Sunbeams

If you were in a small group of people you knew casually and, as an icebreaker activity, you were asked to arrange yourselves in a line in order of your birthdays without talking, how would you respond? 

I know there are many responses to things like this.  I personally love this sort of thing. There is a specific task to be done in a finite amount of time without the drain of small talk. My daughter was asked to do this and I’m not sure of her response or how she felt about it. But I do know that it wasn’t easy for her. 

She was telling me about it matter of factly, not with any negatively charged emotions. Maybe, just maybe, she is learning to accept herself without judgement at an astonishingly young age. Maybe she is just accustomed to things being challenging and she was being her regular persistent self. Maybe she was sitting back watching and trying to become invisible, or trying to figure out her approach. 

You see, she is dyslexic. 

An immediate response might be, “Well, that doesn’t have anything to do with reading.” And that is a correct statement. But dyslexia, I’m learning, is so much more than that. 

I have found it difficult trying to write about our journey with dyslexia because it is so all encompassing. And frankly, it wasn’t a journey I would have chosen. 

We live in a mostly wooded area and, at certain times, the sun will shine at a certain angle and these beautiful streaks of light will shoot through. Even amongst our busy lives, these streaks will stop all of five us and we just stare in awe. Either mesmerized by the beauty or trying to figure out how it happens, the light pierces us in ways we can’t explain.

This is sometimes how I feel about dyslexia. It’s always there and we just live our lives and accommodate it when we need to. But, every now and then, I recognize something so beautiful, so different, so engaging, so magnificent that it stops me in my tracks. 

We don’t often think about how we think. Or how our world is organized. Names of the months or names of the days of the week are actually quite arbitrary. We could call Monday “abacus” and it would still mean the same thing. It would still be the first day of the school or work week, the day after a family day or the day after a day of rest or the day after Church. 

This is an insight into how my daughter thinks. Her thinking is not linear; she thinks in three (or more) dimensions. She thinks in ideas and feelings and colors and smells. 

Trying to memorize anything without context is an exercise in futility for her. She is 13 and can not tell you the order of the months of the year. The closest approximation she can give you is the seasons. Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall. And these compartmentalized nomenclatures are probably just a bridge to communicate with the rest of us who have everything so ordered. 

If asked what are the first three months of the year, her thinking may go something like this: My brothers birthday, sledding outside, beautiful snow, white, red, Valentines Day, fondue, Florida, smell of the ocean.  And this is only if she has to put words to her thoughts. She thinks in ideas, in actions she has done or will do. She thinks in shades, pictures, emotions and scents. 

She not only thinks from left to right and right to left, but up and down and down and up and diagonally. When she was younger, I might say we were going to play with Elise on Tuesday. Tuesday meant nothing to her so she would clarify, “Is that swimming day or dance day?” Or find another way to describe the day. If I answered dance day then she may need to clarify further, “Is that the dance day Daddy is coming home or the next one?”  

Her being my starter child, I thought this was normal, if I even thought of it at all. When she asked to go to the green and white grocery store with grapes I knew exactly what she was talking about because it was the color of their sign and their logo had grapes. Again, either I didn’t think about it or thought it was normal. But the next day when we went to the store with my three year old, who was almost five years younger, she questioned, “I didn’t know we were going to Lunds.” We just thought it was quaint that she already knew the name of the store. 

Even now, at 13 and two weeks into her new tennis season and new coach, she doesn’t know his name. She knows his mannerisms, his quirks, she knows who he really likes and who he is still unsure about. She knows if he is off, ie: didn’t have enough lunch or maybe the heat is getting to him. Without being in her mind, I can only guesstimate much of this. But I think it frustrates her to have to encapsulate a person or a location or a month into only a name.

So when the students were using their fingers to count the months of the year to communicate with each other silently and trying to figure out birthdays, she was at a complete loss. She couldn’t tell you August was the 8th month if she was allowed to talk to the other kids, much less in silent gestures. I think someone finally just asked her birthday and put her in the line. 

Unfortunately, she must live in our world where things have to be named and days and months have to be ordered. Sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously she is learning to change the way she sees things. I know she must do this but it is a double edged sword. When I get a glimpse into the sunbeams of her inner self, I secretly hope that she never, ever will learn the names of the months in order. 

Dear Teachers

Well, here they are. My babies. Now you get them more waking hours than I do. And you get the fun hours, not when they are tired and crabby (for the most part.)  And you get them separately, away from their siblings, where there will be no bickering, punching, or kicking amongst the three.  Lucky you.

Lets just put this out there from the start: None of them will be your star students. I tried really hard to do some of the things you asked us to do for the summer. It started well enough but gradually went down hill as the summer progressed. Since they all have reading disorders, none of them like to read. I hate saying that, but I’m gradually accepting this truth. I made them all sit down and read as much as I could this summer. I saw them holding the books. One or more of them may or may not have been hiding some electronic device behind the covers of the book. But my seventh grader read both of the books she was required to read and she did the written summary for one of them.

I bought them each a grade level appropriate math workbook.  I might be able to return those and buy you each a coffee. But we took a big road trip and we each estimated how many miles we would drive in each segment, and we calculated the differences in each guess and we talked about our reasoning for each guess. We watched the gas prices and tried to figure out how much each day cost in gas. We also made a game of guessing how much each meal cost on the road. We may or may not have opted for ice cream for dinner because that was the best option financially. (ahem).

We also played the license plate game and found all the states except Delaware, New Hampshire and West Virginia. We talked about the capitols of all the states and talked a little about what states were close to other states. A friend of mine made a copy of the map of the United States and had her kids find the states on the map.  I wish I had thought of that but I didn’t. Then they would understand there really is no state called Idakota.  But I think its kinda cute she thinks that.  She will learn soon enough.

They were actually quiet and awed when in the presence of moose. They were within reach of a buffalo, but I wouldn’t let them touch it. They wondered for days what it would have felt like. They became eagle eyes and could spot a goat on a little ledge on the side of a mountain. They summited a mountain and knew what it was like to be on top of the world. Two of them loved it, but one didn’t and learned that, for now, she felt safer hugged by the valley.

They may not be super enthused to be back at school, but they are tan and sun kissed blond and healthy and had smiles on their faces this morning. They were outside every day this summer, but they also vegged in front of the TV many afternoons. They all took actual showers for the occasion..... in our house, not in the lake. We spent time on the lake and at many sports. We spent more time than ever together as a family since Daddy was out of work this summer. I hope they remember it as a good one.

We will do our best in school this year but it wont be perfect.  We know you want them to learn so much and you just can’t do it all in school. I know you don’t know how to respond to me when I say my kids may not always complete their homework. Please try to understand we still want to spend quality time with them. And they are playing some sports, which we think is good for them. But if they tell me they want to go fishing or play outside with friends or lay on the grass and watch the stars..... we will probably say go for it. Especially while the weather is still nice.  We also think its important they get enough sleep. Since they already spend 7 1/2 hours doing school work, we are trying to help them learn balance in their lives.  Don’t worry - they will learn accountability and responsibility.  We believe in that-- but we have lots of values we are trying to teach them while they are young and  there just aren’t enough hours in the day.

Finally, one of our biggest goals is to help them find their passions. Most of the time, they will all do exactly what you ask of them. If you ask them to read for so many minutes or so many pages, they will probably do it.  And they will stop right at that minute or right at that page. They have dyslexia and don’t enjoy reading; it is really, really hard for them. I would love to see them loving something they are doing; something where they lose track of time and pages and exactly what is assigned. Chaucer spent three years on and off trying to write to infinity. While this may have seemed ridiculous and we could tell him over and over it wasn’t possible, I remember when you gave him extra credit and excused him from his regular homework for him to work on this ridiculous task. Did you understand what you were doing? That he was learning to find and explore and be passionate about something? How did you understand his fascinating relationship with numbers and space? I love how you supported him like that.

So, here they are, with all their imperfections. I give them to you with a prayer, a bit of a sigh and a few tears. I’m excited to see what they are like when you give them back to me next June.

One Breakfast, Every Breakfast

I always try to look back and see how it started. For some reason, I think I can look back and find a point where something could have been different. 

This is not a lifetime story, but an every day, at least once a day story. 

Today, I heard Steve and Sally chatting in the kitchen while I was getting dressed in my bathroom. Soon after, I hear the bickering that includes Chaucer. 

It’s often the girls screams that get to me. Although I know deep down that they are struggling like Steve and I are struggling. What do I do when he walks by and hits me? I know its not hard; it doesn’t hurt.  It is aggravating and annoying, not abusive. What do I do when he snatches my cereal bowl? 

With us parents, he isn’t as physical.  It’s directed elsewhere. Kicking the counter as he sits on the stool.  We try to ignore it. But he does it louder and faster and louder and faster and LOUDER AND FASTER AND LOUDER AND FASTER AND LOUDER AND FASTER until we can’t ignore it and ask him to stop. And he will stop because I don’t think he really wants to be doing it.  And he really isn’t trying to be annoying.  

After he has stopped for about a minute, he will start tapping his cereal bowl with his spoon. First he taps the bowl, then the counter, then the cereal box. We are trying to ignore it, because it really isn’t that bad, and we don’t want to constantly be negative. But then it gets to be louder and faster and he’s tapping more things and wiggling his body and he just can’t stop and the milk ends up spilled all over the counter. 

So there is fussing about that and telling him to JUST BE STILL.  He is up because the milk is on the chair and walking around the room eating bites. We tell him to sit down and he sits down but forgets thirty seconds later and is trying to eat part of his breakfast while he is walking the top of the back of the couch as if on a high wire. He hasn’t eaten much, he is barely at an acceptable weight and soon his medicine will kick in. 

The medicine that will calm him. The medicine that will help him control his body.  The ironical (is that a word) medicine that is a stimulant, yet slows our boy to a normal speed. The medicine that we fret about giving him, wondering what the long term affects will be.  The medicine that makes him not hungry. The medicine that makes him go all day without eating.

His attention deficit disorder also makes him not able to read his body signals, which affects everything from eating to running to talking. So at some point, our happy boy turns instantly into a starving, crabby, not functioning human being because he hasn’t had anything to eat. 

With his medicine, he is successful at home and at school.  He doesn’t get yelled at, fussed at, and most interactions are positive and he is able to be the person he wants to be for about 6-8 hours. He has dyslexia, and school is not his strong suit, so this medicine is nearly a miracle in this sense. 

He is very physical, and very athletic.  His medicine slows him down, makes his reactions slower. This is not a bonus in the sports arena. Except it helps him focus, and stay in the game. 

He doesn’t like his medicine.  Not because of how it makes him feel, but because he knows we don’t like to give it to him.  He knows we are torn; we wish he didn’t need it. He wants us to be proud of him.  He wants to please us.  He senses that it is a bad thing to need this medicine. 

At a conference we attended yesterday, my eyes welled with tears at what my child is going through.  He wants to feel normal. He wants to settle down.  He wants to do well.  He doesn’t want to have a million negative interactions.  From what I understand, the serotonin (I think) needs to get from cell to cell to help us make good decisions, to help our brain function fully, to help us concentrate. In the ADHD brain, the serotonin can not make this transfer.  That is why stimulants help.  They stimulate the chemicals in the brain to make this transfer from cell to cell faster, which in turns make them able to make better judgements and stay focused. He literally needs stimulating to slow down. 

So when he is jumping, or kicking his foot on the counter, or tapping things, or chanting...... he is literally trying to jump start his body.  He is not trying to be annoying.  He doesn’t understand what is going on. 

So, back to him now not sitting at breakfast.  He has had several admonitions already and he hasn’t been up 15 minutes. He is upset and says he doesn’t want to eat. This happens many mornings.  His Dad is telling him he needs to eat.  He is a very little guy, and we know  he wont eat the rest of the day. They get into power struggles nearly every morning. 

If we give him his medicine before breakfast, he won’t eat at all.  The alternative is these struggles every morning. For several months, we had him sit at the table by himself to eat breakfast, away from the girls.  This seemed to work better for everyone, until I was talking with him one night in bed and he told me how much it hurts him not to be able to just sit and have breakfast with his family before he goes to school. He feels punished and isolated. 

I often feel like a terrible parent who can’t control her kids.  I have tried so many things. Somehow I need to change my attitude. I need to accept we have a different family and are fighting different challenges than most.  I am embarrassed that we can’t sit down and have a meal even though our kids are 12, 10, and 8. I need to let go of what others think. Almost every meal is a struggle and a negative, barking experience. 

My husband and I went to a talk on ADHD and executive function. They talked a lot about the make up of the brain and the things that didn't happen with ADHD - like self talk, and the synapses that didn't transfer from one cell to the other to help make less impulsive decisions and that adhd brains had normal feelings but not normal responses and other stuff like this. What we really wanted to know was how to keep Chaucer from dropping his dirty socks on his sisters breakfast plates and how to make sure he had shoes on by the time he got to school and how to teach him the difference between his backpack and a garbage can and how to walk past another person without trying to trip them.

I tried to google ADHD and always get descriptions and symptoms or technical brainy information.  Today I was searching for anecdotal experiences that might sooth my aching heart.  I couldn’t find any, so I sat down to write one of my own. I am having trouble closing this out.  There is no redemption here, no solutions. Just an ever present desire to help my family and my children. I take a minute to breathe deeply and show gratitude for our family. These challenges are better than walking through the world alone.

Dear Soccer Coaches

I have not been able to get Tuesday night out of my mind.  With a couple of days behind me, I am still troubled.

I contacted you about the conflicts with the dance and soccer schedule ahead of time.  Dance is a year long activity that she has been working on since last September. Her recital is June 9, which accounts for 10 total days of conflicts with soccer.  We attempted to work with you and each of her dance teachers to see what the best approach would be.  Your response was:  

I completely understand that all these girls have other commitments, but playing time is based on attendance and effort. 

If she can get to practices by 7:45 that would be great! 

Please let me share with you what Chloe’s day looked like on Tuesday.  She set her alarm and got up at 4:30 am so that she could work on her schoolwork because she knew she had a busy night and wanted to make the effort to get to soccer, per your comment about effort above. We did not know she set her alarm - it was done on her own.  She is in the middle of her yearly exams at school this week.  She has a severe dyslexia, among other learning differences, that makes school and exams much more difficult for her than for her school mates. 

I picked her up at 3:30 to go straight to her tutor, which she has to have for above learning issues.  When I picked her up at 5, I had her dinner ready and she ate part of it in the car while she changed into her dance clothes.  She danced from 5:30- 7:30.  I picked her up at dance, 2 minutes from our house, to drive the 20 minutes up to soccer practice.  (I thought I could get there in 15.)  She ate the rest of her dinner while she changed into her soccer gear and talked about how proud of her the coaches would be because she made such a huge effort to get to practice.  She had me drop her as close as possible, and ran all the way to where you were practicing.  

“YOU ARE REALLY LATE. TAKE A LAP” is the greeting she got  in front of her entire team and parents. 

Chloe is not an over scheduled child.  She does dance and soccer.  That’s it.  It just so happens that there are 10 days in the entire year where the two overlap.  She has looked forward to this soccer season all winter.  She was at the dome for winter training every week since January 2. Each week, she was hoping to meet the new coaches because they kept being told we will get the coaches soon. She has been at all the practices this spring with the exception of one when she was sick - including the ones in the rain when not many girls showed up. 

This is an 11 year old girls team.  It is not college, high school, or even an elite team. She will probably never play in college as you did.  But she will put in more effort than most.  And give more energy than most.  And she started this season with extreme enthusiasm and commitment. 

When the parents were told that we were getting coaches that had never coached before, I WAS NOT one of the parents complaining.  I said, “sometimes it’s good to have the new young ones because they have new ideas and are usually energetic and are not set in their ways.”  I said this understanding that you had plenty of experience as a player, and understanding that you would learn as the season goes. Additionally, I understood that you didn’t have children of your own, and would not have that insight to help guide you. 

And so I write this letter with the utmost respect. The girls are thrilled you are here.  They are excited for a new season. They think it is really cool that you have played so much and really look up to you.  They want to please you, and want to do good for you. You are a role model now. Please try to remember that these girls are eleven and have a lot going on in their lives.  There are school pressures and social pressures, family pressures and extra curricular pressures.  They are absolutely committed and excited to learn what you have to teach them.  If you start to think they aren’t committed or you are frustrated with them, please take a minute to remember the day Chloe had and the effort she put in to get there.

Thank you.

Blessings of a Bad Day

I am smart enough, or evolved enough to ask some questions.  Serious questions like, when I am in tears over everything and every one is upsetting me..... “What time of the month is it?” or like now, when I am sick, “Is everything as bad as it seems, darker than usual, because I am sick and under the weather?”  

I consider it progress that I ask the questions, even if I don’t answer them correctly.  I was really looking forward to this quiet week after the crazy week I had last week.  Honestly, I like both kinds of weeks - busy and full of action, and quiet non scheduled weeks.  I know there is no perfect time, and it is probably better that it happened this week, but being sick has really thrown me off my game.  

I actually love it when I am able to give in to sickness.  Just say, we can’t do it.  Whether its me or my kids, giving in, laying in front of the TV or in bed, canceling obligations, and just getting thorough it.  Although I fight this, I often embrace it when I must.  

But my world is weighing heavy on me now.  Substance abuse problems tearing families apart. Families that are close to us, our children.  Allegations of sexual abuse from families in our school.  Nasty divorces, like you wouldn’t believe.  Parents driving their kids under the influence.  Adults acting like teenage girls.  A suicide in my hometown.  The heavy, heavy weight of teaching my kids to navigate this world and wondering if I can do it. 

Oh yea, and this cold.  Which somehow seems harder than anything.  Yesterday, nothing was going right, you know those days?  Nothing big, but everything little.  I woke up to a very troubling email, on an issue that is constant but sometimes demands more.  I couldn’t write a thing... except a lengthy thank you letter for my event last week.  Being sick, I am even less able to multi task than usual, and spent the better part of the early afternoon dealing with learning issues at school.  Steve called from out of town and he was distressed that his meeting didn’t go well.  Last night, I needed help disciplining my son, who is so, so sweet and kind but has to be held responsible for his actions, or inactions.  I find it almost easier to fight my headstrong daughters than to help my son be responsible.  I didn’t know what to do, so I told him I was taking all of his new fatheads off his wall.  Well, that was a disaster and I ended up being the only one crying as he pulled them off his wall, saying “I’m really sorry, Mom.  Please be careful, Mom.” I wasn’t angry or out of control, I was just trying to find something that might mean something to him.  Also, trying to tune it, I broke my youngest daughter’s beloved violin, which she plays all the time. 

I was in tears when my husband arrived home from out of town exhausted, and he surprised me.  

“Do you want to go out? Take a drive somewhere?  I’ll handle this.”  

“No.  I can’t.  I feel so bad.”

“OK.  I’ll draw you a bath.”  What? Who is this? I vaguely remember this man I dated, then married years ago.

  

“There is already a kid in my bathtub.  Can’t go there.”  

“OK. Honey.  Just get in bed and read.  I’ll finish with the kids.”  I can’t get in bed to read because my son’s brand new 6 foot fathead is laying on my bed.  I just spent the last 30 minutes unsticking it because it rolled together when I took it off his wall and now I don’t know what to do with it.  

I get up to check on my older daughter who is in the bathtub.  I walk in my bedroom and see that the huge football player fathead is not on my bed anymore, and I quickly see that my youngest daughter has tried to clean my bed off for me, but has gotten caught up in the fat head, which is stuck to itself and her, and she is trying to deal with it without letting me know.  

I burst into tears with a wailing sound and plonk on my bed and hold my pounding head.    My older daughter is calling from the bathtub, “What’s wrong, Mom?”  And my younger daughter is silently trying to fight the sticky fathead herself.  If I were in a different state, I would have taken a picture.  My husband comes in and says, again, that he will fix it.  He tells me to go downstairs and I do.  

I play our old pinball machine with tears streaming down my face.  The tears are from being sick, frustrated, challenged with the day.  They are also from all the heavy things going on in families close to us.  They are fear from what has happened to the life we imagined having, fear of losing the closeness with my husband.  They are also, thankfully, tears of happiness and a little hope.  

One by one, they come down.  Chaucer says he is sorry and brings a picture he has made and offers to play with me.  I tell him that I don’t know what to do with him.  I am so proud of him.  He is such a good, kind, nice boy that I am so proud of.  I know you don’t mean to do the things you do.  I know it is the attention deficit disorder, but you are still responsible for your actions.  Mostly, I hug him and tell him how much I love him and he has tears in his eyes.

Sally comes down with a note apologizing for breaking the ornament and wrecking the fathead.  I kiss her head and say thank you, but I know they were accidents and she was just trying to be helpful and supportive.  

My husband comes down and tells me he beat the fathead and it is back on the wall perfectly.  He says he will take the violin to get fixed.  He is calm, and good with the kids.  He says he has already stepped in and handled some of the issues at school.  I am still crying, not sure why, but probably for all the reasons listed above.  And because it feels like it has been so long since I was supported, and it feels so good to have them caring and helping in a loving manner.  I haven’t felt this in so long.

I took a bath with candles and headed to bed, only to find a sweet letter written by my daughter.  It was folded like a letter addressed to Mama Sweetgirl Countryman.  I started crying again.  Maybe some of the things I do sink in.  Maybe they do matter.  I wrote her letters most every day at camp with these salutations.  Chloe Mama’s Baby Countryman, or Chloe Dancer Extraordinaire Countryman, or Chloe Wild Girl Countryman.  She never said anything about it and I never asked.  And now, six months later, she addresses it to me like that.  She noticed.  

She wrote how much she loved me.  She also said she asked Chaucer if he was upset about the fatheads and he responded, “Yea.  I guess.  But I’m more upset to disappoint Mom and see her upset.”  This fills me because she was taking care of her brother when I wasn’t able to, and it scares me because his heart is so fragile.  

Finally she said, I’m glad you are writing now.  I love having a mother that writes.  It makes me proud.  If you write a kids book, I will be the first to read it.  Dont. Know. How. To. Write. How. This. Makes. Me. Feel.    

I have been working so hard, fighting really to find my place.  I haven’t found it, and times are not always or often easy now.  I miss my children terribly now that they are all gone all day.  Too much around them is work, rather than relationship building.  I struggle to find a new path for myself, and trying to redefine myself puts unexpected pressures on my marriage.  

Now, I find myself thankful for that  horrible day yesterday.  I would not trade it.  I was so depleted that I had to depend on my family.  I had to let them be there for me.  My husband was soft and kind and calm.  My kids were amazing. Oh, what it is to feel.  To feel pain and frustration, and sadness.  And to feel love and support and kindness.  And to know that not everything is wrong in the world. 

Especially our little world.  

Praying for Grace...and More Bad Dreams

Chaucer has attention deficit disorder.  It is fairly severe.  After I learned more about it, he perfectly fits the standard definition, a classic case.  His body simply can’t be still.  

Since he was able to get out of his crib, he moves through the night.  I would say he doesn’t wake up, but, now that he is almost 9, he can tell you what time he moved from his bed.  He has found different spots over the years - in the hallway, on the couch, in our doorway.  But his most visited spot is on the floor next to me.  He curls up in a little pile of blankets, and sleeps.  My husband used to fight this, but it was a battle I made him give up, because he was fighting not only Chaucer, but me. 

My son has never been a snuggler, which has led to hours of me wondering where I went wrong.  Now, cerebrally, I understand that he can’t be still, his body feels trapped.  He gets anxious. His building of his little nest and need to be close to me fed me as much as it fed him.  He wanted to just be close. To know that I was close, and I needed to know he needed me as his mother.  Often he is gone before morning, without my ever being aware he was there.  When I wake, I know.  I can smell him, feel him, but he is gone, like a phantom.  In the winter, he moves around 5:30 or 6 into the living room where he turns on the gas fireplace and curls on the floor and dozes.  In the summer, he often goes outside.  This summer, his choice spot was in front of the tomatoes he was growing.   

Steve travels many nights, and I often find my room littered with kids or their trails.  There may be one or two on the floor, or one or two in my bed.  Or a blanket or bear or doll left behind that sells out my kids.  This is a terrible habit they have, and I know I should do more to stop it.  The girls don’t do it when my husband is in town, because he gets grumpy about it.  Chaucer, however faithfully, usually visits for a few hours even when Steve is in town. 

Somewhere in the deep of the night last night, there was a body snuggling, maybe.  It felt like an an assertive, if not aggressive snuggle. It was as if Chaucer were trying to literally crawl back into my womb.  His head was in my neck, and his knees burrowed into my stomach, and he grabbed my arm to wrap around his body. He wasn’t crying or talking, he never does.  Truth be told, I am not a cuddler when I am sleeping either.  In my half dream, barely alert state, I fell back into a full sleep.  

Around six, my older daughter comes in our room to take a shower.  (Yes, our kids have their own shower, and there is a third shower in our house.  And another half bath with a sink.  But they all shower and bathe and brush teeth in our bathroom.)  I stir and something feels weird.  Was I dreaming I was pregnant?  I feel pregnant.  Then I realize my son is still not only in bed with me, but still locked into his position next to me, like a baby kangaroo in a pouch.  

I am awake enough to enjoy it, relish it really.  I have to go to the bathroom so bad, but I don’t want to lose this.  I want to rub his head, rub my hands all over his little body, kiss him, and eat him really.   But I don’t move.  He rolls over onto his back and stretches out.  Only his left arm and left leg are touching me now.  I really have to go to the bathroom, but I know this is borrowed time.  I let myself rub his head, and maybe a leg, and an arm.  Just like that, he is tossing and moving, a prisoner to the lack of hormone connections in his brain.  He somehow flips into a position where his head is on the other side of the bed, but both of his feet are on my stomach, and he stills again.  

His little feet move with a twitch or two, just as they did when I was pregnant.  But they are big feet, warm feet.  It’s like a fire in bed, warming my heart.  I know he needs me, loves me.  He has never been expressive.  He was never the little mama’s boy, never the three year old that wrote notes saying I love you.  He did however used to say that he was going to marry Mommy, so I hold on to that.  

I asked why he was there, even though I know the answer.  It has happened before.  “I had a bad dream.”  

“What was it?”  

“I don’t remember now.”  

Sometimes he remembers, sometimes he doesn’t.  Because of his over activity, people always assume he is tough and not needy.  Even I do this sometimes.  He has always had the worst dreams, or needed the most comfort.  Movies have always scared him.  Even now, one of those Christmas movies - is it Rudolph? has a scary snow monster that prevents him from watching it. 

I love the kids in my bed and in our room.  I know more than ever now that it will not last.  Soon enough, the little nest by my bed will stay empty forever.  Already, there are nights when it is.  But I think thats more getting ready for Santa.  

Last night, a friend posted a picture of her daughter who is fifteen.  She looked.... well, grown.  My daughter is 11 1/2.  Less than 4 years from that.  My son will be nine in January.  How much longer do I have him coming to me in the night?  Each time, I wonder if it was the last.  I am glad I think like this, but I am also glad I don’t know the answer.  The answers to hard questions.. like when was the last time I held them on my hip? or the last time I nursed? or when will be the last time I see their little naked bodies? Or the last time they say “lellow” for  yellow or “becktast” for breakfast?  

I don’t think I could bear to know these answers. 

Thank God I am learning that they will always need me.  Of course, it will look different as they grow older.  May God give me the grace to embrace their changes and grow in my motherhood.  

And, naughtily, I pray for a few more bad dreams.  

A Man's Reach Should Exceed His Grasp

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what's a heaven for? 

                         - Robert Browning

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter’s teacher was reviewing her reading for the month.  They are required to read a certain number of pages each month.  This started to annoy me, but if you put more than one second of thought into it, you realize there are no perfect ways to quantify something as elusive, personal and individual as a love of reading. 

Of course, she had read the required amount.  This is a battle we have never had to fight with her.  I am not talking about reading, but getting her work done.  She is a hard worker, very conscientious.  

I could picture her teacher, sitting on her stool, at the front of the room, with her roll away table pulled up to her, maybe with a computer, maybe not.  Her teacher has taught 5th grade at this school for 28 years, but doesn’t look like she has been teaching that long.  Her wisdom helps me believe, though.  I wouldn’t call her soft spoken; she is decidedly strong and confident in anything she says.  However, she never raises her voice.  

Chloe had most recently read the first in a series of books.  She told me that her teacher had told her to stay away from those books - they were too hard for her.  Although Chloe received 100% in the overall category, her teacher had marked that she had not chosen appropriately leveled books to read.  

I’m absolutely positive that the teacher did this discreetly, not only because I know her, but because that would have been the first thing Chloe told me if it weren’t the case.  

She picked the book because many of her friends were reading it - one of the biggest reasons I choose to read a book. It is fun to talk about with your friends, a way to bond.  

Dyslexia has hampered her ability to bond, to be a part of the group in so many ways.  Last year, her teacher told us she was passing notes in class to the point of disruption.  I have no doubt that she didn’t appreciate our inability to hide our joy in her joining the ranks of the girly note writers.  For years, her ability and then her confidence was a barrier to this  important social step.  

Every mother knows how heartbreaking it is to watch your child hurt and not be able to do anything to assuage the pain.  The knowledge of how hard she has tried, and struggled with reading over the years, reminds me now that this wound is, after all these years, still open and raw. 

As Chloe shared this with me, I listened.  A sensitive subject, always, but there was more.  A new thread.  A new discovery about herself.  And the world.  “I understood most of the book.  Maybe not all of it.  But I finished it, and I enjoyed it.”

A pause.  Thoughts swirling in her head.  I don’t push.  I don’t try to fix it or comfort her.  

“You know, I don’t think I would have read the next one anyway.  But,  it doesn’t feel good being told that I can’t read more.” 

Oh so thats how you feel.  Wow.  I might have expressed those feelings more like this:  “Expletive you.  It’s a free country and I will read it if I want to.” 

I am not going to let this one sentence take over, but it deserves a nod.  There is so much in that nugget.  She took the information, and processed it.  Chloe trusts her teacher immensely, so values what she says. Instead of letting her defenses take over in a vulnerable time, she chewed on it.  She may have realized that her teacher was right.  She moved on, acknowledging the teacher’s authority.  She acknowledged her feelings, but was able to stay objective.  She would not read the series just because her friends were reading it. She tried their suggestion, and realized it didn’t work for her, for whatever reason.  Their is so much valuable information in her observation: trust, insight, strength, processing, expression, courage.  

Man, am I glad I don’t allow electronic devices in our car these days.  I may not have had this conversation with her. 

Within a week, my son, who is also dyslexic, had a similar experience with his teacher.  He was walking up to check out a book in the library and his teacher asked to look at it.  According to him, she shook her head and said, “I don’t think so, Chaucer.”  

He is not as much of a reporter as my girls, so the mere mention of this lets me know how it has affected him.  He had started the conversation with, “Have you ever heard of a book called The Fourth Stall?” 

He doesn’t like to talk too much about these things, so I casually acknowledged, “That doesn’t sound like it felt very good to you,” and I googled it on the computer and pulled up a You Tube video of the author answering questions about the book.  We watched the interview, his attention never wavering.  At the end he said in an apparently sassy tone, but I know the voice was protecting him, “Yeah, that sounds good but too bad I can’t read it.”  

He was still hurt.  I couldn’t kiss this one away, so I continued.  I pulled up sample pages on Amazon, pulled him in my lap, and asked him to read.  It took less than a paragraph for him to realize that his teacher was right in her assessment, if not soft in her delivery.  

“O.K. This is too hard.  Could we get the book and you read it to me, Mom?” 

Of course, my son.  

Why I Have Been Writing Only Emails and Making Love to My Calendar

A few weeks ago, Lindsey posted about Life’s polarities.  I’ve often thought of this before, but haven’t written or talked much about it.  This could be one of my biggest roadblocks to becoming a good, authentic author.  Many times, I don’t understand that I think or feel certain ways until I hear other people expressing it.  But sometimes, like this time, I am scared to admit it.  Scared to put it out there.  Scared of being grouped with the "flip floppers". Scared of being called out on my ambiguities.  Scared that people will think I am nuts and throw me in a psych unit.  Because that’s how I would phrase it too. 

I started this post with the admission that I am schizophrenic.  And I didn’t like it.  Using real frightening words in the wrong context or with humor scares me too much now. Much as Attention Deficit Disorder or Plantar Fasciitis or Dyslexia used to do. I didn’t want to use that word because I don’t want the universe to teach me a lesson about what that word really means.  

My grandmother, the feisty one, loved music.  She appreciated music, and appreciated those who appreciate music, more than anyone I have ever known. She said there would be far less good music in the world if there weren’t those around to appreciate it. I use this as a preface to say that I am often so frustrated that I can’t express what I am feeling as well as others can.  Why can Lindsey come up with  this:

I’m particularly aware right now of the intensely opposed polarities that exist, both uneasily and audaciously, in every single minute of my life.  It is by turns exhausting and reassuring to hold these contradictions in my hand.

 and I come up with this:

For the last couple of months I have only been writing emails and making love with my calendar, but whenever I can shift into my other personality, I will be back to writing some great stuff. 

Honestly, I meant what she said.  I just can’t get my exporter to work like that.  Instead of throwing in the towel when looking my mediocrity in the face, I will appreciate her words and insights.  I will be thankful that she can express it where it makes so much sense to me, even if it  doesn’t look all that neat and packaged in my life.  

Anyway, my polarity of the moment.  The past couple of months, not only has this blog for the five of you seen little writing, my books have seen less. And  my photography. I am beginning to miss them, the beauty, the ambiguity, the no right answers.  

I have been busy, not too busy, but the perfect amount of busy keeping my life in order.  I have been working on a school project and I am ON TOP OF ALL OF THOSE EMAILS. I respond to 80 percent of emails that need it, and even to some of those that require no response.  I have missed some appointments, but not because I was spacey or over scheduled.  Apples little conundrum introducing icloud erased my calendars and I simply didn’t have everything in my head.  Our calendar has been perfectly balanced for the most part.  I put much thought into every single item I type into our calendars.  It takes more time, up front, to think through the implications.  I have not been overwhelmed.  I still don’t think you would mistake me for a Type A person, but maybe.  Just maybe. (Who am I kidding?)

I like this person.  I like being the one who knows where things are, gets to places early, responds right away, knows that the projects are all running along smoothly, all papers filed, all documents written and edited, budget all set, checkbook balanced to the penny.     She doesn’t play a lot, and is always “doing” something.  She is on top of all the paperwork for the kids at school, but may not know if they had a good day or what they learned or if their feelings were hurt by a friend.  This me makes sure all the kids homework is done and ready to be turned in the following day.

My other self has ideas swirling all the time, sort of like the Pigpen character in Peanuts, except the dirt is ideas.  Seriously, one day my husband asked me what I wanted to do that day.  I explained that I always have so many ideas that I don’t know where to start.  He told me to write them down.  In less than five minutes, I had 96 ideas on the paper.  He just looked at the paper, then looked at me, then back at the paper.  He wasn’t reading it.  Then he looked back at me and said, “Is this stuff in  your head like this all the time?”  “Yep.”  He shook his head, put the paper down, and walked away saying, “Wow.”  

This person has 15,000 emails, and millions of pictures on three hard drives and one novel and one memoir started and hundreds of stories.  But not much finished.  This person walks in the woods with her kids and plays games with them and sings and laughs with them, but may forget to make dinner until we are all starving.  She laughs and giggles and keeps the kids up late on nights their dad is gone and sometimes has sleepovers in her room on school nights -- but hates the mornings after and is short tempered when the kids are crabby from too little sleep. This Mom tells the kids it doesn’t matter if they do their homework if they are playing outside in the fresh air, because these days are numbered and in November in Minnesota we are living on borrowed time before the snow comes anyway.  

My husband really likes the me I have been the last couple of months.  As I said, I like it like that too.  But I am missing the other me.  The one who writes and takes pictures and has a little more fun.  You know, the one with the really messy house and is unorganized and sometimes tells the kids to grab a dirty pair of jeans to wear to school because I didn’t wash any yet. She is begging to make an appearance.  

Yes, this is my current, as well as steadfast, polarity.  I have never been good at honoring both sides of me simultaneously.  I swing from one to the other, simply unable to be both at one time.      

A Nod to Me, Transitions, and My Daughter

I know, I know.  There are so many things wrong with this.  I do realize how inappropriate it is.  A friend posted this on facebook and I did not repost it, so as not to offend the sensibilities of other family and friends. 

On my favorite mornings, I go to Starbucks with no agenda, grab a cup of coffee, and peruse some blogs.  Sometimes I read comments and click on a new website and an entire new world opens up.  Today I skimmed Renegade Conversations and found this quote: 

"Just being yourself, being who you are, is a successful rebellion."
(Author Unknown)

This can be tricky for me because I have so many selves, so many different parts of me that are becoming more and more compartmentalized.  I can be outgoing and chatty, or I can be silent, introspective and removed.  I can be very productive in many things, and I can sit in front of the computer and accomplish nothing.  I can be funny, but not on demand.  I can be the mother everyone wishes they were, but I can’t sustain it for 24/7. 

I haven’t posted in a couple of weeks; I guess I decided I was taking a September Break.  I have been busy with all September brings, and each year it hits me like a ton of bricks because I always forget the effort that merging into a new routine involves. I recently read something that stuck with me.  I can’t seem to find it again, but it was about transitional times.  I think the writing was referring to bigger transitions than just back to school, but I went with it.  The gist of it was..... just roll with it, don’t rush it.  So often, this time of year, I hear from parents, friends, teachers, administrators... to just get in a routine, settle in, and let’s move on. This piece said to honor the transitional time for what it is.  A chance to stretch and learn. 

So, I haven’t posted because I have been embracing the transition.  Our lives are not perfect and frankly, far from what we want them to be like.  However, I think our Take Back My Family project is starting to pay off.  I wanted to be able to quantify our changes and maybe I will do that again in the future.  For now, we feel better.  The energy is better in our house.  I am laughing with my husband more. The kids are playing together more and not as harried.  

I am honoring the juxtaposition that we were swimming in the lake last weekend to cool off, and last night I was covering our tomato and cucumber plants  to protect them from the freeze.  

I am also constantly awed, amazed and enamored with the educational challenges that my daughter must endure due to her dyslexia, as compared to my relatively easy flight through the schooling of my youth. 

So, the inappropriate photo above is a nod to me, transitions, and my daughter.  It is my more irreverent self that is rarely expressed here. It is a nod to timeless transitions ,whether they  are seasonal, or once in a lifetime.  It is a nod to my daughter, who fights daily for things that I never had to work for and never appreciated.