In the time since I last wrote, Stephen has begun taking risperidone to try to calm his irritability and aggression. We've upped the dose per the doctor's instructions, but it doesn't seem to be helping...not really. At times he is loveable and precious, at others like a demon.
It is heartbreaking.
Here we have a child who knows how to surf the Internet by finding pages in the history, but cannot even begin to comprehend that he has to WAIT if the pages are loading slowly...a child who loves to hear Thomas stories and play with Thomas trains in an almost typical sense, yet cannot understand that he's going to his grandma's AFTER we eat instead of before...a child who loves to watch his own TV yet throws a tantrum if the OTHER TV is turned on at the "wrong" time.
There's depth there...but at the same time the smallest changes throw him into a whirlwind of screaming and crying and beating his head with his small hands.
I don't know what to do. This little boy is tearing our family to pieces, and none of it...NONE of it, is his fault. We march to the beat he devises - there is no other way. It is tiresome in the extreme to feel that autism dictates how our days and weeks and years will go. But it does. Everything must be sifted through the sieve of that detestable disease. I hate it more than I can possibly express here. I hate what it's doing to my husband - a funny and gentle man whose nerves are often left jangling after a day with Stephen. I hate what it's doing to my older son - the shining star whose bright smile and eyes make any day seem worth living...he has taken to writing in a journal, which is healthy, but still makes me sad for him. This isn't the life I had planned for him. And I hate what this is doing to me.
After a really bad afternoon, I asked my mom to take Stephen for the night, and she agreed. I feel bruised and numb, and already worried about what will happen when he comes home. It's that constant feeling of being on alert that is so exhausting.
So what does the future hold? It seems fraught with impossibilities. Put Stephen in a "home" of some sort? I cannot entertain that notion even vaguely. Medicate him more? Maybe. But we need guidance - which seems to be in scarce supply. How do we hold our family together under this kind of stress? I wish that I knew.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Lessons learned from an unlikely teacher
I spent this evening watching the constant media coverage about the death of Tim Russert. I also spent what initially seemed like an inordinate amount of time crying. It only took me a few minutes to realize why the death of someone I had never met had affected me so deeply.
As I listened to Tim’s colleagues and friends eulogize him, a very clear picture began to develop. Here was a man who lived fully and well, doing a job he loved with passion and integrity. Here was a devoted husband, a committed and responsible father, and a tender and compassionate son.
I cried when I saw pictures of him standing with his lovely wife, beaming as he put his arm around his son, laughing and joking with his father. I cried because his is a life cut short, a life that meant so much to so many people…perhaps most importantly, to Russert himself.
His dad was a garbage man in
I watched as one after another, intelligent and respected journalists paid tribute to Tim - words tripping over each other as they tried to explain what kind of person this man was. I was struck by the impact he made in the world of politics, but more importantly, the impact he made in the lives of people - both those he knew personally and loved, and those for whom he made “Meet the Press” relevant and accessible. In his own words, he was “grounded” and knew who he was. How many of us can say that and mean it? He taught his son that they were blessed, but never entitled to anything in this world. How many people do you know who live in the opposite fashion, grasping at immediate rewards and living as if life owes them?
I wish I could thank Tim Russert for reminding me that life can be lived joyfully, with intent, purpose, and abiding love - for one’s self, for family, for friends, for humanity. As we go through days colored with worry, doubt, struggle, illness, autism…there is no higher goal than the one of living - really living - with love, with appreciation for the good we have been given, determination to overcome the bad, and choosing (for it IS a choice) to find joy in unlikely places.
According to Tim’s colleagues, he was generous with information that might help them perform their jobs more impressively, often calling them with an idea, or a tip…and he always ended the conversation in the same way. I’d like to borrow that phrase to encourage anyone reading this (including myself) to really think about life and all the opportunities that exist if we look hard enough.
“Now go out there and GET ‘em!”
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Down in a hole
All that stuff I've said about things being good and that I know we're going to continue to see progress? Forget it all. Throw it away. Today, at least, those sentiments are foreign to me.
Summer's here, and the living is so damn hard. Who would've ever thought that the time of year that's supposed to be so carefree could feel so suffocating and terrifying?
The boys got out of school last Thursday. My mom volunteered (yay!) to keep Stephen that night, and we were able to take Kerry and his friend to see the new Indy movie after school that day. Then we went out to eat and had a relaxing meal for a change. I had to work the next day, but Stephen did fine at my mom's house. We met the two of them for dinner Friday night, and Stephen behaved very, very well, especially considering we were at Cracker Barrel surrounded by a cacophony of voices and clinking dishes, and all the visual stimulation of that crap they put on every inch of wall space. We made a quick trip to Wal-Mart after that, and breezed in and out without incident. We thought that things were off to a great start for summer.
But we're stupid that way.
Saturday morning went pretty well. Stephen spent some time on the computer and then played in his room. After lunch I dropped Kerry off at a birthday party and came home to find Stephen sitting in the living room floor with a lap full of Thomas DVDs we had hidden in the very back of the entertainment center. My only conscious thought? Oh, shit.
He had already moved the plastic covering we keep over the DVD player and had a disc loaded up and playing. For the next several hours, he reveled in his discovery, having us switch out discs over and over. He refused to leave the room. He wouldn't let anyone sit on the couch with him. He protested loudly if I tried to gather up the discs. We berated ourselves for not moving the DVDs long ago. As David put it, "The genie's out of the bottle now." And it was. He wouldn't part with them, not even for a minute.
After getting Kerry from the party, I decided to take the boys to the pool for the first time this season. At least it would get Stephen away from the TV, right? Kerry and I got dressed, and I went to Stephen, holding his swimsuit and the sunscreen. "Stephen? Wanna go swim?" He looked at me, sized up the situation instantly, and a huge smile broke out on his face. We got ready to go about 4:15 and spent a couple of hours at the pool (with all the IDIOTS who live in our complex...oy). Stephen did great, as always. He loves the water and would live in the pool if he could. But, he got out and went home without a problem. The rest of the night passed easily enough - we went and grabbed a burger, came home, and so forth.
Sunday morning, he was up at about 8:00 a.m. I didn't have too much trouble with him at first. But right about 9:30 or so, he came to me, smiling. "Sweet?" I thought, "Awww..."
"Yes, baby. You're Mama's sweet boy."
"Sweet?"
"Yes!"
But he was agitated. "SWEET! Sweet!"
Hang on. Something's not right. Finally it dawned on me. He was saying "swim" in the best way he could approximate.
Well, I thought, I'll handle it like we did last summer. "No, buddy. Not right now. Later."
That didn't work. God, did it not work. For the next three hours he cried, tantrumed, fought, kicked, slapped and screamed. I spent every single minute of those hours trying to distract him and placate him, only to be shoved and pushed and slapped. Hard. His very rudimentary reasoning ability flew out the window. He didn't accept "later." He wanted to swim and he wanted it RIGHT THEN.
I cannot really put into words how I felt during those hours. Frustrated, of course, but it's more than that. The combination of the DVD discovery and the issues related to that, combined with his total lack of understanding about the swimming issue made me feel as if a balloon was slowly expanding inside my head. I could feel the pressure building and building, and at one point I told myself to just sit tight and wait for the explosion. I thought/prayed/hoped for help. From somewhere. Somehow. "God, if you're there, this would be a FANTASTIC time for some miracle action." Would you believe nothing happened? Maybe I'm not living a good enough life, huh? I don't deserve that. Whatever.
As I watched myself from a distance, struggling and fighting with this child of mine, I detached a part of my psyche. That part sat coldly watching, clinically observing the pain and chaos, "She's not going to last much longer." It was about at that point I gave up.
"Fine. Let's just go." It was 12:45 p.m.
I coated all of us with sunscreen. I re-applied it three times. I tried to have fun with my kids. I tried to "make the best of it." Maybe they had fun - at least Kerry had a friend that was already out there, and they played together. Stephen just did his thing. Mostly, I sat there.
Despite my careful reapplications of sunscreen, we all got sunburned anyway, being out in the most fiercely hot part of the day. Kerry and I got the worst of it. Typical.
We went home after nearly three hours, got cleaned up, and I took Stephen with me to get groceries. He did okay - especially since we went by McDonald's. Again. We went home, and he ate while I put the food away. I fixed dinner for the rest of us, and the evening passed.
He got up at 4:00 a.m. yesterday morning. He played and watched videos, and I dozed on the couch. Not too bad, considering. He started asking to swim but I firmly said, "No." He fussed, but Kerry and I stayed out of his way, and he got over it fairly easily. He got on the computer for a while, and watched some movies after that. We planned to go to my parents' house in the afternoon and then we were going to meet my aunt for dinner later. I kept telling Stephen that we were going to Mamaw's house, and he would counter with "Fries, burger, Donalds, hungry," which is the McDonald's litany. I kept insisting, "First, Mamaw's. Then, McDonald's." I said that a dozen times on the way down.
Except that didn't work either. We got to my mom's, he tantrumed for 30 minutes, I struggled with him, and finally David had to go ahead and take him to McDonald's, and then stayed with him at the house while the rest of us went to eat. Splitting the family up. Again. Because of Stephen and his rigid routines. Don't get me wrong - oftentimes we can outlast him, and he'll get over it, and we can go on. But sometimes, his issues are too strong, and he cannot handle them, and consequently neither can we.
When David left to take Stephen to get his fix, I walked out the front door of my parents' house, and kept walking. It was muggy and hot, but I had to escape. My mom was fretting, as usual, and saying, "Well, maybe we should just cancel everything." I love her, but a tower of strength she is not. I walked and walked, on the roads that I know so well. I used to ride my bike on those streets. I could see my old purple bike in my mind, and my feet automatically followed the paths I used to ride. I ended up at an old cemetery, where there's a small bench under some trees. I was drawn there, and sat. Just sat there, re-living days from 25 years ago, wondering how in God's name I ended up where I am. I could've sat there for days without moving, just letting my mind take me away. But I know my mother, and I knew she was doing more fretting, and would likely call in the National Guard if I was gone too long. I walked back to the house, and by then David and Stephen were back, and Stephen was Stephen again. And I was still the cold shell of a person I had become over the last two days.
Dinner with my aunt was a hollow affair. She is old, and can't hear much of anything. We spent most of the time repeating ourselves. The food was mediocre, and most of it stuck in my throat like glue. We went home, and I stole a few more moments of relative quiet on the front porch, indulging in more mental time-travel. I think I counted three interruptions - my dad and his computer issues, my mom and her neuroses, and I think my sweet Kerry asked me a question. After every one of those instances, I went right back out there, and sunk into the pool of memory until the sun set and it was time to get home. I didn't want to risk Stephen falling asleep in the car on the way back.
We drove home, and I sat beside Stephen in the backseat. He touched my face, my arms...laughing and giggling and turning to rest his head on my shoulder. It occurred to me at some point that he does those things because it feels good to him. There is little, if any, real affection focused on me in those touches. I'm not saying he doesn't have affection for me, but it feels like he's doing those things because it's fun for him. The dichotomy that exists between that Stephen, and the one who wails and hits and slaps, is too much for that fragile and ever-expanding balloon in my head to handle.
Anyway.
We got home and Stephen got settled in his room. I got him changed just in time for him to fall asleep at about 9:30. Early, for him. I did a little work on some schedule cards for him to use this summer, and I turned in about an hour later. I went to sleep with the minor assurance that at least he'd sleep well, having gotten up so early and having had a traumatic afternoon.
Just to make things interesting, he got up at 2:30 this morning. His bed was wet, of course. I dealt with those issues, and went to the couch as usual. I couldn't sleep though. I didn't even cry...well, a few pitiful tears that aren't worth mentioning. I laid there in the dark, my sunburn stinging and my heart a block of ice, heavy in my chest. Every breath I took burned, and I half expected to see my breath when I exhaled. Everything was frozen and black and icy. Stephen came to me and sat beside me, his little hands touching my face. I had to fight to keep from pushing them away. It was like I couldn't stand for him to do that. The balloon was threatening to expand, and I just couldn't stand it... He brought me to his room, and said, very plainly, "A Big Day for Thomas. Watch." I fished around in the cabinet and found that tape. I held it up to make sure it was the one he wanted. Usually I'll say, "This?" and he'll say, "This." But this time, that tiny index finger came up, and he painstakingly read, "A Big...Big...A Big Day For Thomas," and looked at me. My heart gave a half-hearted thump, but it didn't melt. Part of me was touched, certainly, at his efforts - but again...trying to reconcile this angel-faced child with the snarling creature I have encountered in the last few days is nearly impossible. There's that detachment again. From a distance I'm proud of him, but at that moment I am made of steel, and immune to his precious behavior.
I hate that.
My mom has the boys today, and she has called me twice already to say that "everybody's doing fine." I'm glad, certainly. But mainly I'm glad I'm here, and not there.
Life goes on, as the alternative is unacceptable. But I'm in that deep, dark hole right now. I'll crawl out when I'm ready. I think.
Summer's here, and the living is so damn hard. Who would've ever thought that the time of year that's supposed to be so carefree could feel so suffocating and terrifying?
The boys got out of school last Thursday. My mom volunteered (yay!) to keep Stephen that night, and we were able to take Kerry and his friend to see the new Indy movie after school that day. Then we went out to eat and had a relaxing meal for a change. I had to work the next day, but Stephen did fine at my mom's house. We met the two of them for dinner Friday night, and Stephen behaved very, very well, especially considering we were at Cracker Barrel surrounded by a cacophony of voices and clinking dishes, and all the visual stimulation of that crap they put on every inch of wall space. We made a quick trip to Wal-Mart after that, and breezed in and out without incident. We thought that things were off to a great start for summer.
But we're stupid that way.
Saturday morning went pretty well. Stephen spent some time on the computer and then played in his room. After lunch I dropped Kerry off at a birthday party and came home to find Stephen sitting in the living room floor with a lap full of Thomas DVDs we had hidden in the very back of the entertainment center. My only conscious thought? Oh, shit.
He had already moved the plastic covering we keep over the DVD player and had a disc loaded up and playing. For the next several hours, he reveled in his discovery, having us switch out discs over and over. He refused to leave the room. He wouldn't let anyone sit on the couch with him. He protested loudly if I tried to gather up the discs. We berated ourselves for not moving the DVDs long ago. As David put it, "The genie's out of the bottle now." And it was. He wouldn't part with them, not even for a minute.
After getting Kerry from the party, I decided to take the boys to the pool for the first time this season. At least it would get Stephen away from the TV, right? Kerry and I got dressed, and I went to Stephen, holding his swimsuit and the sunscreen. "Stephen? Wanna go swim?" He looked at me, sized up the situation instantly, and a huge smile broke out on his face. We got ready to go about 4:15 and spent a couple of hours at the pool (with all the IDIOTS who live in our complex...oy). Stephen did great, as always. He loves the water and would live in the pool if he could. But, he got out and went home without a problem. The rest of the night passed easily enough - we went and grabbed a burger, came home, and so forth.
Sunday morning, he was up at about 8:00 a.m. I didn't have too much trouble with him at first. But right about 9:30 or so, he came to me, smiling. "Sweet?" I thought, "Awww..."
"Yes, baby. You're Mama's sweet boy."
"Sweet?"
"Yes!"
But he was agitated. "SWEET! Sweet!"
Hang on. Something's not right. Finally it dawned on me. He was saying "swim" in the best way he could approximate.
Well, I thought, I'll handle it like we did last summer. "No, buddy. Not right now. Later."
That didn't work. God, did it not work. For the next three hours he cried, tantrumed, fought, kicked, slapped and screamed. I spent every single minute of those hours trying to distract him and placate him, only to be shoved and pushed and slapped. Hard. His very rudimentary reasoning ability flew out the window. He didn't accept "later." He wanted to swim and he wanted it RIGHT THEN.
I cannot really put into words how I felt during those hours. Frustrated, of course, but it's more than that. The combination of the DVD discovery and the issues related to that, combined with his total lack of understanding about the swimming issue made me feel as if a balloon was slowly expanding inside my head. I could feel the pressure building and building, and at one point I told myself to just sit tight and wait for the explosion. I thought/prayed/hoped for help. From somewhere. Somehow. "God, if you're there, this would be a FANTASTIC time for some miracle action." Would you believe nothing happened? Maybe I'm not living a good enough life, huh? I don't deserve that. Whatever.
As I watched myself from a distance, struggling and fighting with this child of mine, I detached a part of my psyche. That part sat coldly watching, clinically observing the pain and chaos, "She's not going to last much longer." It was about at that point I gave up.
"Fine. Let's just go." It was 12:45 p.m.
I coated all of us with sunscreen. I re-applied it three times. I tried to have fun with my kids. I tried to "make the best of it." Maybe they had fun - at least Kerry had a friend that was already out there, and they played together. Stephen just did his thing. Mostly, I sat there.
Despite my careful reapplications of sunscreen, we all got sunburned anyway, being out in the most fiercely hot part of the day. Kerry and I got the worst of it. Typical.
We went home after nearly three hours, got cleaned up, and I took Stephen with me to get groceries. He did okay - especially since we went by McDonald's. Again. We went home, and he ate while I put the food away. I fixed dinner for the rest of us, and the evening passed.
He got up at 4:00 a.m. yesterday morning. He played and watched videos, and I dozed on the couch. Not too bad, considering. He started asking to swim but I firmly said, "No." He fussed, but Kerry and I stayed out of his way, and he got over it fairly easily. He got on the computer for a while, and watched some movies after that. We planned to go to my parents' house in the afternoon and then we were going to meet my aunt for dinner later. I kept telling Stephen that we were going to Mamaw's house, and he would counter with "Fries, burger, Donalds, hungry," which is the McDonald's litany. I kept insisting, "First, Mamaw's. Then, McDonald's." I said that a dozen times on the way down.
Except that didn't work either. We got to my mom's, he tantrumed for 30 minutes, I struggled with him, and finally David had to go ahead and take him to McDonald's, and then stayed with him at the house while the rest of us went to eat. Splitting the family up. Again. Because of Stephen and his rigid routines. Don't get me wrong - oftentimes we can outlast him, and he'll get over it, and we can go on. But sometimes, his issues are too strong, and he cannot handle them, and consequently neither can we.
When David left to take Stephen to get his fix, I walked out the front door of my parents' house, and kept walking. It was muggy and hot, but I had to escape. My mom was fretting, as usual, and saying, "Well, maybe we should just cancel everything." I love her, but a tower of strength she is not. I walked and walked, on the roads that I know so well. I used to ride my bike on those streets. I could see my old purple bike in my mind, and my feet automatically followed the paths I used to ride. I ended up at an old cemetery, where there's a small bench under some trees. I was drawn there, and sat. Just sat there, re-living days from 25 years ago, wondering how in God's name I ended up where I am. I could've sat there for days without moving, just letting my mind take me away. But I know my mother, and I knew she was doing more fretting, and would likely call in the National Guard if I was gone too long. I walked back to the house, and by then David and Stephen were back, and Stephen was Stephen again. And I was still the cold shell of a person I had become over the last two days.
Dinner with my aunt was a hollow affair. She is old, and can't hear much of anything. We spent most of the time repeating ourselves. The food was mediocre, and most of it stuck in my throat like glue. We went home, and I stole a few more moments of relative quiet on the front porch, indulging in more mental time-travel. I think I counted three interruptions - my dad and his computer issues, my mom and her neuroses, and I think my sweet Kerry asked me a question. After every one of those instances, I went right back out there, and sunk into the pool of memory until the sun set and it was time to get home. I didn't want to risk Stephen falling asleep in the car on the way back.
We drove home, and I sat beside Stephen in the backseat. He touched my face, my arms...laughing and giggling and turning to rest his head on my shoulder. It occurred to me at some point that he does those things because it feels good to him. There is little, if any, real affection focused on me in those touches. I'm not saying he doesn't have affection for me, but it feels like he's doing those things because it's fun for him. The dichotomy that exists between that Stephen, and the one who wails and hits and slaps, is too much for that fragile and ever-expanding balloon in my head to handle.
Anyway.
We got home and Stephen got settled in his room. I got him changed just in time for him to fall asleep at about 9:30. Early, for him. I did a little work on some schedule cards for him to use this summer, and I turned in about an hour later. I went to sleep with the minor assurance that at least he'd sleep well, having gotten up so early and having had a traumatic afternoon.
Just to make things interesting, he got up at 2:30 this morning. His bed was wet, of course. I dealt with those issues, and went to the couch as usual. I couldn't sleep though. I didn't even cry...well, a few pitiful tears that aren't worth mentioning. I laid there in the dark, my sunburn stinging and my heart a block of ice, heavy in my chest. Every breath I took burned, and I half expected to see my breath when I exhaled. Everything was frozen and black and icy. Stephen came to me and sat beside me, his little hands touching my face. I had to fight to keep from pushing them away. It was like I couldn't stand for him to do that. The balloon was threatening to expand, and I just couldn't stand it... He brought me to his room, and said, very plainly, "A Big Day for Thomas. Watch." I fished around in the cabinet and found that tape. I held it up to make sure it was the one he wanted. Usually I'll say, "This?" and he'll say, "This." But this time, that tiny index finger came up, and he painstakingly read, "A Big...Big...A Big Day For Thomas," and looked at me. My heart gave a half-hearted thump, but it didn't melt. Part of me was touched, certainly, at his efforts - but again...trying to reconcile this angel-faced child with the snarling creature I have encountered in the last few days is nearly impossible. There's that detachment again. From a distance I'm proud of him, but at that moment I am made of steel, and immune to his precious behavior.
I hate that.
My mom has the boys today, and she has called me twice already to say that "everybody's doing fine." I'm glad, certainly. But mainly I'm glad I'm here, and not there.
Life goes on, as the alternative is unacceptable. But I'm in that deep, dark hole right now. I'll crawl out when I'm ready. I think.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Children growing up...
This mother's heart is full today - bittersweet memories mixed with pride and great love. Today is Stephen's last day at his elementary school. For five years, I have taken him there most every morning during the school year, and it was very emotional to drive up and walk with him into the building for the last time.
I can clearly see him as a tiny little three-year-old, toddling along down the hall - or, being pushed, pulled, and dragged, screaming... We had lots of mornings like that. I can remember having to PEEL his clinging little hands away from my legs and walking away as fast as I could, tears blinding my vision - hoping against hope that he'd calm down and have a good day. In retrospect, those preschool years were every bit as important as his last couple of years, though...he learned about spending the day in a classroom, and he learned to pay attention to the children that surrounded him. It took a while for him to come out of his own world, but he surely has.
So while there is still the very rare morning that he balks about leaving home to go to school, he has grown to love being there, and he has blossomed and grown and learned SO much - more than I once thought possible. He no longer has to be taken in to a special side entrance. Over a year ago I started parking and walking him to the main door where all the other kids enter. He adapted beautifully and learned to walk along with the stream of children, smiling and occasionally reaching out to touch their little faces. This morning I hung back and watched him...ears covered as is his custom, he walked down the sidewalk and headed into the building...and I was overcome with emotion. That walk signifies so much.
So today a chapter ends. Five years of struggles and worries and advocacy have given rise to the sweet, smart, outgoing little boy we are so proud of today. He has such a journey ahead of him, but those strong little legs have already traveled such a long, long way. I worry about all the changes we face as he transitions to a new school...but we'll make it. He's proven that he can do it.
The boy who wouldn't hold a marker in his hand a few years ago wrote his name independently on the sign-in board this morning. He smiled a little smile when we praised him, then came up to me.
"Bye buddy...I love you."
"...Vvvv you... Good-bye!" said very firmly, as always. It's time for you to go, Mom. I'm at school!
I love you, baby.
I can clearly see him as a tiny little three-year-old, toddling along down the hall - or, being pushed, pulled, and dragged, screaming... We had lots of mornings like that. I can remember having to PEEL his clinging little hands away from my legs and walking away as fast as I could, tears blinding my vision - hoping against hope that he'd calm down and have a good day. In retrospect, those preschool years were every bit as important as his last couple of years, though...he learned about spending the day in a classroom, and he learned to pay attention to the children that surrounded him. It took a while for him to come out of his own world, but he surely has.
So while there is still the very rare morning that he balks about leaving home to go to school, he has grown to love being there, and he has blossomed and grown and learned SO much - more than I once thought possible. He no longer has to be taken in to a special side entrance. Over a year ago I started parking and walking him to the main door where all the other kids enter. He adapted beautifully and learned to walk along with the stream of children, smiling and occasionally reaching out to touch their little faces. This morning I hung back and watched him...ears covered as is his custom, he walked down the sidewalk and headed into the building...and I was overcome with emotion. That walk signifies so much.
So today a chapter ends. Five years of struggles and worries and advocacy have given rise to the sweet, smart, outgoing little boy we are so proud of today. He has such a journey ahead of him, but those strong little legs have already traveled such a long, long way. I worry about all the changes we face as he transitions to a new school...but we'll make it. He's proven that he can do it.
The boy who wouldn't hold a marker in his hand a few years ago wrote his name independently on the sign-in board this morning. He smiled a little smile when we praised him, then came up to me.
"Bye buddy...I love you."
"...Vvvv you... Good-bye!" said very firmly, as always. It's time for you to go, Mom. I'm at school!
I love you, baby.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Beautiful Boy
What a strange and beautiful son I have...
Last night Stephen fell asleep clinging to the foot of his bed. I went in to rotate him around to the head-on-pillow position, but first I had to remove the stuffed animal menagerie piled up in the center of his bed (leaving him a one foot space in which to fall asleep). As I moved the twenty-five or so assorted animals to their basket, I noticed that he had also placed some Thomas trains, plastic and wooden, in the mix...as well as about 30 pieces of wooden track. I moved those to their respective boxes, along with two plastic Slinky's, a Bob the Builder ball, a golf ball, and, inexplicably, an extra pillowcase.
I paused to look at the (finally) still, quiet form of my little boy, his face relaxed and peaceful. He looks so normal when he's asleep - there's no hint of a problem or a disorder. Just a handsome, healthy-looking child, lost in dreams and slumber.
And my gaze wandered to the pile of objects on his table...why a golf ball and Slinky's? The pillowcase? You can imagine that any child might like to snuggle with stuffed animals at bedtime, and Stephen is no different in that respect. But the other stuff...this odd, quirky collection of items that he obviously finds important...what's that about?
In my mind's eye I see him, realizing that he's getting tired, moving around his room to gather up the things that hold meaning for him - his choices aren't clear to me, but they are to him. He is a real little person, with likes and (STRONG) dislikes, and I find myself feeling glad that he is comfortable and has a place to just be Stephen. Isn't that a lesson we all need to remember? Sure, it may look a little weird sometimes, but laugh and enjoy and be who you are, every day. Stephen knows this, and practices it with great style.
Sometimes, though, this strange and lovely son of ours throws us a curve ball.
Much to our dismay, last Friday was haircut day. To give a bit of history: I've mentioned before how bad haircuts have been for the last 6 years or so. We're talking serious levels of trauma for everyone involved. We used to have a friend of the family cut his hair in a regular little-boy-style scissor cut. I would hold him in my lap and she would cut here and there, as best she could, while I fought with him. He would scream and cry and sweat and struggle...it was difficult in an epic way. After the cut I would literally be unable to lift my arms to write a check to pay for it. As Stephen grew, David got involved, holding his arms and head while I held the rest of him.
People would oh so helpfully tell us just to "shave his head." Well, I just couldn't stomach the idea of my precious baby-faced boy looking like a convict (that was my unfortunate mental picture). I didn't want to force that on him and make him look funny. So we persevered.
About a year or more ago, David was at the barbershop and saw two young boys getting "clipper cuts" with slightly longer bangs left at the front. He assured me that it looked really cute, and, even more importantly, it was FAST! So we decided to give it a try and took Stephen there. It was still monumentally difficult, mind you...still a struggle and a fight, and we all felt like wrung-out dishcloths by the end. But the end came more quickly, so we decided that this was the way to go. Plus, the kid looked damned cute, to boot.
Fast-forward to last Friday...I had worked up what's called a "social story" about going to the barbershop. I used a simple narrative: "Stephen's going to get a haircut today..." and so forth, and inserted photographs of Stephen, a typical barbershop interior, a barber chair, clippers ("that make a BUZZZZZZZing noise, but they won't hurt Stephen"), then a bathtub, and finally, the pièce de résistance, a picture of McDonalds. I didn't have a whole lot of faith that this story would work, but Stephen's come so far in communicating that I thought it was worth a try.
So as we got him ready to leave home, as he always does when we make preparations to GO someplace, he immediately started asking for "fries/burger." This gave me an opening to start showing him the story. "First haircut, then McDonalds." I repeated this over and over and over, and began flipping the pages of his book, and mimicking the feel and sound of the clippers on his head. He giggled and parroted back, "Bah-bah-shop. Kip-pers." But I wasn't buying it...
We got in the car, and I continued to read him the story while David drove and Kerry sat in the front seat reading. We drove to the town I grew up in (where the wonderful lady who helps us with this has her shop) and Stephen was SO loving and happy that I knew he hadn't absorbed my story. With a sinking feeling I accepted his kisses and hugs, the whole time knowing what a 180° turn we were going to experience when we arrived.
We got to the shop, and Stephen began to whine a little. "Come on, buddy. Time for haircut."
"No."
"We have to..." and we haul him out of the car.
"NO."
We got into the shop and I pulled out his book. "See, buddy? Barbershop. We get haircut here."
David went and sat in the chair, as usual, and I led Stephen over. I could immediately sense a difference. He was walking calmly, without pulling back on my hand. I helped him climb into his daddy's lap, and we wrapped a sheet around him. Ms. Tommie showed him the clippers, and turned them on, away from his head. He looked carefully at them. As she took the first pass through his hair, my little boy looked at me with his moss-green eyes, and said, very quietly, "Buzzzzz?"
My eyes were already misting over as I said, "Yes, baby. Buzzzz!"
From that moment on, other than typical "oooh, that tickles" flinching, Stephen sat calmly in his dad's lap, letting his hair be cut. Throughout the whole haircut, the three adults kept exchanging glances...we were afraid to breathe lest he fall apart. But he didn't...he watched himself in the mirror, he talked about Thomas and Gordon and Duck...and he never fought, never struggled, never shed a tear.
His dad and I, on the other hand, shed quite a few. I don't know that I've ever smiled so much...and been so overwhelmed by thankfulness. Instead of the trauma we'd been expecting, (both David and I were nauseous all day dreading the afternoon) we were rejoicing. We were absolutely thrilled with him, and with the amazing knowledge that he had definitely understood all the pre-emptive planning and explaining. He obviously didn't WANT to get it cut (hence the strong "No's") but he sat through it as any boy would've.
Miracle? I don't know. A triumph? Most certainly. For perhaps the first time, Stephen understood what was going to happen because he could follow the story visually beforehand. Even though I didn't realize it, he took in what I said, and was able to mentally prepare himself. Did he really have sensory issues with haircuts, as we'd previously assumed, or was it just unfamiliar and frightening because he didn't GET what was about to happen?
Either way, it was a eureka! moment, a red-letter day, the first observance of "Stephen Got a Haircut and Nobody Got Injured Day" - and we look forward to celebrating it again in 4 months or so. Hopefully. :-)
Here's our little prince...
Oh, and he got extra french fries that day.
Last night Stephen fell asleep clinging to the foot of his bed. I went in to rotate him around to the head-on-pillow position, but first I had to remove the stuffed animal menagerie piled up in the center of his bed (leaving him a one foot space in which to fall asleep). As I moved the twenty-five or so assorted animals to their basket, I noticed that he had also placed some Thomas trains, plastic and wooden, in the mix...as well as about 30 pieces of wooden track. I moved those to their respective boxes, along with two plastic Slinky's, a Bob the Builder ball, a golf ball, and, inexplicably, an extra pillowcase.
I paused to look at the (finally) still, quiet form of my little boy, his face relaxed and peaceful. He looks so normal when he's asleep - there's no hint of a problem or a disorder. Just a handsome, healthy-looking child, lost in dreams and slumber.
And my gaze wandered to the pile of objects on his table...why a golf ball and Slinky's? The pillowcase? You can imagine that any child might like to snuggle with stuffed animals at bedtime, and Stephen is no different in that respect. But the other stuff...this odd, quirky collection of items that he obviously finds important...what's that about?
In my mind's eye I see him, realizing that he's getting tired, moving around his room to gather up the things that hold meaning for him - his choices aren't clear to me, but they are to him. He is a real little person, with likes and (STRONG) dislikes, and I find myself feeling glad that he is comfortable and has a place to just be Stephen. Isn't that a lesson we all need to remember? Sure, it may look a little weird sometimes, but laugh and enjoy and be who you are, every day. Stephen knows this, and practices it with great style.
Sometimes, though, this strange and lovely son of ours throws us a curve ball.
Much to our dismay, last Friday was haircut day.
People would oh so helpfully tell us just to "shave his head." Well, I just couldn't stomach the idea of my precious baby-faced boy looking like a convict (that was my unfortunate mental picture). I didn't want to force that on him and make him look funny. So we persevered.
About a year or more ago, David was at the barbershop and saw two young boys getting "clipper cuts" with slightly longer bangs left at the front. He assured me that it looked really cute, and, even more importantly, it was FAST! So we decided to give it a try and took Stephen there. It was still monumentally difficult, mind you...still a struggle and a fight, and we all felt like wrung-out dishcloths by the end. But the end came more quickly, so we decided that this was the way to go. Plus, the kid looked damned cute, to boot.
Fast-forward to last Friday...I had worked up what's called a "social story" about going to the barbershop. I used a simple narrative: "Stephen's going to get a haircut today..." and so forth, and inserted photographs of Stephen, a typical barbershop interior, a barber chair, clippers ("that make a BUZZZZZZZing noise, but they won't hurt Stephen"), then a bathtub, and finally, the
So as we got him ready to leave home, as he always does when we make preparations to GO someplace, he immediately
We got in the car, and I continued to read him the story while David drove and Kerry sat in the front seat reading. We drove to the town I grew up in (where the wonderful lady who helps us with this has her shop) and Stephen was SO loving and happy that I knew he hadn't absorbed my story. With a sinking feeling I accepted his kisses and hugs, the whole time knowing what a 180° turn we were going to experience when we arrived.
We got to the shop, and Stephen began to whine a little. "Come on, buddy. Time for haircut."
"No."
"We have to..." and we haul him out of the car.
"NO."
We got into the shop and I pulled out his book. "See, buddy? Barbershop. We get haircut here."
David went and sat in the chair, as usual, and I led Stephen over. I could immediately sense a difference. He was walking calmly, without pulling back on my hand. I helped him climb into his daddy's lap, and we wrapped a sheet around him. Ms. Tommie showed him the clippers, and turned them on, away from his head. He looked carefully at them. As she took the first pass through his hair, my little boy looked at me with his moss-green eyes, and said, very quietly, "Buzzzzz?"
My eyes were already misting over as I said, "Yes, baby. Buzzzz!"
From that moment on, other than typical "oooh, that tickles" flinching, Stephen sat calmly in his dad's lap, letting his hair be cut. Throughout the whole haircut, the three adults kept exchanging glances...we were afraid to breathe lest he fall apart. But he didn't...he watched himself in the mirror, he talked about Thomas and Gordon and Duck...and he never fought, never struggled, never shed a tear.
His dad and I, on the other hand, shed quite a few. I don't know that I've ever smiled so much...and been so overwhelmed by thankfulness. Instead of the trauma we'd been expecting, (both David and I were nauseous all day dreading the afternoon) we were rejoicing. We were absolutely thrilled with him, and with the amazing knowledge that he had definitely understood all the pre-emptive planning and explaining. He obviously didn't WANT to get it cut (hence the strong "No's") but he sat through it as any boy would've.
Miracle? I don't know. A triumph? Most certainly. For perhaps the first time, Stephen understood what was going to happen because he could follow the story visually beforehand. Even though I didn't realize it, he took in what I said, and was able to mentally prepare himself. Did he really have sensory issues with haircuts, as we'd previously assumed, or was it just unfamiliar and frightening because he didn't GET what was about to happen?
Either way, it was a eureka! moment, a red-letter day, the first observance of "Stephen Got a Haircut and Nobody Got Injured Day" - and we look forward to celebrating it again in 4 months or so. Hopefully. :-)
Here's our little prince...
Oh, and he got extra french fries that day.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Building a mystery
It's 9:05 a.m. and I am exhausted. I feel like I have run a marathon while simultaneously being beaten by a stick and juggling Ginsu knives.
Stephen woke up in a decent mood. "Time to get dressed for school!" I chirruped in what must be an annoyingly cheerful tone.
"No." A good solid answer. Not the one I was hoping for, but I can work with this.
"Yes, buddy! Time for school!" (he's not buying this)
"No!" And so the fight ensues. "Thomas and James compuuuuuu."
"No, time for school," still with a smile.
"Juggle Book...watch."
"Time for school," delivered through slightly clenched teeth.
We got him dressed, and he ran off to his room. David went in to try to cheer him up while I got his shoes. He let us get his shoes on deceptively easily...only to pull one off as soon as I got the velcro fastened.
Argh.
How can he do SO well most days and be a disagreeable grump on days like today? Well...I guess everybody has bad days, but Stephen's are so unpredictable, and he can't say, "I wish I could just stay home today," like Kerry occasionally says.
So, Stephen refused to put on his backpack, refused to walk down the hall without prodding, and then flatly refused to go out the door. He laid on the floor and began pounding his heels. David got him up and out the door. Usually by this point, if he's cranky, he accepts his fate and will sometimes almost magically transform into happy Stephen, having gotten through the transition trauma.
Not today.
I had to drag him down the stairs and into the car. By the time I got his seat belt on, he had both shoes off. Socks were next. He screamed and cried till the car felt like it was going to explode. (Mostly) unscathed I drove determinedly out to the street and started on our way. At the first intersection he grabbed handfuls of my shirt and pulled for all he was worth. When that didn't stop me from driving, he moved to my hair (which is just past my shoulders) and pulled. Hard. It brought tears to my eyes - tears of pain and of pure frustration. So he pulled, I drove, trying to get him untangled without having a wreck. I kept asking, "Stephen, WHAT do you WANT?" He would echo it back in between screams.
Finally I pulled off the road and, for a moment, wanted to keep driving at full speed and ram my car into the building I parked beside. I turned around, and bellowed, "WHAT is WRONG with you?"
["Gee, mom. Maybe I have some sort of bewildering and maddening developmental disorder. Try living inside my head for a day."]
There he sat, red faced and snotty, hair much too long and disheveled, crying. He got my hand and had me push on his chest, which he likes, and then his chin. I just looked at him. Part of me wanted to just turn around and go home. But I can't do that. Ultimately he will benefit so much more from being taken to school...so we pressed on.
We got to school, and fresh tears began flowing. I got his socks and shoes back on, and he didn't want to get out of the car. I summoned up some brute strength and got him out, but he wasn't happy. His aide (bless her) who usually runs the carpool system saw me struggling, handed off her stop sign to someone else and came over to help. She calmly talked to him and he took a few steps. We got him to his room and he signed in as usual. He hugged me and sat down at the computer. He looked at me and said, "Good-bye."
Rather anticlimactic, don't you think?
I don't know why mornings like this happen. Sometimes (MOST times) he is a delight - but when he isn't? God. It's just awful. It's heartwrenching and frustrating and fury-inducing. Not fury directed at a helpless child, but at that THING that lives in his head and takes over his personality at times.
I'm still waiting to hear from his aide. She's supposed to call me and let me know how he's doing. He'll probably be fine, and so we'll keep going, fighting our way through the dark forest, never knowing what mystery lies around the bend.
Stephen woke up in a decent mood. "Time to get dressed for school!" I chirruped in what must be an annoyingly cheerful tone.
"No." A good solid answer. Not the one I was hoping for, but I can work with this.
"Yes, buddy! Time for school!" (he's not buying this)
"No!" And so the fight ensues. "Thomas and James compuuuuuu."
"No, time for school," still with a smile.
"Juggle Book...watch."
"Time for school," delivered through slightly clenched teeth.
We got him dressed, and he ran off to his room. David went in to try to cheer him up while I got his shoes. He let us get his shoes on deceptively easily...only to pull one off as soon as I got the velcro fastened.
Argh.
How can he do SO well most days and be a disagreeable grump on days like today? Well...I guess everybody has bad days, but Stephen's are so unpredictable, and he can't say, "I wish I could just stay home today," like Kerry occasionally says.
So, Stephen refused to put on his backpack, refused to walk down the hall without prodding, and then flatly refused to go out the door. He laid on the floor and began pounding his heels. David got him up and out the door. Usually by this point, if he's cranky, he accepts his fate and will sometimes almost magically transform into happy Stephen, having gotten through the transition trauma.
Not today.
I had to drag him down the stairs and into the car. By the time I got his seat belt on, he had both shoes off. Socks were next. He screamed and cried till the car felt like it was going to explode. (Mostly) unscathed I drove determinedly out to the street and started on our way. At the first intersection he grabbed handfuls of my shirt and pulled for all he was worth. When that didn't stop me from driving, he moved to my hair (which is just past my shoulders) and pulled. Hard. It brought tears to my eyes - tears of pain and of pure frustration. So he pulled, I drove, trying to get him untangled without having a wreck. I kept asking, "Stephen, WHAT do you WANT?" He would echo it back in between screams.
Finally I pulled off the road and, for a moment, wanted to keep driving at full speed and ram my car into the building I parked beside. I turned around, and bellowed, "WHAT is WRONG with you?"
["Gee, mom. Maybe I have some sort of bewildering and maddening developmental disorder. Try living inside my head for a day."]
There he sat, red faced and snotty, hair much too long and disheveled, crying. He got my hand and had me push on his chest, which he likes, and then his chin. I just looked at him. Part of me wanted to just turn around and go home. But I can't do that. Ultimately he will benefit so much more from being taken to school...so we pressed on.
We got to school, and fresh tears began flowing. I got his socks and shoes back on, and he didn't want to get out of the car. I summoned up some brute strength and got him out, but he wasn't happy. His aide (bless her) who usually runs the carpool system saw me struggling, handed off her stop sign to someone else and came over to help. She calmly talked to him and he took a few steps. We got him to his room and he signed in as usual. He hugged me and sat down at the computer. He looked at me and said, "Good-bye."
Rather anticlimactic, don't you think?
I don't know why mornings like this happen. Sometimes (MOST times) he is a delight - but when he isn't? God. It's just awful. It's heartwrenching and frustrating and fury-inducing. Not fury directed at a helpless child, but at that THING that lives in his head and takes over his personality at times.
I'm still waiting to hear from his aide. She's supposed to call me and let me know how he's doing. He'll probably be fine, and so we'll keep going, fighting our way through the dark forest, never knowing what mystery lies around the bend.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
In the wee small hours
Wow. I'm barely squeaking in with a March entry. So much for my weekly writings... It's not that things haven't been happening, going on, etc. - Stephen is doing remarkably well with his new teacher. He's still reading and has progressed to doing addition, which frankly blows my mind. But, for whatever reason, I just didn't feel inspired to write this stuff down. When I'd think about it, I'd feel this weird pressure to "produce," and this blog has never been about that. I figured when or if something needed to be said, I'd know. What follows falls into the "I've got to get this out or I'll lose it" category - nothing earth shattering here, just junk I need to vent.
So here we go.
Stephen and I got up at 2:00 a.m. (for the second time in less than a week). Well, HE got up then. I laid in bed and thought/hoped/prayed he'd just drift back to sleep. Finally, at 2:50, I realized that wasn't going to happen. I got up and checked him - his pajamas were wet, but the sheets were dry (hallelujah) so I got him changed into clean PJ's and headed for the couch.
He came and laid down with me, but only for a minute. Then he was off to his room to turn on the TV for the early morning video-go-round. If you're not familiar, the "video-go-round" is Stephen's preferred method of watching. It's simple. You put in a video, he watches for anywhere from 2 seconds to 15 minutes, then he unplugs everything and brings you another video. Repeat this process approximately 20 times. Now, the kid is charming (mostly) - he's using his words to explain what he wants to see..."Thomas and James...WATCH," for example. It's really cute.
It's not as cute at 4:00 a.m. though.
At around 4:30 he came into the living room where I was fitfully dozing, and said, "Ten Years of Thomas...WATCH," but then he started saying "Off." Now, usually that means he wants lights turned off. But since the room was dark I ascertained that he meant "On." That concept is still not clear to him. Anyway, I said, "No, buddy...it's still nighttime..." which brought on a sit-in on the living room floor, whining at increasingly high volume..."OFF!!!!" Finally, I broke. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Fight the battle and risk waking everybody else in the building up, or give in? I gave in. I marched around in a fury, turning on lamps and cursing under my breath..."He won't even BE in here, why should I do this? I have to do this or he'll freak out. I mean, he'll be in his ROOM for god's sake..." Then I turned to him, standing there in his baseball pajamas, shaggy haired and precious, and I ripped the video out of his hands, snarling. Joan Crawford would've been proud. My son, who cannot help waking up, who was being fairly pleasant, who has god knows what going through his head at any given time recoiled from me with a look of fear on his face. I hated myself just then. I hated what I was allowing to control me. I was just so damned mad at...something. All I wanted was a dark room so I could sleep for 5 minutes in between video changes...but then in that one moment, I was ashamed. I was mean, and there's no excuse.
After he recovered, he toddled down the hall to his room and waited for me to follow him and put in the tape. As I sat cross-legged on the floor, he came to me - no hesitation or fear - put his cold little hands on my face, and turned it gently so he could kiss me. And I thought I couldn't feel any lower...
I went back to the couch in the living room that was lit up like Times Square, and let myself go, just a bit. I needed to...it wasn't a loss of control, or letting my emotions run wild. It was simply acknowledging to myself that, while I strive at all times to be patient and loving, sometimes I'm going to fail. Most kids I know are pretty forgiving, and Stephen seems to be extraordinarily so. Not that he intellectually knows, as Kerry does, that sometimes Mom messes up...but somehow, he understands in his own way that Mama is mostly about love and hugs, not angry looks and frustration.
Soon enough it was 6:00 a.m. and time to get Kerry up so he could get to choir practice by 7:00 a.m. He is a classic sleepyhead, and came dragging in yawning, "I'm so SLEEPY!" Wouldn't you know it? Mommie Dearest reared her ugly head and growled..."Yeah? Well, try getting up at TWO A.M.!!!" with two fingers stabbing the air for emphasis. He peeked out from under the quilt and quietly said, "I'm sorry, Mom."
These kids of mine! They know how to get to me, you know?
I hugged him, apologized for being snappish, and all was well. I thought about staying home from work today, but at some point I shifted into morning mode, and didn't feel sleepy anymore. I'm fresh out of paid time off, so it's just as well that I made it in to work after all.
The sun is shining. It's going to be a rare springlike day here in the deep south. My kids made me proud today - they know I'm human and flawed, and they love me anyway. I can't ask for much more than that.
So here we go.
Stephen and I got up at 2:00 a.m. (for the second time in less than a week). Well, HE got up then. I laid in bed and thought/hoped/prayed he'd just drift back to sleep. Finally, at 2:50, I realized that wasn't going to happen. I got up and checked him - his pajamas were wet, but the sheets were dry (hallelujah) so I got him changed into clean PJ's and headed for the couch.
He came and laid down with me, but only for a minute. Then he was off to his room to turn on the TV for the early morning video-go-round. If you're not familiar, the "video-go-round" is Stephen's preferred method of watching. It's simple. You put in a video, he watches for anywhere from 2 seconds to 15 minutes, then he unplugs everything and brings you another video. Repeat this process approximately 20 times. Now, the kid is charming (mostly) - he's using his words to explain what he wants to see..."Thomas and James...WATCH," for example. It's really cute.
It's not as cute at 4:00 a.m. though.
At around 4:30 he came into the living room where I was fitfully dozing, and said, "Ten Years of Thomas...WATCH," but then he started saying "Off." Now, usually that means he wants lights turned off. But since the room was dark I ascertained that he meant "On." That concept is still not clear to him. Anyway, I said, "No, buddy...it's still nighttime..." which brought on a sit-in on the living room floor, whining at increasingly high volume..."OFF!!!!" Finally, I broke. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Fight the battle and risk waking everybody else in the building up, or give in? I gave in. I marched around in a fury, turning on lamps and cursing under my breath..."He won't even BE in here, why should I do this? I have to do this or he'll freak out. I mean, he'll be in his ROOM for god's sake..." Then I turned to him, standing there in his baseball pajamas, shaggy haired and precious, and I ripped the video out of his hands, snarling. Joan Crawford would've been proud. My son, who cannot help waking up, who was being fairly pleasant, who has god knows what going through his head at any given time recoiled from me with a look of fear on his face. I hated myself just then. I hated what I was allowing to control me. I was just so damned mad at...something. All I wanted was a dark room so I could sleep for 5 minutes in between video changes...but then in that one moment, I was ashamed. I was mean, and there's no excuse.
After he recovered, he toddled down the hall to his room and waited for me to follow him and put in the tape. As I sat cross-legged on the floor, he came to me - no hesitation or fear - put his cold little hands on my face, and turned it gently so he could kiss me. And I thought I couldn't feel any lower...
I went back to the couch in the living room that was lit up like Times Square, and let myself go, just a bit. I needed to...it wasn't a loss of control, or letting my emotions run wild. It was simply acknowledging to myself that, while I strive at all times to be patient and loving, sometimes I'm going to fail. Most kids I know are pretty forgiving, and Stephen seems to be extraordinarily so. Not that he intellectually knows, as Kerry does, that sometimes Mom messes up...but somehow, he understands in his own way that Mama is mostly about love and hugs, not angry looks and frustration.
Soon enough it was 6:00 a.m. and time to get Kerry up so he could get to choir practice by 7:00 a.m. He is a classic sleepyhead, and came dragging in yawning, "I'm so SLEEPY!" Wouldn't you know it? Mommie Dearest reared her ugly head and growled..."Yeah? Well, try getting up at TWO A.M.!!!" with two fingers stabbing the air for emphasis. He peeked out from under the quilt and quietly said, "I'm sorry, Mom."
These kids of mine! They know how to get to me, you know?
I hugged him, apologized for being snappish, and all was well. I thought about staying home from work today, but at some point I shifted into morning mode, and didn't feel sleepy anymore. I'm fresh out of paid time off, so it's just as well that I made it in to work after all.
The sun is shining. It's going to be a rare springlike day here in the deep south. My kids made me proud today - they know I'm human and flawed, and they love me anyway. I can't ask for much more than that.