save me a space
January 16, 2017 § 8 Comments
It’s the smallest request, to hold a space for someone to belong. There is perhaps no greater kindness than to offer such generosity of acceptance to one another; no greater space than home in which to teach belonging except school. This is the heartache I have been sounding out for over a decade as I help my children navigate the broken spaces of their education.
I have written often these past years of academic challenges and the emotional harm of exclusion, but these themes were offered new insight last November through an online parenting course offered by Brené Brown. I’ve long admired her research on shame, but this course offered a discussion on belonging and fitting in that gave me a new language for contextualizing the challenges I have encountered as a mother raising special needs children.
I posed this question (specific to my son) towards the end of the curriculum:
How do we address subjects of shame and belonging when raising children with special needs? My sixteen year old boy (son) on the Autism Spectrum cries openly, fails colorfully and speaks genuinely, he has been made to feel “other” for these behaviors/qualities we celebrate and cultivate in adults.
In an effort to keep my question concise, I edited the following from my submission to the live Q&A session:
He has given his younger sister a model of masculinity I think is both rare and exceptional; his emotions and vulnerability, the brave and authentic way he navigates mixed messages underscores a deficit in social norms.
Maybe one day there will be a parenting class to discuss the significance of belonging over fitting in as we look to inclusive classrooms to model empathy and diversity.
Privately, in my personal notes, I mused:
I’ve also been thinking about how we categorize children, offering preferential treatment that harks back to an unhealthy selection mentality; students who are deemed gifted are granted an exclusivity of privileged resources that in turn limit the potential of a larger population with an assumption of inequality.
This last wondering was specific to my daughter’s experience, but inclusive of so many misunderstood, stereotyped children. Those students ranked by generic test scores that exclude intelligence we cannot gauge in standard testing, but whose grit and resilience have made them stronger learners for their personal challenges. What might these children become if offered courses that encourage and inspire new passions?
I want to pause here to acknowledge the obvious deficit of editing. I debated tidying these thoughts into something beautiful, but there is an uncomfortable truth in the mess that I want to preserve for the integrity of my own experience. I am publishing them today to move them from the stagnancy of my drafts to better own them as an essential part of my story.
I considered offering a shorthand of harmful past experiences in the interest of identifying a pattern of exclusion that illuminate the essence of fitting in over belonging, but I want to speak instead to the rare moments of extraordinary kindness – of invitations to belonging.
For my son it was one teacher offering a safe place where others could not push, mock, tease or taunt for one period each day of his middle school career. During those three years she provided him his first experience of belonging, in which he was allowed to invite friends and breathe a sense of safety and acceptance not available outside her walls.
For my daughter, the experience came last year as a result of an administrative oversight after our move when she was allowed to perform academically by assumption of ability over predetermined restrictions. Her school saved her seat when paperwork dictated they shuffle her into another space. It was only after our daughter was offered an opportunity to thrive outside the limits of labels that we watched her excel along a trajectory of her own determination that exceeded expectations.
This is the truer gift of parenting children with special needs, the way in which we reframe understanding by potential; looking past the unspoken rules of fitting into social scripts for success to a more wholehearted place of belonging just as we are. It demands championing learning over testing, character over accomplishment; teaching children to save a space for one another with acceptance and appreciation.
I think we are on the verge of something remarkable and I’m saving a space for all of us to consider the difference between fitting in and belonging.
body of thought
January 15, 2017 § 2 Comments
It started with an excruciating pain during an unfamiliar exercise. Despite my admonishment of physical resolutions this year, I was swept up in a sudden need to move and threw myself enthusiastically into a new routine.
My efforts at stillness had quietly underscored the way I use movement both for avoidance and empowerment. Restless distractions that allow me to cloak worry in productivity are intimately related to the way I use exercise to purge those feelings I struggle to name.
Yesterday, inventorying for injury in a posture of submission to a very immediate sense of vulnerability, I tested the smallest movements with patience and settled among my thoughts.
Our bodies are great teachers in crises.
My body demanded I identify the harm and tend to the moment at hand. There’s a certain power in naming what hurts, allowing ourselves to speak directly without apology for weakness.
There is also humility in acknowledging what worked once may not serve us now. Freedom in accepting that our needs and abilities change over time.
Images can be deceptive; a body may appear healthy, but hide a deficit of strength. Similarly one can appear weak while exercising great strength.
Lastly, we teach our children as much in good health as we do in injury and sickness. It is natural to tend to another in need, but there are great lessons in self-care.
In those moments of stillness as I tested my body for stability and considered how I had changed, what I might need, and the actions that would best nurture healing, the thoughts I had been circling in movement all week settled into place and I marveled at the way life invites us to presence.
This past week my son wrapped up another academic term with finals. The end of anything brings the beginning of something else and we’ve been chasing significant change with unconventional choices in anticipation of his new term.
There has been great joy in the anticipation of these adjustments, but also remorse and grief for the years I held my son accountable to a pattern of commitments that contradicted his needs for another’s impersonal trajectory of success.
For all my efforts to parent outside the mainstream language of success, I’ve bought into patterns of parenting that conflicted my earliest days of motherhood; days before labels invited comparisons that bred fear and worry. For years I gauged good enough and belonging by unfortunate standards akin to fitting in.
While verbally celebrating my son’s individuality, I was shaping his future with a mass-produced machinery of normal. If A, then B. Never accounting for a factor of C.
There is so much more to this moment. I’ve been gathering my thoughts, privately, trying to decide how to mark this milestone in writing as we embark on a new adventure. It was strange that a physical injury is my introduction to sounding out these changes, but so it is:
Name the harm.
Understand what worked once, may no longer apply.
Recognize that images are deceptive, one can appear weak while exercising great strength.
Our actions speak more loudly than words, our children are listening to our choices.
to my daughter
October 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
Last night was pretty exceptional; anger and tears that transformed homework into a moment of tender self-awareness. You’re struggling a bit with two classroom projects. On the surface it would appear you’re a little behind, maybe disregarding your work, or ignoring responsibilities.
In some ways it’s the easier way to interpret unfinished material. To hide behind other people’s’ assumptions and carry the burden of their ignorance with silence or casual disinterest. It’s easier to assume something is wrong with you, to see your differences as failings rather than gifts when they clutter your effort with failure; less hurtful to pretend you don’t care when you do.
Asking for help is tricky when you aren’t sure why you can’t simply perform tasks the children around you appear to complete without struggle.
How do you explain to a teacher that you understood the directions when your inference is different from their intent? What happens when you listen closely, but can’t remember later what you understood previously? Who would expect the smiling child that is eager to help another or quick with a smile, someone who appears confident, may actually be masking insecurities over perceived inadequacies?
Imperfect work doesn’t speak to the years of growth behind confusing mistakes any more than unfinished work illuminates effort. Similarly, the determined set of your chin doesn’t inform the emotions that threaten tears of embarrassment. Compounding these challenges is the unfamiliarity of your surroundings; gone are the friends who might have previously prompted you gently or rallied beside you with gentle encouragements.
Here’s the good news, at any given moment we can learn to ask for help; change the language of our needs.
Last night you started to identify your struggles in a way that was exceptionally intuitive to your needs, but you strained against how to seek help. Ferociously independent, you worried that asking for assistance might make you appear to beg preferential treatment, you didn’t want others to call you “teacher’s pet” or to look at you with sympathy.
Sometimes strength requires we walk against the grain of our fears. Asking for help isn’t a weakness any more than struggling alone isn’t a demonstration of strength. So we came up with a plan would acknowledge need and facilitate independence; numbered steps in a specific list that might guide you over the hurdles of your projects.
Last night you helped me compose a letter to your teachers so that we could honor your sense of independence and need for privacy while seeking a specific partnership for success. You let your teacher’s see the struggle behind the gaps in your work that they might understand your effort. More importantly you outlined a willingness to accept help.
I’m not saying the work will be easier or the struggle less frustrating. Recognizing need and asking for help are imperfect, ongoing practices. It’s a beginning.
Love, Mom
the hardest part
February 22, 2015 § 4 Comments
I think the longest minute is the one for which there is no control. Worries held captive by the frustration of helplessness. There is no peace for a mother whose child is in need, too far from the span of her reach to offer comfort.
When my husband called yesterday from a camping trip to caution a hurried return with our little girl, my mind danced between the details; an unkind imagination of worst fears. I measured the minutes and miles between us in what ifs without a face to gauge for clues. It is an impossible triage of care, calculating could be’s and hypothetical how to’s without a brow to sweep for temperatures or eyes to divulge discomfort.
Today will be a long day, one not unlike so many other unexceptional days lost under the weather. It is an expected experience as parents, we anticipate need and care as we tend to the wellbeing of children that will one day care for themselves and others in our absence. In last night’s fleeting fears I recognized something greater than the familiar worries of seasonal inconveniences, I was reminded of the inevitability that each exercise in helplessness seems an invaluable lesson in faith and hope that we can survive the impossibility of our hearts wandering outside the safety of our keep.
to my children
February 10, 2015 § Leave a comment
I wish you knew the fullness of the little moments when you are greater siblings for the friendship between you. Last night you tossed yourselves attentively into one another’s company; one needing guidance and the other basking in a sense of purpose. Asking for help and offering assistance, teaching and learning, you were navigating a language of appreciation.
To my son, Your little sister so often bulldozes you with a bossiness you mostly tolerate good-naturedly. She is quieter in her praise, quick in her frustration, but ever thoughtful in her admiration. Yesterday she leapt at the opportunity to study your favorite subject, eager to speak as your equal. Despite the ease of your mastery you were mindful in your manners, patient and respectful as you tempered your knowledge without undermining her ability. For a moment I imagined the father you may one day become in the brother you already are; kind and wise, patient and enthusiastic.
To my daughter, One of the greatest lessons we can offer as a family, is an ability to sound out our uncertainties and accept another’s help. Watching you delight in an opportunity to learn, framing your questions into an eagerness to grow, was a lovely demonstration of trust and respect, vulnerability and honesty. You might have struggled though your answers in a more solitary endeavor and gathered the same information independently, but inviting your brother to share a source of joy was a gift of appreciation that spoke of a gentler personal wisdom. There is no academic standard for character, it is a success measured by the health of our most valuable relationships.
To you both, There will come a time your lives will diverge as your choices lead you to new places and partnerships, may you always look to one another as sounding boards of wisdom and friendship.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
August 26, 2014 § 2 Comments
Yesterday was your first day of fifth grade. Unlike so many years when you lingered among peers and their parents exchanging hugs and smiling for photographs, this year you slipped quietly inside the building to collect a new responsibility. I wish I could have seen you slip into the bright orange belt that accompanies the happy task of becoming a patrol guard, I imagine it was punctuated with the same dimples that rewarded news of the privilege. Instead I left you to your task, honoring your need to take direction and lend assistance, despite a secret wish to spy from the perimeter of your experience.
On the walk home I noted the length of my single shadow across the sidewalk and registered the irony that the little girl who used to give me cause for chase along this path could now walk so confidently under the weight of authority. The little toe that would teeter just across the line of good behavior now informing others by example. It was a reminder of the beautiful complexities of your possibilities.
Last night, after unloading your day’s stories and trading your patrol belt for soccer cleats, you blazed a new trail. It has been years since you attempted soccer, your last endeavor was marked by flushed cheeks and sleepy limbs in the company of Kindergarten classmates. This time you raced towards a damp field between a sprinkling of raindrops accompanied by a close friend. The only two girls you moved confidently into the fray of boys, asserting yourself into their comradery. This time I stayed to watch.
There was one moment among all the others that I loved best. Towards the beginning, just after introductions and silliness, the coach demanded laps. While the other children, familiar with the routine moved forward, you looked first to the coach then back to your teammates. Registering the expectation and error you compensated by stretching your legs to catch up; chin turned toward the sky you began to steadily pass others until you settled into the middle of the pack and held your pace.
There were other moments, too. The look on your face when you realized you had forgotten your water bottle; the shaky length of your form as you fought tired arms to execute a determined push-up; your arm tossed casually around your friend’s shoulder in a stolen moment or the way you casually proclaimed a willingness to wear a number I knew to be your favorite. Colorful demonstrations of your personality that complimented exercises in character.
I wonder if I tell you enough that I envy your strengths. Not the tough exterior of false bravado, but the tenderness of your most genuine endeavors. Those exhausting moments of uncertainty when it is so much easier to look away, step aside, or hide behind excuses. I love the way your toes still stretch across the lines we don’t always acknowledge. I used to worry I might not be woman enough to model such character and so it is immensely humbling to watch you lead, ever modeling for me the woman I hope you grow to be.
Love, Mom
to my son
August 20, 2014 § 8 Comments
I like you. I wonder if I say that enough. Love isn’t something that I contrive to express; it is a fluid language that is ever-present. Liking you is a separate matter.
If you weren’t my son and we were choosing seats on this journey, I would want to sit next to you so that I could hear your thoughts and better watch your adventures. I would want to know the warmth of your friendship and the fierceness of your convictions.
I just like you. Period.
You move and speak at times like a cartoon whose ink has been blurred into curious action. This display of self sometimes garners unwanted attention but you are tirelessly comfortable outside the norm.
While some seek to impress others at the cost of unkindness, you are fearless in your forgiveness and loyal beyond reason. You harbor no grudges against friends or family and you accept those you love’s faults unconditionally.
Every day you question the world around you in search of answers to endless questions. You see broken logic with the same eyes that find beauty and look inward to weigh your experiences for self truth.
You leap into uncertainty with confidence, prepared to succeed and willing to fail; able to laugh and comfortable enough to cry. There is a brave, unapologetic honesty to your emotions that allows you to be fully present.
I so often look at you and wonder at my good fortune that you are mine to love and yet I exhaust more time reminding you to pick up laundry than I do acknowledging your character. I’m going to work on that, because I want you to know I don’t just love you, I genuinely like you.
Love, Mom
love lessons
August 15, 2014 § 2 Comments
The day began a product of disrupted sleep. Our daughter struggled to collapse into rest, my husband’s sleep interrupted, my own dreams traded between places of need as I attempted to comfort my daughter conscious of my husband and son’s peace.
It is an impossible balance, inevitably as one falls asleep another wakes in a restless pattern of exhaustion. By dawn nerves are frayed, emotions tender, and we begin from a place of insensitivity and intolerance; each exchange heavy with misunderstanding. Defensiveness and aggressiveness cling like sleep to the corners of our eyes tempting conflict and challenging kindness with a bitter perspective.
The gentle words and compassion each so needs misplaced in the morning routine. Tired emptiness filled with frustration, no one’s fault and everyone’s burden. It is a sleepless walk of the weary, a moment that can stitch us closer together or tear at invisible intimacies. We share the deficit with a wealth of responsibility or divide hurt feelings with blame.
One day this challenge will have passed, but our actions and words will have created assumptions of self and family. Who do we trust with our worst and who inspires our best? Where do we find comfort when peace escapes us and where do we hide our struggles?
Today I am thinking of the little girl who cannot sleep. She is the one most tender to other’s emotions and most eager to carry the burden of another’s troubles. In this one act of sacrifice, accepting the discomfort of evenings broken in wakefulness, we offer our daughter what we may some day ask for ourselves. This, above all the easy blessings of family, an act of love and a lesson on loving.
to my son
May 16, 2014 § 10 Comments
High school waits on the other side of summer, I feel this milestone with the tenderness of motherhood and the wisdom of hindsight. For as much as we caution the value of hard work and academics, these years will bring emotional experiences that teach more of self and selflessness, community and individuality.
Somewhere between classrooms and homework, extracurricular interests and family obligations you are going to fall in love and out of friendship; you will come to see others more clearly and your sense of self will be challenged. If I could lend you counsel in three simple parts, it would be this:
Look up at the world around you and navigate discomfort for an opportunity to engage. Make a new friend, try a new activity. The greatest regrets are formed from missed opportunities. Dare to look silly and feel overwhelmed.
Hold tightly to those relationships where you can laugh and cry with the same unfiltered abandon. Make room, too, for others to be unapologetically imperfect. Care for these relationships, they will ground you in humility and gratitude on days you feel lost.
Always trust the little voice that whispers caution. There will be moments when you tempt fate with difficult lessons, this voice will tether you to safety in the face of harm and create an opportunity to borrow strength. We are only a phone call away.
If you are still listening:
Remember we love you. These years are a comedy of awkward chaos, emotions tangling the simplest of intentions; for us, too. Your father and I will look silly and seem unfair, our advice will sound comical and useless through the filter of teenage angst. When you cannot hear our logic, look for signs of love in the boundaries that inform your independence. I will try to see your ability through your errors and give you room enough to stumble. Love you.
Mom
to my son
April 30, 2014 § 2 Comments
While your sister twirled toward an evening with dad, last Friday we ventured out for air scavenging the lingering hours of the spring day for food and conversation. These companionable moments, just the two of us, are a happy indulgence.
On this occasion I centered my attention in celebration of a recent increase in your independence. I pelted you with compliments and, to my surprise, you became quiet. As I pushed forward, into the silence, with saccharin expressions of thankful exuberance you retreated further. Chasing your silence with the noise of my joy I tried to retract you from your corner until your words stilled me.
You explained that the more I spoke of your success, the more you felt suffocated by the uncertain momentum of your accomplishments. Initially I baulked at the suggestion that my praise might undermine your progress. It was only when I set aside the filter of my hopes as your mother that I could more clearly see the honesty in your teenage confession. In your vulnerable forthrightness, you translated a subtext of judgement that belied my contentment.
Rather than celebrating your accomplishment you wanted to stand simply in a place of self-awareness. Under your breath, almost to yourself, you confessed it felt good to be productive. This was my favorite moment, the casually measured acquiescence of your accomplishment. The greater joy is not the pride of others, but pride in self untethered to other’s expectations.
Love, Mom
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