bookends
February 5, 2013 § 6 Comments
Last Friday I was happily distracted by the sight of my daughter’s head bent in concentration over colorful, misshapen stacks of picture, chapter, and reference books as she sought to catalogue her most cherished books into order that she might better find an old friend to accompany her in quieter moments. Watching her progress my heart and mind were weighted with sentiment for the memory of introducing my children to the beloved collection of stories scattered across our floor.
Set off to the side, alone, Guess How Much I Love You was curiously tucked behind a pillow. My daughter hesitated to lend a place of permanence for our old friend uncertain if the sweeping ink strokes marred the destiny of the book, its future seemed as precarious as its past was familiar.
On an end table, The Secret Garden rested atop a collection of Shel Silverstein’s poems; an old friend lending companionship to a new adventure. One a keepsake from my husband’s youth, the other a gift from an old friend.
Reference books peeked from the piles acknowledging both children’s individual interests; science, animals, history, and encyclopedias contrasting sharply against fiction. My husband’s childhood Garfield books worn and yellowed were shuffled between newer, glossier editions. Calvin and Hobbes kept one another company while Spy vs. Spy plotted quietly between closed pages. Chapter books clustered by characters rested alongside Dr. Seuss and unused books hinted at anticipated adventures shelved among old favorites, each waiting for their turn.
Nostalgia for titles was replaced by an unraveling of order as my daughter attempted to make sense of out the eclectic collection of books. Her initial intention to gather titles into alphabetical order was compromised by the availability of space. Her momentum clouded with frustration left stacks of books littered across our floor, couch, and end tables overnight.
My daughter’s exercise in order created a beautiful metaphor for the importance of certain cornerstones missing in my days. Like one of my daughter’s books I have felt misshelved; practical pieces of my day have been displaced by available pockets of time and activities that center my spirit and organize my home have been absent creating a sense of chaos. So, I begin again at the colorful stacks of books scattered in the corners of our home. Applying my daughter’s logic I am flushing out the pieces of self that get shuffled between busier moments, stretching them out to better see what is amiss and centering myself between the colorful characters, bookends, that weigh my days in joy.
perspective & planning
February 4, 2013 § 8 Comments
In a little over a week my husband and I will gather among teachers, therapists, administrators, and support staff for our son’s annual IEP (Individualized Education Program) meeting to discuss his experiences this school year and create a new plan for the coming year. Each meeting over the past seven years has created new opportunities for our family to challenge ourselves to honor our son’s ever-changing needs, this year we are adding a new chair to our table of experts, requesting our son sit in on the process.
From the beginning I have honored our son’s unique perspective by bringing written representations of his experiences, created in his own hand, to these meetings. Drawings, lists, and letters have filled gaps in comprehension between observations. Conscious that each year our son grows more independent and that he will, one day, need to advocate as an adult for his education and eventually his career I have determined this step is essential to his journey. This decision comes one year after a difficult experience.
Last year we struggled as a team; teachers were without resources, the school was without strategy, and our son was lost to challenges that created an expectation of failure. My husband and I endeavored to create relationships with otherwise unfamiliar teachers and support staff without the reassurance of trust. No longer nestled in the familiar rhythm of our elementary school experiences we were overwhelmed. Every member of our son’s team reached for a lifeline that had to first be constructed with procedures that consumed time we didn’t have with mandatory requests, documentation, and extensive testing. Meanwhile our son showed up each day consciously drowning socially and academically in his educational experience. At the end of the struggle there was success, but the cost of lost time could not be regained.
This year I partnered more intentionally with teachers outside the neatly outlined expectations of formal documents, creating personal experiences that built confidence. We met with teachers before the school year began, exchanging introductions that allowed for questions and expectations while creating a relationship that lent itself to mutual trust; establishing an easy, fluid dialogue with teachers.
At all times our son carries with him the memory of failed experiences alongside success intimately, with a presence each of us as members of his team are second-hand witnesses to. Rather than plan around our son, I think it is time to invite him into the process.
Knowing our son is presently emotionally, intellectually, and verbally capable of expressing himself, but not yet mature enough to be in control of decisions concerning his supports I believe we are at a point where experiencing the formalities of the meeting will prepare him to engage in future meetings more confidently. This year he will make a verbal statement to personalize his experience and bring materials to take notes and record questions or concerns for a family conference after the formal meeting.
While we have always explained thoroughly each of our son’s supports, this year those decisions will be shared from the perspective of each individual team member rather than translated by us, after the fact, to the person central to our every discussion. I am eager and curious as we near the day, to see how this experience will inform our son’s understanding of his academic resources and for him to recognize the time and care invested by each individual that becomes a piece of a collective initiative.
It is a new step on a long journey and I am grateful for this opportunity to invite our son to walk beside us in preparation to move ahead more confidently into his future.
ramblings
February 3, 2013 § 4 Comments
The first keystrokes today are a blind search, easing into the undercurrents of my thoughts. Sifting through pieces of our family’s days, beneath the distractions, gathering the details of our story into a place of remembrance. This past week my fingers and thoughts have felt clunky and awkward, directionless. My mind and heart have been weighted by worries for those I love most.
We are standing in a place of transition and the growing pains that accompany discovery have made me more sensitive to our collective vulnerability. My husband’s brow is creased with worries and his eyes bright with hope for career changes that hint at a promise of greater possibility. My daughter is on the edge of academic accomplishment, her efforts often mismeasured by irrelevant gauges. My son is slowly assuming greater responsibility in advocating for his needs academically and socially; reaching out into the uncomfortable intersection of awareness and need uncertain how his requests for assistance will be met by those individuals, friends and teachers, who are central to his success at school.
Even as I try to neatly summarize this moment, grasping tightly to the possibility nestled within uncertainty, I am aware these new experiences carry the emotional charge of daily disappointments stacked against the light at the end of the tunnel. I see my husband moving through joyless workday routines to provide for us, our evenings as a family a small reprieve from the disappointment of his days. My daughter struggling to master reading and math skills discouraged by the ease with which her peers seem to exercise knowledge she demonstrates more slowly, swallowing her own disappointment beside those who flaunt the ease of the task at hand. My son seeking friendship and trying to please others by following social rules that are often contradictory in their logic; too often tangled in another’s joke, hurt and yet determined to remain a part of his peers’ play.
In the weeks ahead my husband will learn if a new career opportunity will provide greater stability and inspiration, while he goes through the motions of life as is. Our daughter will make slow steps towards progress, her potential greater than her classroom demonstrations, frustration accompanying her dedication. Our son will sit beside teachers and support staff helping to outline the education plan that will inform other’s of his daily needs, speaking for himself while other’s speak of him.
Individually, and together, we must believe in our capacities to create our own destinies while navigating the challenges that exaggerate our fear. As a wife and mother I will be in the background lending encouragement and love while holding my breath, my heart and nerves stretched to encompass the fears and anticipation that accompany uncertainty. In quieter moments I will tap away at my computer keys to mark our path, capturing fragmented moments alone with my thoughts.
snow day
February 2, 2013 § 2 Comments
This morning the snow is falling gently, soundlessly, into elegant curves hiding the dark lines of earth below. The trees proudly hold their arms high, nestling the new fallen snow into their boughs. The world is beautiful and unmarred, hope and possibility framed on a blank canvas in want of children’s imaginations. My heart feels just a little lighter anticipating the delight this discovery will inspire when my children wake to play.
main characters & supporting roles
January 29, 2013 § 5 Comments
My daughter has been home, under the weather, our normal school day routines replaced with restful inactivity. Yesterday the hours passed quietly as she slept through most of the day. Today her eyes alert and body sleepy I picked up a book title we had recently begun eager to fill the hours of the day and curious to follow our story to its end.
We met our main character, the story’s narrator and a big sister to a little brother with Autism, in the quiet darkness of bedtime. That first evening my daughter’s face registered surprise and comprehension.
Mom, her brother is like mine.
Her words were not accusatory but rather a statement of self. Through the wall of her room came my son’s voice volleying an equally firm statement:
He is nothing like me.
Main characters in their own shared story I was determined to meet my children in the middle, supporting each of them with a neutral acknowledgment that similarities allow for differences. Both children accepted this fortune cookie truth with a sense of validation.
The second night that we read from the book, my son was quiet. There were no arguments or defensive proclamations of self to distinguish himself from the young man in our story. I wondered at his silence, but resisted an urge to draw out his thoughts and emotions. Instead I let the story unfold between the wall that divided my children hoping that each child might hear one another’s voice in a shared story.
Today I allowed the quiet of our empty home to give my daughter room to speak between the lines of the main character’s story. In recent years the weight of looking after her big brother has created an awareness of imbalance between my children. On the most difficult days her needs are sometimes misplaced in the chaos of her brother’s behavior. Curled away in her art she waits for us to complete a teaching moment with her brother, a lesson that all too often she, his junior, has mastered.
This story seemed to create an exaggerated sense of normalcy for experiences that sometimes leave our daughter sensitive to the differences between her story and her friends’ experiences. Despite an unconditional love that binds each of us as family, there exists an unspoken subtext of secret wishes for simpler moments uncomplicated by needs outside our control. Even in the silence I could hear my daughter’s wish that her brother might out grow pieces of himself.
Today, without her brother listening in the dark from the other side of her bedroom wall, it was safe for my daughter to share words like embarrassed and angry without letting go of the word love. For just a moment, art imitated life, and we acknowledging our own stories as main characters with supporting roles.
the weight of silence
January 24, 2013 § 2 Comments
For the last two evenings I have been reading a book with my daughter whose characters have gifted us insight into the weight of silence. A young man born without the gift of speech created a dialogue of silence that has settled into a thoughtful distraction.
I often think of silence as a living organism that fills space and noise with value. Without the delicate balance of silence, sound would be hollow.
Today my mind was preoccupied by the thoughts we shape into words, crafted with intent, and the words we steal away for ourselves into silence. Words of comfort we do not share, apologies we hide beneath defensiveness, honesty cloaked in polite clichés. Of course there are also those words whose harm is more damaging than silence.
Recently another’s words and silence have allowed me a glimpse of truth reflected in the space between us. I think of the words I wish I could take back and those I wish I could have shaped into sound beside the words they’ve chosen, all the while realizing the lessons I have gained in self and friendship.
It is a small moment. Nothing novel or noisy in its truth, but a timely reminder and a moment of clarity at a well placed intersection in my life.
all of me
January 23, 2013 § 2 Comments
Divided by the threshold of another’s home I listened with rapt humor and mild mortification on Sunday as my daughter spilled pieces of our private selves dramatically and unapologetically to her friend’s mother. So often I try to tidy myself for the world, presenting my best self, conscious of my shortcomings. My daughter gathers her charm and challenges into each conversation offering everything at once.
The reality that I should be empowered with the responsibility of raising impressionable minds to become a confident individuals seemed a task of impossible portions. Truth is my children were born with a fierce strength that inspires me to grow into myself, repairing tiny tears in my own spirit.
In much the same way I once daydreamed about my children before holding them in my arms, I have gathered visions of the woman I wish for myself and my family into my heart and mind, inviting her to be present each day.
Wanting to be strong but recognizing my weaknesses, I measure potential between fears and insecurities. I name the harms I once held so close my balance was compromised by their weight; giving form to the shadows of old ghosts, shinning a light into corners to cast out fears that grow in the dark.
I use what I am not to create who I could be; inventorying weaknesses to shape them into strengths. Old experiences informing new experiences. It seems impossible that such strength could exist among weakness, but I am a contradiction of dreams and fears.
Standing witness to my daughter’s passionate declarations of self to her friend’s mother I realized I still leave parts of myself tucked safely away. This is one of my greatest gifts as a mother, my children are mirrors of honesty that reflect all of me without apology. It is up to me to recognize each piece of myself and strive each day to reflect the woman I want to be.
new day
January 22, 2013 § 4 Comments
The day began with sleepy steps and hope. My son woke slowly, his long limbs curled beneath his comforter as if he were hiding from responsibilities, silently petitioning his dreams for more time. My daughter woke achingly tired after a night spent wrestling the discomfort of a cold; her floor littered with tissue snowballs. My husband woke eager for a new experience, his nerves and hopes as crisp and tangible as his carefully orchestrated attire.
Today each member of my family woke needing a particular measure of space. My children needed space alone, one to wake and the other to fall back to sleep. My husband needed space to prepare for a step he has been anticipating anxiously for some time. I moved among each loved one gauging needs and guiding them into the day. One to school, one to bed, the other toward opportunity.
As the house settles into quiet I will wait for my family’s path to wind back toward home where goodbyes and hellos intersect and our hopes and dreams collect in the space between us.
accidental friendships
January 20, 2013 § 6 Comments
My experiences as a mother are a collection of accidental friendships, unique individuals who lend compassion and acceptance; knowledge and inspiration. Perched quietly on a park bench, between grocery store aisles, poolside on summer afternoons, and in obscure unpredictable everyday locations these women have become companions who walk beside me through my most difficult days with a silent strength and warmth that fortifies my spirit.
Just as I do not use my children’s names in this space as a gesture of respect for their privacy, I also endeavor to tell their stories without labels. Both of my children have special needs that complicate their days while simultaneously providing endless opportunities for me to experience their world with the blessing of unique perspectives.
Before these small wonders made me a mother, I existed in the margins of my own life; lost to uncertainty and individual interests. I curled myself into invisible corners without daring to move into the forefront. Then with an all-consuming love that only motherhood could provide, I slowly learned to step into the noisy chaos of the world. This adventure into vulnerability and need has unlocked the well guarded spaces of my heart and invited accidental friends into my life.
Recently a new acquaintance, a reflection of myself during the earliest days of diagnoses and doubt, has gifted me knowing and insight in unplanned conversations. We lose track of time revisiting the past and unraveling shared hopes and fears that accompany our journey as mothers; the hesitation to relax into peacefulness for fear we will tempt fate to disrupt harmony, self-doubt and uncertainty over contradictory treatments, even practical pieces of our days often foreign to family members are common between us.
When a conversation is interrupted by muffled ringtones each of us reaches blindly with well-practiced efficiency to check our phones, the early signs of worry hiding in the corners of our smiles. There are those who know my experiences as therapists and those who are witness to my story through friendship, but this woman whose smile hides so many of the same fears is a beautiful accident of fate.
quiet strength
January 19, 2013 § 4 Comments
Two women I respect for their generous acts of kindness and emotional investment in their children have lost their way as friends. Each woman bears hurt feelings and I navigate the space between them cautiously, wanting to keep their easy council as our children’s school years stretch across our futures.
Without either party asking me to abandon a relationship with the other, they have made hurtful statements against one another that has hallowed out the pieces of our friendship that used to bring me joy. These women are not those I call first to celebrate an accomplishment or for strength in the face of difficulty, still they are familiar to my days creating comfort with predictable patterns.
This falling apart has created lingering discomfort that I first attributed to exaggerated silence during the noise of school day dismissals. It took me a while to realize it was my own choice of words and silence that has left me uncomfortable.
I am disappointed in myself for not standing more confidently in my own beliefs. In my efforts to reflect understanding I have created hollow conversations that hint at validation. Rather than speak simply I have danced around a difficult subject underplaying my own opinion and alternately projecting my frustration with passive aggressive posturing that makes me look silly and feel contradictory.
I ask my children to do what I failed to model. I did not say what I meant and I have allowed others to make assumptions without daring to speak up.
I want to be someone who walks among challenges with grace and humility creating space between conflict for compassion and communication. I want to model strength and integrity by holding true to a sense of self while accepting others for their differences. I want to move mountains with a whisper.
scribblechic 