Family

Special Needs Scavenger Hunt

By / November 18, 2015 / 2 Comments

I’ve spent the last eighteen years participating in an educational scavenger hunt and I’ve only just now recognized that was what I was dealing with. By age three it was obvious that Link was a special needs kid. It was also obvious that he was friendly, happy, loving, and smart. With the first diagnosis of language delay, I began seeking for things that would help him. I made up games, bought games, and worked with Link regularly. All along the way we had teachers, psychologists, and administrators who were very helpful to us. They gave me pieces I needed and helped us find our way forward. Yet we still spent a lot of time stumbling around because for all the help we did get, there was other help that we didn’t get because we didn’t know the right keywords to unlock those options.

A year ago depression loomed large in Link. He was desperately lonely and overwhelmed with trying to manage a full load at public high school. It seemed like we were constantly readjusting his schedule, dropping classes, switching to different ones. We were trying to find a balance, a way that he could do homework before he left the school grounds so that home time could be free of school stress. When I finally was able to identify depression as the problem, I called for a meeting with his school counsellor. It was like the word “depression” was a key that opened up a cupboard in her brain. “We could put him in home health.” She said. Then she described to me a mode of schooling which was something I’d been trying to describe for at least two years. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help me before, but until I said “depression” she didn’t make the connection I needed.

I know a lot of parents shy away from seeking diagnosis for their special needs kids. I’ve done it myself. There are so many fears attached to diagnosis and the worry that the child will be labelled or pigeonholed. That has not been my experience. Instead I’ve found that a diagnosis is a passcode that opens up options. It is a lever which pries open pathways. I thought that because everyone was so willing to help, that I was getting all the help I needed. But that became less and less true the further along we got in Link’s education. At the high school level, staff is compartmentalized and specialized. There are lots of options, but it falls to the parents to seek out the options and ask for them. Parents have to be advocates. This requires lots of work, and it is exhausting.

I really recognized the scavenger hunt when Link was diagnosed as having autism one week before his eighteenth birthday. The diagnosing doctor handed me a folder with the phone number of a parent advocate and information sheets on three different transitional programs which might help Link. At that moment I thought how naming depression had led me to scheduling an appointment with a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist had given me information about autism advocacy groups and had suggested that getting a definitive diagnosis regarding autism was probably worth the time and expense. He also referred me to NAMI, who runs education and support for mental illness. I went to a support group for the families of those with mental health issues and they suggested that I sign Link up for Voc Rehab and the WIA youth program. So we did that. Multiple places encouraged me to finally plunk down money with a diagnostician and say “Is he autistic? I’ve seen autistic things since he was little, but I’ve also seen distinctly non-autistic things. I’m tired of not being sure.” The answer was that yes, he definitely is, and the diagnostician was frustrated that it hadn’t been identified when Link had been in kindergarten.

This is how it goes. One piece of information leads to another. There is no central source that knows all the options. Or if there is, I somehow always manage to arrive there last instead of first. By the time I was in touch with the parent advocate, I’d already heard of all the options she mentioned. We’ve still got more hunting to do. At this moment we’re waiting on funding from Voc Rehab. I’m waiting for a call back from the school district about their transitional program. I’m also waiting for a call from an adult educational specialist who can explain the GED process to us, because maybe that is the way to go. We’ve accepted the fact that Link will not be graduating with his class, even though his school counsellor would really like for that to happen. Sorting it all is a huge burden in time and emotional energy. It always has been. I constantly feel like I could be doing more and simultaneously I worry that I’m over helping.

Last night I went to a Relief Society dinner. This is the women’s organization of my church. I spent quite a lot of time visiting with a woman in my neighborhood who also has an autistic son. We’ve known each other for years, but me speaking about Link’s recent diagnosis opened up a huge well of shared experiences that we spent an hour talking through. She listened to me and was frustrated on my behalf that I spent so long without access to autism-specific resources that would have made the journey easier. As part of the decorations for the dinner there were anonymous notes on the wall where people wrote about the kind things that others have done for them. One of the notes said that I’d pushed to get her daughter into early intervention. I feel like I should know who wrote that, but I don’t. It could have been one of a hundred different conversations that I’ve had with people about special needs resources.

Last week I got a message on facebook from a friend who had read my post on Finding the Right Therapist. She asked me questions about therapy and children. I gave her what answers I had, but mostly those answers were in the form of additional questions she should ask and some direction for whom she should be asking. Thus I become a stopping point on someone else’s scavenger hunt to figure out how to help a child who is struggling.

I must admit that I spent some time this morning looking back at my past struggle and grieving that no one thought to give me answers that would have helped. I went ahead and let myself feel that grief. I know that I don’t want to spend a lot of time and emotional energy looking back with regret, but I have to feel it before it can pass and I am able move on from it. Moving forward is what is necessary because the scavenger hunt continues. I suspect it will always continue for Link in one way or another as he tries to navigate a neurotypical world while being who he is. Though hopefully we can reach a point where the hunt is not a major feature of daily life, and the hunt is primarily Link’s quest, not mine. He needs to be empowered to find his own solutions.

Some days I can believe that we’ll reach an independent adulthood for him. Other days I can’t. This too is part of the hunt. I’m not just seeking resources, help, and answers. I’m seeking emotional balance, peace, acceptance, and maybe even joy. This year is better than last year. We’ll continue onward to see what comes next.

Grieving for Grandma

By / October 21, 2015 / 1 Comment

Writing about grief is hard because grief is never singular. It comes as a flood, a single mass that breaks and flows filling up spaces. Yet the mass is made up of a hundred million parts that all must be managed. It is also not singular in that rarely is only one person affected.

My Grandma died on Monday. The fact of her death is an impact crater with those closest most affected, first my Father, then my mother, Grandma’s brothers and sisters, me and my siblings, then further out to my children and their cousins. So many people with so many raw feelings. My head is full of thoughts, yet my writing of them is constrained by the need to not add hurt. When feelings are all on the surface it is best to tread lightly.

Death brings with it a list of chores a mile long. My parents are having to dismantle the care systems that they had in place for Grandma. All of us are scrambling and rearranging our schedules so we can gather for a funeral. There is legal paperwork, flowers, an obituary, rides from the airport, housing for extended family, and a program to plan. Decision after decision is to be made, all while rational functions are impaired by grief. I don’t know a way to do it better, all of it feels necessary. And there is some comfort in the list of chores. They provide a focus, a way to move forward and rearrange life without Grandma in it. Though I worry about the space after, when chores are complete and all that is left is an absence.

I’ll admit that I dove into the chores. I tried to involve myself and make myself useful. I’d hoped to alleviate burden by managing some communications for my parents. But it is possible that my attempts only increased the number of phone calls and confusion. I know I wore out by the end of today. I have my itinerary. I know when I leave, where to pick up my rental car, and the hotel where I will stay. Tomorrow I have to dive into work and prepare things so that Howard will be able to manage school and work while I am gone.

I have crying to do. I haven’t done most of it yet. I’ve been too busy arranging things. But there is space for it this weekend. I will go be in that space and see what feelings join me there.

For now I reread Grandma on her 90th Birthday which I wrote five years ago.

General Conference Notes

By / October 5, 2015

Usually I try to make my blog entries generally accessible rather than specific to my religion and context. But twice per year my church has a set of meetings called General Conference that are broadcast worldwide and during which the leaders of my church speak about matters of scripture, faith, family, doctrine, and policy. The most recent conference was held this past weekend and I had a lot of thoughts I wanted to write about. Some of it may be more specific to my faith than usual. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, commonly called Mormons.

This particular conference was filled with talks that seemed directed to me. So much so, that as one talk finished and the next talk began, I often wished for a pause. I wanted time to assimilate and think through my reactions before launching into a new topic. Fortunately the talks are still available via streaming from the church website lds.org. Also I’ll have a print version in the church magazine next month. There will be ways for me to review the information and pause to think it through. Truthfully, it is not that the words spoke directly to my various situations. It is more that the words exist and all of the experiences and thoughts in my head exist, then there is this space between the words and my thoughts where inspiration flows. That space is where the words are transformed into the messages I need to have epiphanies about my life. I need conference, church, and scripture study because I have to get into proximity with good words. I need the inspirations that come into my head as a result.

One of the thoughts, which I’m still mulling over, came as a speaker was telling of the power of the atonement of Christ. He said that Christ’s healing is complete and leaves no scars. I thought of the people I know who struggle with mental illness and with ongoing problems as a result of emotional trauma. Observation and science tells me that they will struggle for most of their lives. Yet I do believe in the power of Christ to truly heal. I do not think that the people who struggle, myself included, lack faith enough to be healed. Yet God does not heal everyone. Some of this I can ascribe to eternal perspective rather than earthly perspective. Heavenly Father and Christ know that the pains of this life are temporary. They know that struggle is how we grow. Striving to understand suffering and miracles is the thought-work of a lifetime. My comprehension continues to evolve. Sometimes I am able to move forward in faith, trusting that all will be made clear. Other times I am more frustrated and angry. I don’t have any answers, but I think it is good for me to open my mind and heart to these questions. Conference reminds me what the questions are.

I was much taken with the talk by Devin G. Durrant. He described a process for picking a scripture each week to ponder and memorize. He made up a word, ponderize, to name this process. I don’t like the word. It feels cutesy and diminutive to a process with great spiritual potential. As he spoke about the process, I knew that it was one that I need. He bore a powerful witness of what this process can give to people. I loved listening to that witness, though I winced a little every time he used his word. I’ve put up my first scripture. I’ll be thinking about it this week. And I’ll be trying not to think about made up words.

My grandmother is dying and I am watching my parents navigate the decisions and grief that are inherent in that process. Over the last months I have observed her decline. A few months ago she was in rehab to learn to walk again after a surgery. Now she is in a permanent care facility and physical therapy is focused on getting her to eat. I will be surprised if she is still here at Christmas. I’ve watched this process tear my Dad apart. My Grandma is his mother and he has no siblings to share this burden. I watch, knowing that someday it will be my turn to help parents in their decline. I am learning from their example what to expect and how I might handle it. With all that in my mind, I found David A. Bednar’s talk on Sunday afternoon to be profoundly comforting. In his words I was able to see that a reduction in physical capability only changes what a person can offer the world. It does not render the person irrelevant. To quote Elder Bednar “Physical restrictions can expand vision. Limited stamina can clarify priorities. Inability to do many things can direct focus to a few things of greatest importance.” As I listened, I understood that growing old and infirm can be a gift both to the aged and to those who care for them. It was good to feel that. I’ve been quite focused on the hard parts. There is grace in my Grandmothers imminent departure, God’s grace. As her memories become confused, the anxiety which plagued her whole life is dropping away. She is becoming distilled, ready to travel elsewhere. And we are all becoming ready to let her go.

I will be continuing to interact with the words and messages of this General Conference. I have more inspirations that I need. For now, life is good and all my people in my house are aimed in good directions.

Bidding Farewell to Cello

By / September 30, 2015 / 1 Comment

I just contacted my Patch’s cello teacher to tell her we’re not coming for a while. I called it an “indefinite hiatus,” but the truth is that we’re not likely to come back. In the two years he has been playing, Patch has grown increasingly less able to face cello practicing and cello lessons. Finally I looked him in the eyes and said “If you don’t like the lessons, and you don’t enjoy orchestra, and you don’t want to practice, then maybe you just don’t like cello.” The light dawned in his eyes. He finally recognized that while he wants to like it, right now he doesn’t. Right now it is one thing too many. Right now he needs to focus on some other things. So we’ve cancelled the private lessons. I’ll go talk to the school counselors and see about getting him transferred into chorus for his music credit. (No at-home practice required.) Then I’ll take the cello back to the music store from which we rented it. One less expense, one less stress.

This is not a failure. Making sure Patch sees that is my one goal in this letting go process. I don’t even need to grieve. I would have loved for him to love playing cello. Since he doesn’t, I’ll wait to see what other thing comes to him that he loves.

New Diagnosis: Autism

By / September 17, 2015 / 6 Comments

Last week I mentioned that I got a new diagnosis for one of my kids. Link has autism. Link accepted this information with very little emotional reaction. Which is how he often reacts to new information. Then days or months later he’ll come and ask questions about the thing I’ve told him. So far he hasn’t bothered to ask me anything, which could mean he’s fine with it, or could mean the thoughts are still percolating. I’ve spent the last week or more sorting out my tangle of emotions about this. It is strange to suddenly discover, after eighteen years, that I am the parent of an autistic child.

Things I am feeling:

Guilt: This kid has had full behavioral psych profiles four different times in his life. At each one there were indicators for autism, but the professionals and I said “I don’t think it is.” We said that because when he’s relaxed and happy he’s able to meet eyes and empathize with others. He also doesn’t have some of the stereotypical behaviors like stimming or echolalia. The guilt is because I was satisfied with “we don’t think so” and never requested the extra step to check.

Peace: Because I know that at every single stage of Link’s life I have done everything in my power to help him. I made the best decisions I could based on the information I had at the time. I’ve worked hard for this kid and he has worked hard too. It is possible that an earlier diagnosis would have opened doors and treatment options for him. It is also possible that he is more advanced and socialized now because he was not shunted off into an autism educational track. There is no way for me to know and woulda coulda shoulda is not a useful game to play.

Hopeful: Because this diagnosis opens up access to some transitional programs that are designed to help people with Link’s particular set of challenges. We have a clearer path into independent adulthood than we did a month ago.

Worried: Because I don’t know how the autism label will affect Link’s self conception and I don’t know how the world will perceive and treat him because of it. So far the signs are hopeful. When I told Link he’s high functioning and that autism has a huge range of expression, it seemed to shift his self view. Suddenly instead of being at the low/disabled end of one spectrum, he’s at the high/most-capable end of a different one. I’ve seen the same out in the world. When I tried to describe his challenges before, I had to use a lot of words and often wasn’t able to convey what he needed. But the world is familiar with autism. When I say “he’s autistic” people nod and know how to adjust for him. And they say “He does really well. I can’t even tell.” So maybe my worries are unfounded, but they linger in my head and will for a while.

Tired: Because all the thinking and emotions are exhausting. Also we still have a long road ahead of us to help Link get to an independent adulthood.

Awkward: There is this huge community of autism parents out there and suddenly I have the diagnosis that says I belong. Except I don’t believe that my experience with Link is comparable to the experience of a parent whose child is profoundly autistic and who has had to bend their entire lives around autism management. As with any community there are social rules, controversies, and hot buttons. I don’t know them and so I don’t know if I want to dive in and participate. I don’t need another community. Or maybe I do. Maybe I need friends and guides who have been down the path that I need to walk with Link.

Awkward: (with a side order of embarrassed) My life is full of people who have known Link his whole life. Each time I encounter one I have to decide whether or not to say “Oh by the way, Link is autistic.” I have to decide if saying it is relevant to the person and relationship. I have to evaluate which people will feel hurt/upset if they are not told. I have to consider if having the label will change their interactions with Link in good ways or in unfortunate ways. If I do say something, I then have to watch them react and have emotions about the information. There is also an element of embarrassment here. “Hi my son is autistic, but I’m so clueless I didn’t figure it out until he was eighteen years old.”

Sad: The sadness is not new nor really altered by the diagnosis. It is the same sadness I sometimes feel for my other kids too. I’m sad that things which come easily to other kids are so difficult for mine.

Regret: I do wish we’d had this diagnosis at least a year or two earlier. High school has been really rough on us and we would have approached it differently. The last year has been a crash course in standard educational modes not working and learning to adjust.

Enlightened: When viewed through a lens of “this is autism” many of Link’s quirks begin to make sense. He does not think in words, so when he speaks to us, he is translating. He reports that when he does have thoughts in words it is only because he pictures someone in his head saying the thoughts to him. The fact that he has a specific set of “going out in public” clothes in very bright colors, this is his visual name, a visual signature. There are other things too. I can see why the autism diagnosis is correct.

Quiet: For the past year or more I had this clock ticking in my head, telling me that time was running out. I could see that eighteenth birthday coming. I knew the rules changed afterward. Maybe it was passing that birthday and discovering things on the other side not so different. Maybe it was recognizing that he doesn’t need to graduate from high school on the same schedule as everyone else. Maybe it was Link passing his Eagle Scout board of review. Or maybe it was the new diagnosis. The clock stopped ticking in my head. I’m no longer afraid that I’m running out of time.

So far I’m the one with the most emotions about this. Howard and the other kids found it hopeful/interesting and proceeded with their regular things. I had more sorting to do. Probably because I’m in the middle of an emotional sorting process anyway. Now we see what comes next. I’m hoping for a stable period where we all quietly grow.

Battling with Anxiety

By / September 8, 2015 / 1 Comment

“I’m scared of earthquakes.” Gleek launched into this statement almost before she cleared the door to enter my room. Her face was pale, wide-eyed, and a little teary.

“Okay.” I said putting down my book and scooting over so there was room for her next to me on my bed. “What makes you scared about earthquakes today?” I always ask questions when my kids are mired in anxiety. Additional information helps me figure out which flavor of anxiety we’re attempting to manage. It matters because sometimes the anxiety needs to be laughed at and sometimes it needs to be sympathized with.

“I’ve been scared for days. My history teacher says there is a huge fault here in Utah and it is sixty years overdue for an earthquake. And now I’m scared that the earthquake will come and knock down our house and destroy everything.”

So we talked at length about earthquakes. I grew up in California and lived in the Bay Area during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake which knocked down a section of the Bay Bridge and collapsed a long section of the Cypress freeway. That quake had more than a dozen aftershocks over the next two years. I also remember the Livermore quake and its aftershocks. I was able to tell her what an earthquake feels like and that humans are much smarter about building structures that are earthquake safe. I told her about many different earthquakes and how mostly it was just an interesting (if unnerving) experience with little or no damage done. Then we talked about her anxiety disorder and how it makes her more afraid than she needs to be. Yes an earthquake might strike, but beyond some basic emergency preparedness there is nothing we can do about it. We certainly shouldn’t let our daily lives be affected by fear of earthquakes.

Gleek acknowledged all of this and said “Usually when I’m scared of things and the scared won’t go away, I have to talk it out.” I loved hearing the self awareness in her voice. She has grown so much and has developed a solid set of coping strategies. Her fourteen year old strategies are worlds better than the ones she was employing at twelve.

This is a thing I need to remember when Patch responds to stress by becoming uncommunicative instead of engaging with me to figure out where the stress is coming from. When he finally spoke with me (after missing his bus) we were able to determine a specific problem that could be easily fixed. Patch is still acquiring good strategies. I just need to put structural support in place and give him time.

Gleek wound down from her outpouring of earthquake fear. Oddly, the most comforting thing I said was that sometimes I’d only know there was an earthquake because I’d see the lights swaying on the ceiling. Gleek now has plans to hang some things from her bedroom ceiling so she’ll be able to see if there is an an earthquake and get under her desk. On one level she knows that this warning system does little to protect her from the real possibility of an earthquake, but it is a small tool she can use to quell the anxiety. “See the hanging things aren’t moving. We’re fine.”

The other thing I’ll do is go have a word with Gleek’s teacher and let her know that while I understand she has the responsibility to teach about hazards in our area, maybe she could do so in a way that isn’t going to trigger anxiety for the anxiety prone kids.

Four First Days

By / August 19, 2015 / 1 Comment

1.
The apartment was clean and neat, but definitely showed some wear from years of prior tenants. It felt empty, devoid of personality with no roommates at home and few personal items in the shared living space. Kiki and I hauled her belongings up three flights of stairs in the hot afternoon and stacked them in piles by the door of her new bedroom. Shopping came next to fill her fridge with the food she will eat and to buy a desk/table for her to work on. We carried those loads up as well.

Then it was time for me to go. I had a three hour drive back home. We sat for a moment in silence, in the empty apartment, with Kiki’s things in piles before us. Last year I’d dropped her off into a crowd of familiar roommates. She’d been immediately swallowed up in continuing friendships and chatter. This time we both remembered a little too clearly the hard parts of the semester before. The emptiness of the apartment left space for those memories to bounce around and become worries.

In a small voice Kiki asked “Will you help me assemble my desk and chair?”
I stayed an extra two hours helping with assembly and buying pizza for dinner. On our return from fetching pizza, we pulled in at the same time as one of Kiki’s roommates. Having a friend banished the emptiness. I bid Kiki goodbye without feeling like I was abandoning her to loneliness. This was confirmed later in the evening via Skype when Kiki was cheerful and partially moved in.

***
2.
Patch was headed out the door for his first day of junior high. He asked me where his hoodie was. I answered and watched as his fingers twisted the hem of his shirt. The twisting was a small sign of the anxiety he felt, as was him asking for his hoodie. It wasn’t cold outside, he felt safer with the hood wrapped around his head. Gleek walked him to the bus stop. School for her didn’t start until the next day. This was an orientation day for seventh graders only. I watched them walk off together, Patch taller than his sister by a good two inches. Last fall Gleek was still taller. I’d been carefully biting my tongue for the last two days. I’d wanted to ask Patch a bunch of questions, to talk through all the things which might cause him stress or anxiety. My mind reviewed all those worries as he walked away. Would it be too overwhelming? Would he ratchet up in anxiety? Would he have panic attacks? I hoped not. But I knew that obsessively talking it through was more likely to create anxiety than to relieve it. Anxiety is a transmissible ailment for those who are prone to it. I did my best to keep mine to myself. We were much better off treating this departure for school as routine.

He came home carrying his hoodie, not wearing it. At some point he felt safe enough to take it off. I limited my after school questions to three. How was it? Good. Anything stressful or anxious? Not really. Anything exciting? His German teacher. The ease of his answers was as reassuring as the answers themselves. He met my eyes with his shoulders and arms relaxed. One day is not a useful measure to evaluate a school year, but it was a good start.

***
3.
Link was already awake when I came to his room to turn on the light. He grabbed his clothes and headed for the bathroom. I was glad of this. I like the mornings when he is self-propelled much better than the mornings where I feel like I’m pushing against a mountain to keep him moving. I expect those mornings will come, but not on this first day of school. Link came to prayer and scripture time far more alert than either of his siblings. Patch was dragging and sleepy, not yet adjusted to the early rising. Noting his schedule written on a note card attached to the fridge, Link said “3D graphics? Cool!” This was his only commentary on the classes he has for today. I drove him to the school building and watched him walk toward it. This is his senior year. Sort of. He didn’t finish half the school work from his junior year, so he’ll have to hustle if he wants to graduate with his class. That is a conversation I need to have with him in the next couple of weeks. He has to decide whether the cap and gown ceremony is important to him. There are other conversations to have. So much growing he needs to do. I would really like to see that growth. It feels like I spent most of last year watching him shrink. None of us know what this year will bring, but the first day started well.

***
4.
Gleek was out of bed before I entered her room. She had night-before-Christmas type anticipation about the beginning of school. She typed up her morning journal, only getting momentarily distracted by YouTube. I hardly had to pay attention to her at all as she dressed and readied her pile of things for school. “It’s nice to have a schedule.” she said as she loaded a dozen writing implements into a zip bag. The bag went on top of her stack of five notebooks. She was defended against boredom and the need for drawing supplies. When time came to leave she told Patch it was time to go and they walked out together.

***
Coda: The parents
I was grouchy this morning, though I wasn’t conscious of it until a minor frustration had me tossing a spatula into the sink rather harder than was necessary. Part of it was pure fatigue. My body is not accustomed to being awake at 6:30am. That long string of school mornings stretched ahead of me filled with 6:30ams. The weight of responsibility chafed as I prepared breakfasts on a timed schedule. I remembered how to do it all, but I didn’t want any of it. I know that school is the best way for my kids to grow right now, but I’m still tired from last year. I’m still too aware of how hard it all got.

The kids were all out the door by 7:45 and the house was quiet. The quiet felt empty, substantially different than the quiet of people doing their own quiet things. “I miss summer. I don’t want to go to work today. I miss Kiki” Howard said, echoing my unspoken sentiments. Of course we will go to work anyway, because the work is important and we love the work enough to do it even on a day when we’d rather not expend effort.

The school year has begun. Thus far the only unpleasant things have been in my head. One day at a time we’ll proceed.

Capsules

By / August 12, 2015 / 2 Comments

The other day I wrote how I am taking the good days and good events and treating them like little capsules of treasure. Here are a few that I’ve collected lately.

***

I haven’t done much baking lately, so when I made brownies they tasted extra delicious. Enough that both Howard and I tweeted about it.

Sandra: I have eaten more brownies than is healthy. Since the healthy quantity for brownies is 0, I feel good about my life decisions today.

Howard: Came upstairs to find that there are just enough brownies left in this pan for me to have one brownie before eating half a pan of brownies.

Howard’s brother Randy responded to his tweet: if you don’t slice the half a pan, it’s just one big brownie.

Howard: “We’re gonna need a bigger spatula.” — me and @RandyTayler, reducing our brownie intake on a technicality.

The conversations about the brownies were as enjoyable as the brownies themselves.

***

Gleek: “Mom? I have a question.”
Me: “I have an answer. Let’s see if they match.”

***

The bench at church was crowded because all six of us were sitting there together. I think it has been at least six months since that happened.

***

Curling up on the couch and watching NCIS with Howard. Kids often join us as well. We talk about the stories after they are done. This is not a show that I fell in love with right away, but it has grown on me to the point where I love it and I love the characters. The other day we watched an episode that was so well written and so well acted that there was a scene where massive amounts of emotion and meaning were communicated with almost no dialogue at all. I think those are my favorite moments in a show.

***

I walked up to the front door of an unfamiliar house with a yellow folder of documents in my hands. One short conversation later, I walked away without the folder. Link’s Eagle Scout Application has been turned it.

***

Walking into Gleek’s room and seeing that every day she has added things to the walls and made the space her own. The purple wall is a good thing.

***

I went to the junior high school. For the first time in two years, one trip to a school took care of multiple children. All the paperwork was in order, so I picked up schedules for Gleek and Patch. They have a good set of classes. Though Gleek did need one switch. Fortunately her school counselor agreed that the change was beneficial and made the switch on the spot. I have one piece of pending paperwork for Link, but schedules are finalized, I’ve posted the school A/B schedule in its usual spot, first bell rings next Tuesday.

***

I need to pay attention to these small good things so that I don’t get swamped by worries about the impending school year.

Happy Noise

By / August 7, 2015

Sound and people fill my house. We’ve had the loud shouts of a Smash Bros tournament between Kiki and her brothers. We’ve had the hollering as Howard and the boys shout back and forth while playing a co-op game on steam. We’ve had siblings kibitzing as Kiki plays through the story of Twilight Princess so that her visiting roommate can watch. We’ve had Gleek detailing the dream she had last night and the characters she’s creating that day. We’ve had the sound of NCIS playing while Howard draws comics. There has been the clatter of dishes and the beep of the microwave as people cook themselves food. It has been a joyous noise and influx of clutter. We are glad to all be together again after two and a half weeks of disrupted schedule and reduced household.

I keep looking at the calendar and measuring next week with my eyes. The week isn’t long enough. When it is done, Kiki will depart for school. The other kids will also leave the house each morning. Quiet hours will return. I do miss having quiet hours in my house where I’m not responsible for children. But I worry that the quiet hours will be accompanied by school stresses. Not an ideal trade for anyone. So I listen to all the joyful noise and I think gratefully about how I don’t have to move forward quite yet. I get a few more days where the kids can play all day.

The Purple Wall

By / July 21, 2015 / 1 Comment

In April and May we finished a room in our basement which became a bedroom for my two boys. They love their new space. They even got to pick their paint and carpet. The room they vacated got repainted and turned into Kiki’s bedroom. She decorated with all her lovely things and it became a warm and welcoming place. This left Gleek as the only kid without a new bedroom. A few weeks ago she confessed to me that her room felt a little depressing to her, particularly when compared with her sister’s room. I can’t say I blamed her. The white walls felt bare and the wall hangings hadn’t been arranged, they were accumulated. And many of them had been put up with an entirely different arrangement of furniture.
room 1
“We can repaint your room.” I said
“Really?” Gleek answered with bright hope in her eyes.

So we spent time over the next weeks helping her sort through her accumulation of things. It was past time for this anyway. She’s a teenager now and many of the collections of her younger years were simply clutter in her life. We had to take it in batches because each box of random objects contained both treasures and garbage. The difference between the two was not always apparent to eyes other than Gleek’s. So we sorted and then we talked paint colors. Gleek confessed a desire to have a bright purple wall. We picked a bedspread that would go with such a wall and then we put up test patches of paint.

room 2
Gleek wanted the brightest purple. Howard and I had some concerns about the color, but figured that even if it was terribly ugly the experience picking her own paint would be good for Gleek.

It wasn’t ugly, just bold.
Room 3

It suits Gleek. And it goes well with the bedspread.
room 4

There is still work to do in order to make the room truly Gleek’s space. She needs to open up her box of wall hangings and make decisions about which of them will go up on the walls. We may want to do something about the old, stained furniture. But this is a good start for Gleek to truly take ownership of the room and begin to figure out who she is as a teenager.

I like the purple wall already.