A couple weeks ago, I couldn't shake the feeling that something really bad was going to happen. Didn't know what or how, just that something bad was coming.
I'm in it, now. It's not anything I could have predicted, and really, there's not much I could have done in any case. There's a certain level of peace that comes with that.
But the other side of the coin is that sheer terror that comes with the realization that I may now be living my new normal, which comes with incapacitating pain.
I'm not a afraid of the pain; I'm afraid of the spiritual and emotional erosion that comes with it. And of course, there's always the fear that I am no where near as bad as it's going to get.
So today, with my shoulder singing its siren song, I found myself telling my kindergarteners that I was waiting for grace. I have a Grace in the room, and she asked why I was waiting for her.
So I found myself describing what it felt like to have my arm in a sling (they did ask), and while I talked, I reflected on the what and why of pain, what lessons there are to be learned, and finding grace and peace in the spaces between the pain.
Somehow, I feel like I have leveled up to a whole new set of challenges. And I pray to be equal to them.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Latitude
There are rules, and then there's the gray area. Most of us on the spectrum have no problem with the rules; it's the gray area that gets us into trouble.
In the landscape of middle school, the gray that lies between the black and the white often forces arbitrary choices about how close to black or white all that gray is. And any ensuing explosion will be the result of that arbitrary choice. You can almost set a watch by it.
BUT...opportunities exist to explore and negotiate those gray areas for those willing to take the time and energy to do so. And this week, one of Nic's teachers took the initiative to see where this teachable moment would go.
It all started with a classmate, who approached Nic and offered him his place in an activity Nic wanted to participate in. Nic was told he wouldn't be allowed to switch, so he approached his teacher with his dilemma. In the past, he would have been told 'no,' and fireworks would have followed.
Yesterday, the teacher told him, "You committed to this other activity, but if you can find some one to take your place, you may switch."
So Nic approached some girls he knew and explained his dilemma. None of them could switch, but they might know someone who could. So they fanned out, and Nic approached no less than two dozen people before he found some one to take his place.
On the surface, this is no big deal--how often do we find ourselves negotiating this kind of dilemma on a daily basis? We have a committment, we need to trade off, and we make the phone calls, emails, or have the conversations to negotiate our own scheduling conflicts.
But when you talk about a kid who has to LEARN how to do this......and when you give that child the OPPORTUNITY to learn this skill--and practice it, and execute it.....amazing things happen.
The excitement in the teacher's voice as she related these events to me tells me that she finally gets what I've been saying all along--you have to KNOW the teachable moments when you see them, and all things being equal, ALL moments are teachable.
She knew that she could cram several lessons into this particular teachable moment--and she made sure that she did.
And the pride in Nic's voice as he told me in his own words what happened yesterday tells me that none of these lessons were lost on him, either.
And that his peers helped him out? We're getting somewhere. :)
In the landscape of middle school, the gray that lies between the black and the white often forces arbitrary choices about how close to black or white all that gray is. And any ensuing explosion will be the result of that arbitrary choice. You can almost set a watch by it.
BUT...opportunities exist to explore and negotiate those gray areas for those willing to take the time and energy to do so. And this week, one of Nic's teachers took the initiative to see where this teachable moment would go.
It all started with a classmate, who approached Nic and offered him his place in an activity Nic wanted to participate in. Nic was told he wouldn't be allowed to switch, so he approached his teacher with his dilemma. In the past, he would have been told 'no,' and fireworks would have followed.
Yesterday, the teacher told him, "You committed to this other activity, but if you can find some one to take your place, you may switch."
So Nic approached some girls he knew and explained his dilemma. None of them could switch, but they might know someone who could. So they fanned out, and Nic approached no less than two dozen people before he found some one to take his place.
On the surface, this is no big deal--how often do we find ourselves negotiating this kind of dilemma on a daily basis? We have a committment, we need to trade off, and we make the phone calls, emails, or have the conversations to negotiate our own scheduling conflicts.
But when you talk about a kid who has to LEARN how to do this......and when you give that child the OPPORTUNITY to learn this skill--and practice it, and execute it.....amazing things happen.
The excitement in the teacher's voice as she related these events to me tells me that she finally gets what I've been saying all along--you have to KNOW the teachable moments when you see them, and all things being equal, ALL moments are teachable.
She knew that she could cram several lessons into this particular teachable moment--and she made sure that she did.
And the pride in Nic's voice as he told me in his own words what happened yesterday tells me that none of these lessons were lost on him, either.
And that his peers helped him out? We're getting somewhere. :)
Friday, September 7, 2012
Conundrum
Friends.
I always land here when I consider the boys relative successes.
It started with an invite to hubby's boss's house for a swim and a barbecue. "The boys can invite their friends," he wrote.
I stared at the email with pursed lips. Friends? What friends? They have each other. For better or for worse, that's the truth.
As the week progressed, we did much as a family; trip to the beach, kayaking, zip-lining, swimming, fishing, camping. When we sat in our group Sunday morning, the issue I raised (we were all entitled to one) was community acceptance. "We make our own community," I have told hubby time and time again over the years. "They have friends....."
Maybe this is me trying to convince myself.
That night, hubby said, "well, what good is it if they don't go to school together? How do you expect anything to stick? Face it, most kids have friends where they go to school."
Tonight at the ice cream social, we were alone. I don't mind being alone, and looking at my kids, they don't seem to mind, either.
But, I know better. My kids are, after all, my kids, and they have learned to put a good face on for the sake of putting on a good face.
I'm listening to them in the other room together, sharing stories, happy to be home.
Is this good enough?
There are some days that I'm not sure what good looks like, anymore.
I always land here when I consider the boys relative successes.
It started with an invite to hubby's boss's house for a swim and a barbecue. "The boys can invite their friends," he wrote.
I stared at the email with pursed lips. Friends? What friends? They have each other. For better or for worse, that's the truth.
As the week progressed, we did much as a family; trip to the beach, kayaking, zip-lining, swimming, fishing, camping. When we sat in our group Sunday morning, the issue I raised (we were all entitled to one) was community acceptance. "We make our own community," I have told hubby time and time again over the years. "They have friends....."
Maybe this is me trying to convince myself.
That night, hubby said, "well, what good is it if they don't go to school together? How do you expect anything to stick? Face it, most kids have friends where they go to school."
Tonight at the ice cream social, we were alone. I don't mind being alone, and looking at my kids, they don't seem to mind, either.
But, I know better. My kids are, after all, my kids, and they have learned to put a good face on for the sake of putting on a good face.
I'm listening to them in the other room together, sharing stories, happy to be home.
Is this good enough?
There are some days that I'm not sure what good looks like, anymore.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Listening
Perhaps this is the wrong word, but this is where I begin. Right now I am listening to the sounds of August, and have allowed myself, perhaps for the first time, to fall in love with this month, this moment, this eventide of perfect breezes.
August, for me, has previously been owned by all my baggage. I did once love it, the sounds, the smells, the light in the evening and morning skies. And it I can't believe how good it feels to be back in that moment of love once again. It's been a long time.
I think, perhaps, this is what happens when you finally let go, and really mean it, of everything that ever saddened you or broke your heart. You do heal. You do move on. You do dream new dreams. And you arm for battle and do battle, as needed. What a comfort it is, in some ways, to have lived this long. Because nothing is ever as bad as you think it is, and even if it is, you roll up your sleeves, and you get on with whatever needs getting on with. You do live through it. And you do learn to appreciate the calm between the storms.
A lot of this has to do, I think, with the friend Nic made this week. Even if it doesn't last, this is still something he did on his own, without me.
And now I know for sure that it can happen. Because it did.
And that's good enough for me.
August, for me, has previously been owned by all my baggage. I did once love it, the sounds, the smells, the light in the evening and morning skies. And it I can't believe how good it feels to be back in that moment of love once again. It's been a long time.
I think, perhaps, this is what happens when you finally let go, and really mean it, of everything that ever saddened you or broke your heart. You do heal. You do move on. You do dream new dreams. And you arm for battle and do battle, as needed. What a comfort it is, in some ways, to have lived this long. Because nothing is ever as bad as you think it is, and even if it is, you roll up your sleeves, and you get on with whatever needs getting on with. You do live through it. And you do learn to appreciate the calm between the storms.
A lot of this has to do, I think, with the friend Nic made this week. Even if it doesn't last, this is still something he did on his own, without me.
And now I know for sure that it can happen. Because it did.
And that's good enough for me.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
10 Years After
I'm actually a little premature writing this post; Nic's 10 year dx anniversary is still several weeks away. But, in the eye of eternity, 3 weeks is nothing, and I'm pretty sure what I am moved to write now will still be true on August 15.
Looking back over the last decade to the day that changed everything about our lives, I find myself humbled and grateful by the many teachers, therapists, friends, and strangers whose kindnesses, great and small, have helped my family adapt, adjust, progress, grow and thrive. I still wince when I remember some episodes and encounters with people who were less than kind, and I wince when I think of all the times I lost my temper or composure in the face of unkindness, ignorance, and prejudice.
By the same token, I look on all of our experiences with life on the spectrum with gratitude and wonder, and am floored by the sheer number of blessings that this life has revealed to us. I often pride myself on my ingenuity at all the opportunities I have created for both boys, but at the same time, I know that ingenuity has its roots in the countless conversations I've had with other parents who have already been there, blazed those trails, carried those weights. And I find myself paying it all forward to parents who are just getting to some of the places my boys have already been, lighting their way, guiding their footsteps.
Autism changed our lives forever. But finding those hidden blessings on this long and rocky road has altered the way I live--for the better. I remember a point about 5 years ago where I was quite bitter about the person I had become--I didn't ask for any of this, and this was not the person I was supposed to be, or so I thought.
Then life intervened, various crises needed to be sorted out, and I kind of forgot that thought until yesterday.
If I had the chance to talk to the me from 5 years ago, I'd give her a good shake. And kick her ass, for good measure.
I've had a lot of really good role models to learn well from. And I have had the weight of my own experience to balance what my gut has told me at any given point. And I have lived long enough to know that nothing lasts.
So, as I listen to my chatty young men talk between themselves, I'm thankful that they can talk to one another, that they love each other, and that they have each other. And I am thankful that I have them both. They have made my life a fuller, richer, and much more interesting place than it might be otherwise.
And I can't believe how far he's come. Not that he doesn't still have a long way to go, but that he's where he is now is always a source of amazement.
I can't wait to see what the next 10 years bring.
Looking back over the last decade to the day that changed everything about our lives, I find myself humbled and grateful by the many teachers, therapists, friends, and strangers whose kindnesses, great and small, have helped my family adapt, adjust, progress, grow and thrive. I still wince when I remember some episodes and encounters with people who were less than kind, and I wince when I think of all the times I lost my temper or composure in the face of unkindness, ignorance, and prejudice.
By the same token, I look on all of our experiences with life on the spectrum with gratitude and wonder, and am floored by the sheer number of blessings that this life has revealed to us. I often pride myself on my ingenuity at all the opportunities I have created for both boys, but at the same time, I know that ingenuity has its roots in the countless conversations I've had with other parents who have already been there, blazed those trails, carried those weights. And I find myself paying it all forward to parents who are just getting to some of the places my boys have already been, lighting their way, guiding their footsteps.
Autism changed our lives forever. But finding those hidden blessings on this long and rocky road has altered the way I live--for the better. I remember a point about 5 years ago where I was quite bitter about the person I had become--I didn't ask for any of this, and this was not the person I was supposed to be, or so I thought.
Then life intervened, various crises needed to be sorted out, and I kind of forgot that thought until yesterday.
If I had the chance to talk to the me from 5 years ago, I'd give her a good shake. And kick her ass, for good measure.
I've had a lot of really good role models to learn well from. And I have had the weight of my own experience to balance what my gut has told me at any given point. And I have lived long enough to know that nothing lasts.
So, as I listen to my chatty young men talk between themselves, I'm thankful that they can talk to one another, that they love each other, and that they have each other. And I am thankful that I have them both. They have made my life a fuller, richer, and much more interesting place than it might be otherwise.
And I can't believe how far he's come. Not that he doesn't still have a long way to go, but that he's where he is now is always a source of amazement.
I can't wait to see what the next 10 years bring.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Concussed and Other Altered States
It begins with an industrial-sized bottle of laundry detergent.
I'm not sure who put it on top of the clothes washer; I know I didn't. But it matters not. The fact remains that some one put it there.
The reason we don't put things on top of the clothes washer is because stuff "walks" when the washer goes into spin cycle.
So Wednesday night, I ran a load of whites, and the industrial-sized bottle of detergent took a walk--straight off the edge of the washer onto the floor and split, spilling copious amounts of clear fluid onto the kitchen floor.
How slick is this stuff? Slick enough to send an adult woman's feet where her head was only a split second previously and send her head, neck and shoulders slamming to the floor in less time than it took to think "Holy s----."
The boys came running in and laughed at their upended mom, who never lost consciousness but did briefly see stars. Older son is directed downstairs to get a bucket while mom tries to process a dozen different directives.....and is surprised that she literally can't think.
Hubby, finding confused mom on her knees when he arrives from work, sends her upstairs to clean up and wants to send her to the ER. She refuses.
Sleep comes easily and normally. For me. But the ride to work next morning ("I'm fine, hon, really.") becomes a white-knuckled affair. Traffic on the turnpike seems less predictable than usual. I opt for the longer route through Valley Forge from the turnpike to collect myself.
And I feel fine. Until I was required to do my usual multi-tasking in meeting. And that was much, much harder than I could have imagined. Stuff got done, but a few times my anxiety and panic that things were somehow harder than usual for me nearly got the better of me. I text my co-worker that I need to leave after I'm done the meeting. I feel terrible. It's hard for me to admit this.
As the meeting wraps up and everyone talks among themselves, he's at my side asking "What can I do?"
At that point, I am gritting my teeth. "I'm good," I lie. "Almost done" Not a lie. "Let me finish up."
"Go home."
I nod. He vanishes.
I finish up. Call my husband, who insists on taking me himself to the ER. And wait.
Long story short, I have a concussion, which I already knew by that point, but the good news was that I didn't have anything worse. Miraculous, considering my head and neck took the force of my weight when I landed.
So, I'm in the process of healing. And taking things slow. And easy. And I don't handle this well.
"I'm not a baby." I respond repeatedly to varying admonishments to stop or slow down.
"The opposite," agrees hubby. "But you need to stop."
Taking my younger son to the labyrinth yesterday, I find myself asking a whole new string of questions. And I'm somewhat confused by the answers. And I wonder if my confusion lies in the fact that I am asking the wrong questions.
I think back to Friday when I had a lengthy conversation with one of Nic's team. She called me at home and we rehashed his summer so far, my concerns, and we re-wrote parts of his IEP over the phone. Clean slate for September. And I was able to do this despite my temporary disability. I can still think quickly and reason things out, but it feels as I am doing it through layers of insulation.
But, my emotions are just as strong and incisive and distracting as ever, and I wish the insulation extended to cover the sharp edges of my own feelings. Kindness tends to throw me. And I'm thrown, in more ways than one. Another thing to recover, more to think about, ponder in my heart, and all that good stuff. Why do I have to make so much of small things? So much better to simply pay things forward and not think so much.
Ask me not to think, however? You may as well ask me not to breathe.
But for the sake of those who love me, I'll stop for a while.
I'm not sure who put it on top of the clothes washer; I know I didn't. But it matters not. The fact remains that some one put it there.
The reason we don't put things on top of the clothes washer is because stuff "walks" when the washer goes into spin cycle.
So Wednesday night, I ran a load of whites, and the industrial-sized bottle of detergent took a walk--straight off the edge of the washer onto the floor and split, spilling copious amounts of clear fluid onto the kitchen floor.
How slick is this stuff? Slick enough to send an adult woman's feet where her head was only a split second previously and send her head, neck and shoulders slamming to the floor in less time than it took to think "Holy s----."
The boys came running in and laughed at their upended mom, who never lost consciousness but did briefly see stars. Older son is directed downstairs to get a bucket while mom tries to process a dozen different directives.....and is surprised that she literally can't think.
Hubby, finding confused mom on her knees when he arrives from work, sends her upstairs to clean up and wants to send her to the ER. She refuses.
Sleep comes easily and normally. For me. But the ride to work next morning ("I'm fine, hon, really.") becomes a white-knuckled affair. Traffic on the turnpike seems less predictable than usual. I opt for the longer route through Valley Forge from the turnpike to collect myself.
And I feel fine. Until I was required to do my usual multi-tasking in meeting. And that was much, much harder than I could have imagined. Stuff got done, but a few times my anxiety and panic that things were somehow harder than usual for me nearly got the better of me. I text my co-worker that I need to leave after I'm done the meeting. I feel terrible. It's hard for me to admit this.
As the meeting wraps up and everyone talks among themselves, he's at my side asking "What can I do?"
At that point, I am gritting my teeth. "I'm good," I lie. "Almost done" Not a lie. "Let me finish up."
"Go home."
I nod. He vanishes.
I finish up. Call my husband, who insists on taking me himself to the ER. And wait.
Long story short, I have a concussion, which I already knew by that point, but the good news was that I didn't have anything worse. Miraculous, considering my head and neck took the force of my weight when I landed.
So, I'm in the process of healing. And taking things slow. And easy. And I don't handle this well.
"I'm not a baby." I respond repeatedly to varying admonishments to stop or slow down.
"The opposite," agrees hubby. "But you need to stop."
Taking my younger son to the labyrinth yesterday, I find myself asking a whole new string of questions. And I'm somewhat confused by the answers. And I wonder if my confusion lies in the fact that I am asking the wrong questions.
I think back to Friday when I had a lengthy conversation with one of Nic's team. She called me at home and we rehashed his summer so far, my concerns, and we re-wrote parts of his IEP over the phone. Clean slate for September. And I was able to do this despite my temporary disability. I can still think quickly and reason things out, but it feels as I am doing it through layers of insulation.
But, my emotions are just as strong and incisive and distracting as ever, and I wish the insulation extended to cover the sharp edges of my own feelings. Kindness tends to throw me. And I'm thrown, in more ways than one. Another thing to recover, more to think about, ponder in my heart, and all that good stuff. Why do I have to make so much of small things? So much better to simply pay things forward and not think so much.
Ask me not to think, however? You may as well ask me not to breathe.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Leveling Up
The latest, in no particular order:
- Nic survived his first year of middle school
- Gabriel enjoyed his week of tae kwon do camp--new actitvity? We'll see
- Nic is playing township basketball in our neighboring township--and enjoying it
- Hubby has volunteered to coach CYO soccer
- Gabriel played his first piano recital
- Mom ran her first Warrior Dash
- Mom's also trying her hand at something new professionally
We've been a little busy. Nic also went over the township pool on his own last week and made a new friend. Sounds like a minor thing, but in my world, all these signs of emerging competence and independence are huge.
I celebrate my birthday this year by celebrating all the milestones that, 10 years ago, I never thought I'd see. And as my kids discover new skills and abilities, I, too, am finding ways that I need to grow and develop. That we are learning and growing together and individually in tandem with one another is a beautiful thing.
I haven't figured it all out--I probably never will--but there is a growing peace within me as I recognize a bit more readily what I can control and what I can't. And understanding that there is very little I can actually control has been very liberating, indeed.
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