Overcome

My eight-year-old son deals with a lot of extra challenges. He was speech-delayed when he was younger. He copes with symptoms of sensory integration dysfunction, which make his world a frightening place. He has a tough time with impulse control and emotional regulation. And I'm pretty certain a psychologist will be calling me soon to say that he has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Top that off with having a younger brother who has autism, and that's a full plate.

At times I worry that his self-esteem is taking serious hits from all these challenges. So I tell him that he's great. It's a fine line to walk. You don't want to create entitlement in your child. But you also need your child to know, as deeply as humanly possible, that you think he or she is terrific.

Last year, when I met with his second grade teacher, I listened to the long list of what he struggles with. Group interaction. Friend-making. Finishing a project later when time has run out. I walk in to a parent/teacher meeting with thick skin, but it gets thinned pretty quickly. Thankfully, his teacher understood my little man well. She pulled out his most recent test scores and said,

"It's pretty evident that academics will never be a problem for him."

I hadn't realized that I was holding my breath until that moment. What a relief. And what admiration I felt! He could hold himself together, with all those challenges, and perform beautifully.

Last weekend we attended his Cub Scout pack meeting. The leaders had planned a Newlywed Game-type of activity. The parents left the room while the boys (who had never seen the show before) answered a few questions. Then the parents were brought back in.

I got the first question right, spot-on. Then I missed all the others. My poor little guy had a hard time controlling his frustration at me and at the game in general. I could just imagine what he was thinking-- doesn't mom know all about me? Then it was the scouts' turn to leave the room.

The questions were tough for me to answer. One of them was, "Who do you (the scout) think is your parent's hero?" I didn't know who to choose, so I wrote down, "Grandma Sue." Susan is the name of both of my son's grandmothers, so I increased my odds a bit.

As we played and missed question after question (okay, we got one more right) he grew more and more frustrated. I had to talk him down after each wrong answer. He was tired, it was the first week of school, and everyone was staring at him. I couldn't blame him. He was just barely hanging in there by his fingernails. Then came the parent's hero question.

He looked at me and wrinkled his brow. Bit his lip. Hemmed and hawed, then said quietly, "I'm not sure that this is right..." I encouraged him to answer anyway. Who did he think was my hero? He answered,

"Is it... me?"

All the parents in the room melted and I threw my arms around him. He was still upset that he had answered incorrectly, but in my world, he was the winner.

Rainbow

When you have a special needs child, I think you worry more than typical parents about your child's future. You hope that he or she will be happy and will find a place in society. But you also hope-- really hope-- that they will end up self-sufficient. Some day. Hopefully, before you yourself end up toothless and cranky.

So I try to foster the idea that some day my little guy will have a job and a family. But I want to stay realistic. I don't want to go too far and say, "You can be anything you want to be..." when, frankly, even typical kids can't expect that. But there is always hope for bigger and better things.

And like all parents, I wonder if anything gets past the ears and into the brains of my kids. I try. And today, I received a confirmation. I think.

My little guy came home from his second day of school and was seeking sensory input. Sometimes he runs into walls, sometimes he jumps off the furniture, sometimes he pummels his siblings. Today, it was,

"Can I have a folded up, soft blanket?"

A much less destructive choice!

"Which one do you want?" I asked.

"A snuggly one." Hmm. Need more detective work.

"Can you tell me what color it is?" I asked.

"Any color it wants to be."

He thrills when he sees me crack up. It didn't help me choose the right blanket, but it sure made my day.

Doppelganger

Last weekend I helped out a friend's wedding. We've known each other since 1997, when we studied overseas in the Middle East. We both developed a passion for things Middle Eastern, leading us both to related studies. I settled down sooner rather than later and started my family, while she continued her studies in Africa and elsewhere.

We both ended up in the Washington, D.C. area and have been able to see each other periodically. While here, she fell in love with a Samoan gentleman. I was excited to be a part of the wedding festivities, as a gopher or simply the grease in the wheels of a big event (a role I enjoy immensely.) Friends and family spent the days leading up to the event running around in preparation. We decorated the hall of the church on Friday evening, where I got to meet many of her friends.

The bride and I have some physical characteristics in common. We are both tall, with long dark hair. I thought the similarities stopped there, but not so. According to her mother, we both walk with the same gait and mannerisms. Someone even said our voices sound similar. Our commonalities turned out to be disconcerting; not for me, but for everyone else.

I lost track of how many times I was mistaken for the bride. People would see me out of the corner of their eye, turn and ask a question, then freeze, startled. A woman came up to me from behind and patted me on the back. As she asked how I was doing, I turned and smiled, already amused. She stopped midsentence and apologized. Friends mistook me. Her brothers mistook me. Her mother did, twice.

Even the groom. Not once. FOUR times. One of those times was on the actual wedding day, when she was in her white gown and I was in bright yellow. He was so embarrassed, but I was flattered.

After all, she is a great woman. She is beautiful. She carries her height proudly. She is accomplished, optimistic, and happy. She waited patiently to marry her husband and is now a step-mom to an energetic seven year old boy with extra challenges. For the complications that dealing with an ex-spouse entail, I admire her. She is awesome.

I'll gladly be mistaken for her, any day.

Spectacle

My three boys are noisy, boisterous, messy types. I love them and they love me, but man, they are a handful. They haven't seemed to notice the attention they draw when we go out in public. Granted, I try to keep our public appearances to a minimum.

But they do need to eat. I usually dread visits to the grocery store or Costco-type places. The noise seems to echo and there is always a large audience for their shenanigans. I have become very efficient at getting in and getting out. They have learned to never ask for something because I won't buy it for them. I am a woman on a mission, and that mission is to get out.

Despite my efforts, there are times when we are stationary for a moment. This gives people time to pause and make comments to me. Usually they are funny or sympathetic. Every once in a while I get a critical remark that I simply do not acknowledge. But the boys are oblivious. Or so I thought.

Recently we were in a store and I was doing my utmost to keep the gaggle in line while shopping. I had ::cringe:: paused in my deliberations as a man approached us. He smiled and said, "Boy, you've got your hands full!" I gave my usual ha-ha-aren't-you-clever laugh and turned back to my shopping. Then, my observant eight year old asked,

"Mom, why do people always say that?"

I guess they listen more than I thought they did. If only that would work for their chores...

Hogwarts or bust

We moved our young family, including our two-month-old firstborn, across the country in the middle of winter. It was a dreary time for me. I had no friends nearby and the closest family member was 2,000 miles away. There were no sidewalks adjacent to our apartment complex, which didn't matter, because there was nothing within walking distance, anyway. To top it off, my husband would take our only car to work each day. I was very, very alone.

Our baby was anxious from the start. He had trouble nursing and trouble sleeping. I spent (no kidding) a good eight hours a day in the rocking chair. My friend was the television, and there were days when I didn't change out of my pajamas. When I think about my life now, how I rarely sit down during the day, I have a hard time remembering what it was like. I do remember the loneliness. But I also remember a bright spot.

I decided, a few months into my solitude, to track down just who this Harry Potter character was that I had heard about. I brought home a copy of the Sorcerer's Stone from the local library. I settled in to the routine of feeding and rocking, but this time, I had a new friend nearby.

I fell in love with the book in the first few pages (it had me at 'a completely owl-free morning') and I devoured it. I breezed through the second book as well. The third book helped me escape during a visit to the in-laws' family where my baby nephew was mortally ill. The fourth I read aloud to my husband into the wee hours of the morning.

I had found a friend. Thank you, J.K. Rowling.

I and millions of readers watched as Harry grew up and dealt with increasingly desperate circumstances. I laughed, cried, and held my breath. Each book release was fun to anticipate.

I watched our firstborn grow up as well. So it wasn't a big surprise when he approached me and asked permission to start reading the series. I was hesitant at first because I knew how the series matured and I was unsure that he would be ready for those themes. But then his teacher, on his progress report, noted that he was only interested in non-fiction books. Here was a chance to foster a love of fiction. I said yes. Thank you, J.K. Rowling.

A few months ago I noticed that our firstborn was unable to see things at a distance, so I made an appointment with the optometrist. My husband and I talked it up in the days leading to the visit. After all, if both mom and dad wear glasses, so could he! He was excited and nervous at the visit. We picked out the frames and ordered the lenses.

A week later we returned to pick up his glasses. As we sat down at a small table to have them adjusted, he put them on and turned to look at himself in the mirror. My throat was dry and I held my breath. It was all I could do to keep from biting my fingers in fear. Here was my baby, my eight year old, about to see himself in a new light. Would he love it? Would he hate it?

He examined his face for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at himself in the mirror, winking, while a huge grin spread across his face. I almost fell out of my chair. "What?" I asked, giggling.

"I look like Harry Potter!" he proclaimed.

Thank you, J.K. Rowling.

A second career

Nearly nine straight years of constant diapering and I am ready for my youngest to be potty-trained. I am ready to be done. I would say that I can "almost taste it," but that would be gross. We have begun the training, complete with numerous tiny underpants and an enormous bag of M&Ms.

Three weeks into his training, he has only approached me once to tell me that he needs to go. I am waiting for the light to turn on, for that elusive cerebral "click", for that heralding of the end of diapers. I will celebrate! It will be earth-shaking! A monumental moment! We'll run with glee to the nearest commode and I will dance.

Yesterday I loaded the boys into the car and headed to Leesburg, a city about seven miles to our west. My oldest was attending science class for the week. He was learning about electromagnetic cars and trains, and he was loving it, my baby enginerd. The class was held at Leesburg's community center, next to a bucolic little park complete with a stream. I had whiled away every afternoon that week at the park with my two younger boys, and today was going to be no different.

I settled onto a bench and watched my little guys tear around the park. Suddenly we heard the sound of a helicopter. I looked up and noticed it was a police copter. I watched it circle, again, and again... and again. The circle got tighter and we appeared to be almost at the center. Then we heard sirens, more, and more, and more sirens. I grew up in the L.A. area, so it didn't really faze me. My boys just thought the copter was cool.

A little while later I saw community center employees heading my direction. They informed me that there had been an armed robbery and that the community center had been placed in lock-down mode, with my oldest inside. There was no way I was going to leave now, but I still wasn't too worried. An employee watched with apprehension as I stretched out my legs and folded my arms behind my head. "I'm from L.A.," I said. He shrugged and left.

Later I learned that the robbery had happened a half mile from the park. The perpetrator had unsuccessfully tried to rob a jewelry store, shot at someone outside the store, and fled to a nearby residential street. He broke into a house, tied up the couple inside, and stole their Jeep. He fled in the Jeep to another residential street. At this point I heard and saw the cop cars race past the park, but didn't know what was going on. I still wasn't going anywhere with my baby in lock down. I did, however, examine the park for good hiding places.

When the suspect arrived at the second residential street (a mile from our park,) he abandoned the Jeep and broke into a home of an elderly couple. They dialed 911 right before he took them hostage. I did not know this at the time, of course. I just knew that I wasn't going anywhere. Then, my toddler ran up to me.

"I need to go potty, mommy!"

The moment! The moment I had been waiting for! At the worst time EVER! All bathrooms were Fort Knox-ed during the moment that was to mark the beginning of the end of diapers! Finally, I was motivated enough to leave. My oldest was safe with his physics teacher and I was ready to dodge all law-enforcement vehicles in my way. We went to the outlet mall and did our business. And my oldest was released on schedule.

Why did we not just use the nearest tree? I didn't want my little guy to end up on the evening news sans pants. No, really, my dad's minimalist camping training is too deeply ingrained. I can't let my kids do their business that close to a running stream. Plus, my son hasn't learned to take care of business standing up yet. Man, he's going to hate me for this post.

Epilogue: The hostage situation lasted until ten o'clock p.m. when the suspect surrendered peacefully. Apparently the negotiators did their job extremely well and talked him down. And after raising three boys, I think that just might be my next line of work.

Gems

My children delivered all three of these gems within a five minute time period, so I thought I'd share the chuckles with you:
___________

3 year old, looking outside during lunchtime: "Mommy, the sky is not dark. They sky is on."

___________

6 year old: "Mom, what is daycare?"

Me: "It's for if both mommy and daddy went to work all day. We would take you to a place where the people would take care of you until we got home from work."

6 year old: "Is that called jail?"

___________

8 year old: "Mom, if I lick my elbow joint, it means I want to change the subject."

::lick::