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.
Showing posts with label parenting autism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting autism. Show all posts
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Hierarchy and Humility
There is a natural order to things, even if the thing itself is a bit off center. It's been around since I first became unofficially and then officially aware of my three puzzle piece's special needs. If you are a parent I know you will relate in some fashion to what I mean, regardless of your child's needs, typical or diverse. It's the hierarchy we are pushed into, the realm of others that technically should be on the same playing field. It starts as soon as we tell family and friends excitedly we are expecting, then ripples out into the community as bellies show and people question. You're in a select group now, a joyous clique. Of course along with that comes people's opinions, advice and stories. It's all met with appreciation, real and plastic and then there you are nuzzling with this blotchy pink warbling creature, one eye wide like Popeye; "he's a cryer..." we all laugh.
18 months later, he's still a crier, also not speaking much, if at all. He holds his belly a lot, writhes on the floor, spins, steps back and forth like going over the same four steps in a dance. Constant ear infections, adenoids removed, ENT's, multiple doctor's, specialists. My clique shrinks a bit, ok it shrinks a lot.
Play dates are rare, as months and years move on birthday invites diminish to nothing. Neighbor's whisper things you know you never want to hear. Once you receive a definitive diagnoses, no matter what it may be, you feel validated, angry, devastated, triumphant, weak, strong all at once. Now you know why that clique, that hierarchy of parenting had no place for you. Surely there must be other's out there....just....like....us.
This is the kicker, yes, there is a place, a clique, in fact many many cliques. And within' those there are sub cliques and off shoots and support groups and support groups that become support to survive the initial support group. There are play dates, jealousies aspersions and projections There are those who would shower you with advice and knowledge until you want to scream for a flotation device, then there are those that look you up and down like you really should take a bath, and why on Earth is your child shoe less and only in an over sized onesie. Yet most, so overwhelmed in their own closeted world have become so insulated out of fear, judgement and society; remember the one we used to know until the birthday invites vanished. Our children are still placed on pedestals to share symptoms, milestones, progressions. However, they are also compared in terms of regressions, symptoms and diagnostics. Sometimes it appears that if another's child is faring worse on the disability scale, you've been one upped. It took me years to realize that these parents do actually exist and I wasn't being paranoid. Took me years more to understand they are trapped, back in the stage of diagnoses, when they have no parental hierarchy to feel accepted. Literally trapped in a moment in time, terrified.
In my experience, it is near impossible to find someone who can share, grieve, celebrate, cry and laugh together, certainly in a local support structure. Even among each other we cleave to our leaden roofs, our thick emotional walls. The cliques are smaller yet still flourish in their own way, still most of us are frozen out. And again, as individuals we feel we are alone.
I'll be honest, I have cut out my fair share of those who I felt didn't "understand," or were too "involved" with their children's diagnoses. Nothing puts you on your egotistical horse more than dealing with three Aspie meltdowns and seeing someone tweet or post a blog about the tough time they had at the grocery store with one. I have also been told by several people they want nothing to do with me as they feel I am too much. And for a long time I was, I was too much. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a fiercefully opinionated, arrogant advocate and I am prone to pissing off one or two here and there, still experience tends to show one's humility, especially when one is ready to let it go, let it all go. I sense my letting go may take a bit more patience and time though. Hope that's ok.
18 months later, he's still a crier, also not speaking much, if at all. He holds his belly a lot, writhes on the floor, spins, steps back and forth like going over the same four steps in a dance. Constant ear infections, adenoids removed, ENT's, multiple doctor's, specialists. My clique shrinks a bit, ok it shrinks a lot.
Play dates are rare, as months and years move on birthday invites diminish to nothing. Neighbor's whisper things you know you never want to hear. Once you receive a definitive diagnoses, no matter what it may be, you feel validated, angry, devastated, triumphant, weak, strong all at once. Now you know why that clique, that hierarchy of parenting had no place for you. Surely there must be other's out there....just....like....us.
This is the kicker, yes, there is a place, a clique, in fact many many cliques. And within' those there are sub cliques and off shoots and support groups and support groups that become support to survive the initial support group. There are play dates, jealousies aspersions and projections There are those who would shower you with advice and knowledge until you want to scream for a flotation device, then there are those that look you up and down like you really should take a bath, and why on Earth is your child shoe less and only in an over sized onesie. Yet most, so overwhelmed in their own closeted world have become so insulated out of fear, judgement and society; remember the one we used to know until the birthday invites vanished. Our children are still placed on pedestals to share symptoms, milestones, progressions. However, they are also compared in terms of regressions, symptoms and diagnostics. Sometimes it appears that if another's child is faring worse on the disability scale, you've been one upped. It took me years to realize that these parents do actually exist and I wasn't being paranoid. Took me years more to understand they are trapped, back in the stage of diagnoses, when they have no parental hierarchy to feel accepted. Literally trapped in a moment in time, terrified.
In my experience, it is near impossible to find someone who can share, grieve, celebrate, cry and laugh together, certainly in a local support structure. Even among each other we cleave to our leaden roofs, our thick emotional walls. The cliques are smaller yet still flourish in their own way, still most of us are frozen out. And again, as individuals we feel we are alone.
I'll be honest, I have cut out my fair share of those who I felt didn't "understand," or were too "involved" with their children's diagnoses. Nothing puts you on your egotistical horse more than dealing with three Aspie meltdowns and seeing someone tweet or post a blog about the tough time they had at the grocery store with one. I have also been told by several people they want nothing to do with me as they feel I am too much. And for a long time I was, I was too much. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a fiercefully opinionated, arrogant advocate and I am prone to pissing off one or two here and there, still experience tends to show one's humility, especially when one is ready to let it go, let it all go. I sense my letting go may take a bit more patience and time though. Hope that's ok.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
To poo and beyond!
Shit!
After nine months of carrying them the first thing that is paid attention to is their pee and poo. Is it yellow, orange, crystalline? Is the poo brown, green, solid, liquid or pebble like. These are things no one tells you in the Lamaze class or the parenting class you take prior to birth. You remember, the one where you're taught to bath a Tiny Tears knock off and change him/her. In fact those classes go out of their way to avoid the shit factor.
You float through nine months blissfully (for those allowed that grace) and when it comes to it and you bear down you may actually shit yourself. I did as much with my 2nd baby, no epidural and no IV. I wandered in to the ER fairly sure I was in labour. In fact I was, and 8 cm agreed with me. It was literally a pop, catch and release situation. At some point mid push I shit myself. A nurse swooped in, no one knew, I mean I was barely aware. No one said, it was of course witnessed but never mentioned. Suited me fine.
If I had known it was a bit prophetic. This was my second baby, full term, healthy as an ox, great eater. We dubbed him the Stepford baby for about 11 months. Then I began to worry, ask questions, he was placid, almost vacant; he sat in his chair, watched us all, taking us all in. By age 2 1/2 he officially had 7 words. I screamed up and down the pediatricians hallways until they either heard or sent me away. At the time I didn't care, we weren't stagnant anymore as I was sent away to specialists. His initial diagnosis, chronic ear infections leading to slow speech development. I read that now and cry laughing. How many parents of placid Autistic's get that as the initial diagnosis? Autism came later.
Several years of speech and occupational therapy, great special education placements has meant that placid, non verbal little boy is a talkative, goofy, funny and brilliant child. To look at him he looks the same as all other NT (Neurotypical) peers. His public self still struggles with speech and the give and take of conversation. He is far more comfortable in his own world, space, science, math, bakugan and Skylanders.
You would never believe this brilliant nine year old really is not potty trained.
And there you have it people, they come out and all the people around you worry about their poo, then they're Nine and you are the only one worrying about their shit. Never ends really.
After nine months of carrying them the first thing that is paid attention to is their pee and poo. Is it yellow, orange, crystalline? Is the poo brown, green, solid, liquid or pebble like. These are things no one tells you in the Lamaze class or the parenting class you take prior to birth. You remember, the one where you're taught to bath a Tiny Tears knock off and change him/her. In fact those classes go out of their way to avoid the shit factor.
You float through nine months blissfully (for those allowed that grace) and when it comes to it and you bear down you may actually shit yourself. I did as much with my 2nd baby, no epidural and no IV. I wandered in to the ER fairly sure I was in labour. In fact I was, and 8 cm agreed with me. It was literally a pop, catch and release situation. At some point mid push I shit myself. A nurse swooped in, no one knew, I mean I was barely aware. No one said, it was of course witnessed but never mentioned. Suited me fine.
If I had known it was a bit prophetic. This was my second baby, full term, healthy as an ox, great eater. We dubbed him the Stepford baby for about 11 months. Then I began to worry, ask questions, he was placid, almost vacant; he sat in his chair, watched us all, taking us all in. By age 2 1/2 he officially had 7 words. I screamed up and down the pediatricians hallways until they either heard or sent me away. At the time I didn't care, we weren't stagnant anymore as I was sent away to specialists. His initial diagnosis, chronic ear infections leading to slow speech development. I read that now and cry laughing. How many parents of placid Autistic's get that as the initial diagnosis? Autism came later.
Several years of speech and occupational therapy, great special education placements has meant that placid, non verbal little boy is a talkative, goofy, funny and brilliant child. To look at him he looks the same as all other NT (Neurotypical) peers. His public self still struggles with speech and the give and take of conversation. He is far more comfortable in his own world, space, science, math, bakugan and Skylanders.
You would never believe this brilliant nine year old really is not potty trained.
And there you have it people, they come out and all the people around you worry about their poo, then they're Nine and you are the only one worrying about their shit. Never ends really.
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!!!
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!!!
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, February 8, 2012
Falling in and out of love!
When one's child is born with an invisible yet neurologically different need, you are met with a physically beautiful and healthy baby. However, until symptoms appear you just see that. When you choose to breastfeed and thus room in with him you are met with certain supports, to do with nursing, bathing and the like. When he starts screaming at 12 hours old he is planted on your exhausted body, as apparently nursing him will stop it. It does not. You are left with this teeny entity that had been telling you he has been alive from 14 weeks in utero. The nurses can't manage his needs, thus he is thrust on your lap.
In hindsight, I should have checked myself out and gone home. At least my baby's father would be there to support me, instead of as the nurses and doctor's did; chastise me for immediately recognizing, this baby needs movement, constantly. It was instinct with me. I walked the halls, got yelled at by night staff for doing so. From the very moment this little boy was born he needed more than the regular world would give. That night the nurse yelled at me for marching the halls with him. I in post partum glory told her she was a fucking cunt and she could fuck herself. Suddenly I was listened to, was given the empty neo natal unit and a rocking chair.
My life with Jacob began with me fighting for him, and I have no doubt will end with it.
Here we are almost 12 years later, I have two other kids, both with needs of their own. The issue with having children with or without invisible disabilities is, you fall in love, out of love and in love again. Of course you always "Love" them, however, their needs, personalities, behaviors and reactions truly test you to the point of wanting to run away. Yes, I have googled how to run away. You may judge, like I see society easily do, or you can at lease listen. We do not want your pity or your judgement, just understanding.
We fall in and out of love with our children all the time, yet for some reason, the special needs parent is berated the most when they admit to this.
I was censured and made feel like dross the night I instinctively knew this child needed to be walked. Next time you see a parent with an out of control child.........think, count to ten and ask yourself. "Is this my place to judge?"
You know what, I still "walk" Jacob, in different ways now, although no one ever bother's to ask how. How sad, and what a waste of marvelous information.
In hindsight, I should have checked myself out and gone home. At least my baby's father would be there to support me, instead of as the nurses and doctor's did; chastise me for immediately recognizing, this baby needs movement, constantly. It was instinct with me. I walked the halls, got yelled at by night staff for doing so. From the very moment this little boy was born he needed more than the regular world would give. That night the nurse yelled at me for marching the halls with him. I in post partum glory told her she was a fucking cunt and she could fuck herself. Suddenly I was listened to, was given the empty neo natal unit and a rocking chair.
My life with Jacob began with me fighting for him, and I have no doubt will end with it.
Here we are almost 12 years later, I have two other kids, both with needs of their own. The issue with having children with or without invisible disabilities is, you fall in love, out of love and in love again. Of course you always "Love" them, however, their needs, personalities, behaviors and reactions truly test you to the point of wanting to run away. Yes, I have googled how to run away. You may judge, like I see society easily do, or you can at lease listen. We do not want your pity or your judgement, just understanding.
We fall in and out of love with our children all the time, yet for some reason, the special needs parent is berated the most when they admit to this.
I was censured and made feel like dross the night I instinctively knew this child needed to be walked. Next time you see a parent with an out of control child.........think, count to ten and ask yourself. "Is this my place to judge?"
You know what, I still "walk" Jacob, in different ways now, although no one ever bother's to ask how. How sad, and what a waste of marvelous information.
Friday, January 20, 2012
An Unexpected Gift
Life has for want of a better analogy been a bit of a roller coaster lately. No, let me clarify, roller coaster with Nascar and Drunk Driving joyrider's thrown in for good measure. I traced it out on a blog post months back, but to re illustrate I was not born here in the US. I have however been a legal resident some 13 years now.
Being an immigrant is such a deep and shadowy well, most of us smile through it and the ignorant questions (yes, we do have dogs in Ireland, yes someone really asked me that once). Over time we learn to use the wattle and sinew from our experience and build domed walls around us with carefully chosen trapdoors and side tunnels, so we can enter and exit these wax work personas. These same doors are allowed let other's enter, although we in many ways blindfold them and move the doors once they leave our domed shield.
It takes many years and some considerable self awareness to reach that state of understanding. I have known many an Irish immigrant who went the opposite way, family included, adopting their new culture and country too fast and furiously, burying any ashes from their existence of origin. I can understand that as well. The pressure to assimilate and blend in is overwhelming, some days it may just be easier to give in. This has never been the case for me; in fact as I mature and get older my need for self identity as being Irish grows stronger. It has taken 13 years but I have finally begun to separate out the two spaces that occupy my existence. One does not have to push against the other, and the other does not need to pull away so forcefully.
In fact, the more I mature, the more I see that both can coexist comfortably. This does not have to be a battle where the trap doors and tunnels must move like the stairs at Hogwarts. One does not out measure the other, despite geography. This is less about geography, or even culture; this is about identity. Identity is not born, it is developed, it is nurtured and molded and held and wanted.
By last Fall, 2011, I was ready to cease this tug of war within' my soul and I let it all go. As such, on Thursday, January 19th, 2012 at 9:45am eastern Standard Time I interviewed and passed for US citizenship. Well, technically I have been "recommended" for citizenship, a formality. Last but not least will be a swearing in ceremony and I say farewell to that piece of plastic that has kept me legal these last 13 years, the Green Card (that oddly enough was always a mottled brown.)
I have begun to tear down that muddied dome and throw open it's doors.
There is something infinitely more powerful here though. Back in 2000 and I was interviewing for my Green Card, the officer conducting the interview insisted if I did not take my then husband's name it was a "severe red flag." Essentially I was bullied into taking a name my spouse and I had discussed would never be an option. I left that interview and instead of elation as I had been promised my Permanent Resident's card within' three weeks, but rather in an odd sense stripped of something, something important.
This week, 13 years later the answer sparkled clear, like the Northern Light's on my mind, when the olive skinned, petite and shining officer asked me, "and what name would you like on your naturalization Certificate, your maiden or married name?" A smile rippled over my face, "I can choose?'. "Of course."
It's been 13 years, and after I tear down the rest of these muddy, dry clay walls, I get the greatest gift, citizenship of course, but more importantly, I get my name., Deirdre Maria McCarthy-Dillon, my identity.
Being an immigrant is such a deep and shadowy well, most of us smile through it and the ignorant questions (yes, we do have dogs in Ireland, yes someone really asked me that once). Over time we learn to use the wattle and sinew from our experience and build domed walls around us with carefully chosen trapdoors and side tunnels, so we can enter and exit these wax work personas. These same doors are allowed let other's enter, although we in many ways blindfold them and move the doors once they leave our domed shield.
It takes many years and some considerable self awareness to reach that state of understanding. I have known many an Irish immigrant who went the opposite way, family included, adopting their new culture and country too fast and furiously, burying any ashes from their existence of origin. I can understand that as well. The pressure to assimilate and blend in is overwhelming, some days it may just be easier to give in. This has never been the case for me; in fact as I mature and get older my need for self identity as being Irish grows stronger. It has taken 13 years but I have finally begun to separate out the two spaces that occupy my existence. One does not have to push against the other, and the other does not need to pull away so forcefully.
In fact, the more I mature, the more I see that both can coexist comfortably. This does not have to be a battle where the trap doors and tunnels must move like the stairs at Hogwarts. One does not out measure the other, despite geography. This is less about geography, or even culture; this is about identity. Identity is not born, it is developed, it is nurtured and molded and held and wanted.
By last Fall, 2011, I was ready to cease this tug of war within' my soul and I let it all go. As such, on Thursday, January 19th, 2012 at 9:45am eastern Standard Time I interviewed and passed for US citizenship. Well, technically I have been "recommended" for citizenship, a formality. Last but not least will be a swearing in ceremony and I say farewell to that piece of plastic that has kept me legal these last 13 years, the Green Card (that oddly enough was always a mottled brown.)
I have begun to tear down that muddied dome and throw open it's doors.
There is something infinitely more powerful here though. Back in 2000 and I was interviewing for my Green Card, the officer conducting the interview insisted if I did not take my then husband's name it was a "severe red flag." Essentially I was bullied into taking a name my spouse and I had discussed would never be an option. I left that interview and instead of elation as I had been promised my Permanent Resident's card within' three weeks, but rather in an odd sense stripped of something, something important.
This week, 13 years later the answer sparkled clear, like the Northern Light's on my mind, when the olive skinned, petite and shining officer asked me, "and what name would you like on your naturalization Certificate, your maiden or married name?" A smile rippled over my face, "I can choose?'. "Of course."
It's been 13 years, and after I tear down the rest of these muddy, dry clay walls, I get the greatest gift, citizenship of course, but more importantly, I get my name., Deirdre Maria McCarthy-Dillon, my identity.
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???"
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Innocence and the Ecstasy
There is a rather sweet, yet saintly twisted like belief that children with disabilities, especially neurological or mental are the embodiment of everything we have deemed to be pure, holy, untarnished and I suppose perhaps even Godlike, (would probably help here if I actually believed in one, oops.) We have all dealt at some point with the notion that children with Down's Syndrome are the epitome of light, laughter, ethereal light and unbridled affection and love; whether that be a personal connection, a bad Hallmark movie or a sweet article in People, as there was this week about Jaimie Foxx's little sister with Down's.
There I was hanging in my Gyno's waiting room, with instinctive legs crossed tight, coffee stapled to my lips I casually picked up People, (hey I was desperate for mental bubble gum). There it was, Kim Kardashian and her'marriage/divorce', something about some nobody not knowing she was living with a serial killer for a decade, and buried in the middle Jamie Foxx and his sister. Instinctively and almost feral like, I ripped to the center of the rag so desperately to believe it was attempting to raise Down's awareness, about how much jamie Foxx adored and aided his sister (which I do not doubt). I clawed at the belief that here was someone with celebrity status that could finally enter the disabled world and invite us in with him. I suspect he might have thought that initially, but add in four assistant editors and a deadline, what was left was kitsch, glitter and for me, a burning blush of embarrassment. A feeling of, how does this really ....help?
A quick gathering of my emotional wits and an equally stealthy realization, of course it doesn't. The article did exactly as it's editorial slant demanded; mental disability is cute, cuddly, huggable and easy to dress up and douse in proverbial glitter, tree sap and sugar free syrup, especially when it lives in big brother's mansion with "other family members." Can't speak for anyone else's interpretation of that but I distinctly heard the echos of "caregivers" there.
"What you got against Down's Syndrome eh?" I hear you cry, or at least mutter beneath the canopy of your brain matter. Fuck all of course! What I do take rather massive issue with is how we in society allow the media tell us how to feel and express our relationship with disability. We want the Children's Miracle Network story, the tears to the eyes Special Olympics commercial, we crave the St.Jude's Hospital telethon; we want to be told how to perceive and how to feel about disability. Hell, of course we do, it's foreign, different, in our peripheral vision, even when it stares us in the iris.
My first job (post paper route years) was to care for a wee girl and her two brothers. When I first met Chloe she was 4, her brother's 8 and 10. Chloe was a giggle pot, she was curious, compassionate, a hug monster. She would also throw the best tantrum over not getting an extra biscuit or getting to go to the beach to dig holes as it was pouring out. I probably still have bruises from those typical 4 year old outbursts. Chloe was in most ways a typical 4 year old, she also happened to have an extra chromosome.....um...called...whatsit...oh yes, Down's Syndrome. I cared for Chloe and her brothers for most of my teen years; summers and Saturdays, Christmas and New Years Eves, (hey, was great money, and well, I liked the wee boogers.)
Little did I know my first real paid job would morph into my life long work, raising my three neurologically and sensory challenged children. ( Hmm, might need to reconsider that Spiritual entity thing after all;)
There is an innocence that envelopes our children, especially those who think differently. Sometimes that difference is marked by an obvious tattoo, like an additional chromosome, or a deleted long arm of one, or perhaps there is no known explanation but we know autism when we see it. There is also skimming close to the surface the nose of the personality that was there from conception, was there from crowning, there from that first, maybe labored fluid choked breath. The hardest thing we as humans will ever have to do is to reach beyond the perception and meet others in the middle. There is ecstasy in the connection, the innocence is a wonderful bonus.
There I was hanging in my Gyno's waiting room, with instinctive legs crossed tight, coffee stapled to my lips I casually picked up People, (hey I was desperate for mental bubble gum). There it was, Kim Kardashian and her'marriage/divorce', something about some nobody not knowing she was living with a serial killer for a decade, and buried in the middle Jamie Foxx and his sister. Instinctively and almost feral like, I ripped to the center of the rag so desperately to believe it was attempting to raise Down's awareness, about how much jamie Foxx adored and aided his sister (which I do not doubt). I clawed at the belief that here was someone with celebrity status that could finally enter the disabled world and invite us in with him. I suspect he might have thought that initially, but add in four assistant editors and a deadline, what was left was kitsch, glitter and for me, a burning blush of embarrassment. A feeling of, how does this really ....help?
A quick gathering of my emotional wits and an equally stealthy realization, of course it doesn't. The article did exactly as it's editorial slant demanded; mental disability is cute, cuddly, huggable and easy to dress up and douse in proverbial glitter, tree sap and sugar free syrup, especially when it lives in big brother's mansion with "other family members." Can't speak for anyone else's interpretation of that but I distinctly heard the echos of "caregivers" there.
"What you got against Down's Syndrome eh?" I hear you cry, or at least mutter beneath the canopy of your brain matter. Fuck all of course! What I do take rather massive issue with is how we in society allow the media tell us how to feel and express our relationship with disability. We want the Children's Miracle Network story, the tears to the eyes Special Olympics commercial, we crave the St.Jude's Hospital telethon; we want to be told how to perceive and how to feel about disability. Hell, of course we do, it's foreign, different, in our peripheral vision, even when it stares us in the iris.
My first job (post paper route years) was to care for a wee girl and her two brothers. When I first met Chloe she was 4, her brother's 8 and 10. Chloe was a giggle pot, she was curious, compassionate, a hug monster. She would also throw the best tantrum over not getting an extra biscuit or getting to go to the beach to dig holes as it was pouring out. I probably still have bruises from those typical 4 year old outbursts. Chloe was in most ways a typical 4 year old, she also happened to have an extra chromosome.....um...called...whatsit...oh yes, Down's Syndrome. I cared for Chloe and her brothers for most of my teen years; summers and Saturdays, Christmas and New Years Eves, (hey, was great money, and well, I liked the wee boogers.)
Little did I know my first real paid job would morph into my life long work, raising my three neurologically and sensory challenged children. ( Hmm, might need to reconsider that Spiritual entity thing after all;)
There is an innocence that envelopes our children, especially those who think differently. Sometimes that difference is marked by an obvious tattoo, like an additional chromosome, or a deleted long arm of one, or perhaps there is no known explanation but we know autism when we see it. There is also skimming close to the surface the nose of the personality that was there from conception, was there from crowning, there from that first, maybe labored fluid choked breath. The hardest thing we as humans will ever have to do is to reach beyond the perception and meet others in the middle. There is ecstasy in the connection, the innocence is a wonderful bonus.
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, November 1, 2011
Sleep Bipolar Bear...sleep!
I apologize for the gap between posts, it's been a hectic couple of months to say the least. The family moved house and thus school districts. We are in a smaller more dilapidated house and as we are renting we really can do very little to improve it during the lease cycle. Along with the obvious transitional hurdles; new schools, new teachers, new academic expectations we are also dealing with new symptoms of an old companion. Namely Early Onset Bipolar ones.
I can not remember if I went into much detail in previous posts about Early Onset Bipolar Disorder (EOBDO), today though I feel compelled, if not for me for my beautiful and amazingly creative son, Jacob.
The reality is Mood Disorders are as prevalent in the pediatric community as they are in the adult. Mood disorders are not caused, they are not brought on by lifestyle choice, substance abuse or cast down by El Diablo;) They are a genetic "gift." No different that hair or eye colour, inherited personality traits or if we pick the piece of chalk up with our left or right hand as a toddler. The Mood Disorder is a sleeping giant, it does not even know it slumbers beneath the person's psyche. It purrs amongst all the other sleeping traits than develop with time and like the ugly duckling is what it is; it is neither good, nor bad, it is what it is. It is black and white, it has no agenda, no ideology. It is as organic as our biological cravings or need to walk in the sunshine.
We as humans give it a personality, judgement, identity and a face. We paint mood disorder as if it has arms and legs and a tail that whips at the world. Makes sense, we anthropomorphize the animals around us, why not the ones that prowl our minds (see what I did just there?)
My oldest, Jacob transverses multiple dimensions of comorbidity. Sounds grand doesn't it? Essentially he has overlapping neurological disorders: Autism, Adhd and Early Onset Bipolar Disorder. We have come a thousand lifetimes with Jacob's journey, hit so many peaks and valleys. At the ripe old age of 11 years, 7 months and a few days we are again in the valley. New school, new routine, new expectations. Add to that the move, growth spurt, hormones, life then being a little boy still clinging to the safety of his Mother's leg, the fear so evident in his eyes. A Mother's fear to gently peel those arms away from her leg, he must feel he is walking in a tightrope that criss crosses and deceives the walker.
How can we wonder why his bipolar companion awoke from it's stable slumber and declared "I WILL hold you......come dance and play with me." Jacob's terror and fascination is palpable.
Tomorrow Jacob and I will visit his doctor to find a way to calm his inner world and put to bed Bipolar....it truly needs to sleep....again, until another day.
I can not remember if I went into much detail in previous posts about Early Onset Bipolar Disorder (EOBDO), today though I feel compelled, if not for me for my beautiful and amazingly creative son, Jacob.
The reality is Mood Disorders are as prevalent in the pediatric community as they are in the adult. Mood disorders are not caused, they are not brought on by lifestyle choice, substance abuse or cast down by El Diablo;) They are a genetic "gift." No different that hair or eye colour, inherited personality traits or if we pick the piece of chalk up with our left or right hand as a toddler. The Mood Disorder is a sleeping giant, it does not even know it slumbers beneath the person's psyche. It purrs amongst all the other sleeping traits than develop with time and like the ugly duckling is what it is; it is neither good, nor bad, it is what it is. It is black and white, it has no agenda, no ideology. It is as organic as our biological cravings or need to walk in the sunshine.
We as humans give it a personality, judgement, identity and a face. We paint mood disorder as if it has arms and legs and a tail that whips at the world. Makes sense, we anthropomorphize the animals around us, why not the ones that prowl our minds (see what I did just there?)
My oldest, Jacob transverses multiple dimensions of comorbidity. Sounds grand doesn't it? Essentially he has overlapping neurological disorders: Autism, Adhd and Early Onset Bipolar Disorder. We have come a thousand lifetimes with Jacob's journey, hit so many peaks and valleys. At the ripe old age of 11 years, 7 months and a few days we are again in the valley. New school, new routine, new expectations. Add to that the move, growth spurt, hormones, life then being a little boy still clinging to the safety of his Mother's leg, the fear so evident in his eyes. A Mother's fear to gently peel those arms away from her leg, he must feel he is walking in a tightrope that criss crosses and deceives the walker.
How can we wonder why his bipolar companion awoke from it's stable slumber and declared "I WILL hold you......come dance and play with me." Jacob's terror and fascination is palpable.
Tomorrow Jacob and I will visit his doctor to find a way to calm his inner world and put to bed Bipolar....it truly needs to sleep....again, until another day.
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!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Missing them....yet not!
I have been away from my babies almost 10 days now. This is where I am supposed to tell you I miss them so much my heart aches. Sorry, to disappoint; of course I miss them, but do I "miss" them??? As in, John William's composes a movie symphony just for me running in awkward slow motion down a sandy beach so I can gather all 3 in my arms and cry moist tears into their lovely crisp ironed polo shirts? Look, no one (if they even fucking dare) would suggest I don't love my kids. They are what has made me who I am today, tenacious, driven and plain mean/cuddly if I have to.
Still, would I relish another week or two child free, no demands, no snot, no poo, no carpools, no shit. Are you thick or what????? Of course I do; will I miss the flight Sunday, of course not! I will resign myself to what I am responsibile for, and I will genuinely love having those wee boogers run into my arms (ok, 2 out of the 3, John will be pissed for 3 days...it's a rule). Look, us Mums love our kids, no question, but when we know they're safe and ok, we do need that time away. We need that time to remember who we are. We need to remember who we are as a grown woman, to feel life as a woman, and not be defined by our stretch marks.
Still, would I relish another week or two child free, no demands, no snot, no poo, no carpools, no shit. Are you thick or what????? Of course I do; will I miss the flight Sunday, of course not! I will resign myself to what I am responsibile for, and I will genuinely love having those wee boogers run into my arms (ok, 2 out of the 3, John will be pissed for 3 days...it's a rule). Look, us Mums love our kids, no question, but when we know they're safe and ok, we do need that time away. We need that time to remember who we are. We need to remember who we are as a grown woman, to feel life as a woman, and not be defined by our stretch marks.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Unfather's Day
Many of you know the cynical and dare I say it negative feelings I have towards fatherhood. I don't mean to appear disparaging to those who have great relationships with their Dads or are married to men who are wonderful Dads. My children are in fact blessed to have a good dad, who truly loves and cares for them.
Having said that I still feel somewhat alienated from this Father/child relationship. Lots of factors come into play though; both Grandfathers were absent, alcoholic fathers. From what I know it sounds like their own father's were similar, either due to WWI or just being neurologically impaired. So, for me it is a multi generational issue and not merely a current one. Parenting is a learned discipline. I know society pressures us to become instant excellent parents from the moment the baby crowns, but let's face it it truly is a learn as you go occupation, heavily based in what we witnessed as a growing child. Now, to me the latter doesn't matter if those parents were heterosexual, single, same sex etc, it's about what was witnessed in terms of a loving and nurturing home.
I however, and at the very minimum two generations before me did not have the luxury of such marvelous role models. My incredible Mother and despite their flaws my Grandmothers did the best they could, thus yielding the best children they could. Some did better than others emotionally, but all did the best they could, considering the odds.
I have a hard time with father's day. Although not because I am bitter. I have a hard time because I feel no deep connection to this relationship. My own experience with an emotionally absentee Father for over a decade who suddenly decided he wanted in on this Daddy thing has been fraught with such raw and numb emotion. It's honestly not a conscious act; I liken it to being born blind and when they fix the corneas at age 5 it's too late. The brain has rewritten the synapses. My emotional synapses are wired; I make a conscious effort for the sake of my own children and their relationship with their Grandfather. Even so, there's a lot of confusion and damage control. Then I realize, not only am I missing that meaningful history with my father, but sadly he is missing the same with me. So, no matter my feelings toward my partner (another post for another day), I am quite glad my children adore him and he is indeed a "good father."
Having said that I still feel somewhat alienated from this Father/child relationship. Lots of factors come into play though; both Grandfathers were absent, alcoholic fathers. From what I know it sounds like their own father's were similar, either due to WWI or just being neurologically impaired. So, for me it is a multi generational issue and not merely a current one. Parenting is a learned discipline. I know society pressures us to become instant excellent parents from the moment the baby crowns, but let's face it it truly is a learn as you go occupation, heavily based in what we witnessed as a growing child. Now, to me the latter doesn't matter if those parents were heterosexual, single, same sex etc, it's about what was witnessed in terms of a loving and nurturing home.
I however, and at the very minimum two generations before me did not have the luxury of such marvelous role models. My incredible Mother and despite their flaws my Grandmothers did the best they could, thus yielding the best children they could. Some did better than others emotionally, but all did the best they could, considering the odds.
I have a hard time with father's day. Although not because I am bitter. I have a hard time because I feel no deep connection to this relationship. My own experience with an emotionally absentee Father for over a decade who suddenly decided he wanted in on this Daddy thing has been fraught with such raw and numb emotion. It's honestly not a conscious act; I liken it to being born blind and when they fix the corneas at age 5 it's too late. The brain has rewritten the synapses. My emotional synapses are wired; I make a conscious effort for the sake of my own children and their relationship with their Grandfather. Even so, there's a lot of confusion and damage control. Then I realize, not only am I missing that meaningful history with my father, but sadly he is missing the same with me. So, no matter my feelings toward my partner (another post for another day), I am quite glad my children adore him and he is indeed a "good father."
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