Today I scraped up the gelatinous remains of 13 Swedish fish from the table, floor, and leather armchair.
Today I picked up 37 Pull-ups that the baby tossed from the closet upstairs over the landing and into the entryway.
Today I went hunting in the neighborhood for my son who went missing. I found him in a neighbor's backyard and coaxed him home to eat dinner.
I took two of my boys to a swimming lesson for children with special needs, part of a week-long series of lessons organized by the son of a friend for his Eagle Scout project.
I drove the guys to Target where a certain child got to choose a prize for doing a deuce in the toilet (awwww yeeeeeeah), because this was a big deal and the reward needed to be memorable.
I broke up several loud skirmishes between my children. In these waning summer days, our house is more and more Lord of the Flies-ish.
Every time I sat down today, a big, jolly, sensory-seeking son sat on my lap and asked for "tickles." He is 85 pounds of elbows, knees, and boney bum. A real meat-tenderizer.
Today I spent way too much time online, because it's easy to do on a smartphone and because sometimes the brain starts to wither from too many sticky Swedish fish and shrieking people.
I cleaned up a Code Brown from a different son who didn't get the memo about potty = Target prizes.
I opened an envelope this afternoon containing a packet of forms to fill out for Jack's school, which commences less than two weeks from today.
I considered how each August I find hope in the signs of school resuming and our lives turning less heathen. I also pondered how we must always first descend into a canyon of misery that is the end of summer.
Today I spoke to my mother on the phone, who asked me how things were going today with the guys. When I sneered "fine," she knew better.
I looked up all the upcoming movies to see what there is to look forward to, and the answer is: nothing. At least until November, when a bunch a good stuff rolls out. One bright spot later this month---Austenland, based on a funny book by Shannon Hale.
I mopped up 8 puddles created by the littlest boy, who thinks he should drink from a big-person cup like everybody else. One-year-olds have such sass.
I cracked open the box of road trip car kits which we assembled for the boys prior to our family vacation in June, and which we promptly left behind in the garage. Jack was mighty pleased with his crinkly packages and crappy dollar-store toys.
Today happened, and then it ended, which is sometimes the nicest part of a day.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Fillerup
This summer, we have become regulars at the gas station near our house. The Chevron is to us what Cheers was to Norm and Clif. We go there like clockwork in the late morning where we follow a routine which includes a) peanut butter cups, b) bubble gum, c) 32 ounces of happy bubbly (mine, keep away).
This daily sugar and sugar substitute run serves several purposes, including rewarding one behavior-challenged kid for listening and obeying, giving mom her raison d'être, and giving another bored son an outing to look forward to.
My Summer of Suffering has compelled me to find the little things which bring me happiness and rejoice in them. I heart the Chevron.
I noticed this week that they now have all the fixings for a dirty Diet Coke, or dirty Dr. Pepper. This is reason enough to stop, even without the guys in tow. But stop with the guys we always do. We're gas station people. We can't help ourselves.
When I was young, my family got one thing at the gas station, and it went in the gas tank. There was no snacking, people! After I married Jeff, he always stopped for snacks on fishing trips with my dad, where he learned that while my dad scorns stopping for junk food, he will happily take over and polish off someone else's bag of corn nuts or salt and vinegar chips. Easy enough for a savvy son-in-law to handle: he simply bought extra snacks so there was always plenty to go around.
But our family's most memorable gas station trip took place about twelve years ago at a bustling Flying J in a rural town. Jeff stood in line with his purchases when a guy came charging in the convenience store and loudly said, "Um, is there supposed to be a horse galloping around the gas pumps? Because there is. It's running all over the parking lot and it almost jumped on top of my girlfriend's Camaro."
At this point, everyone in the joint swiveled and looked out the window, where indeed! a horse was totally galloping around, inadvertently threatening to stomp on some woman's bad-boy car.
Jeff left that day with a big drink and an irrepressible urge to see a horse leap a Camaro. He also won for Best Gas Station Story, hands down.
We also heart random.
Oxygen Masks
I started a new book last night. While I'm only a few pages in, it holds promise. I'm already attached. Its about a 1970's rock star who travels through time to fin de sicle Vienna, because what 1970's rock star doesn't dream of doing this?
It's a thrill to find a delicious book, particularly when my reading time (which is to say, my sanity) is severely squashed by the demands of summer "vacation."
The last weeks of summer are traditionally the most ragged time of the whole year for my family. It's an annual endurance test, perhaps not unlike a Ragnar race, but one that I do not recall signing up for. Sadly, mine is an event that does not yield a race shirt or even a Ragnar-type sticker for the back window of my car.
I would rather fancy a Ragnar-type sticker for the back of my car, come to think of it. It would definitely hold street cred with parents in similar situations. Maybe something along the lines of "Summer inferno: 2 special-needs kids, 2 typicals, and 1 mom on the edge."
Other parents of kids like mine could see it on my car and instantly get it. There would be an immediate kinship, an understanding of the endless days, the exhaustion, the regression in behavior, the ocean of poop. We could pull up next to each other at traffic lights and nod solemnly to each other, our silent gaze an acknowledgement that "I feel your pain" and also "wow, the last days of summertime really suck" and maybe even "my kid is screaming and shredding wrappers and tossing them all around my car too; and he also just wet his pants."
So anyhoo, this is why it is really terrific to find an engaging book and a few minutes to read before bed. It's a literary hit for my addiction.
The older and more harried I get, the pickier I am about what types of books I will read. I'm a book snob, not in the sense that I will only go for Pulitzer winners and the classics, but snobbish in that I only read what I wanna read. Deal with it. This condition may be common among English major types; it could be a reaction to spending years being made to read all sorts of stuff. Now we choose. And we are opinionated about it, so very very much.
These are my current criteria for books:
1. A brisk pace that clips nicely along.
2. Some humor, somewhere, even if its not overt. Just a hint of funny will do.
3. A story which sucks me in and pulls me through with the force of Jack's shop vac.
Fit these conditions, and I will be your reading audience. Happily. Because reading is like breathing: I must do it to live. And as the airlines caution us, if you don't put the oxygen mask on yourself first, you won't be able to then pin down your anxiety-ridden screaming five year old to force the mask on him, or something like that.
It's a thrill to find a delicious book, particularly when my reading time (which is to say, my sanity) is severely squashed by the demands of summer "vacation."
The last weeks of summer are traditionally the most ragged time of the whole year for my family. It's an annual endurance test, perhaps not unlike a Ragnar race, but one that I do not recall signing up for. Sadly, mine is an event that does not yield a race shirt or even a Ragnar-type sticker for the back window of my car.
I would rather fancy a Ragnar-type sticker for the back of my car, come to think of it. It would definitely hold street cred with parents in similar situations. Maybe something along the lines of "Summer inferno: 2 special-needs kids, 2 typicals, and 1 mom on the edge."
Other parents of kids like mine could see it on my car and instantly get it. There would be an immediate kinship, an understanding of the endless days, the exhaustion, the regression in behavior, the ocean of poop. We could pull up next to each other at traffic lights and nod solemnly to each other, our silent gaze an acknowledgement that "I feel your pain" and also "wow, the last days of summertime really suck" and maybe even "my kid is screaming and shredding wrappers and tossing them all around my car too; and he also just wet his pants."
So anyhoo, this is why it is really terrific to find an engaging book and a few minutes to read before bed. It's a literary hit for my addiction.
The older and more harried I get, the pickier I am about what types of books I will read. I'm a book snob, not in the sense that I will only go for Pulitzer winners and the classics, but snobbish in that I only read what I wanna read. Deal with it. This condition may be common among English major types; it could be a reaction to spending years being made to read all sorts of stuff. Now we choose. And we are opinionated about it, so very very much.
These are my current criteria for books:
1. A brisk pace that clips nicely along.
2. Some humor, somewhere, even if its not overt. Just a hint of funny will do.
3. A story which sucks me in and pulls me through with the force of Jack's shop vac.
Fit these conditions, and I will be your reading audience. Happily. Because reading is like breathing: I must do it to live. And as the airlines caution us, if you don't put the oxygen mask on yourself first, you won't be able to then pin down your anxiety-ridden screaming five year old to force the mask on him, or something like that.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Dreamboat
Last week I dreamed I cut my hair. I looked in the mirror, and tah dah!, I had a sassy little shag cut with lots of layers and straight bangs. My dream self thought, "Well lookee here!" And I was inspired.
My dream about hairdos planted a seed of change in my mind; the ennui of late summer grabbed onto this tiny verdant shoot and apparently decided to go with it.
I went to the salon this week and got my hair chopped into layers, because everyone with fine hair knows that layers are our best friends. I fulfilled the dream, minus the straight bangs, because everyone who has ever had straight bangs knows they are totally annoying to maintain (even if they are super hip, ala Zooey Deschanel).
I like that my dream self inspired my ambulatory self. Generally my dreams tend not to be quite this fantastic.
I have had a recurring dream for years where I am on vacation with my extended family in some fun, touristy place. The location changes, but the central theme of the dream is always this: I am separated from the group, helping Jack. No matter how hard I try, Jack and I cannot catch up to everyone else. Once we were in a coastal town and they were all leaving on a boat---I rushed with Jack to meet them, but the boat had left the dock when we arrived. Another time it was Disneyland: the whole clan jumped on the Monorail, but Jack was falling apart and he and I were left making a scene in Tomorrowland.
There are a bunch of variations on this concept, but they all involve me trying super hard to compel my kid to cooperate so we can join in. They also involve me failing.
You may commence analyzing the subtext of my dreams now. Aaaaaaaaand, go.
Here is the obvious deconstruction: I am frustrated in my attempts to make a couple of my boys interact with the world, or at least "keep up" with the people around them.
I did have a lovely dream earlier this summer, though. It was the anti-stress dream. Truthfully, when I woke from it, a rosy glow enveloped me and lingered all through the morning.
In the dream, I was at an event in my neighborhood, sitting next to a neighbor who I really respect. She leaned over and whispered to me, "You don't need to worry about what other people think about the struggles you have raising your children. You are doing a good job."
My neighbor said it, but maybe the words were the voice of my subconscious. Or maybe it was God, nudging me forward and onward.
Either way, it was dreamy.
My dream about hairdos planted a seed of change in my mind; the ennui of late summer grabbed onto this tiny verdant shoot and apparently decided to go with it.
I went to the salon this week and got my hair chopped into layers, because everyone with fine hair knows that layers are our best friends. I fulfilled the dream, minus the straight bangs, because everyone who has ever had straight bangs knows they are totally annoying to maintain (even if they are super hip, ala Zooey Deschanel).
I like that my dream self inspired my ambulatory self. Generally my dreams tend not to be quite this fantastic.
I have had a recurring dream for years where I am on vacation with my extended family in some fun, touristy place. The location changes, but the central theme of the dream is always this: I am separated from the group, helping Jack. No matter how hard I try, Jack and I cannot catch up to everyone else. Once we were in a coastal town and they were all leaving on a boat---I rushed with Jack to meet them, but the boat had left the dock when we arrived. Another time it was Disneyland: the whole clan jumped on the Monorail, but Jack was falling apart and he and I were left making a scene in Tomorrowland.
There are a bunch of variations on this concept, but they all involve me trying super hard to compel my kid to cooperate so we can join in. They also involve me failing.
You may commence analyzing the subtext of my dreams now. Aaaaaaaaand, go.
Here is the obvious deconstruction: I am frustrated in my attempts to make a couple of my boys interact with the world, or at least "keep up" with the people around them.
I did have a lovely dream earlier this summer, though. It was the anti-stress dream. Truthfully, when I woke from it, a rosy glow enveloped me and lingered all through the morning.
In the dream, I was at an event in my neighborhood, sitting next to a neighbor who I really respect. She leaned over and whispered to me, "You don't need to worry about what other people think about the struggles you have raising your children. You are doing a good job."
My neighbor said it, but maybe the words were the voice of my subconscious. Or maybe it was God, nudging me forward and onward.
Either way, it was dreamy.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Boy Town
I just read an article which says that men with sisters and daughters are more charitable in all areas of their lives, and that men with no sisters or daughters are stingier and more self-centered. We can add this to the growing stack of studies which the media likes to print, all explaining that people who do not have daughters are disadvantaged in every way.
One article I read a few months back explained that women with only sons die earlier than women with daughters. Glad to know my sons are killing me slowly. Thanks soooo much for confirming this.
Another article on the challenges faced by an aging population claimed that the only sure way to know you will be cared for in your old age, is to have at least two daughters. Plus lots of money.
Well skippity doo dah, I've got neither of those. Jeff and I will have to shake off the dementia as long as possible so we can haul our own creaky bones to doctor appointments and cook up something soft and bland to spoon-feed each other for supper.
I've got something to say to the world of social researchers and the media outlets who are airing this stuff: I'm not sure if you are in cahoots with the makers of princess dress-ups, tutu crinolines, and those ubiquitous baby headbands with giant flower embellishments, or if you have some other agenda; but this mom of only boys doesn't care to hear your reports which declare that families like mine are deficient.
This is not China or India: people in these parts value and cherish their daughters, so I'm not sure if this is the motivation for these studies and this slant in reporting. Is it some sort of ancillary feminist reasoning, to make families without baby girls seem inadequate? No comprendo.
Seriously, if a mom of boys wants to feel marginalized, she need not read these types of articles. All she has to do is walk into a baby boutique and be bombarded with heaps of girly ensembles as she searches for the scant stock of boy clothes. When I was pregnant with my toddler, I entered such a store and, baffled, asked the salesperson where the baby boy clothes were located. She said (I quote), "There is that one rack by the door, and this one rack right here with these little white shirts and ties."
Well press my laundry. I had the option of blue onesies or crisp dress shirts for my newborn.
Maybe the media isn't conspiring to attack the all-boy family. Maybe I am merely sensitive to things which point out how girls are superior at caring and are supremely fun to dress, while boys apparently abandon their elderly parents, to whose demise they have heavily contributed.
Whatever.
I love my incredibly complicated posse of small men. They are plenty complex and (once they reach opinionated preschool age) impossible to dress in cute, mom-designed ensembles anyway. They challenge me like nothing else I've ever experienced.
But we are a real family too, even if I am the lone girl. And we honestly face enough challenges with cognitive delays and behavior issues without hearing from experts that as parents of "just" boys, we are surely doomed.
This is my all-boy family, and I don't find us lacking. Except in tutus.
One article I read a few months back explained that women with only sons die earlier than women with daughters. Glad to know my sons are killing me slowly. Thanks soooo much for confirming this.
Another article on the challenges faced by an aging population claimed that the only sure way to know you will be cared for in your old age, is to have at least two daughters. Plus lots of money.
Well skippity doo dah, I've got neither of those. Jeff and I will have to shake off the dementia as long as possible so we can haul our own creaky bones to doctor appointments and cook up something soft and bland to spoon-feed each other for supper.
I've got something to say to the world of social researchers and the media outlets who are airing this stuff: I'm not sure if you are in cahoots with the makers of princess dress-ups, tutu crinolines, and those ubiquitous baby headbands with giant flower embellishments, or if you have some other agenda; but this mom of only boys doesn't care to hear your reports which declare that families like mine are deficient.
This is not China or India: people in these parts value and cherish their daughters, so I'm not sure if this is the motivation for these studies and this slant in reporting. Is it some sort of ancillary feminist reasoning, to make families without baby girls seem inadequate? No comprendo.
Seriously, if a mom of boys wants to feel marginalized, she need not read these types of articles. All she has to do is walk into a baby boutique and be bombarded with heaps of girly ensembles as she searches for the scant stock of boy clothes. When I was pregnant with my toddler, I entered such a store and, baffled, asked the salesperson where the baby boy clothes were located. She said (I quote), "There is that one rack by the door, and this one rack right here with these little white shirts and ties."
Well press my laundry. I had the option of blue onesies or crisp dress shirts for my newborn.
Maybe the media isn't conspiring to attack the all-boy family. Maybe I am merely sensitive to things which point out how girls are superior at caring and are supremely fun to dress, while boys apparently abandon their elderly parents, to whose demise they have heavily contributed.
Whatever.
I love my incredibly complicated posse of small men. They are plenty complex and (once they reach opinionated preschool age) impossible to dress in cute, mom-designed ensembles anyway. They challenge me like nothing else I've ever experienced.
But we are a real family too, even if I am the lone girl. And we honestly face enough challenges with cognitive delays and behavior issues without hearing from experts that as parents of "just" boys, we are surely doomed.
This is my all-boy family, and I don't find us lacking. Except in tutus.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Feel Free to Skip this Post
Mad Meg here with a few more signs that summer is still camping out, hanging on, and wrecking my sanity:
A) The muscles in my shoulders are like bunches of craggy rocks. So much tension, so many knots. Also, so many kids. Who climb so many fences. And who spread to the four winds anytime they leave the house. Why is the grass always greener elsewhere, people? Why?
B) Jack has been spraying lighter fluid on my car and ripping up our picture books, despite the fact that I am his constant shadow. He's like a red-headed David Copperfield. Without the tight black pants and sexy white shirt unbuttoned halfway.
C) Charlie changes outfits seventeen times daily (a rough estimate). At the end of each day, the laundry pile looks like the Duggars moved in, and Charlie has literally no clothes left in his closet. So he moves on to pilfer from his brothers. He's enterprising like that.
D) Everyone is bored with all the usual summer activities. Everyone wants fresh new entertainment daily. Everyone can get real and make themselves a frigging quesadilla.
E) The vacuum is nearly toast, dragged and stuffed and mangled to an early death by a certain nine-year-old with a vacuum fetish. But if he isn't harassing the vacuum, he's creating artwork in the medium of lighter fluid. I choose life, and a dead vacuum.
F) I currently skip all photos of people on summer vacations in my social media news feeds. Glad you're having the time of your life in some gorgeous place, peeps, but I don't want to see it. Moving along. Let's get back to laundry and protecting the garage and interring the remains of the dismembered children's books. Also, let's get back to searching for the children who have left the building and are off climbing some neighbor's fence.
G) It is still July, for hell's sake.
A) The muscles in my shoulders are like bunches of craggy rocks. So much tension, so many knots. Also, so many kids. Who climb so many fences. And who spread to the four winds anytime they leave the house. Why is the grass always greener elsewhere, people? Why?
B) Jack has been spraying lighter fluid on my car and ripping up our picture books, despite the fact that I am his constant shadow. He's like a red-headed David Copperfield. Without the tight black pants and sexy white shirt unbuttoned halfway.
C) Charlie changes outfits seventeen times daily (a rough estimate). At the end of each day, the laundry pile looks like the Duggars moved in, and Charlie has literally no clothes left in his closet. So he moves on to pilfer from his brothers. He's enterprising like that.
D) Everyone is bored with all the usual summer activities. Everyone wants fresh new entertainment daily. Everyone can get real and make themselves a frigging quesadilla.
E) The vacuum is nearly toast, dragged and stuffed and mangled to an early death by a certain nine-year-old with a vacuum fetish. But if he isn't harassing the vacuum, he's creating artwork in the medium of lighter fluid. I choose life, and a dead vacuum.
F) I currently skip all photos of people on summer vacations in my social media news feeds. Glad you're having the time of your life in some gorgeous place, peeps, but I don't want to see it. Moving along. Let's get back to laundry and protecting the garage and interring the remains of the dismembered children's books. Also, let's get back to searching for the children who have left the building and are off climbing some neighbor's fence.
G) It is still July, for hell's sake.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Space Cadet
We've entered the last three weeks of summer vacation. People everywhere are mourning summer's looming demise, while I am hoping to simply get through it.
We are going a tad crazy. Also, we have entered survival mode.
Here are some clues:
A) On our way home from a family dinner tonight, the special-needs crew both removed their pants and gave the seats and the floor a good soaking. Our (not-new) car is so new that we don't even have real license plates yet. But it surely has been initiated.
B) Jeff and I got away for a real date earlier this week. I noticed as we got to the movie that I was still wearing my clod hopper, beat up orange sneakers. With a red skirt and a blue stripey shirt. The whole ensemble screamed "Space Cadet." On the bright side, the hubs pointed out that my ugly orange comfort shoes matched my orange phone case.
C) Jack is stuck on his "shred" cycle. The AC vents rustle eerily round the clock with their contents of paper shards and ripped up photographs stuffed inside. Boxes and bags of chips, crackers, and cereal are disemboweled, simply for the crinkliness of their packaging. Anything that can be broken into bits and sprinkled in the dogwoods flanking the front path, will be.
D) My subconscious goes walkabout. I daydream about how to organize my days when school resumes, and then I chastise myself for thinking about it because it is too too soon. Stay alive! Keep your eye on the prize, sister! Think about summer and your pee-pee car and your shredded house, not the beauty of an autumn day when structure reigns and there is space for a deep breath.
E) Also, think more about your footwear.
We are going a tad crazy. Also, we have entered survival mode.
Here are some clues:
A) On our way home from a family dinner tonight, the special-needs crew both removed their pants and gave the seats and the floor a good soaking. Our (not-new) car is so new that we don't even have real license plates yet. But it surely has been initiated.
B) Jeff and I got away for a real date earlier this week. I noticed as we got to the movie that I was still wearing my clod hopper, beat up orange sneakers. With a red skirt and a blue stripey shirt. The whole ensemble screamed "Space Cadet." On the bright side, the hubs pointed out that my ugly orange comfort shoes matched my orange phone case.
C) Jack is stuck on his "shred" cycle. The AC vents rustle eerily round the clock with their contents of paper shards and ripped up photographs stuffed inside. Boxes and bags of chips, crackers, and cereal are disemboweled, simply for the crinkliness of their packaging. Anything that can be broken into bits and sprinkled in the dogwoods flanking the front path, will be.
D) My subconscious goes walkabout. I daydream about how to organize my days when school resumes, and then I chastise myself for thinking about it because it is too too soon. Stay alive! Keep your eye on the prize, sister! Think about summer and your pee-pee car and your shredded house, not the beauty of an autumn day when structure reigns and there is space for a deep breath.
E) Also, think more about your footwear.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Here Is My Card
Have you heard about how parents are creating business cards of sorts for their children? Apparently this is a thing now, at least among some up-and-coming parenting-types.
They use their child's card as a way to exchange contact information with families they meet while playing at the park, for instance, or maybe as a way for their toddler to begin networking before the academic rush of Pre-K begins. Who's to say? Even the young can learn to schmooze, right? Babies are naturals at this kind of "winning people over with a drooly smile" kind of interfacing.
While a calling card isn't really a new idea, it's a novel idea in today's culture of electronic communication. And it's original because it is intended to market a pint-sized member of the family. Perhaps the Royal Family of Britain is already on it. Maybe little Georgie has a design team currently plotting out his card.
I haven't jumped on this trend, probably because I don't do Pinterest (we would have ugly cards), and I'm really bad at schmoozing.
But I recently saw a calling card designed by a mother for her daughter with special needs and I fell immediately in love. I thought it was so great that I wanted to re-visit my defunct Pinterest account and pin it, for Pete's sake.
This preteen girl's card began with all the things she can do, like express "more" and "enough," and communicate with the help of an electronic paddle near her head; the back outlined the specifics of her disability for teachers and therapists, neighbors and peers.
I think everyone on earth could benefit from a card like this one, telling the world, "Here is what I can do." It's a real mood-booster to see one's strengths listed factually and indisputably. If the world then cared to know the rest of the story, the why's and what's about the way we are, they could flip the card over and read up.
My family's card (aside from being aesthetically disappointing), might appear as follows:
We are a family with four boys. We can:
* Eat cheeseburgers, chicken nuggets, and fries in a booth at AstroBurger without making too much of a scene (and it only took years for us to accomplish, woot!)
* Ride in the family car, keeping our seat-belts buckled and our pants on (most of the time).
* Pound a 24-pack of mom's Cherry Cokes like nobody's business.
* Keep teachers, bus drivers, and sitters constantly on their toes, thinking outside the box, and upping their game, etc.
* vacuum!
The back might read:
Among the six of us you'll find autism, ADHD, anxiety, Macrocephaly Cutis Marmorata Telangiectasia Congenita Syndrome, social phobia, communication disorder, chronic diarrhea, allergies, tenacity (i.e. stubbornness), willfulness, the predisposition for destruction, and plenty of opinions. Pleasure to meet you.
My personal card might say something along the lines of:
* I read (but only what I want to read, and nothing more)
* I blog
* I clean up lots of poop
* I manage a family of unique little people, which leaves little time or energy for much else
And on the back:
* I suck at party-planning
* I loathe Braggy Braggertons
* I stress eat (esp. dark chocolate coconut almonds, right out of the freezer)
* I say no when people make demands on my time and energy, because my supply of both are limited and my mothering job is unusually demanding.
I just may need to get some of these ugly little suckers printed up. I'll be handing them out at Back to School Night and at church.
They use their child's card as a way to exchange contact information with families they meet while playing at the park, for instance, or maybe as a way for their toddler to begin networking before the academic rush of Pre-K begins. Who's to say? Even the young can learn to schmooze, right? Babies are naturals at this kind of "winning people over with a drooly smile" kind of interfacing.
While a calling card isn't really a new idea, it's a novel idea in today's culture of electronic communication. And it's original because it is intended to market a pint-sized member of the family. Perhaps the Royal Family of Britain is already on it. Maybe little Georgie has a design team currently plotting out his card.
I haven't jumped on this trend, probably because I don't do Pinterest (we would have ugly cards), and I'm really bad at schmoozing.
But I recently saw a calling card designed by a mother for her daughter with special needs and I fell immediately in love. I thought it was so great that I wanted to re-visit my defunct Pinterest account and pin it, for Pete's sake.
This preteen girl's card began with all the things she can do, like express "more" and "enough," and communicate with the help of an electronic paddle near her head; the back outlined the specifics of her disability for teachers and therapists, neighbors and peers.
I think everyone on earth could benefit from a card like this one, telling the world, "Here is what I can do." It's a real mood-booster to see one's strengths listed factually and indisputably. If the world then cared to know the rest of the story, the why's and what's about the way we are, they could flip the card over and read up.
My family's card (aside from being aesthetically disappointing), might appear as follows:
We are a family with four boys. We can:
* Eat cheeseburgers, chicken nuggets, and fries in a booth at AstroBurger without making too much of a scene (and it only took years for us to accomplish, woot!)
* Ride in the family car, keeping our seat-belts buckled and our pants on (most of the time).
* Pound a 24-pack of mom's Cherry Cokes like nobody's business.
* Keep teachers, bus drivers, and sitters constantly on their toes, thinking outside the box, and upping their game, etc.
* vacuum!
The back might read:
Among the six of us you'll find autism, ADHD, anxiety, Macrocephaly Cutis Marmorata Telangiectasia Congenita Syndrome, social phobia, communication disorder, chronic diarrhea, allergies, tenacity (i.e. stubbornness), willfulness, the predisposition for destruction, and plenty of opinions. Pleasure to meet you.
My personal card might say something along the lines of:
* I read (but only what I want to read, and nothing more)
* I blog
* I clean up lots of poop
* I manage a family of unique little people, which leaves little time or energy for much else
And on the back:
* I suck at party-planning
* I loathe Braggy Braggertons
* I stress eat (esp. dark chocolate coconut almonds, right out of the freezer)
* I say no when people make demands on my time and energy, because my supply of both are limited and my mothering job is unusually demanding.
I just may need to get some of these ugly little suckers printed up. I'll be handing them out at Back to School Night and at church.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
High-Functioning is Hard Too
Often when people hear that I have children with special needs, one of the first questions they will ask is "So, are they high-functioning?" I love when people ask me questions about my children. I appreciate the brave soul who looks past our strangeness and instead of fleeing or ignoring, has the fortitude to try to understand us. So muchas gracias, people with questions!
High-functioning sounds like a positive, so my guess is that we see it as a silver lining to a difficult situation. It's also a term that many of us hear frequently in association with people who have disabilities, so we feel comfortable tossing it around. Maybe, in fairness, some folks don't know what to say. So they look on the bright side and ask this, because it feels like something good which they hope applies to us.
An acquaintance I saw at the zoo once asked me this about my now nine-year-old (who dwells far, far away from the land of high functionality). Jack was in nuclear meltdown mode, screaming and tantruming on the ground because the full-to-capacity zoo train had left the station without us. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: Good to see you! This is my two-year-old, who has a rare syndrome and also autism.
Her: Okay, got it. So is he high-functioning?
I remember gazing at my flailing, bellowing red-headed toddler, splotchy from kicking up a mad stink in the line for the zoo express on that overcast fall day. I didn't even know how to respond. One possibility I wish I had thought of in the moment: "If by high-functioning, you mean unable to tolerate disappointment, wait our turn, or communicate effectively, then yup, we have totally nailed it."
I hate to be the dark looming thunderhead in this situation, but I am about to rain on this parade. High-functioning doesn't mean easier. I know, because I have two children with special needs, one at each end of the spectrum.
High-functioning simply means you have a different kind of hard.
In some ways, high-functioning is actually harder because people expect more from a kid who appears pretty much "normal." When people see my obviously mentally-impaired son, they don't expect the same things of him as they would from a typically-developing kid.
For me, it means that my high-functioning kid is able to join in a typical preschool and a Sunday school class, and play with neighborhood friends, but will act completely inappropriate for his age at times when he is anxious or afraid. It means he is not fully potty-trained at age five, and doesn't care to be. It means we have loud public meltdowns about shopping at Costco or sharing toys.
High-functioning means that some of the time you look the part of a regular kid, but much of the time you are acting very much like a person with special needs.
For a parent, it's not easier. It's just different. It's an unexpected, challenging ball game, whose rules I don't understand.
And that's all I have to say about that.
High-functioning sounds like a positive, so my guess is that we see it as a silver lining to a difficult situation. It's also a term that many of us hear frequently in association with people who have disabilities, so we feel comfortable tossing it around. Maybe, in fairness, some folks don't know what to say. So they look on the bright side and ask this, because it feels like something good which they hope applies to us.
An acquaintance I saw at the zoo once asked me this about my now nine-year-old (who dwells far, far away from the land of high functionality). Jack was in nuclear meltdown mode, screaming and tantruming on the ground because the full-to-capacity zoo train had left the station without us. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: Good to see you! This is my two-year-old, who has a rare syndrome and also autism.
Her: Okay, got it. So is he high-functioning?
I remember gazing at my flailing, bellowing red-headed toddler, splotchy from kicking up a mad stink in the line for the zoo express on that overcast fall day. I didn't even know how to respond. One possibility I wish I had thought of in the moment: "If by high-functioning, you mean unable to tolerate disappointment, wait our turn, or communicate effectively, then yup, we have totally nailed it."
I hate to be the dark looming thunderhead in this situation, but I am about to rain on this parade. High-functioning doesn't mean easier. I know, because I have two children with special needs, one at each end of the spectrum.
High-functioning simply means you have a different kind of hard.
In some ways, high-functioning is actually harder because people expect more from a kid who appears pretty much "normal." When people see my obviously mentally-impaired son, they don't expect the same things of him as they would from a typically-developing kid.
For me, it means that my high-functioning kid is able to join in a typical preschool and a Sunday school class, and play with neighborhood friends, but will act completely inappropriate for his age at times when he is anxious or afraid. It means he is not fully potty-trained at age five, and doesn't care to be. It means we have loud public meltdowns about shopping at Costco or sharing toys.
High-functioning means that some of the time you look the part of a regular kid, but much of the time you are acting very much like a person with special needs.
For a parent, it's not easier. It's just different. It's an unexpected, challenging ball game, whose rules I don't understand.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Little Prince
Thanks to the Internet, we now have instant, round-the-clock access to everything we didn't know we cared about. If the Internet were a hipster, it would glare at us over the chunky rims of it's nerd glasses while stirring it's mug of chai and snark, "You're welcome."
I mean really, I saw a headline today stating that the royal baby left the hospital swaddled in Aden and Anais wraps, buckled in a Britax infant car seat. Is this for all the royal baby watchers, the ones who have held off naming their newborns until they hear the prince's name so they can copy it?
While everyone in England is feeling ducky and brilliant about the royal newborn, I just keep thinking that the poor kid is already a celebrity and he's only one day old. His image is already flooding the Internet. He will be surrounded by security his entire life.
What if he simply craves a quiet life with freedom to come and go as he pleases? What if he doesn't want to be a royal or a celebrity? What if he stutters and doesn't want to be king? (I know, that already happened. I loved that movie).
I frankly would abhor a giant international media spotlight glaring into my life. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have the grace and poise of the Duchess of Cambridge to smile and wave at the hordes of spectators who came to see my firstborn child.
When I left the hospital with my first baby, I was sleep-deprived and stressed-out. I totally wasn't wearing a summery frock and my hair was way less perfect than Kate Middleton's. But at least I didn't have an army of paparazzi camped out to see what my baby was wearing in his new little baby bucket. I like the option of anonymity. I like flying under the radar. I favor privacy.
I suppose there are worse circumstances into which an infant could be born. The new prince won't lack for opportunities. And he will likely get to spend some quality time in Balmoral Castle in Scotland, which looks completely magical.
Anyway, about the Internet. It also turns up the fabulous. I also saw this Buzzfeed headline recently: Woman Attacked by Pack of Adorable Little Goats, which sums up my life in a succinct, surprising way.
Thanks Internet. You are big and random and over-reaching and funny. Now go back to posting royal gossip, along with pics of your lunch on Instagram.
I mean really, I saw a headline today stating that the royal baby left the hospital swaddled in Aden and Anais wraps, buckled in a Britax infant car seat. Is this for all the royal baby watchers, the ones who have held off naming their newborns until they hear the prince's name so they can copy it?
While everyone in England is feeling ducky and brilliant about the royal newborn, I just keep thinking that the poor kid is already a celebrity and he's only one day old. His image is already flooding the Internet. He will be surrounded by security his entire life.
What if he simply craves a quiet life with freedom to come and go as he pleases? What if he doesn't want to be a royal or a celebrity? What if he stutters and doesn't want to be king? (I know, that already happened. I loved that movie).
I frankly would abhor a giant international media spotlight glaring into my life. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have the grace and poise of the Duchess of Cambridge to smile and wave at the hordes of spectators who came to see my firstborn child.
When I left the hospital with my first baby, I was sleep-deprived and stressed-out. I totally wasn't wearing a summery frock and my hair was way less perfect than Kate Middleton's. But at least I didn't have an army of paparazzi camped out to see what my baby was wearing in his new little baby bucket. I like the option of anonymity. I like flying under the radar. I favor privacy.
I suppose there are worse circumstances into which an infant could be born. The new prince won't lack for opportunities. And he will likely get to spend some quality time in Balmoral Castle in Scotland, which looks completely magical.
Anyway, about the Internet. It also turns up the fabulous. I also saw this Buzzfeed headline recently: Woman Attacked by Pack of Adorable Little Goats, which sums up my life in a succinct, surprising way.
Thanks Internet. You are big and random and over-reaching and funny. Now go back to posting royal gossip, along with pics of your lunch on Instagram.
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