At dusk on a summer's evening, the neighborhood kids like to ride their bikes around the island of grass and trees in the cul-de-sac in front of our house. It's a suburban Circus Maximus.
There are ride-on John Deere tractors and jeeps alongside trikes, scooters, and two-wheelers. It's rowdy and slightly dangerous, so obviously nobody ever gets tired of it. Bedtime, schmedtime!
Jack can't join in, though. He is too big for the toddler toys and the big kids bikes are beyond his current ability. So he sits on the utility box next to our driveway and puts his feet up on the big rock in front of the utility box (strategically placed after a city worker backed his truck into said box. I digress).
Jack watches everybody else. Cue the sad REM song, folks. This is a sight to break a parent's heart.
While we should probably just be happy that Jack no longer takes off running down the street like in days of yore, we want him to be able to join in the fun. We want more for him than to sit obediently on a rock and not run away. Although let it be known that we are supremely grateful that he will sit obediently at times and not run off down the street (which in autism lingo is known as elopement. I don't get it either).
A couple of years ago we tried to buy Jack a giant tricycle made for kids with special needs. It turns out that such trikes are a) expensive and b) difficult to acquire. We tried to get him one, but the company stalled and our Bike For Jack project failed.
This summer we tried again. We reinvigorated the project and found something better: a three-wheeled bike for grown-ups in sweet black cherry, with a cargo basket on the back which my eldest child described as "sick." We bought it, and this time it was delivered as promised (thanks Amazon.com!) Suddenly, Jack has a bike of his own. Virginia Woolf would approve.
Except that Jack is a bit of a wild card on that bike. Steering? It's optional. Brakes? Those are for nerds. I spent a sweaty, fruitless evening teaching Jack to steer his bike and to squeeze the brakes on the handlebars. He just kept swatting me away. My nonverbal son was telling me to buzz off.
"This is going to be a problem," I predicted to Jeff. Sometimes I hate it when I'm right.
Jeff sent me this text the next day when I was out and he was home with the boys:
Wasn't looking and Jack jumped on his bike and headed downhill. He crashed into the neighbor's car. Bike may be toast, it's all bent up. He has a goose egg but is acting okay. Maybe the bike wasn't such a good idea after all.
One forgiving neighbor + one handy husband + one resilient child later and everything is going to be okay, more or less. The rad fenders sadly didn't survive, but I learned the following lessons:
1. Don't live on a hill if you buy a sweet red three-wheeled bike for your special-needs son.
2. All hell may break loose when the mom is away.
3. Understanding neighbors are a gift.
4. Maybe one shouldn't knock sitting on an electrical box with one's feet on a rock. It's safer than careening down the hill and into a neighbor's car, and the view isn't bad either.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Baby It's Hot Outside
This is the difference between summertime and the other seasons:
1. Daylight arrives early and stays late, which means...
2. Bedtime is moot. This is hard on a mom who needs just a bit of breathing room.
3. The children never leave. Thanks for not telling me how one day when they do leave, I will miss them and yearn for the days when they were little.
4. The house enters an eternal state of messes, despite constant cleaning.
5. Dinner is MIA. There is no savory crock pot dish or simmering soup. There is only hummus, tortilla chips, blueberries, watermelon, cheese, and crackers. And Oreos. And dark chocolate coconut almonds, eaten compulsively. Forage for your dinner.
6. Lots of swimming happens, in an outdoor pool over which shimmers one hundred degree waves of heat.
7. There is no time for books. No books makes me crabby.
8. There is time for a few family excursions to the mountains, which are lovely.
9. Walking outside barefoot is a valid option.
10. The guys need random car outings and a change of scenery, as do I.
11. My birthday happens.
12. My short-term memory goes out to lunch.
1. Daylight arrives early and stays late, which means...
2. Bedtime is moot. This is hard on a mom who needs just a bit of breathing room.
3. The children never leave. Thanks for not telling me how one day when they do leave, I will miss them and yearn for the days when they were little.
4. The house enters an eternal state of messes, despite constant cleaning.
5. Dinner is MIA. There is no savory crock pot dish or simmering soup. There is only hummus, tortilla chips, blueberries, watermelon, cheese, and crackers. And Oreos. And dark chocolate coconut almonds, eaten compulsively. Forage for your dinner.
6. Lots of swimming happens, in an outdoor pool over which shimmers one hundred degree waves of heat.
7. There is no time for books. No books makes me crabby.
8. There is time for a few family excursions to the mountains, which are lovely.
9. Walking outside barefoot is a valid option.
10. The guys need random car outings and a change of scenery, as do I.
11. My birthday happens.
12. My short-term memory goes out to lunch.
Muddling Through
Is there a word or a phrase that you just can't stand hearing? You know how that is, just wanting to cringe when you hear a word that irritates you?
Maybe this is an English major problem.
Or maybe you're like my sister, who cringes whenever she hears the word moist because she thinks it sounds so very gross, especially when my other sisters realize how much she hates the word and make a point to use it repeatedly on a family vacation in a moist subtropical place.
Perhaps it's something like the phrase "couldn't care less," which people constantly misquote without realizing that it completely changes the meaning without that n't at the end.
It could be something like the oft-repeated, "I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it," often attributed to Jesus, but which (my husband likes to point out) Jesus never actually said, people. It's a made-up quote and it's misrepresented origin makes Jeff crazy. This, from my hubs, who intentionally mispronounces place names, making Evanston into Evingston just to annoy people.
Like I said, maybe these are English major problems. Or problems faced when one is married to an English major type.
Well either way, the other day at church I heard someone use the word amazing to describe the parents of a special-needs child. The word amazing is frequently assigned to such parents, who can find it difficult to swallow because it feels a little lofty and frankly untrue. It's a word which applies pressure, even as it attempts to indicate respect.
It's a word that makes me cringe.
I get that when people say it, they are being kind. They mean it honestly. But I wish to respectfully disagree.
Amazing is a Vera Wang wedding gown on a glowing bride. It's a lemon raspberry cupcake. It's a cool dip in the swimming pool on a July afternoon. It is the view from the top of Mountair into Parley's Canyon. It is a summer morning when children sleep late and wake up happy.
Amazing is harder to swallow when you're angry plenty of the time, and frustrated, and ready to knock the block off the next person who drops a deuce on the rug. Amazing should move on to the next house, because the mom at this house gets snippy and sharp when everyone is pestering her with their sensory input needs and their communication delays, and she often feels furious about the omnipresent messes. Amazing needs to go away.
As someone who is mostly just muddling through, I think we should bring things down a notch.
So anyway, back to church. There I sat in Gospel Doctrine, listening to this person tell a couple of my neighbors that they are amazing parents as they journey to raise their son with special needs. I listened and cringed a little.
Mostly because the person using the word amazing was me.
It was me. I said it, and immediately regretted it---not because it was untrue, but because I know how I feel about amazing.
I wish I had said this instead: bless you.
Or this: that must be hard.
Or this: tell me about your son.
Because amazing is for sunsets and frocks and luscious desserts. Not so much for a real, wacky life.
Maybe this is an English major problem.
Or maybe you're like my sister, who cringes whenever she hears the word moist because she thinks it sounds so very gross, especially when my other sisters realize how much she hates the word and make a point to use it repeatedly on a family vacation in a moist subtropical place.
Perhaps it's something like the phrase "couldn't care less," which people constantly misquote without realizing that it completely changes the meaning without that n't at the end.
It could be something like the oft-repeated, "I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it," often attributed to Jesus, but which (my husband likes to point out) Jesus never actually said, people. It's a made-up quote and it's misrepresented origin makes Jeff crazy. This, from my hubs, who intentionally mispronounces place names, making Evanston into Evingston just to annoy people.
Like I said, maybe these are English major problems. Or problems faced when one is married to an English major type.
Well either way, the other day at church I heard someone use the word amazing to describe the parents of a special-needs child. The word amazing is frequently assigned to such parents, who can find it difficult to swallow because it feels a little lofty and frankly untrue. It's a word which applies pressure, even as it attempts to indicate respect.
It's a word that makes me cringe.
I get that when people say it, they are being kind. They mean it honestly. But I wish to respectfully disagree.
Amazing is a Vera Wang wedding gown on a glowing bride. It's a lemon raspberry cupcake. It's a cool dip in the swimming pool on a July afternoon. It is the view from the top of Mountair into Parley's Canyon. It is a summer morning when children sleep late and wake up happy.
Amazing is harder to swallow when you're angry plenty of the time, and frustrated, and ready to knock the block off the next person who drops a deuce on the rug. Amazing should move on to the next house, because the mom at this house gets snippy and sharp when everyone is pestering her with their sensory input needs and their communication delays, and she often feels furious about the omnipresent messes. Amazing needs to go away.
As someone who is mostly just muddling through, I think we should bring things down a notch.
So anyway, back to church. There I sat in Gospel Doctrine, listening to this person tell a couple of my neighbors that they are amazing parents as they journey to raise their son with special needs. I listened and cringed a little.
Mostly because the person using the word amazing was me.
It was me. I said it, and immediately regretted it---not because it was untrue, but because I know how I feel about amazing.
I wish I had said this instead: bless you.
Or this: that must be hard.
Or this: tell me about your son.
Because amazing is for sunsets and frocks and luscious desserts. Not so much for a real, wacky life.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Dog Days
I'm that mom: that mean witch-woman who is so rude because she will not let her children have a dog.
It seems practically un-American, as my dad likes to tell me.
When the boys beg for a dog, I always respond the same way. I tell them I will consider it when
every last one of them is 100% potty-trained. In this nutty house where three boys of four do their two-sies in all the wrong places, this means we may begin dog negotiation talks in roughly five to seven years.
I'm a real battle-axe, I know.
I haven't always been this way. I used to adore dogs. I grew up with our overweight sheltie, Theodore, sleeping on the floor by my bed for years. We put up with his food-begging ways and his constant tendency to herd children into tidy groups.
The first dog my family owned was a spastic black lab named Meatball. He ran away after just a few days.
Our next dog was a hyperactive white husky named Jake, who appeared in our house one Christmas morning. Our delight with the puppy who shredded the wrapping paper and wet on the presents later turned to irritation. Turns out our wild Christmas dog had a penchant for chewing everything. He gnawed holes in our gloves and snowpants. He ate the brown and yellow floral banana seat off my sister's bike. He bit our fingers. His palate did not discriminate.
We hit the jackpot with our third dog, Bijou, who was a royal queen among collies. She was gentle and perfect, dignified and lovely.
My memories of Bijou and Theo, and later Sally (oh sweet, sassy Sal!) are blessed. I loved them.
But here's the thing: the people who want me to approve this notion of getting a dog are not the people who clean up after three boys who won't do their daily constitutionals in the potty.
A few years ago I read humorist Bob Tarte's strange, funny book Enslaved by Ducks. He and his wife are these city folks who move to rural Michigan and start compulsively buying, adopting, and rehabilitating any down-on-it's-luck duck, chicken, goose, or tropical house bird which comes their way. Tarte does something which made me want to throw my copy of Enslaved by Ducks at him. He whines about how their ever-burgeoning bird brood must be forced to drink antibiotics to overcome various illnesses.
As I read, I had a few things I wanted to say to this funny man, which included but were not limited to:
1) Get a grip.
2) We are talking about ducks here, ducks that you admit to loathing much of the time.
3) If you're going to complain about administering meds to a barnyard pet, you picked the wrong reader to whine to.
4) A frazzled mom of special-needs kids, who has totally had to force-feed her kid anti-nausea meds among other things, can't make herself care about your duck drug woes.
Anyhow, some people think I'm mean because I've adopted a pragmatic stance about potty-pooping trumping "family pet."
But I value the shreds of my sanity more than I care about being seen as a harpy.
It seems practically un-American, as my dad likes to tell me.
When the boys beg for a dog, I always respond the same way. I tell them I will consider it when
every last one of them is 100% potty-trained. In this nutty house where three boys of four do their two-sies in all the wrong places, this means we may begin dog negotiation talks in roughly five to seven years.
I'm a real battle-axe, I know.
I haven't always been this way. I used to adore dogs. I grew up with our overweight sheltie, Theodore, sleeping on the floor by my bed for years. We put up with his food-begging ways and his constant tendency to herd children into tidy groups.
The first dog my family owned was a spastic black lab named Meatball. He ran away after just a few days.
Our next dog was a hyperactive white husky named Jake, who appeared in our house one Christmas morning. Our delight with the puppy who shredded the wrapping paper and wet on the presents later turned to irritation. Turns out our wild Christmas dog had a penchant for chewing everything. He gnawed holes in our gloves and snowpants. He ate the brown and yellow floral banana seat off my sister's bike. He bit our fingers. His palate did not discriminate.
We hit the jackpot with our third dog, Bijou, who was a royal queen among collies. She was gentle and perfect, dignified and lovely.
My memories of Bijou and Theo, and later Sally (oh sweet, sassy Sal!) are blessed. I loved them.
But here's the thing: the people who want me to approve this notion of getting a dog are not the people who clean up after three boys who won't do their daily constitutionals in the potty.
A few years ago I read humorist Bob Tarte's strange, funny book Enslaved by Ducks. He and his wife are these city folks who move to rural Michigan and start compulsively buying, adopting, and rehabilitating any down-on-it's-luck duck, chicken, goose, or tropical house bird which comes their way. Tarte does something which made me want to throw my copy of Enslaved by Ducks at him. He whines about how their ever-burgeoning bird brood must be forced to drink antibiotics to overcome various illnesses.
As I read, I had a few things I wanted to say to this funny man, which included but were not limited to:
1) Get a grip.
2) We are talking about ducks here, ducks that you admit to loathing much of the time.
3) If you're going to complain about administering meds to a barnyard pet, you picked the wrong reader to whine to.
4) A frazzled mom of special-needs kids, who has totally had to force-feed her kid anti-nausea meds among other things, can't make herself care about your duck drug woes.
Anyhow, some people think I'm mean because I've adopted a pragmatic stance about potty-pooping trumping "family pet."
But I value the shreds of my sanity more than I care about being seen as a harpy.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Got Exigence?
This evening Jack said a new word. Actually it was a phrase. And it was quite wonderfully intelligible and situation-specific.
We were a loaded van returning from the football chalk talk, and when we turned right toward home, instead of left (toward French fries), Jack started bellowing.
It got a little raucous. Henry had to switch places with his pal to sit next to Jack and thwart the angry flailing.
When Henry "shushed" Jack, Jack responded with a clear, "Shut up."
We all dissolved into laughter and then congratulatory comments directed at our surprise talker.
Parents don't typically applaud the first usage of this particular phrase, but it was so exciting to hear Jack use new words, and to use them appropriately. Well, as "appropriate" as the words shut up can be.
In graduate school, my thesis advisor Keith Grant-Davie was a British ex-pat who thrilled in masterful uses of written and spoken language. His famous refrain about any paper or idea was this question: does it contain exigence?
His point was that without a tangible sense of current and vital relevance, any idea we floated was dead in the water. Got Exigence? he cheekily commented on our paper drafts. In other words, whatever you're saying had better matter to the larger discussion of the topic, particularly at this moment in time.
Tonight when he debuted his first verbal shut up, Jacky nailed Keith Grant-Davie's number one requirement for self-expression. Did it fulfill the exigency requisite? Indeed, it did.
I wanted to roll down my window and shout joyously to the world, "My son just told his brother to shut up!"
But it would have lacked exigence for any random cyclists or pedestrians.
We were a loaded van returning from the football chalk talk, and when we turned right toward home, instead of left (toward French fries), Jack started bellowing.
It got a little raucous. Henry had to switch places with his pal to sit next to Jack and thwart the angry flailing.
When Henry "shushed" Jack, Jack responded with a clear, "Shut up."
We all dissolved into laughter and then congratulatory comments directed at our surprise talker.
Parents don't typically applaud the first usage of this particular phrase, but it was so exciting to hear Jack use new words, and to use them appropriately. Well, as "appropriate" as the words shut up can be.
In graduate school, my thesis advisor Keith Grant-Davie was a British ex-pat who thrilled in masterful uses of written and spoken language. His famous refrain about any paper or idea was this question: does it contain exigence?
His point was that without a tangible sense of current and vital relevance, any idea we floated was dead in the water. Got Exigence? he cheekily commented on our paper drafts. In other words, whatever you're saying had better matter to the larger discussion of the topic, particularly at this moment in time.
Tonight when he debuted his first verbal shut up, Jacky nailed Keith Grant-Davie's number one requirement for self-expression. Did it fulfill the exigency requisite? Indeed, it did.
I wanted to roll down my window and shout joyously to the world, "My son just told his brother to shut up!"
But it would have lacked exigence for any random cyclists or pedestrians.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
This Is 36
Ten years ago I was the perfect mom. I mean, not to be a Braggy Braggerton but I really had the parenting business buttoned up.
I was a twenty-five-year old stay-at-home mom doing just what I had always wanted. I had done my time in college and graduate school and now after five years of married life, I was getting down to business in the field of my dreams. I lived in a little World War II-era bungalow near Sugarhouse Park where Jeff worked out of his office in the basement and I spent my days caring for our darling one-year-old son.
I was a twenty-five-year old stay-at-home mom doing just what I had always wanted. I had done my time in college and graduate school and now after five years of married life, I was getting down to business in the field of my dreams. I lived in a little World War II-era bungalow near Sugarhouse Park where Jeff worked out of his office in the basement and I spent my days caring for our darling one-year-old son.
Every morning I brisk-walked to the park with a group of my friends. We pushed our toddlers in jogging strollers while discussing baby milestones, post-pregnancy recovery, and adjusting to one income. I started a play group and a book club. I canned my own strawberry jam. I volunteered at the church cannery and got abnormally excited about creating a home food storage plan. I handmade our family's Christmas cards. I learned to piece a patchwork quilt and hand-quilted a small masterpiece for Henry. I cleaned my tiny house every Monday, took my child to the zoo every Wednesday, and visited story time at the library every Friday. I was the president of the Young Women's organization at church. I hiked nearby trails with my friend Angie, with my baby on my back. I took a thirty-minute power nap every afternoon while Henry slept.
It seemed every time I left the house with my precocious, curly, strawberry-blond son, friends and strangers alike complimented me on my adorable little boy.
I mean seriously. When it came to motherhood, I had nailed it.
A lot can happen in ten years.
We now live in a much bigger house and I drive a much bigger car. We have four sons instead of one. I no longer can jam or hand-stitch quilts or hand-craft cards. And I certainly do not take a nap every afternoon. But it's not just the trappings that have changed in my life.
Inwardly and outwardly, everything feels different.
With Jack's birth nine years ago, my family's trajectory changed in a big way. Beginning then, we entered the realm of different. We learned about developmental delay. We aligned ourselves with Early Intervention and a support group. We stopped going out in public much because of our second child's meltdowns. Everything became harder.
In recent months we learned that our third child also has special-needs, albeit in a very different manifestation than his big brother. This turn of events has not been easier than the last diagnosis because we have done it before. If anything, it feels more traumatic because we have done it before. And now there are two.
But with Charlie's diagnoses (he has four), my clan has become more of what we started to become when Jack joined the family. We are less apt to judge people who look or act differently. We are vastly more tolerant of messes because they are our constant companions, no matter how hard we try to eradicate them. We understand that "destruction of property" takes on a whole new meaning when special-needs children are around. We (meaning me) are way less smug. In fact, we (me) acknowledge that most of the time, we don't know what the heck we are doing. We've learned to say no when people ask us to do stuff because it usually takes us past the tipping point. We are kinder. We are more patient. We feel genuine empathy for someone else's hardship. We aren't anywhere near perfect. We don't even care about perfect. We think perfect should be drop-kicked down the street.
This isn't the family I envisioned as a newly-wed or even as a young know-it-all mom of one kid. But it's my family. And they are making me into somebody better.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Yellowstone: Oldest & Best
We took a family vacation last week to Yellowstone National Park. It is the first trip we have taken since half of our children have received complicated diagnoses. It's the first real family getaway in nine years.
And it was a success.
It was short and busy and super fun.
It felt like a giant victory.
I felt repeated inward amazement that we were camping and everybody was behaving themselves. We were driving long distances and people were generally pleasant. We were hiking to waterfalls and looking at geysers and spotting bison. We were not wiping poop off walls or stimming off electronics or tantruming about eating lunch. We were traveling, by gum, and enjoying ourselves!
It wasn't perfect. We discovered a few gems that we are salting away for the next vacation: Pringles, for instance (Jack demands we must bring oodles of them), and more gum (those sensory-seeking boys thrive on chewing it), along with the road trip car kits for the boys (place them in the car next time, and don't forget them at home). Nuggets of wisdom we gleaned from experience, each.
I learned that camping is no excuse for lousy cuisine, at least according to my sister, whose family we camped by. You've never eaten Tandoori chicken while camping? Well, then you've never camped with my sis. Greek yogurt parfaits with berries and almond granola, veggie-laden taco salads, and spaghetti with skillet-toasted garlic ciabatta rounded out their "roughing it" meals, which made our s'mores and cheddar brats look like amateur hour.
We found that Jack does not like any sustained uphill climbing, but he absolutely loves scampering and skipping along a downward slope. Charlie, it appears, has a way of finagling piggy-back rides from any familiar face during longer hikes. Henry, as we suspected all along, has an eagle eye for spotting wildlife and always enjoys a game of pick-up football, even in the wilderness.
My family went to Yellowstone every year when I was a child. I remember from my preschool years descending the hundreds of metal stairs on Uncle Tom's Trail along the sulfurous yellow canyon walls to stand in the roaring mist of the Lower Falls of the Yellowstone River. The Biscuit Basin geyser boardwalk and the trail to Morning Glory pool are paths I can easily retrace in my mind, they are so familiar.
The last time we took our little brood on such a family vacation was when Henry was two and Jack a newborn. Then life intervened and the crap hit the fan, so to speak. It felt mildly revolutionary to be back after a nine-year hiatus during which time we could barley function at home, let alone in the woods. With hot pots. And buffalo. And many, many European and Asian tourists.
There was a strange and fabulous moment last week as we finished rounding a geyser basin and headed to get ice cream cones at the Hamilton Store across the way. A young man completely decked out in cold weather gear and photographic accoutrements barreled across a wooden bridge toward us. He didn't break his running stride when he saw us, but he called out to us, a group of complete strangers, that nearby Beehive geyser was about to erupt. "It's happening in ninety seconds!" he enthused. His excitement was airborne.
It vaguely reminded me of an experience as a teen during a trip over Dunraven Pass between Canyon and Roosevelt. We were driving around in the twilight hoping to see animals as they became more active at dusk. A group of cars had stopped in a pull-out overlooking a sweeping valley. My dad lowered his window and asked, "What do you see?" An exuberant young man replied without missing a beat, "Bears! In an hour!" as if the wildlife were waiting behind a curtain for the clock to tick to show time.
That animal-rich viewing drive is still known as Bears In An Hour to my people.
Yellowstone is glorious. I don't blame anyone for being freak-show excited about experiencing it.
When we climbed last week to Mystic Falls, picnicked at Nez Prez, and tramped along the Old Faithful geyser boardwalk, my psyche marveled at what we seemingly nonchalantly had achieved: we came back.
"This is happening," I thrilled. "We are actually doing this."
I almost wanted to scream it out to a pack of tourists at Grand Prismatic pool.
And it was a success.
It was short and busy and super fun.
It felt like a giant victory.
I felt repeated inward amazement that we were camping and everybody was behaving themselves. We were driving long distances and people were generally pleasant. We were hiking to waterfalls and looking at geysers and spotting bison. We were not wiping poop off walls or stimming off electronics or tantruming about eating lunch. We were traveling, by gum, and enjoying ourselves!
It wasn't perfect. We discovered a few gems that we are salting away for the next vacation: Pringles, for instance (Jack demands we must bring oodles of them), and more gum (those sensory-seeking boys thrive on chewing it), along with the road trip car kits for the boys (place them in the car next time, and don't forget them at home). Nuggets of wisdom we gleaned from experience, each.
I learned that camping is no excuse for lousy cuisine, at least according to my sister, whose family we camped by. You've never eaten Tandoori chicken while camping? Well, then you've never camped with my sis. Greek yogurt parfaits with berries and almond granola, veggie-laden taco salads, and spaghetti with skillet-toasted garlic ciabatta rounded out their "roughing it" meals, which made our s'mores and cheddar brats look like amateur hour.
We found that Jack does not like any sustained uphill climbing, but he absolutely loves scampering and skipping along a downward slope. Charlie, it appears, has a way of finagling piggy-back rides from any familiar face during longer hikes. Henry, as we suspected all along, has an eagle eye for spotting wildlife and always enjoys a game of pick-up football, even in the wilderness.
My family went to Yellowstone every year when I was a child. I remember from my preschool years descending the hundreds of metal stairs on Uncle Tom's Trail along the sulfurous yellow canyon walls to stand in the roaring mist of the Lower Falls of the Yellowstone River. The Biscuit Basin geyser boardwalk and the trail to Morning Glory pool are paths I can easily retrace in my mind, they are so familiar.
The last time we took our little brood on such a family vacation was when Henry was two and Jack a newborn. Then life intervened and the crap hit the fan, so to speak. It felt mildly revolutionary to be back after a nine-year hiatus during which time we could barley function at home, let alone in the woods. With hot pots. And buffalo. And many, many European and Asian tourists.
There was a strange and fabulous moment last week as we finished rounding a geyser basin and headed to get ice cream cones at the Hamilton Store across the way. A young man completely decked out in cold weather gear and photographic accoutrements barreled across a wooden bridge toward us. He didn't break his running stride when he saw us, but he called out to us, a group of complete strangers, that nearby Beehive geyser was about to erupt. "It's happening in ninety seconds!" he enthused. His excitement was airborne.
It vaguely reminded me of an experience as a teen during a trip over Dunraven Pass between Canyon and Roosevelt. We were driving around in the twilight hoping to see animals as they became more active at dusk. A group of cars had stopped in a pull-out overlooking a sweeping valley. My dad lowered his window and asked, "What do you see?" An exuberant young man replied without missing a beat, "Bears! In an hour!" as if the wildlife were waiting behind a curtain for the clock to tick to show time.
That animal-rich viewing drive is still known as Bears In An Hour to my people.
Yellowstone is glorious. I don't blame anyone for being freak-show excited about experiencing it.
When we climbed last week to Mystic Falls, picnicked at Nez Prez, and tramped along the Old Faithful geyser boardwalk, my psyche marveled at what we seemingly nonchalantly had achieved: we came back.
"This is happening," I thrilled. "We are actually doing this."
I almost wanted to scream it out to a pack of tourists at Grand Prismatic pool.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Pioneering Spirit
The youth from our church just returned from Trek, which is a reenactment of sorts of our Latter-day Saint pioneer ancestors who crossed the Great Plains of the United States in the mid-1800's. The pioneers were escaping religious persecution in Missouri and elsewhere, and made the long, harrowing journey on foot to the Salt Lake Valley where they could live and worship in peace. They faced hunger, cold, disease, wolves, and freezing rivers on their way west. Many died en route.
It has been entertaining to read the newly-updated Facebook and Instagram accounts of the teens in my neighborhood rejoicing over toilets, hot showers, and soft beds waiting for them at home. Many of them have posted about their awakening gratitude for the faith, fortitude, and courage of their ancestors. The pioneer clothing, the handcart-pulling, and the "roughing it" conditions are designed not just to help the youth appreciate modern creature comforts; the Trek experience affords participants an experience in examining their faith.
It gives people a change to don a dress, apron, and bonnet (or trousers, button-downs, and hats), pull a handcart across a dusty plain, push themselves physically, and evaluate if they would've had the faith sufficient to do this for months. For real. With no support crews driving into camp each day with hot meals and a fresh supply of drinking water.
It's a spiritual journey.
I didn't get to go with the youth on this Trek, but I did experience an enlightening and memorable pioneer trek when I was sixteen. This time, my contribution consisted of preparing beef stew and chocolate chip cookies to feed the weary Trekkers. I would've liked to participate with my young women class this week, but it wasn't meant to be, and it's okay. Here's why:
I am currently on a lengthy, dusty, rigorous pioneer journey of my own. I'm raising two children with autism, both who have other complicated diagnoses as well. I also have two typically-developing children with their own needs and challenges. It's a life-long journey. It's totally rugged. Sometimes I absolutely feel like I'm on a trail in the middle of the wilderness.
I don't have to deal with wolves, and cooking over a fire, and giving birth in a wagon on the trail. My challenges are in raising sons who have behavioral, cognitive, emotional, and communication issues. I clean up a lot of poop. I'm navigating my sons' healthcare and education. We do a lot of therapy. We work on overcoming the bigger stumbling blocks as we shepherd the boys toward greater functionality.
My journey is not harder or easier than my pioneer ancestors'. They are both strenuous. The common denominator for us is faith. None of us feels that we are on this trail alone.
I've been humming the hymn "Come, Come Ye Saints" all week. One phrase from the second verse has been an inspirational bit of manna to me.
"Gird up your loins," it says
"Fresh courage take.
Our God will never us forsake."
It's enough to shake you out of your reverie, pull you to your feet, and encourage you to keep on pioneering. That's what it does for me, anyway.
And then this bit of Old Testament wisdom from the book of Joshua was a balm on my trail-weary feet:
"Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest."
It's a rocky trail: vast and overwhelming in it's length and complexity. But knowing I'm not going it alone makes it better. Happier. Smoother.
It has been entertaining to read the newly-updated Facebook and Instagram accounts of the teens in my neighborhood rejoicing over toilets, hot showers, and soft beds waiting for them at home. Many of them have posted about their awakening gratitude for the faith, fortitude, and courage of their ancestors. The pioneer clothing, the handcart-pulling, and the "roughing it" conditions are designed not just to help the youth appreciate modern creature comforts; the Trek experience affords participants an experience in examining their faith.
It gives people a change to don a dress, apron, and bonnet (or trousers, button-downs, and hats), pull a handcart across a dusty plain, push themselves physically, and evaluate if they would've had the faith sufficient to do this for months. For real. With no support crews driving into camp each day with hot meals and a fresh supply of drinking water.
It's a spiritual journey.
I didn't get to go with the youth on this Trek, but I did experience an enlightening and memorable pioneer trek when I was sixteen. This time, my contribution consisted of preparing beef stew and chocolate chip cookies to feed the weary Trekkers. I would've liked to participate with my young women class this week, but it wasn't meant to be, and it's okay. Here's why:
I am currently on a lengthy, dusty, rigorous pioneer journey of my own. I'm raising two children with autism, both who have other complicated diagnoses as well. I also have two typically-developing children with their own needs and challenges. It's a life-long journey. It's totally rugged. Sometimes I absolutely feel like I'm on a trail in the middle of the wilderness.
I don't have to deal with wolves, and cooking over a fire, and giving birth in a wagon on the trail. My challenges are in raising sons who have behavioral, cognitive, emotional, and communication issues. I clean up a lot of poop. I'm navigating my sons' healthcare and education. We do a lot of therapy. We work on overcoming the bigger stumbling blocks as we shepherd the boys toward greater functionality.
My journey is not harder or easier than my pioneer ancestors'. They are both strenuous. The common denominator for us is faith. None of us feels that we are on this trail alone.
I've been humming the hymn "Come, Come Ye Saints" all week. One phrase from the second verse has been an inspirational bit of manna to me.
"Gird up your loins," it says
"Fresh courage take.
Our God will never us forsake."
It's enough to shake you out of your reverie, pull you to your feet, and encourage you to keep on pioneering. That's what it does for me, anyway.
And then this bit of Old Testament wisdom from the book of Joshua was a balm on my trail-weary feet:
"Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest."
It's a rocky trail: vast and overwhelming in it's length and complexity. But knowing I'm not going it alone makes it better. Happier. Smoother.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Summer Fever
When the mom gets sick and it's summertime, this is what happens:
* The mom doesn't sleep at night because she can't breathe.
* The mom gets up early and hauls her zombie self into the car with Jacky to make the long drive to see the University psychiatrist who they've waited two months to see.
* The mom sounds like a honking, diseased buzzard throughout the doctor's appointment. Jacky is a peach the entire time.
* The mom tries to take a short nap later when the baby naps, but instead changes the five-year-old's poopy pants and oversees a mid-afternoon sensory bath for Jack.
* The mom incurs the wrath of the third child when she says she is too sick to jump on the trampoline with him.
* The mom takes her feverish self downstairs to repeatedly feed people and do the dishes. And keep the laundry from taking over the house.
* The mom whines about it to the dad, who is sympathetic, but who is also on call and has to work late.
* The biggest brother becomes the mom's hero when he entertains his younger brothers in the basement for a wonderfully long time.
* The mom, achy and chilled, bundles up for a ninety-degree day and remembers a June two years past when she was pregnant and sick with pneumonia. The mom is grateful that is not now.
* The mom doesn't sleep at night because she can't breathe.
* The mom gets up early and hauls her zombie self into the car with Jacky to make the long drive to see the University psychiatrist who they've waited two months to see.
* The mom sounds like a honking, diseased buzzard throughout the doctor's appointment. Jacky is a peach the entire time.
* The mom tries to take a short nap later when the baby naps, but instead changes the five-year-old's poopy pants and oversees a mid-afternoon sensory bath for Jack.
* The mom incurs the wrath of the third child when she says she is too sick to jump on the trampoline with him.
* The mom takes her feverish self downstairs to repeatedly feed people and do the dishes. And keep the laundry from taking over the house.
* The mom whines about it to the dad, who is sympathetic, but who is also on call and has to work late.
* The biggest brother becomes the mom's hero when he entertains his younger brothers in the basement for a wonderfully long time.
* The mom, achy and chilled, bundles up for a ninety-degree day and remembers a June two years past when she was pregnant and sick with pneumonia. The mom is grateful that is not now.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Ten Things That Are True
I don't have enough free time or brain cells to construct a cohesive, essay-like post. Summer has come and is squatting here for the foreseeable future. But here is a random list of things people said, or did, or that are happening.
1) We all caught colds. Or the same cold, rather. Kids shouldn't be allowed to get sick in the summer, nor should the ones who spend their days taking care of them.
2) Because of the sinus stuffiness, Charlie told me his nose is full of hamboogers.
3) Henry quipped a funny, off-the-cuff remark to his friend wherein he compared the baby's glance to Medusa's. When I asked him how he knew about Medusa, he said, "Duh Mom. I've known about Greek mythology since like second grade."
4) Jack smashed together two tubs of yellow and red playdoh, which he then chewed up and spit out in various corners of the backyard. According to his behaviorist, kids like eating playdoh because it tastes salty. And it comes in bright, pretty colors. Whatever, Jack. Now there are red and yellow doh-blobs all around the lawn. Guess he favors the salty snacks.
5) Henry and a posse of neighborhood boys are spending their afternoons playing The Hunger Games in the pocket park. When I asked how this game works, he said, "It's like the movie." Except they don't have weapons and they all come home alive after playing, which I'm down with.
6) Books are my summertime lifeline. My recent reads are eclectic and all meet this requirement: suck me in. Also don't ask too much of my brain.
7) Jeff deserves a major award for sitting next to Jack during every sacrament meeting. I discovered this when I sat next to Jack instead on Sunday and learned through experience that Jack likes to pull the arm hairs of the person sitting next to him. Repeatedly. For quite some time. It's an intriguing sensory experience, don't you know.
8) Some days are just crap-tastic. I mean literally, they just are. And the three younger boys seem to be in cahoots about when these days will happen and when they will let the poo fly.
9) Eating my mom's homemade taquitos with cilantro bean & corn salsa on top on a Sunday evening al fresco: pretty much perfection. Especially when followed with homemade Skor ice cream.
10) Summer can be really good, and peaceful, and pleasant.. Except when it is really bad, and hard, and endless.
1) We all caught colds. Or the same cold, rather. Kids shouldn't be allowed to get sick in the summer, nor should the ones who spend their days taking care of them.
2) Because of the sinus stuffiness, Charlie told me his nose is full of hamboogers.
3) Henry quipped a funny, off-the-cuff remark to his friend wherein he compared the baby's glance to Medusa's. When I asked him how he knew about Medusa, he said, "Duh Mom. I've known about Greek mythology since like second grade."
4) Jack smashed together two tubs of yellow and red playdoh, which he then chewed up and spit out in various corners of the backyard. According to his behaviorist, kids like eating playdoh because it tastes salty. And it comes in bright, pretty colors. Whatever, Jack. Now there are red and yellow doh-blobs all around the lawn. Guess he favors the salty snacks.
5) Henry and a posse of neighborhood boys are spending their afternoons playing The Hunger Games in the pocket park. When I asked how this game works, he said, "It's like the movie." Except they don't have weapons and they all come home alive after playing, which I'm down with.
6) Books are my summertime lifeline. My recent reads are eclectic and all meet this requirement: suck me in. Also don't ask too much of my brain.
7) Jeff deserves a major award for sitting next to Jack during every sacrament meeting. I discovered this when I sat next to Jack instead on Sunday and learned through experience that Jack likes to pull the arm hairs of the person sitting next to him. Repeatedly. For quite some time. It's an intriguing sensory experience, don't you know.
8) Some days are just crap-tastic. I mean literally, they just are. And the three younger boys seem to be in cahoots about when these days will happen and when they will let the poo fly.
9) Eating my mom's homemade taquitos with cilantro bean & corn salsa on top on a Sunday evening al fresco: pretty much perfection. Especially when followed with homemade Skor ice cream.
10) Summer can be really good, and peaceful, and pleasant.. Except when it is really bad, and hard, and endless.
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