, likely dreaming about "square candies that look round." I look down to my right--Ethan's back is to me, and he is very still; which, is a sure sign that he too, is in dreamland. I have no idea what time it is, and just a fraction of me doesn't care. I lay under the warm covers for a minute longer...listening to my sons sleep...
Listening to their dreams...
"Mom....pleeeeease?"
I take a deep breath, slowly let it out, and close my eyes. "Alright. Go get your pajamas on, we will read ONE more chapter before..." I don't get to finish the sentence. Ethan and Isaac are already rushing upstairs like a herd of dehydrated, wild buffalo heading to a watering hole. I could complain, but isn't the point of raising your children to love reading and books and time together to instill joy and excitement for those very things? Yeah, yeah...well, all that love is crowding my school night schedule.
Tossing my "mommishness" to the side, I climb under Ethan's navy blue quilt, right in the middle of the double bed. I hear 2 toothbrushes from the bathroom down the hall moving at a feverish pitch, and I smile as I open the book in my lap to the earmarked page where we had stopped reading "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" by Roald Dahl the night before.
The herd rushes in and I brace for impact.
After a few minutes of arranging bodies, getting comfortable, and listening to a few fart jokes, I get the boys to settle. "Okay, guys, ONE chapter." I look down to my left, Isaac's face pressed into my arm, already starting to read the words to himself...I look to my right, Ethan has his eyes closed, hands folded up behind his head, smiling. So we begin.
Before I realize, these innocent tricksters have swiftly negotiated more chapter reading. I can't argue with the cuddling and laughs. I am easily swayed when it comes to book reading.
We felt sadness for Charlie because he was so hungry. We panicked when Augustus ruined the batch of chocolate by falling in. We laughed when Willy Wonka poked fun at various adults who had allowed their children to spoil. (We had some serious discussions about what "spoil" means.)
We also had to pause and explain to Isaac that no one turns into blueberries after eating blueberry pie, and there is no such thing as "juicing" someone after such an event. I am also pretty sure that despite our best attempts at a more logical explanation, Isaac still thinks whipped cream really does happen by whipping cows. We discussed snozzberries and Oompa Loompas--if they could exist. I watched as my analytical Isaac struggled to blend the abstract with the fantastical. And I relished in the processing and joy. Pure imagination...something I am so grateful to see blossom.
I slowly close the book. My eyes are tired, and I yawn. Still, I felt like I had been given a magical moment.
I look down to my left--Isaac is drooling on my arm, eyes closed, likely dreaming about "square candies that look round." I look down to my right--Ethan's back is to me, and he is very still; which, is a sure sign that he too, is in dreamland. I have no idea what time it is, and just a fraction of me doesn't care. I lay under the warm covers for a minute longer...listening to my sons sleep...
Listening to their dreams...
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
shortcuts
My kids are experts at shortcuts.
For instance, Isaac was tired of having to make his bed every morning before school, so, he developed a plan. One night earlier this week, he asked me, "Do we have another cozy blanket I can cover up with?" I was confused, since he had plenty of warmth already on his bed. "Um, sure, I can get you something..." So, I grabbed another comforter from big brother Ethan's closet. When I brought the blanket in, I saw him positioning himself, with the greatest care and poise as to not mess up the bed ON TOP of his regular covers, and told me to "just lay that blanket on top of me." Trying not to laugh or make light of this serious command, I finally asked, "Why aren't you under your comforter that's already on your bed, buddy?"
"Mom," Isaac replied seriously (with his eyes closed, preparing mentally for dreamland), "this way, I can just get up in the morning and my bed is already made."
I don't know if I should categorize this behavior in laziness or genius...
Either way, I smiled, and let the boy do his thing. After all, I am trying to teach my kids how to manage their time, right? Although, the next morning, Isaac still had to fold up the extra comforter, and it took the same amount of time it would have taken just to make his bed. He made note of this.
Managing time, managing emotions, managing words and communication...these jobs seem to never end as a mom of a child with special needs (and an older sibling/man-child who is entering the pre-teen years as well). It's just a barrel of fun over here some days.
The one thing that I have been continually honing in myself is how to express what I need or want for my boys in a way that is clear, concise, and kind. (I was hoping to shorten this rule to the 3C's in honor of my sons' efficiency, but...there's kind...so...nevermind). The benefits of this type of communication make everyone a little more on task and understanding.
But it's definitely not without its flaws.
This morning, I asked Isaac to help me unload the dishwasher. This was clear: this was definitely concise: I didn't say it with anger or frustration, so I could check off kind. I even said PLEASE.
Isaac complied and went to work. I was getting coffee made and boiling an egg for Ethan's breakfast when I turned around and saw that Isaac had disappeared, but on the kitchen counter, the top rack of the dishwasher sat. I had to smirk. He did what I asked. He unloaded the dishwasher (onto the counter). I called him back into the kitchen and thanked him for doing what I asked, but I would like him to also help me put the cups in the cabinets. "Oh, okay, but I did what you told me." He said. I thanked him again, but told him "it's important that we finish what we start--when you get a cup for a drink, do you get it from the counter or from the cabinet?" He thought a moment, "the cabinet." "Right," I said. "You took the cups out, but we didn't finish putting them where they belong, so let's do that together, okay?" We finished what we started, and I said it like I meant it.
Sometimes, shortcuts can be worthwhile. In other ways, shortcuts can make more work for us in the long-run. What we would do better off with is making time to say things like we mean them--having a heart of empathy and a heart that looks forward to seeing our children understand the value of their time and their words. Even something so little and tedious as making a bed or putting dishes away--these are skills and tools that can be used to teach invaluable lessons.
It takes me extra time to explain things: Reasoning with my logical and analytical Isaac, and switching gears (in a moment's notice) to compassion and emotional dissection with my older Ethan. As parents, I think we forget what a skill and gift this is! We are mediators, translators, and ambassadors for the
daily life.
Take time. Say it like you mean it. Don't be afraid to skip the shortcuts (if they aren't the genius types).
Your little ones will thank you. :-)
For instance, Isaac was tired of having to make his bed every morning before school, so, he developed a plan. One night earlier this week, he asked me, "Do we have another cozy blanket I can cover up with?" I was confused, since he had plenty of warmth already on his bed. "Um, sure, I can get you something..." So, I grabbed another comforter from big brother Ethan's closet. When I brought the blanket in, I saw him positioning himself, with the greatest care and poise as to not mess up the bed ON TOP of his regular covers, and told me to "just lay that blanket on top of me." Trying not to laugh or make light of this serious command, I finally asked, "Why aren't you under your comforter that's already on your bed, buddy?"
"Mom," Isaac replied seriously (with his eyes closed, preparing mentally for dreamland), "this way, I can just get up in the morning and my bed is already made."
I don't know if I should categorize this behavior in laziness or genius...
Either way, I smiled, and let the boy do his thing. After all, I am trying to teach my kids how to manage their time, right? Although, the next morning, Isaac still had to fold up the extra comforter, and it took the same amount of time it would have taken just to make his bed. He made note of this.
Managing time, managing emotions, managing words and communication...these jobs seem to never end as a mom of a child with special needs (and an older sibling/man-child who is entering the pre-teen years as well). It's just a barrel of fun over here some days.
The one thing that I have been continually honing in myself is how to express what I need or want for my boys in a way that is clear, concise, and kind. (I was hoping to shorten this rule to the 3C's in honor of my sons' efficiency, but...there's kind...so...nevermind). The benefits of this type of communication make everyone a little more on task and understanding.
But it's definitely not without its flaws.
This morning, I asked Isaac to help me unload the dishwasher. This was clear: this was definitely concise: I didn't say it with anger or frustration, so I could check off kind. I even said PLEASE.
Isaac complied and went to work. I was getting coffee made and boiling an egg for Ethan's breakfast when I turned around and saw that Isaac had disappeared, but on the kitchen counter, the top rack of the dishwasher sat. I had to smirk. He did what I asked. He unloaded the dishwasher (onto the counter). I called him back into the kitchen and thanked him for doing what I asked, but I would like him to also help me put the cups in the cabinets. "Oh, okay, but I did what you told me." He said. I thanked him again, but told him "it's important that we finish what we start--when you get a cup for a drink, do you get it from the counter or from the cabinet?" He thought a moment, "the cabinet." "Right," I said. "You took the cups out, but we didn't finish putting them where they belong, so let's do that together, okay?" We finished what we started, and I said it like I meant it.
Sometimes, shortcuts can be worthwhile. In other ways, shortcuts can make more work for us in the long-run. What we would do better off with is making time to say things like we mean them--having a heart of empathy and a heart that looks forward to seeing our children understand the value of their time and their words. Even something so little and tedious as making a bed or putting dishes away--these are skills and tools that can be used to teach invaluable lessons.
It takes me extra time to explain things: Reasoning with my logical and analytical Isaac, and switching gears (in a moment's notice) to compassion and emotional dissection with my older Ethan. As parents, I think we forget what a skill and gift this is! We are mediators, translators, and ambassadors for the
Take time. Say it like you mean it. Don't be afraid to skip the shortcuts (if they aren't the genius types).
Your little ones will thank you. :-)
 |
| Ethan and Isaac, taking shortcuts together since 2006 (look how LITTLE they were!?) |
Monday, November 17, 2014
a non-fiction love story
This past Friday, the boys and I woke up to the first snowflakes. There was the sound of heavy footsteps that careened across the master bedroom floor as Isaac conveyed in his best whisper (which, is non-existent): "Mom! It's snowing! REALLY snowing outside! Come on! Look!" I won't lie and say I wasn't the teeniest bit excited. The boys were so enamored that they ate breakfast in silence, facing their chairs at the kitchen table to the wonderland in the backyard. "Mom, I LOVE snow." Isaac smiled with a giant grin, a front tooth freshly missing from the day before, eyes sparkling. He was hopping up and down and squeeling. I was thinking about how much longer it was going to take to get boots, hats, gloves, and backpacks together to get to school...
Isaac is quick to the extremes: He LOVES snow. He LOVES carbon-fiber super cars. He even loves a girl in his class named Rylee. Wait, what? Rewind. Loves a girl? Besides ME? Yes. This is a new love, and one that I thought for sure would be something we wouldn't have to deal with until much later. Much, MUCH later. But, here we are...and Isaac is full of questions and feelings that as an adult, are to explain.
It all started last week. Isaac came home from school with his usual tales and adventures from the day. We like to preface the recount with whether it's fiction or non-fiction (he likes to embellish, which is fine, but I just need to know what really took place before I start calling the school and apologizing to parents...)
"Mom, me and Rylee played at recess today."
"Oh, yeah? How fast is she?"
"Oh, mom...she is fast! But, I'm a little faster. We raced and then guess what?"
"What?"
"She almost tripped, but I jumped and caught her just in time. I rescued her."
"You did? That was very kind of you, Booder."
[He looks down and grins a goofy grin] "Yeah...then she hugged me. And told me she loved me. I love her too."
Now...pause in the story. As a mom, you like hearing good stories about things your kids experience. You like hearing any stories about the day at all, honestly...but, this one, it made me look at Isaac a little differently. I saw this little boy who had struggled for so long to express ANY feelings or emotions in words--and then, to hear THIS. It broke my heart, and then glued it back together all at once...
"Well," I continued, "it's okay to be a friend to a girl--help her, be kind to her, laugh and do things with her--but, I think love is a word that means more than you think."
He looked at me and put his Hot Wheels cars down that he had been focused on. "I know what love is." And like that, my whole mommy talk was shut down.
The topic didn't end there, however. It came up many times out-of-the-blue in the week.
"Mom, Rylee was picked to be in my gym group! She ran over and hugged me and it was AWESOME."
"Mom, Rylee sits by me at lunch every day and we talk about stuff and she thinks I'm cool."
"Mom, I love school...you wanna know why? Rylee is there."
Back to Friday...the snow Isaac loves so much kept coming. The Principal of Isaac's school sent out a phone-blast--early dismissal was available for parents who wished to pick up to avoid the traffic and road conditions. Naturally, my car pool partner and I agreed that this was a good idea. Only, when Isaac was dropped off, I watched as he drudged through the snow into the house. When he plopped his backpack on the floor and looked up at me, I saw tears and quivering lips. "Why did I have to leave school early? Why!? I won't get to see Rylee until Monday now..." I had to hug and console Isaac and assure him that I could be as fun as Rylee. Poor boy. He's got it bad.
These feelings and emotions are o.k., and they are normal. And maybe that's why I am confused. When you have a child with special needs, you o
ften assume things (far too many things): They won't learn the same or at the same level as "typical kids"; they won't understand or pick up on things; they won't fit in or make friends; they won't, they can't, blah blah blah. I am guilty of these assumptions, as many of you reading this are. But love is something every person has the capacity to understand, and to express--no matter how they can express it, or to what extent it touches them.
Over the weekend, I overheard a conversation between Dan and Isaac that will forever be embedded in my mind and heart. I was putting dishes away and from the living room, I heard Isaac ask, "Dad, when did you know you were going to marry mommy?" I listened as Dan told our youngest son the story of our meeting, our first date, our finally admitting that we truly loved one another and chose each other. He explained what dating was, how old he was and how he needed to have a job, be able to pay bills, and drive a car. Isaac went on to ask about "what mommy was like when she was pregnant with me?" Dan laughed and said, "she was happy." Isaac said, "Yeah...that's why my name means laughter. I'm the funniest."
Isaac has lots of questions and lots of extreme emotion. He most certainly knows love. He certainly knows who he is and that he is capable of loving and expressing that love...now if I can just keep myself open to not being jealous of 2nd grade girls who think my son is "cool," and just laugh...because that's what Isaac means, after all. I will ready myself for non-fiction stories about love.
Isaac is quick to the extremes: He LOVES snow. He LOVES carbon-fiber super cars. He even loves a girl in his class named Rylee. Wait, what? Rewind. Loves a girl? Besides ME? Yes. This is a new love, and one that I thought for sure would be something we wouldn't have to deal with until much later. Much, MUCH later. But, here we are...and Isaac is full of questions and feelings that as an adult, are to explain.
It all started last week. Isaac came home from school with his usual tales and adventures from the day. We like to preface the recount with whether it's fiction or non-fiction (he likes to embellish, which is fine, but I just need to know what really took place before I start calling the school and apologizing to parents...)
"Mom, me and Rylee played at recess today."
"Oh, yeah? How fast is she?"
"Oh, mom...she is fast! But, I'm a little faster. We raced and then guess what?"
"What?"
"She almost tripped, but I jumped and caught her just in time. I rescued her."
"You did? That was very kind of you, Booder."
[He looks down and grins a goofy grin] "Yeah...then she hugged me. And told me she loved me. I love her too."
Now...pause in the story. As a mom, you like hearing good stories about things your kids experience. You like hearing any stories about the day at all, honestly...but, this one, it made me look at Isaac a little differently. I saw this little boy who had struggled for so long to express ANY feelings or emotions in words--and then, to hear THIS. It broke my heart, and then glued it back together all at once...
"Well," I continued, "it's okay to be a friend to a girl--help her, be kind to her, laugh and do things with her--but, I think love is a word that means more than you think."
He looked at me and put his Hot Wheels cars down that he had been focused on. "I know what love is." And like that, my whole mommy talk was shut down.
The topic didn't end there, however. It came up many times out-of-the-blue in the week.
"Mom, Rylee was picked to be in my gym group! She ran over and hugged me and it was AWESOME."
"Mom, Rylee sits by me at lunch every day and we talk about stuff and she thinks I'm cool."
"Mom, I love school...you wanna know why? Rylee is there."
Back to Friday...the snow Isaac loves so much kept coming. The Principal of Isaac's school sent out a phone-blast--early dismissal was available for parents who wished to pick up to avoid the traffic and road conditions. Naturally, my car pool partner and I agreed that this was a good idea. Only, when Isaac was dropped off, I watched as he drudged through the snow into the house. When he plopped his backpack on the floor and looked up at me, I saw tears and quivering lips. "Why did I have to leave school early? Why!? I won't get to see Rylee until Monday now..." I had to hug and console Isaac and assure him that I could be as fun as Rylee. Poor boy. He's got it bad.
These feelings and emotions are o.k., and they are normal. And maybe that's why I am confused. When you have a child with special needs, you o
Over the weekend, I overheard a conversation between Dan and Isaac that will forever be embedded in my mind and heart. I was putting dishes away and from the living room, I heard Isaac ask, "Dad, when did you know you were going to marry mommy?" I listened as Dan told our youngest son the story of our meeting, our first date, our finally admitting that we truly loved one another and chose each other. He explained what dating was, how old he was and how he needed to have a job, be able to pay bills, and drive a car. Isaac went on to ask about "what mommy was like when she was pregnant with me?" Dan laughed and said, "she was happy." Isaac said, "Yeah...that's why my name means laughter. I'm the funniest."
Isaac has lots of questions and lots of extreme emotion. He most certainly knows love. He certainly knows who he is and that he is capable of loving and expressing that love...now if I can just keep myself open to not being jealous of 2nd grade girls who think my son is "cool," and just laugh...because that's what Isaac means, after all. I will ready myself for non-fiction stories about love.
 |
| my little lover |
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Just a boy
Today is the most colorful of days.
Trees that threatened to lose hold of their most brilliant leaves last night with the wind and rain held out; and we are the victors of their spoils. Everything, all of a sudden, popped out, screamed to be seen--tired of being taken for granted. That's what we do, you know. We take the seasons for granted. One minute we are longing for a certain one, and the next, for it to end. We barely have a moment within to notice the beauty, value the changes, anticipate the growth.
While driving home after meeting with a dear friend I haven't seen in months, I was made aware of the golds, oranges, fiery reds, all seemingly in Technicolor today. Maybe that's because catching up with my friend reminded me I needed to be distracted by what was already in front of me.
We talked about the days and weeks that had transpired. We talked about our sons (and godsons), our husbands, our homes, our schools, our ups and downs. We talked about adventure, upcoming trips, and trips gone by. We laughed, made too much noise, and tried not to cry (easier said than done). We covered lots of chapters in this life-story. And when it was time to toss our coffee and tea cups away, we said goodbye for now, never tossing away the ability to pick up where we left off.
After talking with my friend, hearing her "chapters," it was a reassuring breath of fresh air. She knows me, and she knows Isaac. She doesn't pretend to have answers, and I don't pretend to need them. Because there are times when I wonder if I am the only one. I get scared that my difficult days are harder than the rest. I am panicky when the understanding I have worked so hard to gain of Isaac's challenges seems to lose its potency. In just a month and a 1/2 of 2nd grade, it seems like we have fallen behind in some ways. Attitudes, behaviors, language...it all seems so foreign.
That we can strive and work and reach to understand, love our children completely is both what drives a parent, and what drains them. We dread when we feel like a part of our child is expiring, while we are exhausting every resource. It's not a matter of if; it's a matter of when.
But that's the part about seasons that we take for granted, isn't it? Change is inevitable.
Isaac will have seasons of struggle, just as you and I. He will have seasons of growth, physically, mentally, spiritually. That will not change just because he has an IEP. He will have seasons where, on the surface, it seems nothing is perfecting itself. It's about appreciating--no, sometimes just surviving--when things seem to freeze. But, below, out of my sight, things are alive and well and when they burst to the surface, will need tending.
I was reminded today to take the season for what it's worth--value seen, or unseen. I won't stop believing with all hope and courage that it will not last forever, all the while embracing the changes as colors crying out to be noticed and loved. I just need to look and appreciate--respond with hope.
After all, Isaac is just a boy, yet, he is more brilliant and beautiful than all the trees in their autumn splendor.
Trees that threatened to lose hold of their most brilliant leaves last night with the wind and rain held out; and we are the victors of their spoils. Everything, all of a sudden, popped out, screamed to be seen--tired of being taken for granted. That's what we do, you know. We take the seasons for granted. One minute we are longing for a certain one, and the next, for it to end. We barely have a moment within to notice the beauty, value the changes, anticipate the growth.
While driving home after meeting with a dear friend I haven't seen in months, I was made aware of the golds, oranges, fiery reds, all seemingly in Technicolor today. Maybe that's because catching up with my friend reminded me I needed to be distracted by what was already in front of me.
We talked about the days and weeks that had transpired. We talked about our sons (and godsons), our husbands, our homes, our schools, our ups and downs. We talked about adventure, upcoming trips, and trips gone by. We laughed, made too much noise, and tried not to cry (easier said than done). We covered lots of chapters in this life-story. And when it was time to toss our coffee and tea cups away, we said goodbye for now, never tossing away the ability to pick up where we left off.
After talking with my friend, hearing her "chapters," it was a reassuring breath of fresh air. She knows me, and she knows Isaac. She doesn't pretend to have answers, and I don't pretend to need them. Because there are times when I wonder if I am the only one. I get scared that my difficult days are harder than the rest. I am panicky when the understanding I have worked so hard to gain of Isaac's challenges seems to lose its potency. In just a month and a 1/2 of 2nd grade, it seems like we have fallen behind in some ways. Attitudes, behaviors, language...it all seems so foreign.
That we can strive and work and reach to understand, love our children completely is both what drives a parent, and what drains them. We dread when we feel like a part of our child is expiring, while we are exhausting every resource. It's not a matter of if; it's a matter of when.
But that's the part about seasons that we take for granted, isn't it? Change is inevitable.
Isaac will have seasons of struggle, just as you and I. He will have seasons of growth, physically, mentally, spiritually. That will not change just because he has an IEP. He will have seasons where, on the surface, it seems nothing is perfecting itself. It's about appreciating--no, sometimes just surviving--when things seem to freeze. But, below, out of my sight, things are alive and well and when they burst to the surface, will need tending.
I was reminded today to take the season for what it's worth--value seen, or unseen. I won't stop believing with all hope and courage that it will not last forever, all the while embracing the changes as colors crying out to be noticed and loved. I just need to look and appreciate--respond with hope.
After all, Isaac is just a boy, yet, he is more brilliant and beautiful than all the trees in their autumn splendor.
Monday, September 15, 2014
the naked truth
I am cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. Empty bowls of crock-pot beef stew are going into the sink, and I am listening to the boys get ready to take their showers. Then, I hear from upstairs: "Come on, Ethan! You can trust me. I'm naked."
I'm going to go out on a limb and say that no one would trust someone who says that. It sounds creepy and weird. It sounds...suspicious. Put on some clothes and then we'll talk.
As I load the dishwasher, laughing to myself, I realize why Isaac might be using this terminology in order to get his brother to listen to him; to trust him. We had a talk a few days ago and it went something like this...
Isaac: "Mom, guess what happened at school today?"
Me: "Hmm...I don't know, how about you tell me?"
Isaac: "Well, (so and so) knocked down a tower of blocks at recess, and then (so and so) said 'stop that!' and got made the then PUNCHED (so and so) in the FACE! No....seriously, punched them. I told them to stop and they wouldn't listen. Then, I karate kicked (so and so) because they were hurting my friend."
Me: "I don't think this story sounds so nice."
Isaac: "That's not all. Then (so and so) got kicked out of school."
Me: "WHAT?"
Isaac: "Yeah..."
Me: (getting on the phone with one of the so and so's moms, asking her about this information)
Sooner or later, after some embarrassment on my part, the truth came out. Isaac and his buddy DID get a tower knocked down at recess...but no one was kicked or punched or kicked out of school. Those were embellishments added strictly for effect by Isaac himself.
I'm not going to lie--I was impressed. The story-telling skills this kid possesses are powerful...but we had to talk about truth vs. lies, no matter how creative they were.
I sat down with Isaac face-to-face on the living room couch. I told him how I loved hearing about his day, and about his friends. I love hearing about the way he saw things and processed them. What I didn't love was how the truth was mixed up with untruths, so the whole story became a lie.
We talked about the Little Boy Who Cried Wolf. His eyes widened as I dramatically conveyed the tale of the boy who watched the family flock of sheep and thought it would be fun to trick others into believing a wolf was coming to take some of the sheep---only to laugh and say "fooled you!" when the townspeople came running to help. One day, a wolf really did come and attacked the sheep, and when the boy cried "HELP!" No one showed up. No one believed him. This is why telling the truth is important. We build trust when we tell the truth.
Isaac understood. Stories like this help him, for the most part...
And then I ruined the lesson with one phrase: "Truth is naked. It doesn't have to be covered up with any frilly stories or fibs."
(giggles inserted here)
So, fast forward a couple of weeks to now. A naked kid trying to tell his brother to trust him. I guess I can say the lesson was learned.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say that no one would trust someone who says that. It sounds creepy and weird. It sounds...suspicious. Put on some clothes and then we'll talk.
As I load the dishwasher, laughing to myself, I realize why Isaac might be using this terminology in order to get his brother to listen to him; to trust him. We had a talk a few days ago and it went something like this...
Isaac: "Mom, guess what happened at school today?"
Me: "Hmm...I don't know, how about you tell me?"
Isaac: "Well, (so and so) knocked down a tower of blocks at recess, and then (so and so) said 'stop that!' and got made the then PUNCHED (so and so) in the FACE! No....seriously, punched them. I told them to stop and they wouldn't listen. Then, I karate kicked (so and so) because they were hurting my friend."
Me: "I don't think this story sounds so nice."
Isaac: "That's not all. Then (so and so) got kicked out of school."
Me: "WHAT?"
Isaac: "Yeah..."
Me: (getting on the phone with one of the so and so's moms, asking her about this information)
Sooner or later, after some embarrassment on my part, the truth came out. Isaac and his buddy DID get a tower knocked down at recess...but no one was kicked or punched or kicked out of school. Those were embellishments added strictly for effect by Isaac himself.
I'm not going to lie--I was impressed. The story-telling skills this kid possesses are powerful...but we had to talk about truth vs. lies, no matter how creative they were.
I sat down with Isaac face-to-face on the living room couch. I told him how I loved hearing about his day, and about his friends. I love hearing about the way he saw things and processed them. What I didn't love was how the truth was mixed up with untruths, so the whole story became a lie.
We talked about the Little Boy Who Cried Wolf. His eyes widened as I dramatically conveyed the tale of the boy who watched the family flock of sheep and thought it would be fun to trick others into believing a wolf was coming to take some of the sheep---only to laugh and say "fooled you!" when the townspeople came running to help. One day, a wolf really did come and attacked the sheep, and when the boy cried "HELP!" No one showed up. No one believed him. This is why telling the truth is important. We build trust when we tell the truth.
Isaac understood. Stories like this help him, for the most part...
And then I ruined the lesson with one phrase: "Truth is naked. It doesn't have to be covered up with any frilly stories or fibs."
(giggles inserted here)
So, fast forward a couple of weeks to now. A naked kid trying to tell his brother to trust him. I guess I can say the lesson was learned.
Friday, June 27, 2014
pop the question
I have many plans for today.
I have lists for groceries, to-do's to be done in preparation of a big annual event we host at our house every year, as well as the daily grind chores that I have been putting off due to summer vacation. (Who wants to clean when the lazy river at Wildwater Kingdom is beckoning?) Anyhow, it's become impossible to put off the tasks any further...and that's why I wasn't going to think of blogging today. I don't have time.
Plans change.
I'm working on paying bills, catching up on emails, and the general "I-forgot-what-day-of-the-week-it-is-because-it's-summer" confusion, when Ethan and Isaac come into the office. We get into a quick discussion over a few things, and Ethan brings up a server on Minecraft that he heard of just for kids on the autism spectrum called Autcraft. We look up the founder's Facebook profile. Then, as Isaac is quietly standing behind us he says, point-blank, "Do I have Autism?"
I'm not sure how other parents handle labels in their homes. I'm not saying you should or shouldn't tell your child of their special needs. In our home, we haven't told Isaac he is autistic, nor have we used it to explain things to him. It just hasn't been an issue. He sees the world differently, interprets the world uniquely, and processes his surroundings like one of the many fractals on a brilliantly cut diamond. He has a diagnosis, yes, and on paper it says he has autism. It makes him eligible for services that allow him to thrive, and it allows us to form a framework of understanding around a fraction of how he needs to live--but he is not limited to a set of "symptoms" or expected to be put in a box of understanding. Isaac is Isaac.
But when your own child asks you a question like this...
I calmly take him in my arms and hug him. He nestles his chin into the crook of my neck, keeping his arms at his side. I can almost hear his brain clicking and grinding.
"Yes." That's all I tell him.
I feel cornered, trapped, and angry. I wish I could punch the walls around me and throw a tantrum. Because although I believe Isaac is unique and wonderful and I wouldn't change him for all of the typical children in the world...he still has a label...and I can explain the label away, use more socially palatable terms to describe his needs, but he will always need to be identified with autism if he is to get what he needs in a manner that allows him to succeed--both in his own mind and in the world.
Instead of losing it, I get my composure and pull him away to look in his eyes. It takes him a moment. It seems like he is avoiding my glance. I wait patiently for him to meet me, holding his shoulders gently. "Isaac, I hope you know how amazing you are. There is no one, NO ONE like you in the whole universe. I know God was being super creative the day he made you. He was so excited! And He has a plan to use you in awesome ways." He looks at me, nods, and gives me a quirkly smile with squinty eyes and says..."Want to play with me?"
And just like that, the anger, fear, and worry fall to the floor. I have to let the intense conversation that I was preparing to have with my son about all the innate ways he is different--all the moments he has awakened awareness in me and others who know him--all the nuances of his thoughts and emotions...I had to realize it's my job to love him, not label or cover who he is with a band-aid. I need to love him by sharing life with him, answering the tough questions with just one word answers, and trusting that Isaac will discover more of who he is...
Over a game of "Pop the Pig." And I am so glad for that plastic pig with the inflatable belly who eats plastic hamburgers, because now we can just go on. Enjoying the moments, not dwelling on labels or differences...even though we know that they are still there. Always there.
Questions from our children aren't scripted, and we don't always have the answers mapped out. The questions about "who am I?" are to be answered over time, through experiences, and through love. Their questions will often spark the same questions in ourselves. And we learn them, live them, and cherish them together.
 |
| Isaac, last day of 1st grade...a little champion. |
Thursday, June 5, 2014
note to self
My empty mug of yogurt and berries sits in front of me on the computer desk instead of heading to the dishwasher. My mug of coffee is probably sitting somewhere upstairs, getting cold because, frankly, today it's not attached to me at the hip. Laundry baskets are calling my name in the basement. I am still in my pajamas, and should really take a shower. It's safe to say I'm torn this morning...
From the living room, sounds of Nintendo DS playing and the occasional, "YES!" ricochet to my ears--Ethan is officially done with school until the fall. We are all trying to soak that reality in today, especially because I still have until tomorrow for Isaac. He is at JB having "Spy Day" with all of his fellow school mates. (He made sure to pack his binoculars to see any other spy-like events that were thinking of sneaking past his all-too-aware spyishness.) So, although I have one child, carefree on the couch, I still had to get up and carpool Isaac to school per the normal routine. I'm just confused today.
Summer vacation is part mental for me. I'm not sure if other moms, dads, or caretakers deal with this phenomenon. I get so excited for the end of the school year because it means no packing lunches, no double checking homework folders (yes, I did it until the very end), no making sure one school uniform is on while the other completely different school uniform is packed and gym clothes are on--oh, and making sure there are underwear on under the uniform pants. Most of my mornings felt like I was trying to rehearse Abbott and Costello's "Whose on first?" routine, unsuccessfully, with my children. But I persevered. I didn't give up because I expected my kids not to give up. Finish strong! Finish proud! And then, after you crash through the finish line and pour Gatorade over your head all while taking deep breaths and collapsing to the ground...when it's time to get up again, you ask yourself, "Alright...what now?"
Don't misunderstand me. I love the freedom of not having to go anywhere, not having to do anything. But, then, the next minute...I hate it. I need to DO something. I feel in limbo with feeling needed or valued because I'm on top of my game and then all of a sudden the expectations are just thrown into park. Switching gears while going 50 miles an hour is not something I do well with...and I'm just being honest.
Here's a note to self: downshift by remembering who you are and what you were created to be. Just because the school year is done...(for 1/2 of my children)...does not mean you are needed any less. It's just a need for relaxation, a need for playing until it's dark outside, a need for popsicles and sun tea. It's a need for muddy feet and grassy knees, dripping ice cream cones, and yes, baths. Every night. You're still mom. You're still the one teaching, molding, shaping your sons. You just are mom in a bathing suit and cover up with sunglasses saying, "sure, we can have Menchie's for the 3rd night in a row." It's a need for slowing down.
So, I'm downshifting. Rolling the windows down, and getting a sunburn on that arm that is exposed under the sunroof...(true story)...
And remembering who I am and what I was created to be, not do.
Happy summer, friends.
From the living room, sounds of Nintendo DS playing and the occasional, "YES!" ricochet to my ears--Ethan is officially done with school until the fall. We are all trying to soak that reality in today, especially because I still have until tomorrow for Isaac. He is at JB having "Spy Day" with all of his fellow school mates. (He made sure to pack his binoculars to see any other spy-like events that were thinking of sneaking past his all-too-aware spyishness.) So, although I have one child, carefree on the couch, I still had to get up and carpool Isaac to school per the normal routine. I'm just confused today.
Summer vacation is part mental for me. I'm not sure if other moms, dads, or caretakers deal with this phenomenon. I get so excited for the end of the school year because it means no packing lunches, no double checking homework folders (yes, I did it until the very end), no making sure one school uniform is on while the other completely different school uniform is packed and gym clothes are on--oh, and making sure there are underwear on under the uniform pants. Most of my mornings felt like I was trying to rehearse Abbott and Costello's "Whose on first?" routine, unsuccessfully, with my children. But I persevered. I didn't give up because I expected my kids not to give up. Finish strong! Finish proud! And then, after you crash through the finish line and pour Gatorade over your head all while taking deep breaths and collapsing to the ground...when it's time to get up again, you ask yourself, "Alright...what now?"
Don't misunderstand me. I love the freedom of not having to go anywhere, not having to do anything. But, then, the next minute...I hate it. I need to DO something. I feel in limbo with feeling needed or valued because I'm on top of my game and then all of a sudden the expectations are just thrown into park. Switching gears while going 50 miles an hour is not something I do well with...and I'm just being honest.
 |
| Somewhat how I feel today... |
Here's a note to self: downshift by remembering who you are and what you were created to be. Just because the school year is done...(for 1/2 of my children)...does not mean you are needed any less. It's just a need for relaxation, a need for playing until it's dark outside, a need for popsicles and sun tea. It's a need for muddy feet and grassy knees, dripping ice cream cones, and yes, baths. Every night. You're still mom. You're still the one teaching, molding, shaping your sons. You just are mom in a bathing suit and cover up with sunglasses saying, "sure, we can have Menchie's for the 3rd night in a row." It's a need for slowing down.
So, I'm downshifting. Rolling the windows down, and getting a sunburn on that arm that is exposed under the sunroof...(true story)...
And remembering who I am and what I was created to be, not do.
Happy summer, friends.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Poking the Mama Bear
I need to calm down.
But, I also need to write. So, the calm can wait. You can save your "Keep Calm and fill-in-the-blank" Brittish humor until I'm finished.
I am a Mama Bear. I love my cubs. I am protective of them in every sense of the word. I look out for every aspect of their existence, including their education. In fact, I am adamant about their schooling and what they need to thrive. I am a thankful Mama Bear because I have two wonderful, helpful, and willing schools with teachers who are driven to not only educate the minds of my cubs, but their hearts as well. However, one of my cubs has an IEP. And this means, by law, other teachers and staff who do NOT know my child are involved in planning his education as well. Once a year, we are required to sit down with a panel and discuss Isaac with people who have never met him face-to-face, to discuss his services, progress, and update any other education needs he may have for the upcoming school year. This, this is a love/hate relationship. Especially today.
Mama Bear has been poked.
Up until this point, I have had no complaints about the school district with whom I have to, by law, explain who my Isaac is from a few sheets of paper and statistics. Up until this point, I have been happy to sit in a meeting, smile, listen to teachers who have never met my son say things like, "Wow! It sounds like Isaac is doing very well!" and "He's reading at THAT level, ALREADY?" After today, I am going to have a seriously hard time biting my tongue.
In order for Isaac to get services outside of our school district of residence with his IEP (Individualized Education Plan) and to be eligible to choose where we want to send him, we are required to keep the district we DID NOT choose informed of his progress each year. This means, a meeting to update his education and therapy goals. At these meetings, teachers and therapists as well as a representative for the district we DO NOT USE present their paperwork (paperwork that is provided by Isaac's current teachers and therapists, as well as other staff who educate him at Julie Billiart). I know, it's a bit confusing and skewed, but that's the way it is. We all sit down, chat a little bit, smile, laugh, sign a few things, and then we shake hands and part ways.
The hard part is when the district we DIDN'T CHOOSE loses track of my cub. He slips through the cracks of time and becomes just another kid with an education plan outside of their realm. If these meetings are not kept, and the IEP is allowed to expire, let's just say you DON'T want Mama Bear to get to that point. And we are almost at that point--days away, in fact.
Isaac's IEP expires the 27th. Less than a week away AND over a long holiday weekend. I was getting nervous...anxious even. I haven't received a letter or email allowing me to choose a date of a meeting. After calling various people and leaving unanswered messages for weeks now, my team at Julie Billiart had to step in and help me get information that technically, isn't their responsibility to get.
I understand everyone is under a lot of pressure. Everyone is under some sort of deadline. Every district is dealing with influxes of more and more children being diagnosed with special needs, and they are drowning in meeting state requirements and fulfilling all the paperwork on time. I get it. I do. I just need to know that you're doing SOMETHING. ANYTHING. A simple return email or call would suffice so I can at least get something on the calendar and have an option! Because of a lack of planning and insufficient foresight, I am forced to be where and when you tell me. So....
Hear this, district. Please, get your act together. I deserve at least more than a week's notice as to a meeting as important as this. Isaac deserves more than that.
When we sit down on Thursday (which is just 2 days away, and is the only time you can "fit" us in, apparently...) please don't take it personally if I don't chat in depth about how wonderfullly my son is doing, or how excellent he is in reading or math, or how "typical" he sounds. Don't take it as a sign of disrespect that I just want you to write down the services he needs and to tell me truthfully what boxes I am checking and what I am signing for or against. Be patient as I ask questions and read every paragraph, word for word. Because this is my son. You haven't met him, but if you did, you would marvel at how much he's grown and how far he's come by being at Julie Billiart, but you would also see he wouldn't fit in your classroom. I don't need to hear you tell me I'm doing a great job, because honestly, I know that. I appreciate you making time for me, even if it was down to the wire. This is just another reason why I am glad Isaac is where he is. This is my cub's life we are writing...
Keep Calm, and Mama Bear On.
But, I also need to write. So, the calm can wait. You can save your "Keep Calm and fill-in-the-blank" Brittish humor until I'm finished.
I am a Mama Bear. I love my cubs. I am protective of them in every sense of the word. I look out for every aspect of their existence, including their education. In fact, I am adamant about their schooling and what they need to thrive. I am a thankful Mama Bear because I have two wonderful, helpful, and willing schools with teachers who are driven to not only educate the minds of my cubs, but their hearts as well. However, one of my cubs has an IEP. And this means, by law, other teachers and staff who do NOT know my child are involved in planning his education as well. Once a year, we are required to sit down with a panel and discuss Isaac with people who have never met him face-to-face, to discuss his services, progress, and update any other education needs he may have for the upcoming school year. This, this is a love/hate relationship. Especially today.
Mama Bear has been poked.
Up until this point, I have had no complaints about the school district with whom I have to, by law, explain who my Isaac is from a few sheets of paper and statistics. Up until this point, I have been happy to sit in a meeting, smile, listen to teachers who have never met my son say things like, "Wow! It sounds like Isaac is doing very well!" and "He's reading at THAT level, ALREADY?" After today, I am going to have a seriously hard time biting my tongue.
In order for Isaac to get services outside of our school district of residence with his IEP (Individualized Education Plan) and to be eligible to choose where we want to send him, we are required to keep the district we DID NOT choose informed of his progress each year. This means, a meeting to update his education and therapy goals. At these meetings, teachers and therapists as well as a representative for the district we DO NOT USE present their paperwork (paperwork that is provided by Isaac's current teachers and therapists, as well as other staff who educate him at Julie Billiart). I know, it's a bit confusing and skewed, but that's the way it is. We all sit down, chat a little bit, smile, laugh, sign a few things, and then we shake hands and part ways.
The hard part is when the district we DIDN'T CHOOSE loses track of my cub. He slips through the cracks of time and becomes just another kid with an education plan outside of their realm. If these meetings are not kept, and the IEP is allowed to expire, let's just say you DON'T want Mama Bear to get to that point. And we are almost at that point--days away, in fact.
Isaac's IEP expires the 27th. Less than a week away AND over a long holiday weekend. I was getting nervous...anxious even. I haven't received a letter or email allowing me to choose a date of a meeting. After calling various people and leaving unanswered messages for weeks now, my team at Julie Billiart had to step in and help me get information that technically, isn't their responsibility to get.
I understand everyone is under a lot of pressure. Everyone is under some sort of deadline. Every district is dealing with influxes of more and more children being diagnosed with special needs, and they are drowning in meeting state requirements and fulfilling all the paperwork on time. I get it. I do. I just need to know that you're doing SOMETHING. ANYTHING. A simple return email or call would suffice so I can at least get something on the calendar and have an option! Because of a lack of planning and insufficient foresight, I am forced to be where and when you tell me. So....
Hear this, district. Please, get your act together. I deserve at least more than a week's notice as to a meeting as important as this. Isaac deserves more than that.
When we sit down on Thursday (which is just 2 days away, and is the only time you can "fit" us in, apparently...) please don't take it personally if I don't chat in depth about how wonderfullly my son is doing, or how excellent he is in reading or math, or how "typical" he sounds. Don't take it as a sign of disrespect that I just want you to write down the services he needs and to tell me truthfully what boxes I am checking and what I am signing for or against. Be patient as I ask questions and read every paragraph, word for word. Because this is my son. You haven't met him, but if you did, you would marvel at how much he's grown and how far he's come by being at Julie Billiart, but you would also see he wouldn't fit in your classroom. I don't need to hear you tell me I'm doing a great job, because honestly, I know that. I appreciate you making time for me, even if it was down to the wire. This is just another reason why I am glad Isaac is where he is. This is my cub's life we are writing...
Keep Calm, and Mama Bear On.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Without the words
The rain is pouring and before I can say "Let me grab the umbrella..." Isaac is already bounding out of the van. "Wooooohooooo!" He shouts and runs to the door of the Tai Kwon Do studio we are checking out as I am scrambling to clumsily catch up with him without looking like I am entering myself into a wet t-shirt contest. Thank you, Lord, for "April showers."
Isaac is obviously excited. So much so that he literally cannot keep still. He is hopping up and down and smiling, "Is this the place? Are we going to start? Oh! Look! A water fall!" My friend and her son are also with us to do an interview and visit for a possible new place for our boys to get involved with some summer activities through our Autism Scholarships. This place was recommended and has done a wonderful job with kids on the spectrum, and since we have funds left after schooling, we thought we would see if this place, these people, would be good fits.
I have learned that I can't just sign Isaac up into a program. It's not that easy. There is preparation involved for everyone. We need to see if the place is comfortable, the people good communicators, the ideology compliant to the way he can grow. It's also necessary to stand back and let things happen--not to force a situation. You just know when it fits. And when it doesn't.
As Isaac was bouncing rigidly and asking questions, the instructor introduced herself in a quiet, zen-like manner. Oh boy.
"Hello, Isaac, my name is-"
"HI! I'm Isaac, oh wait, you said that [giggles, bouncing up and down] soooooo is this where we practice? [runs out on the mat while instructor tries to interject] Oh, this is cool. Are we gonna fight now? [makes a fighting pose]"
The instructor looks at me, and I shrug, "He has a big brother and they...like to wrestle." Nice, Christa. I look over just in time to see Isaac touching everything--the belts displayed on the wall, the small fountain (supposedly for creating calm?), photos, you name it. He was asking non-stop questions to anyone in a 10 foot radius: "Are these your belts?" "Is this fountain always running?" "Wow! Nice swords!"
As our interview continued, Isaac could not sit still. He was spastic on the couch in the instructor's office, interrupting to ask questions like, "Is that real sand in there?" "Where did you get those shells? At the beach?" "Why do you have so many candles?" "Ooh, I like this music, it's soothing!" I struggled not to laugh and took a moment to enjoy his chattiness, even though it may not have been at the appropriate time...even though it might have been excessive. He wouldn't let her take charge of the conversation, in fact, he kept turning the questions she would ask him back on her! "What is your favorite thing to do at school, Isaac?" "Um...[he went on to list his entire day schedule, as if reading it from a memory calendar, expressively of course] What about you? What do YOU like? Oh, wait...not what you like...what do you NOT like? Yeah, what do you not like?" We didn't finish the interview because of all of Isaac's questions. Honestly, I was a little embarrassed at all the chattiness, all the moving and bouncing and inability to focus. I caught myself and threw that feeling out of the window because there is joy with many words, and there is joy without. I have known both.
Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops... at all. ~Emily Dickinson
I love words. I express with words. I understand with words. I use words as my magnifying glass, as my secret decoder, and my frying pan. Words are food to my soul, and without them to help me examine the world, I have a hard time feeling anything.
So when Isaac didn't talk, and when he struggled to use words with me, I felt...nothing. It took a long time to understand the truth of Dickinson's quote: It IS possible to find hope in the song without words. Isaac is proof of that. He was my song, seemingly written out of tune; striking dissonant chords, and then, when it seemed I couldn't handle the strain of it any longer, a resolve that made me appreciate the simple truth that some songs can be sung in another key. It doesn't mean they are wrong, just beautiful and complex in a unique way that not every one is accustomed to. .
When Isaac's words flow...no, flood, out of his mouth, I can smile and close my eyes and listen to a song, now, complete with words. And when Isaac is bouncing, joyful, hopeful, I can see his song, even without lyrics.
He will most likely not be attending the program we visited, but I am glad we did. Isaac and I were both reminded of just how much hope and poetry both our songs have. ~
Isaac is obviously excited. So much so that he literally cannot keep still. He is hopping up and down and smiling, "Is this the place? Are we going to start? Oh! Look! A water fall!" My friend and her son are also with us to do an interview and visit for a possible new place for our boys to get involved with some summer activities through our Autism Scholarships. This place was recommended and has done a wonderful job with kids on the spectrum, and since we have funds left after schooling, we thought we would see if this place, these people, would be good fits.
I have learned that I can't just sign Isaac up into a program. It's not that easy. There is preparation involved for everyone. We need to see if the place is comfortable, the people good communicators, the ideology compliant to the way he can grow. It's also necessary to stand back and let things happen--not to force a situation. You just know when it fits. And when it doesn't.
As Isaac was bouncing rigidly and asking questions, the instructor introduced herself in a quiet, zen-like manner. Oh boy.
"Hello, Isaac, my name is-"
"HI! I'm Isaac, oh wait, you said that [giggles, bouncing up and down] soooooo is this where we practice? [runs out on the mat while instructor tries to interject] Oh, this is cool. Are we gonna fight now? [makes a fighting pose]"
The instructor looks at me, and I shrug, "He has a big brother and they...like to wrestle." Nice, Christa. I look over just in time to see Isaac touching everything--the belts displayed on the wall, the small fountain (supposedly for creating calm?), photos, you name it. He was asking non-stop questions to anyone in a 10 foot radius: "Are these your belts?" "Is this fountain always running?" "Wow! Nice swords!"
As our interview continued, Isaac could not sit still. He was spastic on the couch in the instructor's office, interrupting to ask questions like, "Is that real sand in there?" "Where did you get those shells? At the beach?" "Why do you have so many candles?" "Ooh, I like this music, it's soothing!" I struggled not to laugh and took a moment to enjoy his chattiness, even though it may not have been at the appropriate time...even though it might have been excessive. He wouldn't let her take charge of the conversation, in fact, he kept turning the questions she would ask him back on her! "What is your favorite thing to do at school, Isaac?" "Um...[he went on to list his entire day schedule, as if reading it from a memory calendar, expressively of course] What about you? What do YOU like? Oh, wait...not what you like...what do you NOT like? Yeah, what do you not like?" We didn't finish the interview because of all of Isaac's questions. Honestly, I was a little embarrassed at all the chattiness, all the moving and bouncing and inability to focus. I caught myself and threw that feeling out of the window because there is joy with many words, and there is joy without. I have known both.
Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops... at all. ~Emily Dickinson
I love words. I express with words. I understand with words. I use words as my magnifying glass, as my secret decoder, and my frying pan. Words are food to my soul, and without them to help me examine the world, I have a hard time feeling anything.
So when Isaac didn't talk, and when he struggled to use words with me, I felt...nothing. It took a long time to understand the truth of Dickinson's quote: It IS possible to find hope in the song without words. Isaac is proof of that. He was my song, seemingly written out of tune; striking dissonant chords, and then, when it seemed I couldn't handle the strain of it any longer, a resolve that made me appreciate the simple truth that some songs can be sung in another key. It doesn't mean they are wrong, just beautiful and complex in a unique way that not every one is accustomed to. .
When Isaac's words flow...no, flood, out of his mouth, I can smile and close my eyes and listen to a song, now, complete with words. And when Isaac is bouncing, joyful, hopeful, I can see his song, even without lyrics.
He will most likely not be attending the program we visited, but I am glad we did. Isaac and I were both reminded of just how much hope and poetry both our songs have. ~
 |
| Isaac, singing a song without words |
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
little car, BIG deal
It's an unexpected day off for Isaac. Last night, he had terrible dreams that kept him awake from 3 am to a half an hour before it would have been his usual time to get up for school. I knew it would be senseless to send him exhausted, so we have had the day together (after he slept for quite a while). After thanking me profusely for letting him stay home, I told him I had plans for the day. "Where are we going?" he said a little perturbed. He already had plans of his own to play Disney Infinity for...well, infinity. "I have a morning coffee date planned with Miss Melanie, so you can come and play with Autumn while we're there." This appeased him.
The time with my dear friend was lovely--the two kids played well, and shared some coffee cake. When it was time to leave, Isaac had found two Hot Wheels cars that he hadn't had a chance to play with. I asked him to please help clean up so we can go home for lunch. Hugs, thanks, and a few laughs later, and we were in the van, making the 10 minute drive home. (Praise God for friends near and dear to my heart, and my house!)
Nonchalantly, Isaac pulls a tiny purple toy sports car from his coat pocket. I watch him inspect it in the rear view mirror. "Buddy...what's that?" I ask. "Mom, it's the car I liked! Isn't it awesome!?" For just a second I was about to respond with a "yeah it is!" or "wow, it's SO awesome!" but instead, I asked a more serious question. "Isaac, did you ask if you could take that car with you?"
The van went silent. I watched his face dim as he held the car up closely to his face to inspect each detail, the miniature chrome finish shining and beckoning him to play..."No...I didn't ask."
If there is one thing I cherish (and there are many) I think one of the most beautiful of Isaac's is his honesty. Perhaps that will change as he grows, but for me, it's a glistening part of his character that I desire to polish to a brilliance, not unlike that of his pilfered toy car.
As much as I could have let it slide...just said, "you know we don't take things without asking" and then continued to let him play with the car...I knew I couldn't. I had to use this opportunity to do one of the most difficult and trying and sometimes painful jobs of parenting--instruct and discipline.
I asked Isaac to hand me the car at the next red light. When we stopped, he looked at me, and then the car, and slowly handed it over. "Mom, can I have it back?" His lower lip began to quiver. I took a breath in through my nose and shook my head, "No, buddy. Do you know why?" His eyes filled with tears and he began swiping his face to prevent them from spilling over (Isaac has a sensory disdain for tears on his face--he just doesn't like to cry or deal with others crying). This made me feel sick to my stomach, but I knew it was a lesson we were already knee-deep into, so I needed to keep going.
He blinked feverishly and said, "Because I took it without asking." "Right." I said, softly. "And that is stealing, buddy. When you take something that doesn't belong to you without asking, that's stealing." Now, at that point, as a mom of a child who has special needs (and, frankly, as a mom in general!), I started arguing with myself--he doesn't quite understand...don't be hard on him...it's okay, just give him the car and let him be happy and smiling like his usual self again. Life is hard enough for him. The rebuttal: But am I, as a parent, honoring God's desire for me to train up my son in the attributes of His character and to teach him that choices have consequences? By giving in and not teaching him, am I making life harder for him in the long run? Isaac is smart. He knows and understands more than I think. I would do him a disservice by denying him the freedom to learn and understand. Isaac needs to experience and recall...no matter how much I want to keep him from that in a scenario such as this. NO, I told myself...this little toy car is a big deal.
Isaac put his head in his hands in the backseat, and he began to sob. I realized, I didn't need to yell or lecture. I let the heart do it's work. "I'm so sorry, Isaac, but I am going to keep the car until we can return it to Miss Melanie's house, okay?" He didn't look at me in the mirror like he usually did when we were having a talk. In fact, at the next stop light, I turned around and asked him to look at me. He picked his head up and said, "if you don't give me the car back, then you're being a really mean mom." Ouch. I smiled at him with grace, "Oh buddy, if I DID give you the car back I would be a SUPER mean mom." "Why?" He said between sniffs. "Because my job as your Mommy is to love and teach you and at times, discipline you...even though it hurts my heart." Isaac looked up at me and said, "It hurts you?" "Yes, it hurts me, because I want to give the car back to you, but I know that's not the lesson that you need to learn--you need to understand that when you steal, you break a rule, and there are consequences. This is a bad consequence." We went over that big word again and what it meant...how he would feel when someone stole a car from him...but the tears still flowed. I was glad we pulled into the driveway then, so I could jump out, swallow the giant lump in my throat, open the door and pull him into my arms and hold him and tell him gently that I loved him and God SO much, and that's why I am a "mean" mom sometimes.
After a long time of holding him, wiping his tears, and going over the essentials of why stealing is something that breaks God's heart and hurts others...his face was splotchy and red, but I had held it together. I hadn't given in, I hadn't turned back. I had pushed through because I love Isaac, and know that my Heavenly Father loves him even more. We prayed together, asking God to forgive and help Isaac next time to make a better choice. I knew Isaac understood. He felt it in his core. And when we deal with this again (which I am positive we will) we have a memory to go back to. And he will probably remember the exact date and time, because in addition to his honesty, he's a walking calendar.
Loving means sacrificing. It means doing things that are uncomfortable, things that often portray you as the "bad guy" or "mean mom." Why am I okay with that? Because I know the result of teaching and training--it will produce obedience in love with respect. I am building trust not only between myself and my son, but between him and the God who is a merciful, loving, yet strict disciplinarian. A dichotomy that today, for this mommy, made sense. I know in my heart of hearts it did for Isaac too.
Lesson passed.
The time with my dear friend was lovely--the two kids played well, and shared some coffee cake. When it was time to leave, Isaac had found two Hot Wheels cars that he hadn't had a chance to play with. I asked him to please help clean up so we can go home for lunch. Hugs, thanks, and a few laughs later, and we were in the van, making the 10 minute drive home. (Praise God for friends near and dear to my heart, and my house!)
Nonchalantly, Isaac pulls a tiny purple toy sports car from his coat pocket. I watch him inspect it in the rear view mirror. "Buddy...what's that?" I ask. "Mom, it's the car I liked! Isn't it awesome!?" For just a second I was about to respond with a "yeah it is!" or "wow, it's SO awesome!" but instead, I asked a more serious question. "Isaac, did you ask if you could take that car with you?"
The van went silent. I watched his face dim as he held the car up closely to his face to inspect each detail, the miniature chrome finish shining and beckoning him to play..."No...I didn't ask."
If there is one thing I cherish (and there are many) I think one of the most beautiful of Isaac's is his honesty. Perhaps that will change as he grows, but for me, it's a glistening part of his character that I desire to polish to a brilliance, not unlike that of his pilfered toy car.
As much as I could have let it slide...just said, "you know we don't take things without asking" and then continued to let him play with the car...I knew I couldn't. I had to use this opportunity to do one of the most difficult and trying and sometimes painful jobs of parenting--instruct and discipline.
I asked Isaac to hand me the car at the next red light. When we stopped, he looked at me, and then the car, and slowly handed it over. "Mom, can I have it back?" His lower lip began to quiver. I took a breath in through my nose and shook my head, "No, buddy. Do you know why?" His eyes filled with tears and he began swiping his face to prevent them from spilling over (Isaac has a sensory disdain for tears on his face--he just doesn't like to cry or deal with others crying). This made me feel sick to my stomach, but I knew it was a lesson we were already knee-deep into, so I needed to keep going.
He blinked feverishly and said, "Because I took it without asking." "Right." I said, softly. "And that is stealing, buddy. When you take something that doesn't belong to you without asking, that's stealing." Now, at that point, as a mom of a child who has special needs (and, frankly, as a mom in general!), I started arguing with myself--he doesn't quite understand...don't be hard on him...it's okay, just give him the car and let him be happy and smiling like his usual self again. Life is hard enough for him. The rebuttal: But am I, as a parent, honoring God's desire for me to train up my son in the attributes of His character and to teach him that choices have consequences? By giving in and not teaching him, am I making life harder for him in the long run? Isaac is smart. He knows and understands more than I think. I would do him a disservice by denying him the freedom to learn and understand. Isaac needs to experience and recall...no matter how much I want to keep him from that in a scenario such as this. NO, I told myself...this little toy car is a big deal.
Isaac put his head in his hands in the backseat, and he began to sob. I realized, I didn't need to yell or lecture. I let the heart do it's work. "I'm so sorry, Isaac, but I am going to keep the car until we can return it to Miss Melanie's house, okay?" He didn't look at me in the mirror like he usually did when we were having a talk. In fact, at the next stop light, I turned around and asked him to look at me. He picked his head up and said, "if you don't give me the car back, then you're being a really mean mom." Ouch. I smiled at him with grace, "Oh buddy, if I DID give you the car back I would be a SUPER mean mom." "Why?" He said between sniffs. "Because my job as your Mommy is to love and teach you and at times, discipline you...even though it hurts my heart." Isaac looked up at me and said, "It hurts you?" "Yes, it hurts me, because I want to give the car back to you, but I know that's not the lesson that you need to learn--you need to understand that when you steal, you break a rule, and there are consequences. This is a bad consequence." We went over that big word again and what it meant...how he would feel when someone stole a car from him...but the tears still flowed. I was glad we pulled into the driveway then, so I could jump out, swallow the giant lump in my throat, open the door and pull him into my arms and hold him and tell him gently that I loved him and God SO much, and that's why I am a "mean" mom sometimes.
After a long time of holding him, wiping his tears, and going over the essentials of why stealing is something that breaks God's heart and hurts others...his face was splotchy and red, but I had held it together. I hadn't given in, I hadn't turned back. I had pushed through because I love Isaac, and know that my Heavenly Father loves him even more. We prayed together, asking God to forgive and help Isaac next time to make a better choice. I knew Isaac understood. He felt it in his core. And when we deal with this again (which I am positive we will) we have a memory to go back to. And he will probably remember the exact date and time, because in addition to his honesty, he's a walking calendar.
Loving means sacrificing. It means doing things that are uncomfortable, things that often portray you as the "bad guy" or "mean mom." Why am I okay with that? Because I know the result of teaching and training--it will produce obedience in love with respect. I am building trust not only between myself and my son, but between him and the God who is a merciful, loving, yet strict disciplinarian. A dichotomy that today, for this mommy, made sense. I know in my heart of hearts it did for Isaac too.
Lesson passed.
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