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.  :-)

Ethan and Isaac, taking shortcuts together since 2006
(look how LITTLE they were!?)

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.

my little lover 

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.