darcy & jo
August 20, 2011 § 1 Comment
My childhood was filled with books; the pages of well-loved stories scattered across summers and tucked inside stolen moments. In trying to lend my children aliases in this space, I am borrowing names of childhood friends among the pages of my past.
From an early age my son has walked confidently on a path of his own choosing. He is eloquent, gifted in the art of language beyond his years, and sentimental with Victorian mannerisms. His dimpled smile, innocent of its charm, lends humor to his otherwise serious disposition. I watch my Mr. Darcy with Pride, but then as his mother I am entirely Prejudice.
My daughter Jo is a leader of Little Women. Having an older brother she is eager to be his equal, unrestrained by lady-like expectations. Her heart is as large as her dreams, and she guards them both behind spirited bravado. Mindful of our expectations as her parents, she endeavors to perform expected tasks committed by a sense of responsibility born of love. Headstrong and devoted she is passionately loyal.
Similarities aside, my children’s personalities extend beyond the margins of my childhood companions; they are complicated characters, my Darcy and Jo.
a sandwich
August 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
When my son was 4 I took him to a Kindergarten screening. I sat in a quiet classroom sprinkled with brightly colored toys, rugs, and materials with a handful of other parents waiting in a place of paused uncertainty. It was another new experience in motherhood. A task expected, but unanticipated for its foreignness.
My son toddled off enthusiastically with the teacher that collected him for his evaluation; unaware of expectations and happy for the company of a new friend. I could hear the sound of his voice trailing down the hallway as he unfolded his thoughts preparing to settle into the day, familiarizing the new with the known.
Soon after, another woman appeared calling my name and directing me to a table; I perched hugely pregnant on a tiny, plastic elementary chair. A folder with my son’s name materialized filled with forms and blank with questions. I studied the questionnaire endeavoring to date my son’s developmental milestones while enumerating on questions of ability. One question seemed misplaced.
Can your child make himself/herself a sandwich?
I didn’t know. More importantly, in my mind, why would he? Stripped of all pretense, I directed my confusion to the teacher/therapist. Why wouldn’t I care for him? That’s my job. Years later, the sandwich became symbolic.
My daughter, on a nondescript day, without expectation or direction made herself a sandwich. My mind raced backwards to the old question and suddenly I understood.
My daughter knew she was hungry. She had observed the process of making a sandwich and could identify what steps she needed to take to complete the simple task.
It was a trick question. The sandwich was never a gesture of love or nurturing. It represented my son’s ability to process information and coordinate his actions. I had been so quick to defend my love for my son, to shelter him from expectations, that it never occurred to me to set the table for success.
I am learning. As my daughter races towards independence, I struggle to step back and provide room for each child to make mistakes, try new things, and care for themselves and others. I am learning that sometimes we nurture with inacation and other times action is something unseen.
romance and children
July 11, 2011 § Leave a comment
Gone are the days of lazy preparations for anticipated, romantic evenings out. Date nights are subject to chaotic preparations. Read: clean up the house so the sitter doesn’t think we are slobs and attempt to locate an outfit. The latter is usually the undoing of my last tie to sanity; feeling ridiculous wobbling in heels and an uncomfortable outfit that suddenly feels a bit like a costume.
Evenings in are no more romantic. The soundtrack to alone time a persistent knocking accompanied by questions and thoughts filtered through our bedroom door in an effort to prolong bedtime. This is, of course, assuming I am not asleep beside our daughter after snuggling her to sleep. It feels as if we are hiding from tiny hostages.
So how do you create an everyday space or time as a couple to recapture moments from the beginning of your love story?
sugar and spice
July 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
It began with a tiny tool belt strung at a sassy angle across her hips. My daughter, face determined, shook her head with frustrated disappointment. No tools. The problem seemed obvious, but my curiosity was endless. I watch my children perpetually lost to their stories. Each new interest is an unexpected introduction to another piece of their personality and I am smitten with their spirit of adventure. As my daughter stood dressed in preparation for a new chapter, I remembered an earlier day.
I secretly wished for a daughter when her life was still a newly formed possibility. My son was an all-encompassing source of joy and I couldn’t imagine another boy. I began imagining a daughter. I daydreamed about a little girl who would scale climbing trees in a princess dress, play in the dirt as easily as host tea parties for teddy bears, and in time I was blessed with a dream come true.
Her character is a complexity of contradictions. Strong in spirit and fragile in moments of uncertainty; kind in moments of compassion and fierce when overwhelmed by frustration. Her room and clothes are the trappings of a little girl, but she plays alongside her big brother. It seems fitting that she would fill her brother’s cast aside tool belt with pink handled tools. Her first project a table and chairs of her own design, doll height and coated in purple paint.
coded
May 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
My son has his own soundtrack, a stream of sounds and commentary that accompany him as he moves through the world. Sitting beside him in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, he began making sound effects to accompany the portable game that held his attention tightly. I tuned out his familiar sounds and began reading a book. As we waited, distracted and absorbed in our own activities, a new sound joined the space. A young girl making a mechanical click deep in her throat settled into a seat nearby.
Next to me, my son was drawn out of his game curiously enamoured by the stranger’s sounds. His eyebrows drawn together and his brown eyes focused, he watched the girl before asking me simply, Why? The girl’s mother, kind and patient, explained her daughter was trying to communicate in a language of her own. I let the woman’s words guide my son, waiting for his response.
He watched the girl in silence, listening closely. Then, his eyes registered excitement. Moving so that he stood between the girl and her mother, my son sought a conversation in Morse Code. I would love to say they chatted, perhaps they did. Later, we parted ways, my son said good-bye and the girl offered her response. I held the moment close and gave thanks for the kindness of children and the simple language of friendship.
censored
May 18, 2011 § 1 Comment
My daughter has an unfortunate, entirely innocent habit of pointing with her middle finger. School-aged and social, it occurred to me I may need to inform the space between my daughter’s unconscious act and outside interpretation. Casually, I suggested she choose another finger for pointing explaining simply that her middle finger alone implies a bad word. Her surprise evident in big, blue eyes wide with wonder she asked in tones of awe, What word?
Aware of her raw curiosity and cautious not to fan the flame, I didn’t name the gesture. Instead, I said it was a word so unkind that even adults shouldn’t say it. She promptly buried her fingers in each ear and with a certainty that bespoke the reassurance of a safety net covering the fragile ground on which we stood she directed me offering, Say the bad word so that I won’t hear it.
I was momentarily befuddled by her logic, curiosity contrasting innocence in tones of authority wrapped in caution. I was called back to my daughter’s wonderment with a new question. Does Daddy know the word?
Without waiting for my response, she flew up the stairs. Breathless and eager she faced her father gesturing pointedly with her forbidden finger and asked, Do you know what this means?*
*We are still working on the answer.
normal needs
April 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
When my son was seven, he gifted me a moment of insight that guides me as his mother. With wisdom and self-awareness beyond his years, he said to me: I know that I’m different and I like who I am, but I don’t like it when other people make me feel different. This moment wakes with me each day.
His sharing came during a difficult time. A year into a diagnosis that had begun to help my husband and I better understand our son’s various behaviors and needs, we were finding our footing while our son was struggling to find his. Social challenges made school days difficult, our son navigated the expectations of his teachers as mindfully as he absorbed the weight of unkind jests by his peers. Our son was looking for belonging and acceptance without conformity.
In moments of adversity I frequently return to a personal truth, special needs are extraordinarily normal. Virtues like patience, kindness, and tolerance should not be reserved for special conditions or occasions, they should be the standard by which we live every day. From this place we are all equal and anything is possible, our differences as normal as our needs.
tenants
April 22, 2011 § 1 Comment
On the eve of a quiet day, we forgo our bedtime routines and lease our family room to tiny tenants to the tune of gleeful exclamations. Each child nestled in a makeshift bed, they camp out by the light of a late night movie, armed with an assortment of snacks and extra time. The evening blurs into morning; tides of giggles wash up the stairs as they feign sleep with muffled chatter. For the moment my children are friends.
bedtime
April 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
Somewhere between the colorful illustrations of a picture book and the independent efforts of chapter books, lies a special time when shared pages of longer stories sweep parent and child in to the enchanting space of a story. Curled next to my daughter, reading a gifted author, I endearingly note she watches my lips move, eyes wide as the pictureless story weaves from words to voice, becoming. In the quiet moments before bedtime we share the magic of a book.
There will come a time when she will navigate these voyages between chapters on her own. I wonder if she will tuck her book under her pillow dreaming of the characters she has come to know or if she will stow away beneath her bedding gathering the story close by the glow of a flashlight. For now, she happily listens to the stories I select. It will be curious to see the titles she will find for herself.
Like her big brother before her, she has made space in her days and her heart for possibility between the pages of a book.
scribblechic 