Today I was accused of being a troll. Really not a big deal, I've been called far worse in far more polite forums. What bothered be about this was the context of said name calling. It was a reply log to an article about something exceptionally close to my heart. A 3 year old boy with autism who was subjected to a 5 hours ride from his school to his home; a trip that would usually take his parents 20 minutes. A dear friend of mine posted his own scathing article; well written, composed (considering the subject matter, he is al so a parent of a son with autism.) Along with the usual platitudes, "Oh my GOD.....That's horrific......if that was my child," I could easily pin point those with children with Autism and special needs comments.
Then, there were the others
You see, I have been spoiled. I am in a private group for parents of children with Autism. I have several face book and twitter friends and followers who just get it. I have cut out all those that are cruel, or refuse to learn or understand.
Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Monday, October 20, 2014
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
When Jacob asks!
When your 4 year old son decides in a fit of rage his best recourse is to attempt to break the body of an acoustic guitar over your back, his cries are suddenly heard loud and clear. At the time I was in reactionary mode; I didn't hear that muffled cry, embedded in the splintered case and sprung strings. I heard the dampened echos of something alright, but his cries were still crouched in the nonverbal corner of his autism. It was enough, it was the clearest he'd been since those first screams of afterbirth.
I sloughed off well meaning relatives, doctors and friends and he and I took that first step together. My justified fear carried me through the next few days; I blocked out the world, it's criticism, advice and judgement. Jacob and I took that broad step together into the realm of pediatric psychiatry.
He couldn't tell me much, his action with the guitar had said enough though. Eight years on and last week Jacob expressed an interest in his own medication regiment. After eight years of speaking for him, I both relieved and reluctant allowed that red headed chatterbox speak for himself. He asked to stop.
Who am I to say no? Three days in and weaned off his main mood stabilizer we wait. The wait is different now, because Jacob asked.
I sloughed off well meaning relatives, doctors and friends and he and I took that first step together. My justified fear carried me through the next few days; I blocked out the world, it's criticism, advice and judgement. Jacob and I took that broad step together into the realm of pediatric psychiatry.
He couldn't tell me much, his action with the guitar had said enough though. Eight years on and last week Jacob expressed an interest in his own medication regiment. After eight years of speaking for him, I both relieved and reluctant allowed that red headed chatterbox speak for himself. He asked to stop.
Who am I to say no? Three days in and weaned off his main mood stabilizer we wait. The wait is different now, because Jacob asked.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
When My Well Is Empty
Unfortunately I don't write about the everyday things that would warrant a daily, weekly or even biweekly experience. The Island of Autism and special needs is far more mundane than you think. You see, us parents, teachers, leaders, go out of our way to try to make everything the same. Changes in schedules, glitches in an everyday habit can throw our children and thus ourselves into a meltdown, anxiety attack or even as tonight proved a few flipped chairs, slammed doors and irrational yelling.
I sense you are either nodding or curious. While tantrumming over a negative response Hannah flipped chairs, by "accident," Jacob interfered with everyone's personal space and screeched for about 30 minutes, John declared he needed space and locked his door, (the sanest of all reactions).
Slammed doors? Oh, that would be me. Irritable and snappy, that would be me too. It was a long few weeks and today when school was out I was effectively on essential mode. If you know Maslow's Hierarchy of needs I was pretty much at the base two tiers of the pyramid, although you can snip out the sex bit ;)
http://two.not2.org/psychosynthesis/articles/maslow.htm
My children would be of course given food, water, shelter, clothing and security. Basically I was down to my absolute last enth of an ebb. Of course you tell that to a child. Now tell that to a child with hypersensitivity, hyper anxiety, hyper activity, and basically a need to treat your (meaning my) physical body like a lamp and they are the moth. The more I pleaded for space, the more my two sensory seekers sought me out. It wasn't anything mean either, just a need to feel loved, wanted, understood, held. Still, by the evening I had nothing left in my personal well to give. Even me, (and I know many close special needs parents can avow to this) was empty.My well was empty.
When this happens I simply need space, as simple as sitting on a bath tub with a locked door for 20 minutes; yet even then the fingers slid around under the door gap asking "Mommy...where are you!" I found time to go walk for 30 minutes, I arrived back to hysterics as to where I had been even though they had an adult with them. We were now in full fledged Autism and anxiety. This continued all night in flurries and clouds of moments. I flitted from crisis to crisis, like a ladybird with one wing. When I felt we were all finally settled, out of nowhere I was asked something actually quite neurotypical, I don't remember what it was, most probably something simple and easy. Yet my well was still empty. I stormed down the hall, slammed a door, heard a picture frame crash on the ground and fumed quietly to myself. Of course later I emerged and found my little girl playing with stickers. I apologized and she hugged me no matter what.
Isn't is comical, we deal with the special needs as best we can, maybe irritant and grumpily when overwhelmed, but after that a typical child request just edges us into slamming doors and fractured picture frames?! But, what a hug, and I know I didn't earn it.
I sense you are either nodding or curious. While tantrumming over a negative response Hannah flipped chairs, by "accident," Jacob interfered with everyone's personal space and screeched for about 30 minutes, John declared he needed space and locked his door, (the sanest of all reactions).
Slammed doors? Oh, that would be me. Irritable and snappy, that would be me too. It was a long few weeks and today when school was out I was effectively on essential mode. If you know Maslow's Hierarchy of needs I was pretty much at the base two tiers of the pyramid, although you can snip out the sex bit ;)
http://two.not2.org/psychosynthesis/articles/maslow.htm
My children would be of course given food, water, shelter, clothing and security. Basically I was down to my absolute last enth of an ebb. Of course you tell that to a child. Now tell that to a child with hypersensitivity, hyper anxiety, hyper activity, and basically a need to treat your (meaning my) physical body like a lamp and they are the moth. The more I pleaded for space, the more my two sensory seekers sought me out. It wasn't anything mean either, just a need to feel loved, wanted, understood, held. Still, by the evening I had nothing left in my personal well to give. Even me, (and I know many close special needs parents can avow to this) was empty.My well was empty.
When this happens I simply need space, as simple as sitting on a bath tub with a locked door for 20 minutes; yet even then the fingers slid around under the door gap asking "Mommy...where are you!" I found time to go walk for 30 minutes, I arrived back to hysterics as to where I had been even though they had an adult with them. We were now in full fledged Autism and anxiety. This continued all night in flurries and clouds of moments. I flitted from crisis to crisis, like a ladybird with one wing. When I felt we were all finally settled, out of nowhere I was asked something actually quite neurotypical, I don't remember what it was, most probably something simple and easy. Yet my well was still empty. I stormed down the hall, slammed a door, heard a picture frame crash on the ground and fumed quietly to myself. Of course later I emerged and found my little girl playing with stickers. I apologized and she hugged me no matter what.
Isn't is comical, we deal with the special needs as best we can, maybe irritant and grumpily when overwhelmed, but after that a typical child request just edges us into slamming doors and fractured picture frames?! But, what a hug, and I know I didn't earn it.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Too able to be disabled
A dear friend pointed out to me I hadn't blogged in a while. This is true. There's no real deep reason why, honestly I've been busy. School ended about 6 weeks ago and it's incumbent on me to tell you my children are too able to be allowed extended school year yet too disabled to attend day camp. The boys, now 12 and 9 did attend a special needs day camp for a week. They have gone there there there last few years. Hannah is in a different realm, she is too able to be disabled for sure. However, she also hugs the edge of Neurotypical enough so she craves friendship and interaction openly. I took a risk and enrolled her the same week in the day camp for typical children her age. I mean, it was a week. What on earth could happen?
Never ask such questions.
Cue one broken wrist through two bones and a cast from her thumb to her armpit. The boys both declared they hate their camp and never want to return. So, yep, I'm a tad overwhelmed. In the interim, all three are doing their best to disembowel each other, I have applied to nursing school and roll the fuck on school ....for us....all!!!
Never ask such questions.
Cue one broken wrist through two bones and a cast from her thumb to her armpit. The boys both declared they hate their camp and never want to return. So, yep, I'm a tad overwhelmed. In the interim, all three are doing their best to disembowel each other, I have applied to nursing school and roll the fuck on school ....for us....all!!!
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Autism in the mirror
Jacob stormed through the door yesterday, stomped up the six steps to the living room, slumped in a heap on the sofa. His face was screwed up in frustrated annoyance. First words out of his mouth, "I'm tired of people who don't want to understand my autism!" As the parent, you have to think of the two worlds I inhabited at that moment. The one where I wanted to find the bastard that made my boy feel this way, and the one where I was doing a mental and emotional dance that Jacob was finally articulating his feelings with autism.
I learned several years ago to delve in with a plethora of questions only confuses and separates from the experience. I was folding laundry, looked nonplussed, "Oh yeah, did something happen?" My hands were folding, my mind was in an origami of worry and anticipation.
There is a boy on the school bus, he quizzed Jacob about his Autism. Said boy also shared his 'college' level reading level and his 'genius' with genetics. Of course my literal Autie heard this and swallowed it whole.
Nothing impresses Jacob more than an exceptional knowledge of Marvel Heroes, Pirates, Star Wars and what the actual term "Google" means, than a clever peer. I doubt this child was "clever" in the way Jacob perceived; however, I knew Jake needed to believe it.
Jacob went on to tell me how he tried to explain autism to this boy. He compared it to brains being wired differently, that it can not be outgrown and there are many people with Autism in their older years who still can not find a way to connect and fit in. Apparently College boy demanded "but you could TRY to be more normal." It was Jacob's response that stopped my folding. "Well, what is normal? No thanks I like my autism."
He burst through the door, angry, frustrated, perplexed and agitated, not because College boy judged him, but he wasn't willing to listen to him. Now who is the one enveloped with "the notion of morbid self absorbsion?"
I learned several years ago to delve in with a plethora of questions only confuses and separates from the experience. I was folding laundry, looked nonplussed, "Oh yeah, did something happen?" My hands were folding, my mind was in an origami of worry and anticipation.
There is a boy on the school bus, he quizzed Jacob about his Autism. Said boy also shared his 'college' level reading level and his 'genius' with genetics. Of course my literal Autie heard this and swallowed it whole.
Nothing impresses Jacob more than an exceptional knowledge of Marvel Heroes, Pirates, Star Wars and what the actual term "Google" means, than a clever peer. I doubt this child was "clever" in the way Jacob perceived; however, I knew Jake needed to believe it.
Jacob went on to tell me how he tried to explain autism to this boy. He compared it to brains being wired differently, that it can not be outgrown and there are many people with Autism in their older years who still can not find a way to connect and fit in. Apparently College boy demanded "but you could TRY to be more normal." It was Jacob's response that stopped my folding. "Well, what is normal? No thanks I like my autism."
He burst through the door, angry, frustrated, perplexed and agitated, not because College boy judged him, but he wasn't willing to listen to him. Now who is the one enveloped with "the notion of morbid self absorbsion?"
Friday, May 11, 2012
My Invisible Disability!
I have spent so much time and well forged energy allowing my children a space to have a safe space to have their needs, typical or otherwise center stage. In fact none of them are really aware I blog about them; the good, the bad and the ever so often ugly. I have not I realize shared my story in the realm of invisible disabilities. It actually started at birth. I was born with a congenial cataract. It was no one's fault, in fact when I realize what could have developed a single cataract seems fabulous. Yes, I has a cloudy, gammy eye for a few years. A few surgeries later, ok, four, it's as good as it gets. Perhaps another surgery on the horizon, but nothing major. Just can't be drafted into the army.....dammit!!
I am fairly sure I was an undiagnosed ADHD child/student. I suspect those who know me as a child ,or teen or a relative are chuckling knowingly right about now. Of course meds were minimal to non existent where I was raised. Still, I found a way through a college education. I emigrated, married, had my three special needs kids; they and their needs consumed me. Well, they had to, I was their only voice for so long. I was diagnosed with low B12 and I am receiving B12 shots.
Which brings me to today. The last 8 months, maybe even a year I have been plagued with these bizarre seizure like episodes. To the outsider, they appear mild. I glaze over and within' minutes I simply have to lay down. I know by the time I lay down I will fall asleep. This is not optional, there is now way to keep me awake. I sleep between 45 minutes and two hours. It's a dead sleep, no dreams, no outside noise penetrates.
My GP suggested I just avoid the foods that triggers these episodes. However, that is easier said than done. I don't know a trigger until I collapse. The only beneficial help has been an all vegetarian dirt. Once I introduce fats, carbs and especially meat protein, it's Goodnight! Tonight, I ate fried chicken. I had avoided meat for weeks. I was in a bind and had to eat something. Made it home and within thirty minutes I seized and was in the deepest sleep you could imagine. I am becoming quite ticked that my GP won't listen to me. "Avoiding" trigger foods is NOT my idea of finding the most important answer....why?
I am fairly sure I was an undiagnosed ADHD child/student. I suspect those who know me as a child ,or teen or a relative are chuckling knowingly right about now. Of course meds were minimal to non existent where I was raised. Still, I found a way through a college education. I emigrated, married, had my three special needs kids; they and their needs consumed me. Well, they had to, I was their only voice for so long. I was diagnosed with low B12 and I am receiving B12 shots.
Which brings me to today. The last 8 months, maybe even a year I have been plagued with these bizarre seizure like episodes. To the outsider, they appear mild. I glaze over and within' minutes I simply have to lay down. I know by the time I lay down I will fall asleep. This is not optional, there is now way to keep me awake. I sleep between 45 minutes and two hours. It's a dead sleep, no dreams, no outside noise penetrates.
My GP suggested I just avoid the foods that triggers these episodes. However, that is easier said than done. I don't know a trigger until I collapse. The only beneficial help has been an all vegetarian dirt. Once I introduce fats, carbs and especially meat protein, it's Goodnight! Tonight, I ate fried chicken. I had avoided meat for weeks. I was in a bind and had to eat something. Made it home and within thirty minutes I seized and was in the deepest sleep you could imagine. I am becoming quite ticked that my GP won't listen to me. "Avoiding" trigger foods is NOT my idea of finding the most important answer....why?
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
When typical gets a techie push
Jacob (12) begged for a phone the last few months. I held off for all the normal parental worries, he's more vulnerable, what's the point, he has no real friends, he's not tech savvy enough. I was right about not having immediate peers (for now) to text, but it hasn't stopped him communicating with me via text the last three days.
In fact, I am amazed at his ability to check spelling, grammar, punctuation and the fact his text's are a right gas (Irish for a giggle). He is my highly verbal Autie that struggles so hard at getting his thoughts from his brain to his oral features. His frustration so evident when his message is misinterpreted or brushed off. I could easily say I have communicated more with my 12 year old via text than verbally the last 3 days than ever. As such I have upped his texts to 500 for $5.00. I am thoroughly enjoying this new side of Jacob, and love him asking me something as simple as he is on the bus home, he loves me but I shouldn't sat say I do in front of his friends. His Last text , "On bus home...oh and please don't call me love." Of course I replied "Ok hunny, bunny boo." His response "Ok, you can call me love." Now, how typical 12 year old boy is that???
Today was a GREAT DAY!!!
In fact, I am amazed at his ability to check spelling, grammar, punctuation and the fact his text's are a right gas (Irish for a giggle). He is my highly verbal Autie that struggles so hard at getting his thoughts from his brain to his oral features. His frustration so evident when his message is misinterpreted or brushed off. I could easily say I have communicated more with my 12 year old via text than verbally the last 3 days than ever. As such I have upped his texts to 500 for $5.00. I am thoroughly enjoying this new side of Jacob, and love him asking me something as simple as he is on the bus home, he loves me but I shouldn't sat say I do in front of his friends. His Last text , "On bus home...oh and please don't call me love." Of course I replied "Ok hunny, bunny boo." His response "Ok, you can call me love." Now, how typical 12 year old boy is that???
Today was a GREAT DAY!!!
Friday, May 4, 2012
That cup is half...no it's empty!
I started following a few blogs, twitter and facebok pages recently as April was Autism awareness month. For the most part I found a great deal of supportive and real life "Aha" experiences. However, I also found a great deal of those that posted how they wouldn't change their children or family member's one iota. This got me thinking, in fact it got me soul searching.
Of course I know and accept my children (Jacob-12, ASD, BP, ADHD, etc etc; Cormac-8, Aspergers, SPD, etc etc; Hannah-5, Adhd, SPD) are perfect as they are as that is the way they are made....hard wired so to speak. I was left thinking. My two boys really, I mean REALLY struggle with peer interactions. Neither have "friends" outside of school relationships and even then it's heavily patrolled and orchestrated by a wonderful school.
However, the pressure is on by the Autie world at large to accept them to the point that I push away all else. I'm not sure I can, in fact I know I can't. Of course I embrace their unique perspective on the world; I learn more than any Professor with a Phd some days, just during dinner. However, I also catch their pain, their loneliness, their isolation. Some days, like today, when my cup has been mentally and emotionally drained I am guilty of snapping, pushing away and after I calm down feeling like a complete failure.
I know tomorrow my cup will be full again, I will accept and embrace again, but please no one judge me because when it's empty I just need some space, a break, or even a dumb joke on twitter. Autism is a double edged sword.
Of course I know and accept my children (Jacob-12, ASD, BP, ADHD, etc etc; Cormac-8, Aspergers, SPD, etc etc; Hannah-5, Adhd, SPD) are perfect as they are as that is the way they are made....hard wired so to speak. I was left thinking. My two boys really, I mean REALLY struggle with peer interactions. Neither have "friends" outside of school relationships and even then it's heavily patrolled and orchestrated by a wonderful school.
However, the pressure is on by the Autie world at large to accept them to the point that I push away all else. I'm not sure I can, in fact I know I can't. Of course I embrace their unique perspective on the world; I learn more than any Professor with a Phd some days, just during dinner. However, I also catch their pain, their loneliness, their isolation. Some days, like today, when my cup has been mentally and emotionally drained I am guilty of snapping, pushing away and after I calm down feeling like a complete failure.
I know tomorrow my cup will be full again, I will accept and embrace again, but please no one judge me because when it's empty I just need some space, a break, or even a dumb joke on twitter. Autism is a double edged sword.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Autism Day.....same as yesterday!
April 2nd was Autism Awareness Day. I had grand notions of links and diatribes, explanations, moving stories and emotive words. I had my blue light bulb. I was poised, ready. I was about to tell you all about the enormity, the dignity and the need to pay attention. Then I awoke.
Screams, hollers, toilet paper strewn around the house, demands for hot dogs for breakfast and oppositional defiance that makes a rock look argumentative. Out of control hyperactivity, little bodies squeezing me so hard it was beyond a hug and my kidney's were texting me to be donated. As a sensory introvert, you may as well scrape those nails on the chalk board already. In fact, I spent the ensuing hours playing zone defense; tag team is not just a sports analogy you know. Somewhere in the middle one of the unholy trinity made it to therapy. It was a miracle anyone was fed today.
This is not everyday, however it's not an unusual day for me. I can handle the large hurdles like Atlas, shoulder it and muddle on. It's the little things that tear me down, like muscle torn with each overextended stretch. The need to be more than parent, provider and caregiver. It's when I have to be Father as well as Mother, when I have to be confident, best friend, play mate, punching bag and the most hated thing on the planet. Most hated, because I love them so much I can say "No!" and stick to it. Yes, sound like Neurotypical parenthood, doesn't it? Now add the bubbles to the bath water. That's autism, your typical world, effervescent, hissing, bubbling and frothing.
Aware! Oh yes, I am aware, I have been aware for about 12 years now. I am extremely aware that tomorrow my 8 year old son, officially diagnosed with Autism this year has to be sedated completely for a small filling. That's $400 of awareness with dental insurance. Autism is not aware, it is heedless. It's agenda is blinkered and unrelenting. To be aware is something, to battle the heedless is noble and ironically also relentless.
Screams, hollers, toilet paper strewn around the house, demands for hot dogs for breakfast and oppositional defiance that makes a rock look argumentative. Out of control hyperactivity, little bodies squeezing me so hard it was beyond a hug and my kidney's were texting me to be donated. As a sensory introvert, you may as well scrape those nails on the chalk board already. In fact, I spent the ensuing hours playing zone defense; tag team is not just a sports analogy you know. Somewhere in the middle one of the unholy trinity made it to therapy. It was a miracle anyone was fed today.
This is not everyday, however it's not an unusual day for me. I can handle the large hurdles like Atlas, shoulder it and muddle on. It's the little things that tear me down, like muscle torn with each overextended stretch. The need to be more than parent, provider and caregiver. It's when I have to be Father as well as Mother, when I have to be confident, best friend, play mate, punching bag and the most hated thing on the planet. Most hated, because I love them so much I can say "No!" and stick to it. Yes, sound like Neurotypical parenthood, doesn't it? Now add the bubbles to the bath water. That's autism, your typical world, effervescent, hissing, bubbling and frothing.
Aware! Oh yes, I am aware, I have been aware for about 12 years now. I am extremely aware that tomorrow my 8 year old son, officially diagnosed with Autism this year has to be sedated completely for a small filling. That's $400 of awareness with dental insurance. Autism is not aware, it is heedless. It's agenda is blinkered and unrelenting. To be aware is something, to battle the heedless is noble and ironically also relentless.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Race of Autism
Dearest Jacob, today you caught me off guard, the way a sleeping soldier, snoozing against his wall in peacetime is suddenly jolted awake with horns and the rushing tide of the shouts of fear and unpreparedness. There I was watching the beginning of my sports show that comes from the UK. As usual, I only focus on the first 12 or so minutes, once it gets to rugby, golf and cricket it's already been deleted. There you were, slumped on the couch, I was casting my eye and ears between something 'terribly important' on the internet and half taking in the initial headlines of said sport show.
The commentators spat the headlines and updates out like a fiery geyser, attempting to rev up their unknown audience. I paid minimal attention as I awaited to hear of my football team (soccer you irreverent lot ;). Liverpool had battered Everton in the Liverpool Derby and I was eager to see the highlights and the interviews. I turned my head to the screen. You asked a question; I heard you speak but not your words. Frustrated, I asked what you said.
"Why does that man speak with a British accent Mom?"
I look to see a non UK player on the screen. No one there but the sports anchor and his co anchor.
"Who love?"
"The man in the suit......is he faking an English accent?"
"The man on the left?"
"Yes."
"Why would you think he shouldn't have an English accent hun?"
"But he doesn't look English....."
I knew immediately why Jacob asked this innocent question, although I struggled with my immediate response. The Sports anchor was black. I inhaled my mortification in a single breath and turned to my son.
"How many black people in America have an American accent?"
"All of them Mom."
"How many white Americans do you feel have an American accent love?"
"About half."
"I mean not including Latino's hun."
"Oh, then, most."
"How many white people in England do you feel have an English accent?"
"Well all....duh..."
"OK, how many Black people in England have an English accent sweetie?"
Jacob's little face scrunched up, his head tilted like it always does when he is struggling with a quandary. "Well, none. There are no black people in England!!"
My heart snagged on emotional muscle tissue, it tore and spotted blood on my ego. I was stunned into silence. I have always prided myself on being a pretty liberal, left winger. I assumed' my children were absorbing my openness by how we lived our lives and by daily family cultural osmosis. However, add to that Jacob's brain is not wired like yours or mine. His autism and our coexistence of almost 12 years had me fooled into believing I was in step with his cultural understanding.
He and I talked a bit about people speaking languages with accents and no matter their skin color it was based on their country and their upbringing. I could see he understood the concept but in his mind he was shaking his neurological head. It's time Jacob met the country that gave birth to his translucent Mom, and be exposed to all of Ireland and Britain. We are all now mixed race and inclusion, regardless of our accents. How nice though, to deal with race based on accent and not necessarily pigmentation. Autism is a gift.
The commentators spat the headlines and updates out like a fiery geyser, attempting to rev up their unknown audience. I paid minimal attention as I awaited to hear of my football team (soccer you irreverent lot ;). Liverpool had battered Everton in the Liverpool Derby and I was eager to see the highlights and the interviews. I turned my head to the screen. You asked a question; I heard you speak but not your words. Frustrated, I asked what you said.
"Why does that man speak with a British accent Mom?"
I look to see a non UK player on the screen. No one there but the sports anchor and his co anchor.
"Who love?"
"The man in the suit......is he faking an English accent?"
"The man on the left?"
"Yes."
"Why would you think he shouldn't have an English accent hun?"
"But he doesn't look English....."
I knew immediately why Jacob asked this innocent question, although I struggled with my immediate response. The Sports anchor was black. I inhaled my mortification in a single breath and turned to my son.
"How many black people in America have an American accent?"
"All of them Mom."
"How many white Americans do you feel have an American accent love?"
"About half."
"I mean not including Latino's hun."
"Oh, then, most."
"How many white people in England do you feel have an English accent?"
"Well all....duh..."
"OK, how many Black people in England have an English accent sweetie?"
Jacob's little face scrunched up, his head tilted like it always does when he is struggling with a quandary. "Well, none. There are no black people in England!!"
My heart snagged on emotional muscle tissue, it tore and spotted blood on my ego. I was stunned into silence. I have always prided myself on being a pretty liberal, left winger. I assumed' my children were absorbing my openness by how we lived our lives and by daily family cultural osmosis. However, add to that Jacob's brain is not wired like yours or mine. His autism and our coexistence of almost 12 years had me fooled into believing I was in step with his cultural understanding.
He and I talked a bit about people speaking languages with accents and no matter their skin color it was based on their country and their upbringing. I could see he understood the concept but in his mind he was shaking his neurological head. It's time Jacob met the country that gave birth to his translucent Mom, and be exposed to all of Ireland and Britain. We are all now mixed race and inclusion, regardless of our accents. How nice though, to deal with race based on accent and not necessarily pigmentation. Autism is a gift.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Chosen
I remember my Mother commenting on how the babies we bear, whether to term or not choose their life's start, in a sense choose their family. It seemed a wonderfully easy and ethereal plane to believe in, especially as a young woman, not yet to achieve that state of pregnancy and motherhood. In the Bible, most especially the Talmud, the Hall of Souls is known as The Guf.
"The mystical significance of The Guf is that each person is important and has a unique role which they, with their unique soul, can fulfill. Even a newborn brings the Messiah closer simply by being born."
Such a perception and belief is comforting, knowing every soul born is a rock across the tumultuous river that we pivot and slip upon to reach the "Messiah." Of course this is probably only so if one believes in the concreteness of the bible and /or the Talmud. As an older child and a teenager these mystical concepts fed me like a spiritual milk. I was so desperate to believe in a reasoning for why certain children are born with needs beyond the everyday, or why someone I knew was suddenly not "themselves" after a car wreck or a medical procedure. Even as young as my mid teens I had a deep draw to those around me with special needs, or as I now call them, needs. I can not explain it and I gave up a long time ago attempting to pin down why. That is and maybe truly beyond me, that's ok too. Not everything, including intuition or perception needs scientific swordsmanship.
Having said as much, I have been struggling with something beyond my comprehension. After years of catechism, a lapse, an extended involvement with the Episcopal Church, I have finally found my peace with the belief there is no built gathering of stepping stones, straight and pointed across that river of spiritualism. It is for so many a teetering balancing act, with limbs outstretched, waving, gripping their rocks; calling every mossy slip "God's will," or "faith's challenge."
Parenting my children, the ones with "needs," I skipped across the same stones and green, glassy rocks for so long. I could only see the next stone, the whitening rage or mild circular flow of the river that day. I kept looking down, fearful, what if I fall? Will my lungs with their heaviness and the Guf would be one less original soul? When I think back to my Mother's original epiphany, she was and is by no means a religious enforcer. She is attune with the Earth and understands the water. She has, within' her own rocks and river found a quiet peace in the midst of the torrent.
At times, when it's quiet or when my childrens' needs conquer an unimaginable milestone, I question if they chose me from The Guf.
I have watched my Mother, with a cocked head and an inquisitive eye for years now. How does she live midst the same surge, yet never slip or become immersed, never washes away?
"Go gently," she atones...."go gently." I pause, eyes fixed on her, she is not looking down, scanning the slickness of the next rock like I am. She is hunkered down on her rock, balanced, mid stream, looking up. Her straight poise is palpable, her hand dipped in water that dances around her fingers like a well known friend, caressing her form. I hunker down, some stones behind her, no longer studying the next rock, or the farther shore. I allow my hand to atone and go gently with the river laughing around my fingers.
"The mystical significance of The Guf is that each person is important and has a unique role which they, with their unique soul, can fulfill. Even a newborn brings the Messiah closer simply by being born."
Such a perception and belief is comforting, knowing every soul born is a rock across the tumultuous river that we pivot and slip upon to reach the "Messiah." Of course this is probably only so if one believes in the concreteness of the bible and /or the Talmud. As an older child and a teenager these mystical concepts fed me like a spiritual milk. I was so desperate to believe in a reasoning for why certain children are born with needs beyond the everyday, or why someone I knew was suddenly not "themselves" after a car wreck or a medical procedure. Even as young as my mid teens I had a deep draw to those around me with special needs, or as I now call them, needs. I can not explain it and I gave up a long time ago attempting to pin down why. That is and maybe truly beyond me, that's ok too. Not everything, including intuition or perception needs scientific swordsmanship.
Having said as much, I have been struggling with something beyond my comprehension. After years of catechism, a lapse, an extended involvement with the Episcopal Church, I have finally found my peace with the belief there is no built gathering of stepping stones, straight and pointed across that river of spiritualism. It is for so many a teetering balancing act, with limbs outstretched, waving, gripping their rocks; calling every mossy slip "God's will," or "faith's challenge."
Parenting my children, the ones with "needs," I skipped across the same stones and green, glassy rocks for so long. I could only see the next stone, the whitening rage or mild circular flow of the river that day. I kept looking down, fearful, what if I fall? Will my lungs with their heaviness and the Guf would be one less original soul? When I think back to my Mother's original epiphany, she was and is by no means a religious enforcer. She is attune with the Earth and understands the water. She has, within' her own rocks and river found a quiet peace in the midst of the torrent.
At times, when it's quiet or when my childrens' needs conquer an unimaginable milestone, I question if they chose me from The Guf.
I have watched my Mother, with a cocked head and an inquisitive eye for years now. How does she live midst the same surge, yet never slip or become immersed, never washes away?
"Go gently," she atones...."go gently." I pause, eyes fixed on her, she is not looking down, scanning the slickness of the next rock like I am. She is hunkered down on her rock, balanced, mid stream, looking up. Her straight poise is palpable, her hand dipped in water that dances around her fingers like a well known friend, caressing her form. I hunker down, some stones behind her, no longer studying the next rock, or the farther shore. I allow my hand to atone and go gently with the river laughing around my fingers.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Dearest
Dearest,
My apologies.
It was no accident you chose me,
We were the same, raging
in a world that blinked
indifference.
A fresh soul delivered from your
warm immersion into
sensory terror.
Your brain already fighting its mismatched puzzle.
Neurons bouncing like beads clicking against the floor.
Images of warm deep embraces-edged
into the distance.
Childhood pleasures morphed into sensory diets,
play therapies,
mood stabilizers.
No Parenting magazine knew you.
Five years besieged
by a mind brimming
confusion.
Wide black eyes glazed,
never willing to meet my gaze.
No immediacy of love,
It stood in the middle distance
trepidatious, edging silently forward,
a little,
at a time.
Until the day we heard that gentle porcelain doctor say
“autism spectrum.”
There you stood, and I saw you
for the first time
looking right at me.
My apologies.
It was no accident you chose me,
We were the same, raging
in a world that blinked
indifference.
A fresh soul delivered from your
warm immersion into
sensory terror.
Your brain already fighting its mismatched puzzle.
Neurons bouncing like beads clicking against the floor.
Images of warm deep embraces-edged
into the distance.
Childhood pleasures morphed into sensory diets,
play therapies,
mood stabilizers.
No Parenting magazine knew you.
Five years besieged
by a mind brimming
confusion.
Wide black eyes glazed,
never willing to meet my gaze.
No immediacy of love,
It stood in the middle distance
trepidatious, edging silently forward,
a little,
at a time.
Until the day we heard that gentle porcelain doctor say
“autism spectrum.”
There you stood, and I saw you
for the first time
looking right at me.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The PTSD of ASD and BP!
War, conflict, psychological assault. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Quick, scan around for the dismembered soldier. That's the rule right, only applies to boys and girls with blown off limbs, that we then fawn over and thank endlessly for their service, regardless of what that "service" entailed. It's not these people in uniform that we should question for the reverence for the military, a reverence that boarders on psychotic sycophantic God worship. I have see the latter in people I would call friends, who outside of this deification of the military are quite rational and reasonable.
The military, especially in the post September 11th world appear to have a patent on PTSD. I know it's unbelievably prevalent in the forces and as they have all filtered home since the end of the Iraq War it will bubble up in the societal euphoria, thus quashing it like sand kicked on the glowing embers. PTSD though is a human condition, not quartered off by the need to enter a mine riddled desert or IED strewn dust road.
Autism, Pediatric Bipolar Disorder.... ha, gotcha. See the first sentence again. The experience is so very different, the road not as dust ridden and choking. Still the psychological experience, the reaction, the outcome, unless treated is the same.
"Psychiatrists believe that PTSD can only be correctly diagnosed after at least a month has passed since the traumatic event. Before then the condition is considered a post-traumatic stress, but not yet post traumatic stress disorder. In addition the person must display all 3 classes of PTSD symptoms & necessary bases to differentiate it from other mental disorders.
- Class 1 symptoms: the sufferer re-experiences the traumatic incident
ex. nightmares, flashbacks. - Class 2 symptoms: the sufferer displays avoidance, wants to stay away from anything that may possibly remind her/him of the trauma. May also display lack of responsiveness or interest to all life circumstances.
ex. sights, smells, sounds, conversations associated or reminding of trauma, unable to enjoy once joyful activities or have loving feelings - Class 3 symptoms: hyperarousal
ex. irritable all the time or inability to sleep.
To raise and parent a child with a complicated neurological disorder is a draining existence, especially for the primary caregiver, usually the Mother. Let me explain my symptoms as I hold my beating scarred heart in my trembling hand for you all. I don't really have nightmares or flashbacks per se, although I do have vivid dreams, almost always being chased by people who are supposed to love and accept me unconditionally. I do avoid, I stay indoors, I dislike meeting new people; it's a mental and emotional wrench to even answer the phone to close friends. Mainly as they wish to talk about fluff; I am no where near fluff on a daily basis.
I have a marvelous wall, it has a retractable trigger, it can shuttle up or down depending on my mood, my company or my environment. I used to read constantly, everywhere even as I walked, I mean I would shove books under my school sweater and sneak out to recess with it just to read. These days I can barely get though an article without losing focus. I do not sleep. I nap. It's the best I can manage. I am scolded constantly by those who truly love me that I never sleep, or sleep awkward hours. I liken it to a recurring illness. I can not control it.
Irritable.
I laugh in a silly ironic way here. I spend my days pulling myself out of irritability and living an open, cheerful exterior for the one's I love. Periodically I slip, little things trigger me. Having said that I have always been like that with irritability and anger, but an abusive alcoholic father and childhood sexual abuse ensured that one, (no the sexual abuse was not due to my father.....put your knives away ;).
I was dealing with my PTSD (as we all do in our own way) and slowly working through it. Then life gave me childhood neurological disorders, from birth. Jacob came out screaming and throwing up, and it didn't stop for two years. By the time he was three I 'knew' this was something else. Took another year to get a psychiatrist to concur. John arrived in a gentle earthquake, happy, quiet and non verbal until he was four. Again I 'knew.' I spent the next 6 years with psychiatrists, psychologists, neuropsychologists, developmental pediatricians, special schools, special education meetings, occupational, speech therapy. I fought with the state for medicaid, I fought with anyone who tried to nail my children into their designated corner. I simply fought.; I fought all....the....time.
It got to the point that anyone who even raised a quizzical eyebrow was deemed an enemy combatant and I was in immediate conflict . I have been doing this for 11 years. I am burnt out. I have nightmares, I avoid life, I choose numbness over feeling, my central nervous system is in constant flux.
I am tired, yet, I know no other life. PTSD is like the Python that consumes prey. We are digested slowly.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Nice to connect!
It's important to be real. If I'm not I will implode, both physically and emotionally. Raising three kids is work (of course), raising three with special needs is beyond that, that is a cosmic production.
I bring up being real as I have found so many special needs parents, especially Mother's, are intent on sculpting themselves into these pert, wee 'every mom.' They were given these angels for a reason and God dammit they will make sure they are painted into all corners of the globe and with a bullhorn just in case. People retweet and share lovely, cosy, fluffy links on being a parent with a special needs kid. Not just "us" Moms, but others, who only read what they want....only see what they are comfortable with. Yes, yes this is life. Reality and ick and tar and feathers and cold hard glares in cracked mirrors is not socially acceptable.
Too heavy? I agree. Today I was in the grocery store, by myself, thrilled with wheeling around the cart like it was on crack...mini vacation. I watch a perfectly quaffed, very attractive Mum swoop by with two toddler aged boys in her cart.
One made a break for it; I mean a full on sidekick, slash, upside down lower body backwards thrust out of it. It was a fucking sight to behold. Oh for Ashton Kutcher and his camera then! I was mesmerized as I watched Mum yank said prodigy back by his undies, like an act from Cirque De Soleil, all the while politely swearing and he roaring in all his stolen glory. She caught my chuckle, looked mortified and tried at act like nothing had happened. We all know, I am not exactly the shrinking violet kind, so I did say "Hey, got three myself." Her face melted like a gooey smore.
Why do I write about this? Well, after the last few days of feeling awful sorry for myself (which I refuse to take back) I was witness to a typical reality for a million Mums out there. There was a moment, a connection, a chink in my armor was loosened. In essence, these wee bastards are hard fuckin' work. Still, periodically we can grab them by the knickers and look up and another parent gives a look that communicates "Ok...you too???"
I bring up being real as I have found so many special needs parents, especially Mother's, are intent on sculpting themselves into these pert, wee 'every mom.' They were given these angels for a reason and God dammit they will make sure they are painted into all corners of the globe and with a bullhorn just in case. People retweet and share lovely, cosy, fluffy links on being a parent with a special needs kid. Not just "us" Moms, but others, who only read what they want....only see what they are comfortable with. Yes, yes this is life. Reality and ick and tar and feathers and cold hard glares in cracked mirrors is not socially acceptable.
Too heavy? I agree. Today I was in the grocery store, by myself, thrilled with wheeling around the cart like it was on crack...mini vacation. I watch a perfectly quaffed, very attractive Mum swoop by with two toddler aged boys in her cart.
One made a break for it; I mean a full on sidekick, slash, upside down lower body backwards thrust out of it. It was a fucking sight to behold. Oh for Ashton Kutcher and his camera then! I was mesmerized as I watched Mum yank said prodigy back by his undies, like an act from Cirque De Soleil, all the while politely swearing and he roaring in all his stolen glory. She caught my chuckle, looked mortified and tried at act like nothing had happened. We all know, I am not exactly the shrinking violet kind, so I did say "Hey, got three myself." Her face melted like a gooey smore.
Why do I write about this? Well, after the last few days of feeling awful sorry for myself (which I refuse to take back) I was witness to a typical reality for a million Mums out there. There was a moment, a connection, a chink in my armor was loosened. In essence, these wee bastards are hard fuckin' work. Still, periodically we can grab them by the knickers and look up and another parent gives a look that communicates "Ok...you too???"
Friday, November 11, 2011
Bully Off!
We have a new entity trailing us. It is stuck to the sole of my relationship with my Jake, like gum that stretches against the surface. Bullying! It has so many connotations...again a spectrum behavior. It can be anything from a mumbled insult to a physical onslaught. I had seen this spectrum like animal softly paw it's way in to my Jake's world; I was waiting to decide if it was something that warranted reaction on my part.
After today, obviously the answer is a resounding "yes." Jake has been the butt of this soft, cowardly excess of childhood the last month now. He (I call him Slither) has been subtle...dare I say it, even clever. He is an excellent reader of Jake's behaviors and language. He can pin point a button to push, a switch to flick, a moment to be exploited. He slither's back into his cowardice and delights in Jake's explosive belief in social justice, which is one of Jake's best qualities as well as his biggest challenge.
To think that this Slither is taking advantage of my darling's biggest asset and weakness and relishing in the outcome...well, you can imagine. Today Slither was lucky Jake has a Behavior Implementation Plan (BIP), it is something Jake values above all else at school. Otherwise that child would have had his arse handed to him in a sling. I would be disingenuous if I didn't admit, I would take a school suspension over my boy defending himself and his self worth.
The issue with many, if not most Aspies is, they have a black and white view of Neurotypical behavior. There are no nuances, no subtleties, just a yes and no response. Subtleties are not absorbed, they have to be taught, retaught, reintroduced and reminded. Slither was lucky today. Jake used his learned behaviors and refrained. He did however come home raging and told me all (I speak fluent Aspie); two emails later and Jake knowing his Mum is on his side, he calmed down.
Slither better watch his back, he now has two sets on eyes on him, Jake's and Momma Bear. She makes Bipolar Bear look like a cuddly toy poodle.
After today, obviously the answer is a resounding "yes." Jake has been the butt of this soft, cowardly excess of childhood the last month now. He (I call him Slither) has been subtle...dare I say it, even clever. He is an excellent reader of Jake's behaviors and language. He can pin point a button to push, a switch to flick, a moment to be exploited. He slither's back into his cowardice and delights in Jake's explosive belief in social justice, which is one of Jake's best qualities as well as his biggest challenge.
To think that this Slither is taking advantage of my darling's biggest asset and weakness and relishing in the outcome...well, you can imagine. Today Slither was lucky Jake has a Behavior Implementation Plan (BIP), it is something Jake values above all else at school. Otherwise that child would have had his arse handed to him in a sling. I would be disingenuous if I didn't admit, I would take a school suspension over my boy defending himself and his self worth.
The issue with many, if not most Aspies is, they have a black and white view of Neurotypical behavior. There are no nuances, no subtleties, just a yes and no response. Subtleties are not absorbed, they have to be taught, retaught, reintroduced and reminded. Slither was lucky today. Jake used his learned behaviors and refrained. He did however come home raging and told me all (I speak fluent Aspie); two emails later and Jake knowing his Mum is on his side, he calmed down.
Slither better watch his back, he now has two sets on eyes on him, Jake's and Momma Bear. She makes Bipolar Bear look like a cuddly toy poodle.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Twas the Night Before the IEP
What's an IEP I hear? In three complicated education jargon words, Individualized Education Program. It's a legal promise to meet the student where they are and to help scaffold them to the best of their academic ability and potential. Again I pay homage to IDEA (Individuals with Disabilities in Education Act) and it's founding Father ADA (Americans with Disability Act). These laws are why I am still in the US.
I have Jake's IEP tomorrow. We have our annual team meeting and it always creeps up on me. The "Team" consists of his regular ed teachers, his collaborative teachers, his special ed teacher, his special ed facilitator, Doctor Seuss, Thing One and Thing Two and the cast of Growing pains (circa ages ago).
In terms of IEP's, I've had had uneventful ones, combative ones, pissy ones and on occasion sobbing on the floor ones. I can guarantee tomorrow's will be neither uneventful and yes, I'm fairly sure I will be crying by noon. If you've been following along Jake is having a challenging academic year. Tomorrow I will have to sign off on taking the two steps back after the three steps forward. Regular education still eludes my darling boy. He's bright enough, IQ in the 120's, crafty, witty and flat out silly and funny. Hell knows, he tried; he worked his butt off trying to prove he could be the best student, peer, son, brother and preteen smelly yoke (showers are again optional). Still, Bipolar Bear is yawning in it's cave, refusing to bed down and Jake needs some containing and to be held, emotionally and mentally. So back to self contained we go for most (not all) of his academics. I am so proud of my boy, he did the best he could. Now it's time for him to be the best he can.
I have Jake's IEP tomorrow. We have our annual team meeting and it always creeps up on me. The "Team" consists of his regular ed teachers, his collaborative teachers, his special ed teacher, his special ed facilitator, Doctor Seuss, Thing One and Thing Two and the cast of Growing pains (circa ages ago).
In terms of IEP's, I've had had uneventful ones, combative ones, pissy ones and on occasion sobbing on the floor ones. I can guarantee tomorrow's will be neither uneventful and yes, I'm fairly sure I will be crying by noon. If you've been following along Jake is having a challenging academic year. Tomorrow I will have to sign off on taking the two steps back after the three steps forward. Regular education still eludes my darling boy. He's bright enough, IQ in the 120's, crafty, witty and flat out silly and funny. Hell knows, he tried; he worked his butt off trying to prove he could be the best student, peer, son, brother and preteen smelly yoke (showers are again optional). Still, Bipolar Bear is yawning in it's cave, refusing to bed down and Jake needs some containing and to be held, emotionally and mentally. So back to self contained we go for most (not all) of his academics. I am so proud of my boy, he did the best he could. Now it's time for him to be the best he can.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Learning Disabled...not a bit!
One in six children have a learning disorder. Did you know that; do you even know what that means in the grand plethora of schemes? It means 16% of school age children have a learning disability. Still not feeling the magnitude of the numerals? In John's school alone of the 800 students, 128 have a learning disorder. So in the average class size of say 25, roughly 4 students will have a learning disability.
Of course it's easy to throw out numbers, stats and raw information. It removes the personal facet of the reality of these children. Learning disability, LD! Some have suggested it's merely the PC label for thick or dumb, or horror of horrors, retard (a personal 'favorite'). I have known supposed "retarded" autistic children who wear GPS tracker anklets to know where every pair of scissors in theirs and three neighboring houses are. John can tell you anything you would ever need to know about Dinosaurs and Pokemon. Jacob used the word delusional correctly in a sentence this evening...he's 11. Focused and tunnel vision, perhaps, retarded...hardly?
We all carry aspects of a learning disability within us. They're called strengths and weaknesses; remember prospective employers ask about both all the time. I think about the incredibly gifted people in my life who struggle with something as basic as contractions and homonyms because in our day LD was "thick," "stupid," "retarded," or "slow." My LD kids work a bit harder than the other 84% do, but I suspect there are parts of my 1 in 6 babies that 84% relish. After all, who else can know the solar system in such intimate detail as John....when he was 4? Next time you want to attack someone because their there, their, they're isn't perfect, or where, were, we're is off you'll remember this and stop yourself. 1 in 6 is not thick, we just think differently. So did Newton.
Of course it's easy to throw out numbers, stats and raw information. It removes the personal facet of the reality of these children. Learning disability, LD! Some have suggested it's merely the PC label for thick or dumb, or horror of horrors, retard (a personal 'favorite'). I have known supposed "retarded" autistic children who wear GPS tracker anklets to know where every pair of scissors in theirs and three neighboring houses are. John can tell you anything you would ever need to know about Dinosaurs and Pokemon. Jacob used the word delusional correctly in a sentence this evening...he's 11. Focused and tunnel vision, perhaps, retarded...hardly?
We all carry aspects of a learning disability within us. They're called strengths and weaknesses; remember prospective employers ask about both all the time. I think about the incredibly gifted people in my life who struggle with something as basic as contractions and homonyms because in our day LD was "thick," "stupid," "retarded," or "slow." My LD kids work a bit harder than the other 84% do, but I suspect there are parts of my 1 in 6 babies that 84% relish. After all, who else can know the solar system in such intimate detail as John....when he was 4? Next time you want to attack someone because their there, their, they're isn't perfect, or where, were, we're is off you'll remember this and stop yourself. 1 in 6 is not thick, we just think differently. So did Newton.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Being a soft kid!
There is a curse amongst most (if not all) stay at home parents. Finding companionship, human interaction, adult interjection, anyone BUT children. As much as we adore them our children, I have been an at home parent for over 6 years now, which by the way was not on my to do list. Having said that, neither was my adventure into autism, adhd and sensory processing disorder. (What you missed out???)
The latter three has imprinted on me a need to give everyone about 15 chances before writing them off. That's about 14 chances more than most give and there's both good and bad to both judgements. One is reactionary, albeit instinctive. It reads a situation, renders a decision, executes a judgement and wipes off hands. The other is the sad arsed bleeding heart reactionary (that on occasion would be me). I have seen so much diversity, reasons why people act the way they do I often (no, always) look for the psychological reason. I am a social psychologist at heart and I tend to see why people act the way they do and communicate the way they choose. As such, (unless they promote beheading) I give them far more time and chances than 90% of my fellow human brethren. Don't get me wrong, I am not blind, but on occasion I look too deep. Sometimes no matter how deep I look, the reality is, the person I was giving that 15th chance to is still a hopeless divvie.
Some of us are not wired in to knowing when others are being emotional users, some of us need help. Tonight I needed help. I learned. Learning can be tough, but it never disappoints.
The latter three has imprinted on me a need to give everyone about 15 chances before writing them off. That's about 14 chances more than most give and there's both good and bad to both judgements. One is reactionary, albeit instinctive. It reads a situation, renders a decision, executes a judgement and wipes off hands. The other is the sad arsed bleeding heart reactionary (that on occasion would be me). I have seen so much diversity, reasons why people act the way they do I often (no, always) look for the psychological reason. I am a social psychologist at heart and I tend to see why people act the way they do and communicate the way they choose. As such, (unless they promote beheading) I give them far more time and chances than 90% of my fellow human brethren. Don't get me wrong, I am not blind, but on occasion I look too deep. Sometimes no matter how deep I look, the reality is, the person I was giving that 15th chance to is still a hopeless divvie.
Some of us are not wired in to knowing when others are being emotional users, some of us need help. Tonight I needed help. I learned. Learning can be tough, but it never disappoints.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Universal Change
I spent a good part of today on the phone or meeting in person with facilitators and spec ed teachers. Thank ye Gawds for brilliant professionals who not only are good at their jobs but have a vocation to work with children. The administrative aspect of school transfers is all but complete and all three wains know at least cognitively we will be moving in a few weeks. What has taken me aback has been how I was anticipating this volcanic reaction from them and apart from a quick lava spike, they are suddenly full in....to the point I have to stop John and Hannah from trying to pack up their wee worlds before the weekend.
I am in constant awe of my children and their ability to morph and grow, but even more so after these last few days. Of course there is so much more to come, the actual move, first days of a new school, first day on a new bus, first day in a new lunch room. It makes me consider though how many firsts we all encounter, sometimes on a daily basis. Firsts are scary of course; it's a sojourn off the precipice, a footprint into the unknown. I will freely admit, I have moments of abject terror at the thought of this move, from suburban comfort of ownership into more condensed renterville. Then I watch the innocence of my 8 year old dash about his room piling stuffed animals into an old cardboard box, giddy with the anticipation; I catch myself, slump to my knees beside him and giggle as we both squish in yet another Build a Bear Puppy.
Changes are scary for sure, but they are also just that, change! I know for me this is the first step of many changes, some bigger than others, but all ok with the universe. Afterall, the Universe has never let me down before, time to take that deep breath and let it do it's thing again.
I am in constant awe of my children and their ability to morph and grow, but even more so after these last few days. Of course there is so much more to come, the actual move, first days of a new school, first day on a new bus, first day in a new lunch room. It makes me consider though how many firsts we all encounter, sometimes on a daily basis. Firsts are scary of course; it's a sojourn off the precipice, a footprint into the unknown. I will freely admit, I have moments of abject terror at the thought of this move, from suburban comfort of ownership into more condensed renterville. Then I watch the innocence of my 8 year old dash about his room piling stuffed animals into an old cardboard box, giddy with the anticipation; I catch myself, slump to my knees beside him and giggle as we both squish in yet another Build a Bear Puppy.
Changes are scary for sure, but they are also just that, change! I know for me this is the first step of many changes, some bigger than others, but all ok with the universe. Afterall, the Universe has never let me down before, time to take that deep breath and let it do it's thing again.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Transitions galore
Transitions are rough on the most savvy and contained individual; add in being little and having limited social understanding and social cues. Actually that sounds far worse than it really is, but both my lads will need a bit of extra TLC in the coming weeks. We are moving...not far, about 20 minutes closer to Atlanta. There is a multitude of reasons to explain why, if you want the nitty gritty feel free to message me.
Nothing has been said nor explained to the children for now. I was waiting to get a new place sorted and the T's crossed and I's dotted. I wish I could. They're not stupid and while I wait for my partner to catch up with the reality of the emotional aspect of this situation we have three wee kids who need answers. I spent much of today trying to put myself in their heads, understand what this move (the beginning of a few) means. I myself have moved over a dozen times the last 3 decades, but my wains have been happily solidified the last five. They thrive on structure and consistency and we are about to send them down the pin ball table like frigid marbles.
The next few weeks/months will be awful, liberating, irritating and real all at once. I will be ok; I always am. I hate not being able to protect and anticipate my kids needs. Parenting...one tough arse job!
Nothing has been said nor explained to the children for now. I was waiting to get a new place sorted and the T's crossed and I's dotted. I wish I could. They're not stupid and while I wait for my partner to catch up with the reality of the emotional aspect of this situation we have three wee kids who need answers. I spent much of today trying to put myself in their heads, understand what this move (the beginning of a few) means. I myself have moved over a dozen times the last 3 decades, but my wains have been happily solidified the last five. They thrive on structure and consistency and we are about to send them down the pin ball table like frigid marbles.
The next few weeks/months will be awful, liberating, irritating and real all at once. I will be ok; I always am. I hate not being able to protect and anticipate my kids needs. Parenting...one tough arse job!
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