The Talk

Decisions, decisions.

For two solid weeks I went back and forth…Autism Walk or baseball game?  Autism Walk?  Baseball game?  For the second year in a row we had another commitment the same day as our local county Autism Walk.  Dammit.

This year the conflict was a little league baseball game.  A game in which I knew Ben would shut down by the 3^rd inning.  A game in which Ben would need a firecracker lit beneath his rear to get him moving from outfield to dugout and back.  A game in which Ben would walk away feeling like a failure.  Again.  While I want Ben so badly to become an engaged member of that team, it wasn’t entirely difficult to make the executive decision the day before…we’re ALL doing the Autism walk.  The whole damn family. 

 

Lib and Timmy weren’t sold on the idea.  Of course they had no clue what to expect.  Another day of Ben being the center of attention, maybe?  Probably what they pictured.  But I needed them to understand how important it is that Ben sees that this entire family is on his side.  That we all support him.  Just as he has been cheering from the sidelines for years at Lib and Timmy’s basketball and football games.  It is their turn to cheer. 

We arrived fairly early, got registered and our t-shirts.  It was pretty chilly but Ben was thrilled to don his immediately.  The walk was scheduled at an elementary school…complete with a walking track and a nice big playground.  Perfect setting!   As more kids arrived the playground began to fill.  The gentleman and I stood to the side and watched many of the kids meander in and around the yard…many of them navigating the playground much like Ben.  Keeping to themselves.  Captivated each in their own world.  And for the first time….well…ever…Ben wasn’t alone in this.   And he loved it!  Before we knew it our NBA mascot, Boomer, arrived and Ben was elated.   Seeking pictures and a high five…smiles were abound.  And you know what…Timmy and Libby were actually having fun too!  (Brief glance to the heavens and a silent “thank you”.)

Just before the walk began, the kids decided it was time to grab a hot dog and sit down for a quick bite.  We found an open table next to a van broadcasting for a radio station.  While the kids were eating, the local DJ was interviewing one of the participants about her involvement with our county’s Autism Foundation.   And that’s when it happened…

“Mom…what’s Autism?”

NBC's 'Parenthood' - Max Braverman

Holy shit.  Immediately the gentleman and I locked eyes and we realized…we probably should have had this talk at the very least that MORNING.  Why hadn't we thought of this??  Of course we're taking him to a walk that has "AUTISM" blaring on a hundred different signs.  He CAN read.  I immediately flashed back to the episode of 'Parenthood' where Max stands up at the Autism Walk declaring his support for all of those kids out there with Autism...clearly not aware he was his family's participant of honor.   Did I really think Ben would assume we were walking to support a cause I randomly picked out of a hat?  I never claimed to be brilliant, folks.

Who’s gonna…what do I…how do I...how’s he gonna…crap.  

Dad took the first stab…”Okay Ben, Autism is when your brain is wired a little…well...you see…” I could see the look in Ben’s face and immediately interjected that there are not in fact any actual wires in your brain.  (I saw that one coming a mile away.)  After stumbling through a few attempted technical explanations, I took a turn.

“Ben…buddy, you know how a lot of times in school you get really frustrated because you feel like people don’t understand what you’re trying to do or say?”

Nod

“And you know how sometimes you get upset because you really want to take your time on your school work and get it done completely right instead of moving on to the next activity?”

Nod

“And you know how when people approach you and want to talk to you but you have a hard time answering with words and you don’t really look at them and…”

Holding up his chubby little hand to halt me… “Mommy.”

“What buddy?”

“I have Autism.”

It was all I could do to nod, get past the monstrous throat lump, squeak out a “yep…yep, buddy you do have Autism and that’s why we’re here” and pull the sunglasses back down over my eyes.  His very serious face was satisfied.  He didn’t ask anything else.  At that moment he didn’t need anything else.  As I attempted to continue our talk, he made it clear that he was done talking, done eating and ready to play again.  As he scurried away the gentleman and I exchanged glances…he knew where I was.  And I knew that my oversized shades were not hiding the tears streaming down my face.  We cleaned up our mess, followed the kids back to the playground, completed our walk, got some great pictures in the meantime and then headed home.  The gentleman and I determined we would revisit the conversation later…after taking some time to research how best to have such a talk with your ASD child. 

 

While I wasn’t prepared to have that discussion right then and there, I naturally thought of all the things I wanted to tell him after the fact.  But what I took away from that day…is that, as big and overwhelming as Autism feels to me…as frustrated as I get…as much as it is an everyday topic, a never-ending part of our world now…it is NOT everything to him.  Our talk didn’t make him cry.  Or scared.  It doesn’t stop him from playing, from laughing, from living his life.  It doesn’t keep him from fighting with his siblings or giggling about fart sounds with other kids in the carpool line.  He's not fretting about his IEP or what day he has speech therapy.  It doesn’t change HIM.  Those worries...they're mine.  And they should be.  And I'll take 'em. 

Ben can just be...Ben.

 

Sometimes...There IS Crying in Baseball

Welp, we’re at it again…another sports season, another three months of sore ass by cheap camp chair, another round of cool, Saturday morning games with a little Baileys sneaked into my travel mug. 

I’m kidding.

No I’m not. 

This time though I’m not talking football.  No…my Ben decided this year he wants to try baseball. 

 

We’ve had an interesting go of organized sports with Ben.  Two years ago he showed quite a bit of interest in playing football like his big brother.  As a kindergartener, it meant he would be playing no-contact flag football.  This was of course before we had a diagnosis for Ben, other than ADHD.  I recall his first few practices, with his uber-serious grumpy old man face, watching him aimlessly meander around the field, cutting in line in between drills without realizing he was pissing off his teammates, seemingly more interested in the overgrown dandelions than the coaches or plays.  Was this really the right choice?  I recall how the older two handled soccer when they were only slightly younger than Ben, and his behavior didn’t seem too far-fetched.  It was a struggle to get him through the season.  He didn’t appear to enjoy the practice or the games.  He didn’t make friends with teammates.  The coaches were frustrated.   I remember the day I tried having the conversation with the coach that Ben was a little…different.  And as I was attempting to explain some of the struggles Ben has experienced I glanced across the field to find Ben not throwing the football with his friends or playing chase with the others…rather, he was several yards away already climbing halfway up the 20-foot baseball fence.  By himself.  Naturally. 

 

He gave flag football a shot again last summer and to my surprise…he enjoyed it!  He smiled.  He participated.  Enthusiastically, I might add.  He was good too…aggressive, fast, cooperative.  It was so much fun to watch.  Of course he had his moments…his days…when everyone and everything pissed him off and he wanted nothing to do with any of it.  Thankfully those moments were few and far between.  Being a football player has given him common ground with his big brother, who he admires so very much.  While I think Ben has really cherished having that connection with Timmy, he is starting to feel the need to branch out and try something that just might be HIS thing.  So when the baseball flyer went out to the kids at school, guess who was at my desk with a pen and a stoic face and my checkbook.  Yep.  I couldn’t say “no”.  

So we signed him up.  And before we knew it, it was time for new player evaluations.  Time to stand in line and wait to test his throwing, catching, fielding and batting.  How will he compare?  We are by no means a baseball family.  If there aren’t any shoulder pads involved, I got nothin’.   We got to the baseball center and found our place in line.  We watched little peanuts no bigger than a Chihuahua out there catching and throwing like pros.  We saw bigger boys with ‘staches that I swear will be asked to produce a birth certificate at some point this season.  Ben quietly monitored their every move.  He didn’t say much at all until it was his turn.   As they called his name he turned to me and asked “but Mommy…what if I don’t do good?”  Ugh.  This kid.  I smiled, patted his back and told him he would do just fine.  And he did.   He’s not a natural by any means.  He throws like he has pigskin in his hands.  And he’s a lefty which I think feels a little awkward.   But he’s not bad either, particularly considering he’s never picked up a mitt, bat or baseball in his life.  I’ll take it!

They had the player draft last weekend and I received the call from his coach on Sunday that we would have a parent meeting this week to get schedules and talk about the upcoming season.  He explained we wouldn’t have practice due to cold temperature (given the weather trend this year, I’m assuming this season will pretty much be postponed until June…ya know, when the temps skyrocket from 30 to 90 overnight).

We arrived at the gym in a school on the other side of our town, saw his teammates scattered about the gym floor laughing and playing catch.  The parents were migrating toward the bleachers so I too made my way toward a seat…with Ben still glued to my side.  At no point did he tug on my jacket and ask if he could join the boys, rather he watched pensively and didn’t lose physical contact with me.  After the coach summarized what to expect this season and let’s not forget the fundraising (thank God for the buyout option), I nudged Ben to “go see what those boys are doing.” 

I could hear the adults around me asking their questions, “so where is this diamond?”, “if it’s too cold, when will the practices be rescheduled?”…it all sounded like chatter a million miles away as I watched Ben hesitantly scope out the boys on the floor.  He traced the perimeter of the gym, with his studious face, taking it all in and by the looks of it, becoming more intimidated and less interested by the minute.  Not once did he jump in to say “hi” or wait in line to throw with the others.  Not one kid looked up at him and asked him to play.  Not one kid asked him his name or even seemed to notice he was there.  So grew the lump in my throat.  God I can’t take rejection myself much less for my sweet guy.  He finally made his way back around to me as the parents’ voices suddenly came back to full volume. 

Buddy, I thought you were going to go see what the boys were doing?

I DID see.  <sigh complete with eye roll>

Yep, okay, buddy…I get it.  But what I meant to say was you should go PLAY with the boys, not just see them.

Fine. 

I watched again as he reluctantly headed back out along the baseline of the gym.  Just about that time, the coach called all of the boys into the middle of the room.  I glanced up to see Ben holding his ground under the free throw line.  I motioned him to join the others, and in true Ben fashion, his hands went into his pockets and he slowly swaggered his way to the group, Tommy-Lee-Jones-face and all.  They introduced themselves chatted for a moment then the coach turned and dismissed us all from the meeting.  As I headed down the bleachers to get Ben I could see him watching some of the boys returning to the balls to play more catch.  I leaned down and asked:

Buddy, are you ready to go?

Uh…I um…I don’t…

Do you want to stay and play for a few minutes?

Well, I uh…um…yeah, but…

What’s the matter, buddy?

With this horrendously hesitant and frightened face he looked up at me and said:

But what if my new friends don’t like me?

(this is when that aforementioned lump turned into a volleyball, prohibiting me from speaking.)

My eyes shot straight to the ceiling, hoping the tears would roll back into my head…I’m surrounded by strangers for Christ’s sake.  THERE’S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL.  I got it together after a few seconds, knelt down next to Ben and told him:

THAT is impossible, Ben…how could they NOT like you??  You are funny.  You are nice.  You are a good person.  They will like you.  You just need to help them get to know you. 

And with that he headed over to one of the coaches who was throwing to another child and began playing catch.  Of course he made zero attempt to throw with the other child, only the adult.  This I expected.  But dammit he jumped IN. 

I spent the drive home praising his bravery and asking what he thought of the coach who was throwing with him.  He seemed pleased with himself and with the people he met.  My heart was full.  And scared all at the same damn time.  As it usually is.  I worry what practices will bring…what games will be like for him.  I wonder if baseball is a good sport for him considering what he struggles with.  I hope that I’m making the right choices for him, to push him a little, to build his confidence.   I’d say it’s worth feeling a little fear in my heart for him to experience success.  We’ll see what this season brings…and I’ll try to keep the crying at bay. 

Embracing the Puzzle

It occurred to me today that it’s been nearly a year since Ben’s diagnosis…a year since we first heard “Asperger’s” and “Ben” in the same sentence. A year full of relief and struggle and successes and setbacks…quite a year, indeed.

 

Over that period of time my allegiance to this label has varied. Although I was relieved to finally have an answer that made sense to me…one that clicked…it still meant that there was something NOT typical about my child. While I can appreciate how my Ben is different than other kids, I still fear for him…fear for his ability to do well in school…fear for his ability to form friendships and caring relationships as he grows older. I had shaken hands with Asperger’s and maybe even invited it into our home for dinner…but I don’t know that I was entirely ready to make a bed for it. Know what I mean?

 

Some strange voice in my head kept telling me the tests were wrong. He’s fine…he’s not really on the Autism Spectrum. Ben is quirky. He’ll grow out of it. I just need to parent him better. Yes…that’s it…I need to work harder with him. I can pull him through this “rut”. That’s what it is. It’s a rut. That’s all.

 

I’ve been wandering through my days…smiling and nodding…explaining Ben’s new “situation” as some would call it…”Yes, Ben is on the spectrum”. “Yes, we have an IEP.” “Yes, Ben is getting social therapy.” And while I’ve idly occupied my spot in line of the parents with kids on the spectrum…I haven’t been an active participant. For a variety of reasons. If I’m honest, this is quite an intimidating group of parents with whom to associate. And I get it. They (we) are warriors for their kids. They (we) have to be. Who else is going to stand up for their (our) kids to ensure they are afforded all of the opportunities they deserve?

 

See what I did there?

 

I’m trying. I’m trying to insert myself. It’s tough. I suppose if I whip out my card that says I’m an Autism parent I’d have to be ready to represent at any given moment. What if I’m quizzed? What if I can’t carry on a convo in a group of these parents?

 

What pisses us off about Jenny McCarthy?

What is our stance on immunizations?

How do we feel about Autism Speaks?

 

GO!

 

<lost look, glancing side to side>

 

Uh….I don’t…know? I don’t. Really. And honestly at this very moment I don’t care. I am by NO means belittling others’ interest in these matters. I realize people have spent a lot of time, energy, blood, sweat and TEARS on all things Autism including what I mentioned above. I can only speak for myself and where I am right now in this journey. Right now my focus is on my son and figuring out where to go from here.

 

Up to now, Asperger’s has been a neighbor or fond acquaintance. I’ve kept it at arm’s length. Not ready to take our relationship to the next level. And in doing so I’ve not entirely accepted my son. How horrible is that?

 

Today, I vow to accept what I know to be true. I am not only shaking hands with Aspberger’s…I am embracing it.

My son has Autism.

I am an Autism mom.

 

Typing those simple words…simple as they are…took 10 minutes to type. And sent burning tears from eyes down my face. I can’t yet pinpoint why. But I can’t move forward until I say those words.

 

As I said, I’ve not yet been what I would consider a card-carrying Autism parent.

 

Until today.

 

 

 

Today I purchased a beautiful puzzle pendant. For me to wear. Around MY neck. Every day.  And it will serve as my reminder. A reminder that I am doing everything I can. That it’s not my fault. That Ben is wondrous. It will serve as an education piece. A talking point. And while I may not be prepared to discuss my thoughts on subjects such as changes to the DSM or other health care or political hot-button topics, I AM prepared to talk about my Ben. And OUR journey thus far. I owe that to Ben. I owe it to the other parents out there, standing where I was a year ago. Where I was six months ago. Where I was this morning before this change of heart. This puzzle is not so bad after all.

 

 

**The pendants in the photo above were found through Grape Jelly On Pizza and a link she shared today from Designs by Ja9.

 

These Moments

As I rolled over in bed and scraped the crust out of my eyes I could hear the boys downstairs, very clearly turning my dining room into the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.  They're up. 

Need. Coffee. Now.

God, please tell me they made their own breakfast.  And then it occurred to me, "crap...we're out of everything."  We slept a little too late for a grocery store run...these kids are hungry.  Now.  This typically results in momma running out to grab donuts, allowing for a quick stop at Starbucks for the good stuff.  If they get a treat, so do I. 

This morning, however, the Gentleman actually offered to take us all out to breakfast.  Yes please!  (FYI this doesn't happen often.  And by "not often" I mean never.)  Now...one would think that kids who rarely get to do this would be agreeable and eager to go anywhere if it meant they didn't have to eat the lowly shredded wheat left in the cabinet.  Silly mommy...it's never that simple. 

Lib and Timmy were finally in agreement and good to go.  They are generally easy to please.  Ben, on the other hand...well he evidently woke up on the wrong side of the weighted blanket.  Awesome.  He didn't want to get dressed.  He couldn't understand why he couldn't just wear his underwear.  Or shorts.  (FYI, the temp this morning was aBOUT 15 degrees.)  Once he got dressed, the jeans were too loose and falling down. (No.  They weren't.)  His socks weren't right...and of COURSE his comfy socks were all in the wash.  Of course.  He was irritable.  He didn't want to leave his stuffed animals.  He couldn't decide what he wanted for breakfast.  Or where he wanted to go. He wanted pancakes.  NO...he wanted donuts.  YES DONUTS.  Dear. God.

The events so far that morning were leading to what was bound to be a "Parenthood"-esque diner scene.  I wasn't feeling froggy and decided to choose my battles.  The gentleman took the older two to breakfast...and I took Ben with me to grab a couple of donuts.  <Sigh>. 

Divide and conquer.  Again. 

Instead of Ben being satisfied with getting his donuts, he spent our ride to breakfast berating me for taking so long to get us there.  God forbid I take the time to actually scrape the 10 inches of ice off my car and dig my windshield wipers out of the snow before safely driving down the road.  I realize that is an inconvenience.  These are the moments I really try to understand how black and white things are for him.  He didn't see any of this as a treat or a favor for him at all. 

WHY is this taking so long??  It's taking forever.  How many minutes till we get there?  Why can't we just go meet Daddy at Flapjacks?  I changed my mind! 

 

Ben!  I just froze my hands off my arms trying to get the car scraped off quickly so I could take YOU to get the donuts you wanted SO badly...I'm sorry it took me so LONG but a THANK YOU would be nice!

 

Are YOU making fun of me!?!?!

 

<Sighing and replying in a much softer voice>  No Ben.  I'm not making fun of you. I would NEVER make fun of you.  Let mommy try again.  You know how in your therapy sessions you talk about how to speak to other people in certain situations?   Well, in a situation like this morning, when someone tries to do something fun or nice for you, you should say "thank you" even if you're frustrated about something.

 

UGH...why didn't you just say that in the first place??

Mommyhood-1
BlissDis-0

We rode silently the rest of the way, when we got there he seemed much more agreeable...like a different child.  We found a quiet corner and sat down with our donuts, hot choco and coffee.  I'll admit I was disappointed.  I know it's just breakfast but I get tired of not being able to just get up and go to a restaurant without issues like this.  If we had, we would have paid for it dearly.  As would the other poor patrons surrounding our booth.  This isn't just an issue for parents with kids on the spectrum...I realize that.  I feel like it happens so often though.  This is a long-standing tradition for us.

As I sat next to him, sifting through these thoughts, I realized we were sitting near another momma and her son.  And I know I'm no expert, but after observing for a bit I'm quite positive he too may have been on the spectrum.  Maybe not.  But I couldn't help but wonder if this mom was playing the same game I was.  It sort of made me feel better at the thought.  She was enjoying him regardless.  Just as I was enjoying Ben.  He was in heaven with his sprinkle donut and hot chocolate. 

My focus changed direction and as I usually do in these one on one moments, I really worked with him on having conversation. It's always times like this that I realize how very little he makes eye contact. Even with me. And while I squelch the twinge in my stomach, I find his eyes and make him look at me when he speaks.  And he talked.  And talked.  And talked. 

Mommy do you remember when we came here when I was little after I had all those shots at the doctor's office?

 

Wow, Ben, that was a long time ago...how do you remember that??

 

Because I'm smart. And Mommy...was it those shots that made me bad?

 

<Gulp.  Where the HELL did he get that??>   Uh...Ben...why would you say that?  First of all you're not bad, and second of all, your shots just protected you from being sick.  Why do you think you're bad, buddy?

 

Because I always do bad stuff.  Like inappropriate stuff.  Ya know, like when I get in trouble all the time?  Like when Timmy and my friends get mad at me? 

 

<Aaaand enter pesky tears>  Buddy.  YOU are not bad.  YOU are not inappropriate.  You are a wonderful, sweet and VERY very smart little boy.  Remember how Mommy told you sometimes we make poor choices but we always get a fresh start to make good choices every single day? 

We spent the next half hour chatting over the last few bites of our donuts.  Him feeling a little better...the both of us laughing about silly stuff...and I forgot about the fact that our morning was disrupted yet again...that we had to divide and conquer.  Rather I felt thankful that I got to have these moments with him.  It's THESE moments that at one time seemed frustrating or inconvenient that I will be begging to revisit 10 years down the road.  It's THESE moments that give me the strength to try again with him every single day.  It's THESE moments, while they sometimes include moments of heartbreak, make me feel like the luckiest mom in the world. 

A New Day

“Dear God…thank you for the food in our bellies, and our warm house to sleep in.  And please, God, hold my hand while I sleep and not make me have any nightmares.  And please help me to have a good day at school tomorrow.  In Jesus name, Amen.”

Every night.  Every single night these are the words that Ben sends up to God.   Okay maybe a few small additions here and there depending on his mood…but for the most part, his big concerns weighing on his sweet little heart at night are (1) uninterrupted sleep and (2) a good day in school.  And for him they are big, big worries. 

Ben with his little monkey circus of snuggle buddies.

 

I’ve spent so many evenings kneeling at his bedside, convincing him that he will get through the night peacefully.  That his magic blanket and God holding his soft little hand will keep him protected and asleep until morning.  I know how frightened he is each night.  I too suffered through frequent nightmares.  I taught him a few years ago, what was passed down to me by my grandma…if you pray to God and ask him to hold your hand while you sleep you will dream peacefully.  It worked on me so I had to try with my Ben.  It worked.  Sometimes.  Adding the weighted blanket to bedtime also helped tremendously.  The two together have given him something to believe in and have lead to much more restful nights than in the past.   He hands that worry over to God and that warm brown blanket every blessed evening.   That improved rest is truly a gift and is aiding him in his second most important quest…to have a good day at school. 

They did a writing project where they shared what they are scared and brave about: "i am Brave uve the Darck."

 

Ben has been through quite a bit in recent years.  He is now in his second year in this elementary school, which is the longest he has been in one building since he was a toddler.   He has been through assessments, evaluations, observations, medications, various teachers, aids and specialists.  Sadly (or maybe not) he is just accustomed to it.  He’s been in and out of psychologist, social worker, psychiatrist, school principal’s offices more times than he can likely count.  Although, now that I think about it he probably could give me a fairly accurate tally.  It’s his world.  It’s been his world.  Why?  All in a quest to get an answer.  To get a label.  To get help.  God, we needed that label.  To guide us.  To validate my gut feeling…to make me feel sane.  Today we learned that due to a significant change to the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), there no longer IS an Asperger’s diagnosis.   There goes the label.  The label we just worked so hard to determine.  There is some hubbub around this change.  Some fearful.  Some thankful.  Some identify so strongly with the label and have taken it on as a part of their being.  God, I get that.  Part of me feels like I should be more concerned with this change.  Maybe once I know more.  But for now, I go back to the reason for getting that label to begin with: help. 



 

This fall we finally had Ben’s first IEP (Individualized Education Program) meeting.  After having heard and read multiple horror stories, I won’t lie…I went in with guns a blazin’.  Ready to fight for Ben.  Not a bad thing, I suppose.  Turns out, after all, we got pretty lucky.  Our school psychologist is a phenomenal caring and very thorough woman.  His teacher is bright, observant and very flexible.  His speech therapist is fabulous as well.  In first grade there aren’t many academic accommodations necessary but they’re now doing social language therapy with him.  They have purchased a weighted blanket for his classroom.  His teacher has made adjustments to her timed tests for Ben.  They want to see him succeed too.  It was quickly apparent how fond they all were of my baby.  He makes them smile.  He makes them proud.  They look forward to engaging with their “little old man”.   I know for certain not all families can say they’ve been blessed with such resources.   I’m grateful.  Completely.  Truly.

So for some, it’s the label.  For me, it’s access to resources.  For Ben…well for him, simply put, it’s about having a good day.   He doesn’t know what Asperger’s is.  Whether the label exists or not he DOES know when kids aren’t nice to him.  He knows when they don’t want to play what HE wants to play.   He knows when his teacher is frustrated with him.  He knows when he just wants to barricade himself in a corner and can’t.  He knows he wants to bring home a good citizenship grade every day.   More often than not, he doesn’t.  He typically spends our ride home explaining what his warnings were for.  I work so hard to reassure him that the grade he gets each day for his behavior doesn’t equal his worth.  He spends his afternoon decompressing, reading, playing video games just to forget the chaos of the classroom.  He often goes to bed begging me not to make him go to school the next day.  And I smile, and kiss his sweet face and tell him tomorrow is a new day.  A new day with a new chance.  A new chance to make friends…to finish the math test…to not put his hands on his friends…to not get upset about eraser marks on his spelling test…to not cut in line.  It’s worth getting up every single day to get that chance again, isn’t it? 

 

Decompressing with some Angry Birds after a rough day at school.

 

This is one of many shots I've captured of him
running up the school steps in the morning.

He thinks so.  Despite his frustration and fear each night at bedtime, that boy rises with determination.  Not always with a smile…typically, he’s actually quite exasperated from dealing with me by 8am and ready to get the day started.  And THAT day, EVERY day, starts with this boy bounding, dare I say sprinting, down the sidewalk and up the steps to his school doors.   And every day it gets me…with that damn lump in the throat.   Despite his daily difficulty and never-ending struggles just to get from 9am to 3pm he attacks the day with such fervor that I find myself sitting in my car…watching with tears.  Admiring his enthusiasm.  Ignoring the impatient drivers behind me creeping closer to my bumper.  Asking myself each time…”why don’t I do that?”  Why when I get up and move myself to prepare for the day do I not have that same resolve?  To face my anticipated struggles head on…determined to take advantage of new chances and a fresh start?   Some days watching his determined, stinky little self race his brother to the top of the steps really makes me want to do better.  To be better.   To run toward MY day.   And I am grateful for every new day…every fresh start. 

Do you run toward YOUR day?
 

Spirit vs. Santa

Last weekend marked the annual Christmas season kick-off in our household. Unlike last year, I’ve found myself surprisingly eager to dive into the holly and tinsel. Something nostalgic has struck me and I’ve felt some of my fonder childhood memories sneak upon me without notice. I won’t complain…after my last Christmas season teetering between complete apathy and borderline contempt I’ll take the almost-giddy that this year brings. Maybe it’s the meds…God knows they’ve helped. Maybe it’s the trip to Jamaica that awaits the gentleman and me on December 26th. Or maybe it’s witnessing my own babies grow and mature…learning what the true spirit of Christmas means to them.

Of course, to me the true spirit extends beyond Santa. This year Ben is the only child remaining who believes in the jolly old elf. It broke my heart last year to learn that Timmy was the next to go down. Libby had taken it upon herself to enlighten him. She is my realist, after all. I’m not lying when I say I’ve threatened her with creepy-and-potentially-haunted-basement seclusion if she chooses to ruin the Santa fantasy for my Ben. I’ve got to get a few more years of mystical wonder and sleepless Christmas Eves out of that one.
 

In our years as a family we’ve begun to build a very special Thanksgiving weekend tradition. The day after our turkey indulgence we dig all of our holiday decorations from hiding, dust off our mantle, clear a space for our tree and turn this house into a warm, glowing Christmas wonderland. As the holiday draws near I start to do that wondrous Clark Griswold thing. You’ve been there right? Where you build expectations for events up in your mind that no one can possibly live up to? Yeah. That’s me. Every year. It never fails that I imagine the children nicely dressed in their finest jeans and tidy holiday sweaters, bustling about the house, stowing away toys and clutter without gripe, assisting with tree decoration with the precision of an engineer, complete with smiles and amicable mood. “Yes ma’am” and “I love you, momma” dripping from their mouths.

Cue condescending laughter.

I know I know. It never turns out the way I imagine. The jeans and sweater, well that’s just silly. Hell I spent the whole day in my dang hoody and yoga pants. So you can bet your sweet ass that these babies were running around in their undies and old grimy t-shirts. Fine. I can accept that.

The amicable mood and eagerness to put their toys away and make room for the tree that, let’s face it, I’ll end up decorating FOR them? Yeah. Not so much. An instant and never-ending fight, particularly with the girl. LORD where did she get her bull-headed-ness? Probably the gentleman.

On Friday, after getting our live tree set in our living room it was time to set up a tree for the kids in our attic, aka their Wii/LEGO/play room. The girl had been asked the day before to please clean up the attic before our Thanksgiving dinner guests arrived. She had assured us that it had in fact been done. Upon further inspection the next day it appeared as though said cleaning actually meant all loose objects in the attic were stowed in the nearby coat closet. Crafty, that girl. I know that trick though. Been there, been busted for that.
 

After a lengthy argument, complete with threat of grounding and the like, the girl stomped to her room in tears, insisting that she NOT have to clean the attic any further. Now…I took a few moments to myself after this argument to ponder this first-world issue of hers. I mean really…why SHOULD she have to clean (and by clean I mean straighten and organize an already sanitized space) the THIRD floor of our home, where she gets to play all of the Wii games she can imagine, tinker on the computer, play games on her cell phone and record silly videos on our tablet? How wicked of me to have such an expectation. Does she realize how good she has it? Does she know that most kids aren’t as lucky? That neither her dad nor I grew up with such things? That many of her classmates may never have these luxuries? I want her to realize that. Don’t I?

It’s a balance isn’t it? We raise our babies with the deepest desire of fulfilling their needs and hoping they never go without necessities. Sometimes going a little overboard, living out our own childhood fantasies through our children. Giving them what we never had. But do we do it to a fault? I do want her to know that there are children who are hard-pressed to have one Christmas tree, much less three. We are blessed beyond belief.

I soon found myself obsessing over my failure as a parent to ensure that my kids don’t become indignant sloths, expecting blessings to be handed to them on their tarnished silver platter. Granted, there are kids much more spoiled than mine, who live in a world far more indulgent and blind to the needs of society’s vulnerable. We participate in Angel Tree gift giving each year and take the kids with us to buy presents for our “angels” so that they understand the importance of such programs and realize how lucky they are. But maybe…clearly…we need to do more.

The next day we had made plans to take the kids to a show in the city, followed by dinner and a nighttime stroll around our Circle of Lights. Although the outings I remember as a kid didn’t necessarily involve a show and dinner, I DO remember the wonder of walking downtown and seeing the intricately decorated store windows and the giant, vibrant tree of lights in our beautiful city’s epicenter. I want OUR kids to have these memories too. The afternoon started with a live presentation of “A Christmas Carol”…the first our kids have attended. It was exciting to watch them experience the show. We gathered in the lobby afterward, and listened to the kids recap what they found funny, interesting and even a little scary. They giggled as they saw some of the funny characters make their way out to the crowd to greet and take pictures.
 

The kids’ laughter began to trail off as their stomachs began to rumble, indicating it was time to make our way through the crowd and out to dinner. Before we got to the door, I saw a few women with buckets, collecting money for a local charity. I smiled and nodded as we passed by, wishing them a Merry Christmas. As the cool evening air greeted my face, I soon realized Libby was no longer beside me. As I turned from side to side, I quickly spotted Libby behind me standing next to one of the women. Lib fumbled through her purse, quickly producing a couple of dollars to contribute to the young lady’s collection.

Huh. I wasn’t expecting that.

I squared my shoulders and took Libby’s hand as we navigated through the masses down the sidewalk. I felt quite proud of my girl at that moment and I told her as much.

"Well, Mom, I just decided this morning that I was going to bring all of the money I had in my room, downtown with us today. Because every time I’m down here I always see people on the sidewalk that probably don’t have a home or food. And I wanted to help. Like that guy we passed when we came out of the parking garage. Did you see him, Mom? Did you??”

I shook my head. I hadn’t noticed him.

“His jacket was SO thin and I just KNOW he had to be cold. It’s SO cold today! I mean…I know my dollar won’t buy him a warm coat but at least it’s something, right, Mom?”

“So you handed him some money? I mean, Libby you have to be careful when you do that down here...were you careful? I’ve had friends mugged for pulling wallets out to give money, Libby.”

“Yes, Mom…Dad was right there…he knew what I was doing and he kept an eye on me.”

I was speechless. My daughter was teaching ME about kindness. And giving. And caring for each other. And she gets that even when you can’t give a lot, every dollar adds up. She has it in her heart, that girl.
 

I didn’t say much at dinner. I just watched. I watched my kids laugh, and try new food, and share funny stories. I witnessed them making those memories I remember from MY childhood. I did my best to capture some pictures of them as we walked around the Circle, taking in the hustle and bustle of Christmas in the city. It’s without a doubt one of my very favorite places to be.
 

As the kids grew tired and the gentleman began to grow icicles from his nose, we chose to head back to the car. We came to the door of the parking garage and I quickly heard the jingle of the Salvation Army bell. Without hesitation, Lib reached into her purse for her last couple of dollars, smiled at the lady with the bright red smock, wished her a Merry Christmas and slipped the crisp folded bills into the bucket. I smiled and gave my sweet daughter a hug as we dodged cars lining up to exit. And as I slid into the front seat of our car, I couldn’t hold back the warm tears forming under my eyes.

All I want is for my children to equate the Christmas season with family and laughter and light and giving…not with new iPods or the coolest new jeans or gym shoes. Money comes and goes. We may have it next year. Or we may not. But rich or poor, family time and generosity remains. And by God, I think she gets it. Maybe I’m not failing after all.

Godspeed, Little Man

I will never forget the moment I met the sweetest boy in my world.   His coal black corn silk hair and scrunched red chubby face won my heart and took my labored breath away the moment he was draped across my chest.  As his eyes began adjusting to the clinical lights and lungs to the crisp, cool air, I fell in love.  Hard. 

 

 This wasn’t my first rodeo…my vibrant, rambunctious 18 month old Libby Lou was anxiously awaiting her new brother from afar.   Amazingly enough, I found that the rumors were true…that I COULD love two babies equally and just as much if not more than I imagined. 

I’m not sure that I could have given birth to three less identical children.  Not necessarily in looks…the oldest and youngest are quite similar in that regard.  But in personality…whew!   God broke the mold when he made each one of them.   I’ve shared with you about my Lib…she is bold and witty and snarky and smart as a whip.  Ben…well he’s my little old man, my little professor.  He’s serious and exasperated and irritated and charming and can make me crack a smile at the least opportune moment. 

But my Timothy…true enough, I’ve not shared much about him.  You see, he tends to hide amongst the chaos.  He is the chameleon in our home of strong personalities.  He chooses his battles and is comfy cozy and quiet in the back seat when the bottom falls out in our world.  He’s a watcher, a listener, a learner…from way back.  He takes the heat when need be but rarely gets any glory.  Sad to say, as his mother, I’ve unfortunately allowed him to play that role entirely too long. 

 

 As my forever-content and satiated child, I rarely see an agitated drive or determination rise up in him.  While I’m quite the opposite, I’ve let Timmy be who he is.  There is a lot of merit in living a life you are simply happy with…able to find the pleasure and satisfaction in what is already amongst you.  God, I love and downright envy him for that.

But guess what.  He found that drive.   The desire.  The inspiration.   And I got to witness this in him…to see him grow and find himself.  (As much as a 9 year old can)  I thank the Lord every day that I am fortunate enough to have been chosen and placed on this earth as his momma.  What a lucky girl I am. 

When we moved to our current home, our new town, Timmy was only six and finishing first grade at his old school.  We were looking for ways to integrate these kids into our new community.  Knowing what a small town this is and how “local-yocal-politics” and favoritism can unfortunately impact a child’s experience in said town’s small school system, we thought it best to get them involved early.    Right about that time we discovered the school offered a junior football league.  Perfect.  Right??  Maybe.  I mean…we had attempted soccer which for all intents and purposes was a joke.  He learned more about picking daisies and watching planes than he did about the game itself.   We discovered early that he hasn’t an aggressive or competitive bone in his sweet little brown-bear body.   So why WOULDN’T we opt for football, right?  RIGHT??

Worth a shot. 

To my surprise he was actually quite excited about the prospect of donning pads and a helmet and GOD love those cute little fat-butt football pants.  GAH.  My ovaries were doing cartwheels just thinking about how cute his fat head would be out on that field.  I was…at that moment…becoming a football mom.  I truly believe I was born to be such…just hadn’t yet experienced the revelation. 

 

 He spent his second grade season learning the basics of the game.  Skipped around to various positions, not quite finding the perfect fit but still….learning.  We knew early on we wouldn’t  likely hear his name announced at games for gaining yards or sacking QBs.  But again…he was learning.  That’s what is important right?  His first year…this is to be expected.  A few questioning glances between the gentleman and I at his last couple of games left us wondering if this was really the right fit.  But damn if that boy didn’t run off the field as excited as day one, eagerly sharing that the league also had an all-star team that would begin after regular season.  And you guessed it…he was SO hoping to be picked.  Can I tell you how difficult it is to encourage a child yet keep his feet on the ground all at the same time?

As I suspected there was no request for Timmy to join all-stars in second grade.  Was he crushed?  Devastated.  Completely.  He pouted for a few days…but one morning he awoke with this new determination.  Something I’ve not seen out of him before.  It may have only been September but he sure as hell had a game plan for the following July when he joined the third grade team.  Surely then…then he could play well enough to get chosen for all-stars.  He got his own football and practiced every chance he could.  With the gentleman…with friends…even with his stinky little brother. 

And by God, he was ready and fired up when the 3^rd grade junior league registration rolled around.  “Pumped” would certainly be an understatement.  He was to be a Raven…received his vibrant violet jersey and his helmet.  He was ready to prove himself.  Well…

 

 We saw some improvement.  The coach that year was pushing him harder, expecting more from him, putting him in tougher circumstances on the field.  And while he seemed a little more proficient, he still lacked the gumption, the get-up-and-go, the UMPH.  God love that kid, it was as though he perpetually had poop creeping out of his ass every single time he attempted to run.   Bent over, thighs together, limp wrists…<hangs head in utter resignation>.   The poor boy, despite getting a more defined role on defense spent the entire offensive game on the bench…sipping, no…gulping Gatorade, eventually doing the infamous Timmy-bear pee-pee dance just waiting for his turn back out on the field.   Although his performance left something to be desired, his Ravens took it to the “superbowl” and he got to experience what it was like to be on a winning team.  And you guessed it…all-star selection came.  And it went.  And no invitation for my Timmy.  Again with the obliterated ego.  Ugh. 

But you know what he had?  He had a brand new love.  The Baltimore Ravens.  He never missed a single game.  He learned the players, the plays, all of it.  Before I knew it he was a pro on all things Baltimore.  And I’m not exaggerating when I say I do believe Timmy now knows more about the NFL than the gentleman.  Hand to God.

 

 Beyond watching the NFL, that boy spent the next 6-8 months studying.  He went to the library every other week through the spring and summer…checked out grown-up books on football strategy, history and the Hall of Fame pros that made it big.  He practiced a LOT.  Every day at recess Timmy could ONLY be found in the field QB-ing his playground group in a daily game of football.  He got gloves and a kicking tee for Christmas…and he used them. 

Where DID this boy come from?   I saw the 4^th grade registration fast approaching and the fear in my gut told me I would have yet another opportunity to rub his back, ease his sorrow, tell him once again that he just needs to keep trying and work harder and making all-stars is BOUND to happen for him someday.  He made it through summer football camp and so came the “combine”.  I watched as he ran through all of the drills in an attempt to score high enough for a first, or hell, even a fifth round pick.  He caught a glimpse of others’ scorecards and found that he wasn’t measuring up….again.  Crushed as he was, we got through the combine.  We got our coach, our team, and we started our weekly regimen of practice practice practice. 

 

(Side note:  if you haven’t yet caught on that this is a HUGE football town….well it is.  So…there is that.)

Much to my surprise, Timmy wasn’t one of the worst on his team.  Dare I say, he was actually one of the better players.  Wha??  My Timmy?  This of course was all hearsay from the gentleman…so I naturally had to check this out for myself.   So I went to practice. 

Let me paint a picture for you:

Timmy is lining up on defense…linebacker…the offense snaps the ball, hands off to the running back just as Timmy does his little tippy-toe-prancing-in-place move (this was no surprise, see “limp wrists” above)…and BAM!!!!!!!!!!   Out of NO where, I see Timmy fly through the line, literally through the air, grab the ball carrier by the waist in the backfield, swinging around him and bringing him DOWN-FUCKING-TOWN.  (Excuse my French…at that moment this was in fact what I was saying in my head.)  My jaw literally hit the grass below my feet.  The gentleman to this day is remorseful that he missed my one and only speechless moment…ever.  When the hell did my child become Troy-freaking-Polamalu???  Naturally my first thought was “would it be inappropriate to drop to my knees in front of coaches and parents and thank God RIGHT NOW for this?  For him??”  I refrained.  But you bet your ass I offered to go to more practices!

 

Each game brought more kudos for Timmy:  “Ball carrier brought down by #15, Timothy Kasper!”  Over.  And over.  And over again…he was suddenly leading in tackles almost every game!   He was reveling in it.  Hell, I was reveling in it!   While I tried my best to simply enjoy the season for what it was, I couldn’t help anticipate the scale of Timmy’s hopes for all-stars again this year.  After ALL of his hard work…and I mean this boy played his HEART out…I could not take another disappointed boy.  He started asking when I thought all-stars would be chosen this year.  He hinted again at his aspiration to make the team.  We talked a few times about how proud I am of him and that I too hope he gets his wish…but that it’s not the most important thing.  That more than anything he can say that he made a difference this year because he TRIED…because he did the WORK…because he EDUCATED himself.  That, right there…THAT is more than so many adults can say for themselves. 

So we waited.   And we kept going.

Monday evening I chose to take him to practice and discovered ever-so-quietly (so as not to enlighten Timmy) that the all-star coach had in fact reached out to Timmy’s coach for our contact information.  I was then encouraged NOT to get my hopes up or say anything to Timmy because nothing was certain at this point.  I smiled and thanked him for that potentially exciting tidbit but inside I was thinking:

ARE YOU KIDDING ME???  At this point I’ve become as excited about the prospect of Timmy becoming an all-star that I was fit to be tied.   When is he gonna call?  Is he gonna call?  Did he make it?  He’s asking more questions.  He has his hopes up once again.  I swear to the sweet Lord above, if they crush him after all of this hard work, they will have to answer to this football momma right here.   Don’t mess with my baby’s emotions…with his heart.  This boy is ALL heart. 

 

Naturally, by Tuesday evening I was THIS close to losing my shit and doing all I could to keep myself busy.  I cleaned the shower, did the dishes, more laundry, dusted, made beds…and just as I began to pull the comforter from Ben’s bed I heard it.  The voicemail alert pinged from the cell phone in my pocket and I was frozen.  My shaky hand pulled the phone from jeans and an unknown number was displayed on my screen.  With a voicemail.  A VOICEMAIL.  I sat on Ben’s bed and hit the little green triangle…

“Hey this is Doug, the fourth grade all-star coach…uh…just calling because we’d like to know if Tim would be interested in joining our team.  We’d love to have him…just give me a call…”

Yeah, I didn’t hear the rest.  My eyes were welling with tears as I ran down the stairs to my office, closed the door, calmed my voice and made the call back.  All I could picture during our conversation was Timmy’s sweet face upon hearing the news.  I captured the essentials: new jersey is $35, practice Sunday, blah blah blah.  They want him.  He sacked this coach’s quarterback this season.  He was impressed.  It worked.  His determination paid off.  His lesson is learned.  My advice was validated.  It’s true.  If you work hard, and push yourself, you will be rewarded.  There are no guarantees as to when…or how…but there is a payoff for that kind of perseverance.  And GOD I’m so proud that he found that in himself.

Time for the moment of truth.

I motioned to the gentleman to join me upstairs.  He looked quizzically at me, not realizing I had spoken with the coach, but followed me nonetheless.  I shouted for Timmy to come down from the attic…standing at the bottom of the steps I asked him one last time if he would still be interested in joining the all-star team.  His sweet, exhausted eyes gave me a curious look as he muttered out a very quiet yet questioning “yes”.  My eyes again filled with tears and my voice cracked as I choked out “you’re in…you made it!”

 

I wish I had taken a picture of his face.  But I couldn’t very well snap the picture and catch him as he stumbled down the last two steps into my arms.   His lip quivered, and the corners of his mouth downturned…his eyes in complete disbelief.  As if I wasn’t weeping enough…gah!!  This boy!!  He cried.  I cried.   We hugged and he wiped his face, eventually giving way to the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.   He was shaking as he asked again if I was serious…if this was real.  After a few more reassuring hugs I do believe it began to sink in.  He did it.  And he knew it.  He finally got his little bit of glory.  And he earned it.