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 thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Monday, October 20, 2014
I have been reading back over my last few blog entries and am quite aware what a lyrical but melancholy sense I have been weaving. I've been so introverted and selfish, I forgot about the rest of you. The parents of the 1:88, the aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings of that 1:88. If you entered my blog you no doubt would have stopped reading four sentences in and run screaming for the nearest Developmental Pediatrician. Shit, I would have.
I have a dear online friend (yes, most of my special need friends are online, and on the phone) who is dealing (I refuse to say struggling) with three special needs babies, aged between 1 and almost 5. Today I started wondering what I would have wanted to hear from a been there done that Mum; three kids with needs, aged between 1 and 5.
* This too shall pass; Hannah is entering Kindergarden this Fall, her IEP is this week. She is still a sensory mess, but compared to the 15 month old I literally held out like a sensory offering to Babies Can't Wait, she is eager, willing and racing towards Kindy.
*
I have a dear online friend (yes, most of my special need friends are online, and on the phone) who is dealing (I refuse to say struggling) with three special needs babies, aged between 1 and almost 5. Today I started wondering what I would have wanted to hear from a been there done that Mum; three kids with needs, aged between 1 and 5.
* This too shall pass; Hannah is entering Kindergarden this Fall, her IEP is this week. She is still a sensory mess, but compared to the 15 month old I literally held out like a sensory offering to Babies Can't Wait, she is eager, willing and racing towards Kindy.
*
Sunday, March 2, 2014
The Meh and the heartbreak
I hear "My Heart breaks,"...."doesn't it break your heat." Even from those that have plenty enough to bear heartbreak wise. If it's not your child though, that heartbreak seems warranted, even accepted. I have read and followed many an article and thread and it seems "My heart breaks" leads the view. I can only speak from personal experience, my heart doesn't break. It just doesn't, my emotions are pulled, like a tug boat against it's will. You know you should but you don't want to, in fact beneath it all you're irritated you are asked an emotion at all.
This is America where American emotion's are worn, expressed and thrown like confetti. Our real emotion, well, we don't know. We have been lead and drawn to convey and spread out emotion like a thin quilt.We cleave to theater to help us express said feelings: Golden Globe's, Oscars's. Oh trust me, I am as much to blame, I cleave the play, the distraction.
I read a tweet tonight that said their "heart broke",while watching a recipient's acceptance speech. It reminded me,all the times I see similar tweets for stories about people, kids and adults how their "hearts broke," for an illness,a death,a child with cancer, that child's death from cancer, a celebrity's death.
I have lived heart ache from a few seconds after Jacob was born.
Not lack of love,not lack of longing but a heart ache. A knowing something didn't fit. The professional's around me knew as well. They shared the heart ache. Periodically we cried together.
I lived that heart ache until he was medically diagnosed as Bipolar and Autistic.
Then my heart broke.
When your heart breaks it's the ache you've been carrying, it slows down, rests and stops. It's quite peaceful really.
Seven years later I still carry it,although it's not an ache or a break. It's a hike. Don't laugh, that is what Autism and Pediatric Bipolar is, it's a hike. You slog, someday's you keep the head down and trudge on, someday's it's head's up and uphill and looking around. Many day's is head forward,no movement,forward,the blinker and both side's of his face, keeping him forward, his wide guide. Because those days you are his guild, compass and counselor.
So,when I hear "My heart break's, my heart aches...."I think, really, my heart goes meh. I couldn't survive breaking and aching. Meh means I can aide him,all of them, and me. My heart goes meh, a lot, but it's my meh.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Hey Bipolar Bear
In a previous blog a long time ago I referred to Jacob's Mood Disorder as Bipolar Bear. He was in the midst of a manic episode and I knew where it would end. I was spot on too; it ended up with an emergency appointment and a swift medication juggle. Here was my dilemma, I was delighted he was receiving the treatment he needed and simultaneously traumatized that once again we had barely escaped a psych ward admission. We've avoided it thus far, really minimally avoiding that threshold between outpatient and commitment. He's still little though.
He was an even littler boy then. Yet today I knew from the moment I heard the sun, my bear is again sick. There is a 'normal' state of silliness and hyperactivity before his Adhd medicine focus's him. Today was different. I heard that scream, that maniacal laugh, that racing thump of ball and heel along hallways, and immediately my throat constricted and my stomach formed an introverted knot. Remember, Jacob has co-morbid disorders. Autism, Adhd, Bipolar Disorder.
They Coexist like a Russian nesting dolls. Jacob's nesting doll is not finite, it's not fixed, no one neurology is bigger or smaller than the other. They hold hands and dance, twisting their pathology like a twisted ribbon on a Maypole. His dolls dip in and out of one another, they overlay, separate and return; a psychological osmosis moving though each other. His brain and neurology strike cruel tricks, cast riposte and shadow.
Today it was not my Jacob, today the doll's spoke, not my bear, I only heard the dolls. Over 13 hours they laughed, screamed, cried, sobbed, raged and finally slept under the gaze, yes tears, remorse and soothing rub of nails on a 12 year old boy's little back. His body relaxed, slack and soft, and finally my bear slept.
Tomorrow the doll's and I need to talk.
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.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Different is OK!
I am prone to the odd documentary or even feature where the protagonist or central theme involves autism. Tonight I just finally finished "Dad's in Heaven with Nixon." Yes, alright, I'm more than prone, blame it on my back ground in Film Studies and having three silly Aspie beans. Most films and documentaries about Autism are hit and miss. One I may have been angsting for might be rather disappointing, while one that I stumble upon purely accidentally is flat out enlightening. The reality is Autism and film has has a rather "interesting" history.
I think this is where I am expected to laud the acting ability of Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. Forgive me if I don't. It may be exquisitely acted, have a fantastic sophomoric dalliance with relating to a person with autism, but please people it is an extreme, so far to the fantastical edge of reality it really has no place in the muck and mire of Kanner's Autism, Asperger's Syndrome, Pervasive Developmental Delay, Pervasive Developmental Delay (NOS), Retts Syndrome, Fragile X and yes, ADHD.
See what I did there? I took the perfect isolation of a Hollywood reflection of what so much of the public still consider's Autism and just bombarded you with real diagnostic reality.
Many of my compadres in blogging crime have already written about the impending changes in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manuel of Mental Disorders). The DSM was envisioned just before the end of WWI. I can only assume the pervasiveness of Freud, Jung and the burgeoning of psychiatry as a legitimate field was finally permeating. Unfortunately it certainly didn't mean the new born DSM was all that helpful. Still, it was the only real starting point modern day psychiatry had in terms of cohesive understanding. If I were to dissect each DSM and it's tangents I'd be here for years, into two Phd's and you would all be long gone screaming into the wilderness.
What I do want to focus on is what happened between 1980 and today. The DSM III emerged the year the US boycotted the Olympics (just thought I'd throw that in there, well, because I can). Sometime around 1986 Homosexuality was removed from the DSM as a mental illness; perhaps that may give you an inkling as to the sludge still stuck to the moral and well being of these supposed objective specialists.
The DSM morphed into it's fourth Doctor (Nerd speak), in 1994, a mere three years after Asperger's Syndrome was formerly introduced to the English Speaking Psychiatric world by Uta Frith. Never mind, the syndrome was named after it's original identifier, Han's Asperger in 1944. Unfortunately, he had the audacity to be Austrian, speak and publish in German right at the end of WWII. Who knows what other brilliant mind's work was ignored at the time. Miracle his work was found and researched.
From the early 1990's thousands of children, adults, families of deceased relatives have been able to put a face to the way these brains worked. Give it a name, accept it's not a fault and try to move on. Do you remember the awkward kid in school? I know you do. The one that talked odd, perhaps had monotone inflections, talked in a monologue about his or her personal fascination. They may have been non Athletic, bullied in the locker room or the changing room, maybe you egged it on. They just weren't 'normal.' If you say no, I see brown brimming in your eyeballs. I can say now, it's ok, you were a kid too. No one suggested you to lay off, step up or ask that kid to sit with you at lunch.
There is nothing as satisfying as having lived with a neurological or mood disorder all your life and finally it be explained as organic, developmental, not typical, but much more important, NOT YOUR FAULT! Once upon a time Mother's were blamed for their infant's autism, due to Refrigerator Mother's. They supposedly didn't hold or bond enough with their children. Please note it was the 1950's/60's and no one was calling out Refrigerator Father's.
The DSM V will be published officially in May next year (2013). From what I can gather, (remember it's a blog, not a news reel) all genetic connections to Autism shall also be dropped from the DSM. There's an argument on both sides here. I know in my son's self contained classroom, he is moderate Autistic, seeping into Asperger's; he also has significant challenges with a mood disorder and Adhd. Not at all uncommon. He has classmates with Rett's Syndrome, Fragile X and Tubular Sclerosis, yet all benefit from similar special education instruction. Come the advent of the DSM V those with genetic disorders lose all DSM notice and all other's are lumped under Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).
For two of my three special needs children they will qualify under the new DSM V. It's ok for them. My youngest likes to play with the edges of Asperger's and as she grows I could certainly see a burgeoning Aspie diagnoses. However, under the DSM V's guidelines most probably not, as Asperger's will be gone. Will she lose out? Will she do ok no matter what? How do I know, all I do know is another possible bridge, another future support has been erased for her. Where will our fringe children go when all the rope ladders have been cut? I would hope, they go to your children. Why? Because perhaps you have taught them that classmate that talked odd, perhaps had monotone inflection, talked in a monologue about his or her personal fascination, was not athletic, and bullied in the locker room or the changing room, was just different. Different is ok, it's more than ok! Oh and she'll do his math homework for fun ;-)
I think this is where I am expected to laud the acting ability of Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. Forgive me if I don't. It may be exquisitely acted, have a fantastic sophomoric dalliance with relating to a person with autism, but please people it is an extreme, so far to the fantastical edge of reality it really has no place in the muck and mire of Kanner's Autism, Asperger's Syndrome, Pervasive Developmental Delay, Pervasive Developmental Delay (NOS), Retts Syndrome, Fragile X and yes, ADHD.
See what I did there? I took the perfect isolation of a Hollywood reflection of what so much of the public still consider's Autism and just bombarded you with real diagnostic reality.
Many of my compadres in blogging crime have already written about the impending changes in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manuel of Mental Disorders). The DSM was envisioned just before the end of WWI. I can only assume the pervasiveness of Freud, Jung and the burgeoning of psychiatry as a legitimate field was finally permeating. Unfortunately it certainly didn't mean the new born DSM was all that helpful. Still, it was the only real starting point modern day psychiatry had in terms of cohesive understanding. If I were to dissect each DSM and it's tangents I'd be here for years, into two Phd's and you would all be long gone screaming into the wilderness.
What I do want to focus on is what happened between 1980 and today. The DSM III emerged the year the US boycotted the Olympics (just thought I'd throw that in there, well, because I can). Sometime around 1986 Homosexuality was removed from the DSM as a mental illness; perhaps that may give you an inkling as to the sludge still stuck to the moral and well being of these supposed objective specialists.
The DSM morphed into it's fourth Doctor (Nerd speak), in 1994, a mere three years after Asperger's Syndrome was formerly introduced to the English Speaking Psychiatric world by Uta Frith. Never mind, the syndrome was named after it's original identifier, Han's Asperger in 1944. Unfortunately, he had the audacity to be Austrian, speak and publish in German right at the end of WWII. Who knows what other brilliant mind's work was ignored at the time. Miracle his work was found and researched.
From the early 1990's thousands of children, adults, families of deceased relatives have been able to put a face to the way these brains worked. Give it a name, accept it's not a fault and try to move on. Do you remember the awkward kid in school? I know you do. The one that talked odd, perhaps had monotone inflections, talked in a monologue about his or her personal fascination. They may have been non Athletic, bullied in the locker room or the changing room, maybe you egged it on. They just weren't 'normal.' If you say no, I see brown brimming in your eyeballs. I can say now, it's ok, you were a kid too. No one suggested you to lay off, step up or ask that kid to sit with you at lunch.
There is nothing as satisfying as having lived with a neurological or mood disorder all your life and finally it be explained as organic, developmental, not typical, but much more important, NOT YOUR FAULT! Once upon a time Mother's were blamed for their infant's autism, due to Refrigerator Mother's. They supposedly didn't hold or bond enough with their children. Please note it was the 1950's/60's and no one was calling out Refrigerator Father's.
The DSM V will be published officially in May next year (2013). From what I can gather, (remember it's a blog, not a news reel) all genetic connections to Autism shall also be dropped from the DSM. There's an argument on both sides here. I know in my son's self contained classroom, he is moderate Autistic, seeping into Asperger's; he also has significant challenges with a mood disorder and Adhd. Not at all uncommon. He has classmates with Rett's Syndrome, Fragile X and Tubular Sclerosis, yet all benefit from similar special education instruction. Come the advent of the DSM V those with genetic disorders lose all DSM notice and all other's are lumped under Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).
For two of my three special needs children they will qualify under the new DSM V. It's ok for them. My youngest likes to play with the edges of Asperger's and as she grows I could certainly see a burgeoning Aspie diagnoses. However, under the DSM V's guidelines most probably not, as Asperger's will be gone. Will she lose out? Will she do ok no matter what? How do I know, all I do know is another possible bridge, another future support has been erased for her. Where will our fringe children go when all the rope ladders have been cut? I would hope, they go to your children. Why? Because perhaps you have taught them that classmate that talked odd, perhaps had monotone inflection, talked in a monologue about his or her personal fascination, was not athletic, and bullied in the locker room or the changing room, was just different. Different is ok, it's more than ok! Oh and she'll do his math homework for fun ;-)
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?
Friday, April 13, 2012
Planets
Last week I lost a friend. At least I think technically I did. We used to live a few doors down from each other and my easy going Aspie connected with her son. If I had suggested her son was also splashed with Asperger's I suspect I would have lost that friend a little bit earlier. It's all good though, in so many ways we are all sprayed with something: Aspie, Adhd, Ocd, Anxiety, well, something neurological.
I have been dwelling on and off about losing that friendship. In reality it was only when she was a stay at home parent and I a forced stay at home parent, we connected. She started work while I could neither afford it or energetically absorb that and three children with special needs. We drifted. I saw it, I knew. She would call me on her commute home from work....she was bored. I was knee deep in medication needs, meltdowns and the most full on part of my day. My father (aka asshole sperm donor) does the same. He likes to call between dinner and bedtime. It suits him on his Western European time frame. I have begged he not......he forgets. Thus, I ignore his calls.
All of the above had me over the last few weeks really absorb how others truly do NOT understand the planet of special needs, the planet of Autism. Autism spins, regardless of your schedule, your needs or your demands. Autism, Early Onset Bipolar, Adhd and Sensory Processing Disorder is far too busy to care about your time frame, open calendar, boredom, insomnia.
We truly are planets, I and my three continents on ours and everyone else on theirs. Some planets are bigger than others as they hold more experiences. That's ok. However, remember it is only Earth, the third smallest of the solar system that holds sentient life. One of the smallest in our solar system. Your Planet may be massive and homogeneous, mine is small and devoid of bullshit. Enjoy your planet. Make sure it doesn't burst.
I have been dwelling on and off about losing that friendship. In reality it was only when she was a stay at home parent and I a forced stay at home parent, we connected. She started work while I could neither afford it or energetically absorb that and three children with special needs. We drifted. I saw it, I knew. She would call me on her commute home from work....she was bored. I was knee deep in medication needs, meltdowns and the most full on part of my day. My father (aka asshole sperm donor) does the same. He likes to call between dinner and bedtime. It suits him on his Western European time frame. I have begged he not......he forgets. Thus, I ignore his calls.
All of the above had me over the last few weeks really absorb how others truly do NOT understand the planet of special needs, the planet of Autism. Autism spins, regardless of your schedule, your needs or your demands. Autism, Early Onset Bipolar, Adhd and Sensory Processing Disorder is far too busy to care about your time frame, open calendar, boredom, insomnia.
We truly are planets, I and my three continents on ours and everyone else on theirs. Some planets are bigger than others as they hold more experiences. That's ok. However, remember it is only Earth, the third smallest of the solar system that holds sentient life. One of the smallest in our solar system. Your Planet may be massive and homogeneous, mine is small and devoid of bullshit. Enjoy your planet. Make sure it doesn't burst.
Friday, April 6, 2012
I wait
We met on a Tuesday.
Honestly, I don't remember the day. I do remember we met. Late for us both, you were willing to call me, listen to my day, my worries, my fears. You listened.
You never judged me, you never named me, you just listened. Had I known how that call would have rooted itself. If I had known what we were growing. Perhaps it's best I didn't know, couldn't see the next 17 months. I might have run so far, or you might have never called back. I didn't run and you called again.
Flaws and blemishes have become obvious I know, but here we are, no one's running, we both keep calling.
One day we'll meet again, perhaps on a Tuesday.
In the mean time I will await the other 6 days.
I just wait for you!
Honestly, I don't remember the day. I do remember we met. Late for us both, you were willing to call me, listen to my day, my worries, my fears. You listened.
You never judged me, you never named me, you just listened. Had I known how that call would have rooted itself. If I had known what we were growing. Perhaps it's best I didn't know, couldn't see the next 17 months. I might have run so far, or you might have never called back. I didn't run and you called again.
Flaws and blemishes have become obvious I know, but here we are, no one's running, we both keep calling.
One day we'll meet again, perhaps on a Tuesday.
In the mean time I will await the other 6 days.
I just wait for you!
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.
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.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Cutting Through
I've never been a cutter...ever. However, I have immense empathy for those that do. My first exposure to it was in college. A sweet guy from Newcastle, we shared a bed, just held each other all night. I thought how incredible he was he never pushed his sexual agenda. Next morning he showed me his scars. I was 20 and I completely flipped out and dashed down to my friend's room.
This was foreign to me, this was new, this was terrifying. I suspect my instincts were solid, although I handled it badly. He was a sweet man who felt comfortable enough to share his most secret history. I abandoned him, I ran, without stopping to think and ask "why?" Yes, I was a kid, I was inexperienced and I was selfish. Today, it would be a very different situation. I have been through so much trauma, I would now sit up and listen to the sweet gentle giant from Newcastle. Not suggesting there was a relationship in the wings, but certainly a dialogue. I let that man down. He reached out, I pushed back so hard he fell over the precipice.
Something similar happened last night. I reached out. I bared my 'scars' and instead was met with compassion beyond compare. Complete stranger's as well as trusted friends and intimate loves, the latter two I was beginning to shut out from simple fear, reached out. The crowd gathered around me and circled me like a comforting quit.
I have never been a cutter, but I understand those that do. Numbness needs a razor blade. We cut when on our own, I choose not to be on my own anymore.
This was foreign to me, this was new, this was terrifying. I suspect my instincts were solid, although I handled it badly. He was a sweet man who felt comfortable enough to share his most secret history. I abandoned him, I ran, without stopping to think and ask "why?" Yes, I was a kid, I was inexperienced and I was selfish. Today, it would be a very different situation. I have been through so much trauma, I would now sit up and listen to the sweet gentle giant from Newcastle. Not suggesting there was a relationship in the wings, but certainly a dialogue. I let that man down. He reached out, I pushed back so hard he fell over the precipice.
Something similar happened last night. I reached out. I bared my 'scars' and instead was met with compassion beyond compare. Complete stranger's as well as trusted friends and intimate loves, the latter two I was beginning to shut out from simple fear, reached out. The crowd gathered around me and circled me like a comforting quit.
I have never been a cutter, but I understand those that do. Numbness needs a razor blade. We cut when on our own, I choose not to be on my own anymore.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Lollie Laughs
It was agreed upon.
I knew we were to meet; her photograph presented, yellowed with age and youth,
On the bus I held his hand, the one with the serrated scar. I trace it's zagging map with the pad of my finger,
Comforting. A trauma story told in each depression and jagged rivet, x-rayed against the light touch of my swirling print.
Chattering's of a thousand women saturate the top deck, embroiling it in the years of gossip and floral scented regret. Today, the bones of women talk about nothing, talk about everything.
We do not talk, we sit, hold hands, I trace his trauma.
Stop please!
The gates are wrought with iron, imbued with hands that have pushed and pulled for one and a half centuries. Our steps mocked with each pebbled cry, and swift stride. His mission pure. He knows she is here. She knows too. I can hear her, she's laughing. I think we would have played together once.
Trudging slender lanes of pebble, dust and marble. Cracked tombs like gaping open jaws. I ignore them, he hears her. He knows her playground is here.
Grandmother May's etched name embraces her in stone, warming it. Twin yellow tall stemmed flowers sit at it's margin, one knocked over in slain solitude.
Instinct affects me like an electron; a leap and it's fixed.
A need to leave something overwhelms me. I do not. Standing, we share and it's done. I walk with him, holding his trauma in hand, I squeeze it a little harder. Lollie laughs.
I knew we were to meet; her photograph presented, yellowed with age and youth,
On the bus I held his hand, the one with the serrated scar. I trace it's zagging map with the pad of my finger,
Comforting. A trauma story told in each depression and jagged rivet, x-rayed against the light touch of my swirling print.
Chattering's of a thousand women saturate the top deck, embroiling it in the years of gossip and floral scented regret. Today, the bones of women talk about nothing, talk about everything.
We do not talk, we sit, hold hands, I trace his trauma.
Stop please!
The gates are wrought with iron, imbued with hands that have pushed and pulled for one and a half centuries. Our steps mocked with each pebbled cry, and swift stride. His mission pure. He knows she is here. She knows too. I can hear her, she's laughing. I think we would have played together once.
Trudging slender lanes of pebble, dust and marble. Cracked tombs like gaping open jaws. I ignore them, he hears her. He knows her playground is here.
Grandmother May's etched name embraces her in stone, warming it. Twin yellow tall stemmed flowers sit at it's margin, one knocked over in slain solitude.
Instinct affects me like an electron; a leap and it's fixed.
A need to leave something overwhelms me. I do not. Standing, we share and it's done. I walk with him, holding his trauma in hand, I squeeze it a little harder. Lollie laughs.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Run with the hare, chase with the foxes!
Run with the hare and chase with the foxes. The last time I heard that saying I was probably a freckled faced child, running the neighbourhood and eavesdropping on the adult conversations around me. All the while squirreling away biscuits and diluted orange. Taking it all in by cultural osmosis and not really understanding what was meant.
Until it was turned around on me today. Instinct was to balk, throw up blinkers, defend my position (whatever it was) and tell the world it was wrong. I did at first of course...I was raging, wanted to throw back about 30 different retorts. I started to and then took a step back and breathed, and if you know me at all you know that is unprecedented for me. I don't step back! No matter where right is sidled, I see red, I fire off and to hell with ramifications.
Let me reiterate...I DON'T step back!!!
No one has been able to tame that in me (bar my kids). No man, no woman, no stranger on a bus with sage advice...no one. Today, I stepped back; I breathed deep. I stopped being on the internet, watched a crappy yet brilliantly awful horror flick, put my neversleepsever lil un back to bed twice and sat. I don't do that, I don't sit!
So, run with the hare, chase with the fox. You know of course what it connotes, playing both sides of the coin, living two realities, pleasing both sides. Still having lived 19 formative years in one country, 3 in another and 13 in the next, I wonder if this is the legacy of the moving tenant. It's certainly how I feel when I am willing to admit it. Roots and hankering in one place, expected assimilation elsewhere. When in Liverpool, UK I developed the most perfect scouse accent....to fit in. Sort of yet not really. Honestly it was so I could hail a cab and give an address without being thrust awful, racist Paddy jokes or being told, "won't drive Irish." True story.
When I finally came to the US permanently in 1998, I did note those that had known me for years as a visitor suddenly expected different of me. Comments that had been "cute" or ideas that were "quaint" were now considered dumb or unacceptable...I heard it from as young as a 10 year old "you're in America now, act like it!"
I tried so hard to fit in, assimilate I forgot basics, like pronunciation of similar words, stopped following the news at home in Ireland, my favourite sports teams. I assimilated too hard, so to speak, hit the wall hard. Still, I was not really accepted here in the US nor at home in Ireland when I visited on holiday (even now, I want to type vacation as well as holiday). People here comment on my accent (still very muted), and in Ireland that I sound "like a yank."
Of course that is all periphery. In reality the hare and the fox has a deeper meaning. When one tries to assimilate, especially in a culture that doesn't just expect yet demands it, it is easy to get lost in the smoke and mirrors...to please others; to make 'them' feel more comfortable. Today I was called on that, on my complacence to put their feelings over my principals. I'll be honest, it was a raw feeling and I would be lying if I said I am not still feeling a bit raw. Nevertheless, it is a raw feeling worth sitting with. So far, only one person has helped me do that, hate the cunt!
Until it was turned around on me today. Instinct was to balk, throw up blinkers, defend my position (whatever it was) and tell the world it was wrong. I did at first of course...I was raging, wanted to throw back about 30 different retorts. I started to and then took a step back and breathed, and if you know me at all you know that is unprecedented for me. I don't step back! No matter where right is sidled, I see red, I fire off and to hell with ramifications.
Let me reiterate...I DON'T step back!!!
No one has been able to tame that in me (bar my kids). No man, no woman, no stranger on a bus with sage advice...no one. Today, I stepped back; I breathed deep. I stopped being on the internet, watched a crappy yet brilliantly awful horror flick, put my neversleepsever lil un back to bed twice and sat. I don't do that, I don't sit!
So, run with the hare, chase with the fox. You know of course what it connotes, playing both sides of the coin, living two realities, pleasing both sides. Still having lived 19 formative years in one country, 3 in another and 13 in the next, I wonder if this is the legacy of the moving tenant. It's certainly how I feel when I am willing to admit it. Roots and hankering in one place, expected assimilation elsewhere. When in Liverpool, UK I developed the most perfect scouse accent....to fit in. Sort of yet not really. Honestly it was so I could hail a cab and give an address without being thrust awful, racist Paddy jokes or being told, "won't drive Irish." True story.
When I finally came to the US permanently in 1998, I did note those that had known me for years as a visitor suddenly expected different of me. Comments that had been "cute" or ideas that were "quaint" were now considered dumb or unacceptable...I heard it from as young as a 10 year old "you're in America now, act like it!"
I tried so hard to fit in, assimilate I forgot basics, like pronunciation of similar words, stopped following the news at home in Ireland, my favourite sports teams. I assimilated too hard, so to speak, hit the wall hard. Still, I was not really accepted here in the US nor at home in Ireland when I visited on holiday (even now, I want to type vacation as well as holiday). People here comment on my accent (still very muted), and in Ireland that I sound "like a yank."
Of course that is all periphery. In reality the hare and the fox has a deeper meaning. When one tries to assimilate, especially in a culture that doesn't just expect yet demands it, it is easy to get lost in the smoke and mirrors...to please others; to make 'them' feel more comfortable. Today I was called on that, on my complacence to put their feelings over my principals. I'll be honest, it was a raw feeling and I would be lying if I said I am not still feeling a bit raw. Nevertheless, it is a raw feeling worth sitting with. So far, only one person has helped me do that, hate the cunt!
Sunday, June 26, 2011
The Nana spell
I am blessed to have a wonderful Mum, who had me young. As such we truly are best friends. Having said that she is absolutely The Mammy as well; parent first, friend second. It's a trip and a joy to watch her with her three grand children as let's face it, it's all she's getting. I'm an only child and these tubes are about to be hung up for good in a couple of months. *whispers thankya baby Jesus over and over;)*
My Mum is a great traveller and makes a concerted effort to visit twice a year while I try to get home to Ireland with one kid once a year, when funds allow. My children still do have all four grandparents alive and kicking but with their paternal set a mere six hours away in waiting for God mode in central Florida, and as for my own father.....well, I have blogged about his own narcisisum ad nauseum. My Mum, a mere 20 years my senior is the pulse of what these kids believe to be a grand parent. Of course they love all their G-parents, but none of the four can capture their souls, imagination and pure total unconditional love as my Mum can. I suspect because her connection to childhood flows and ribbons like a natural bend in the river; she eases into their world as flawlessly as sugar dissolves into warm water. Each one so different in their wants and needs, yet she can meet them where they are, quietly, slotting into their psyche like a ball bearing in a weighted blanket.
The next ten days will bring immense pleasure and joy no doubt, but not just because of the delight in watching the generational stepping stones washed over by the river's swirling current, but because I can see clearly how my Mother and I forged our easy, fluid bond from so early on and what a gift I was bequeathed in how easy it has been to do so with my babies. Nana's rock!!!!
My Mum is a great traveller and makes a concerted effort to visit twice a year while I try to get home to Ireland with one kid once a year, when funds allow. My children still do have all four grandparents alive and kicking but with their paternal set a mere six hours away in waiting for God mode in central Florida, and as for my own father.....well, I have blogged about his own narcisisum ad nauseum. My Mum, a mere 20 years my senior is the pulse of what these kids believe to be a grand parent. Of course they love all their G-parents, but none of the four can capture their souls, imagination and pure total unconditional love as my Mum can. I suspect because her connection to childhood flows and ribbons like a natural bend in the river; she eases into their world as flawlessly as sugar dissolves into warm water. Each one so different in their wants and needs, yet she can meet them where they are, quietly, slotting into their psyche like a ball bearing in a weighted blanket.
The next ten days will bring immense pleasure and joy no doubt, but not just because of the delight in watching the generational stepping stones washed over by the river's swirling current, but because I can see clearly how my Mother and I forged our easy, fluid bond from so early on and what a gift I was bequeathed in how easy it has been to do so with my babies. Nana's rock!!!!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Medication Quandry
This is my view, if your kid is neurologically healthy, intact, stable, happy, healthy then more power to you. However, if that same parent or adult chooses to judge another parent with a neurologically impacted child, well honestly, go and soak your head. I certainly wouldn't judge a parent of a child with diabetes and the med they go with to help their kid! In reality anything that is neurologically altering bothers the hell out of most normal folks, and so it should. It took several years, many more episodes and a broken acoustic guitar over a grown man's back to get us to go that route.
It saved my son's life.
When your 4 year old announces he can fly and opens the car door at 65 mph on the highway come back and judge.
Today I have a happy, healthy, hormonal (in a NORMAL way) funny, creative 11 year old. You want to judge our choices? Still soaking that head, bloody hope so!!!!???
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