Parallel

One day until August 1st.  The beginning of the school year, and the "end" of official summer, even if it's 90 degrees until late September here in Georgia.

August 1st has been the line in the sand.  The straddled fence.  The trigger to pull.

And we are stepping over, picking a side, starting the race.

We are homeschooling. Teaching at home. Private school (for one).

Yes.  Us.   Special Needs and all.  A minority in the minority.

And yes.  I'm prepared to be pigeonholed  as a religious nut, a motherly martyr, or at least someone lacking in good sense.

I've held all kinds of ignorant assumptions about all manner of things, homeschooling included.  I get it.

But here we are.

I wasn't going to share this so publicly so soon, but the true reasons we have chosen to step back from traditional schooling for the present time cut through all the sides and stereotypes.

I have to know my son's heart.  I just have to.

As the days, weeks, and months pass by, we are moving by each other.  We are parallel.  Close in proximity.  So far from intersecting.

All my ugliness, my frustration, my selfishness, my need to be right-- it all comes bubbling up facing the big, bad autism beast.  My head understands, but my heart is so stubborn.

Even so, there's just enough of a whisper, a gentle assurance that this is the path.

It's falling into place.

We begin Monday.  Bit by bit.  Minute by minute.  I'm gonna to choose to love my son.  As Christ does.  That's my aim.  More than reading, math, life skills, therapy, anything.

Intersection.

I think that's enough to qualify me as his teacher.

The Bracelet

At a Christian conference, I recently heard Pam Tebow speak about how she raised her family.  Of all the sessions and speakers I soaked up, her story of receiving a special bracelet from "Timmy" is the take away I have with me weeks later.

Before playing in Miami for the championship game, each player was given spending money for the trip.  The Tebow men apparently are last minute Christmas shoppers, and so, Tim used this money to buy his mom a bracelet.

It was a charm bracelet, filled with orange and blue beads, his football number, and other Gator related memories.  She wore it on stage, and emphasized that since her son picked out every detail of the gift, it was priceless.  She wouldn't change a thing.

You would never change a treasured gift.

"Love (your kids) the way they came packaged."

Bullseye, Mrs. Tebow.  Ouch.

It is hard to love every bead on my kids' strings.  For each bead I cherish: compassion and friendliness, affection and gentleness; there are others I would happily exchange.  Some I'd leave off altogether.

They seem wrong. Not my style. Not what I want.

Just because something is imperfect does not mean it's not valuable.  (Right, self?)

Yesterday was a "this is not what I want" day. Today is one of those "starting over again" days.

I want to see the beauty of the imperfect.  I don't want to disregard it and hope for something better to magically appear. I want to accept my gift. I want to treasure it.   I don't always.  Today I do.

Some wonderful, some painful, some hidden-- but each piece was carefully selected.

A few days after I wrote this as a draft, I noticed this little treasure.  15 seconds of receiving grace from my son.  I want to finish a task.  He just wants to be near me.  That's a 'bead' I needed to see right now.

The Good Autism Parent and Plain Ol' Me

Both of these personas reside in me.  I became Good Autism Parent (GAP) in an instant and operate out of this persona publicly and privately most of the time.  Plain Ol' Me (POM) is not getting along with her right now.

GAP accepts the totality of autism and embraces the differences.

POM is sick of feeling needed by her son only to dole out milk and cereal. Sick of his crashing to his knees.  Absolutely done with the concept of toileting. Wonders if true independence will ever happen here.

GAP rejects the terms cure and fix.

POM just can't see the good in erratic fear.  Rigidity.  I'd take some fixing there.  Divine Healing. Anything that equals GONE.

GAP exhausts every avenue of therapy, diet, exercise and educational models.

POM wonders how to change a diet that is so severely limited.  How much fight does basic sustenance need to be?  Milk, fries, cereal.  GAP probably thinks they are akin to poison.  Maybe they are.  The best way to teach her son?  Mentally hiding in the corner there.

GAP graciously listens to stories of families like hers and seeks advice.

POM hates that I have to mention my boy is "not aggressive" as if  I was describing a housebroken puppy. Hates that I have a hard time listing his personality traits. Hates pretending that a future for him other than FULL independence is okay with me.  Cause it ain't. It just ain't.

GAP modifies expectations for milestones and holidays.

POM remarks casually to my husband that I'd just as soon skip Christmas this year and turns into someone who'd be confused with a paid mourner.  Ugly, raw disappointment stuffed over time spills out.  Eyes so heavy and painful. Sleep can only make it better.

GAP reminds herself there is immense, immediate suffering everywhere, at all times.  Her needs, in every way, are abundantly met.  Her boy can do so much.  Walk, Run, Talk, Laugh. Love.

POM is starting to realize that a proper perspective doesn't negate the reality of personal pain.  Even the first world kind.

Both love the boy with a gentle ferocity. That's all they have in common currently.

GAP doesn't want to bum anyone out.

POM walks the tightrope of honesty with you today.  I'm put out with my boy.  Annoyed, frankly.  And that's unfair of me.  But it's true.  I don't have a pretty bow to wrap up this duality.

It exists.  And admitting that is enough for today.

Eating Raisins: My Daughter's Approach to Living Life

As I've mentioned in earlier posts about J's therapy approach, we take a lot of video at home, capturing little activties designed to foster emotional connection with him and build his compentence and confidence. I was playing back this clip of us making oatmeal raisin cookies together with Sarah.  I love how video captures something that went unnoticed in the moment.  Here's 45 seconds of my daughter enjoying life.  It's hilarious.

Here's a picture of Jeremiah's 5th birthday.  I threw out the dog and pony show this year, and did a simple dinner and ice cream for us.

The elusive "perfect family picture" continues to evade me. It's my unicorn.  But here we are, looking somewhat at the camera. As well as well attired.  Because that's what really matters, am I right, ladies?

Happy Friday.  Go eat your raisins.

Birth Day Memories, Transcribed

Jeremiah's 5th birthday is Wednesday, and I realized that while his sisters' birth days were recorded here, his was not.  Before blogging, my firstborn got the expected treatment: his story was written in ink, in cursive, on fine paper in a leather journal. This excerpt was written when J was 3 months old. It's exuberant and totally, charmingly naive.  5 years later, the sentiment's still the same. 
Happy Birthday, Baby Boy.

Your delivery...

My due date of May 26th came and went. I was not worried about the date passing, but all the waiting drove your Dad crazy. The house was clean and organized; your nursery was ready; we were ready for the main event.

We made the decision to go into the hospital on a Wednesday night, May 28th to be induced to labor. My doctor, Dr. Dodder, was on duty the next day and I wanted her to deliver you.

We brought lots of snacks, movies, and all our creature comforts to the hospital. (I packed according to "The Book".  We rolled into Northside Hospital prepared for a fun lock-in. Movies? Bless my idiotic heart.) Now that we were at the hospital, your dad was more relaxed.  While he slept that first night, I tossed and turned. The sleeping medicine I took gave me strange dreams, so I didn't feel rested! The pitocin medicine began at 6 a.m. I was 1 cm dilated, which was a start because nothing was happening before we came to the hospital. Sometime around lunch my water broke. Natalie, Nana, Papa and Grandma arrived near lunchtime, too. They were excited and very talkative! I was beginning to feel my contractions more strongly at this time, so I was glad your Dad took them to lunch. My peaceful moment was short lived, because the contractions kept increasing in strength.  Dad had only been gone 20 minutes, but I was ready for him to return! (I called him and subtly hinted he needed to get back.)

About this time, I was ready for a little pain relief.  I received some medicine and felt well enough to get out of bed and rock for about an hour.  Then... the contractions felt more intense and closer together.  A friend from work stopped by, Wagner, and I chatted with him in between contractions. (Totally insane, though it kept me distracted.) I had been worried that I would lose my cool during delivery and lash out in anger, but I didn't. It simply would have required too much energy. The room was quiet and dark. Finally, I was able to receive an epidural, probably around 3 p.m. The doctor was great-- Dr. Wheeler.  He did everything quickly and efficiently. I asked him if anyone named their baby "Wheeler". Seriously, I would understand why!

After I was given the medicine, my friend Lara from church visited us. I was feeling less anxious and up for a visit.  About 10 minutes in, the nurse came in and checked my progress. I was still feeling contractions and worried the medicine didn't take on both sides. (I was "still feeling contractions." Again.  Bless.  What I elegantly told the nurse: "I feel it in my butt." Sorry if a fella reads this. Um, that's baby bearing down.  When the doctor said, "You're complete," I had no idea what that meant.) Here's the best part of the labor: it went from 0 to 60! I was fully dilated (I had only been 2 cm about an hour before). We thought we would be delivering you late at night. My reaction to the news? "I feel like I've won the lottery!"  I couldn't believe I'd fast forwarded through the long, hard wait of labor. (I guess the 9 hours before the epidural didn't register as "hard labor" at the time.) It was showtime.

My doctor was called and we did a few "practice" pushes. Lara coached me through those, which was neat and unplanned. She knew your dad and I planned to welcome you alone, so she went out to the families and acted as a go-between with updates.

Your delivery was wonderful. I believe that getting off to such a good start went a long way in helping me adjust to motherhood. The pushing seemed natural, and you were delivered quickly.  The first thing I saw was all that dark hair!  Your labor and delivery went so well that I didn't cry as most do. I think I said "awesome" as you were delivered. I was able to hold you immediately and nurse you. Again, this was easy and natural. I ate dinner as you were washed and tended to. Your Nana came in and announced, "Bring me my grandson and take my picture!"

All babies are beautiful, but you are my baby. Long fingers, skinny legs, a sweet face, and lots of hair. Every day I see you, you become more precious and beautiful. Your face is my favorite thing to look at. You have filled out now: bright eyes, chubby cheeks, a bow mouth, a heart-shaped face finished off by your pointed chin. I know I don't understand how much you've changed and added to my life.

Someone asked me if I loved you instantly. I did-- but it didn't "hit" me. It just was. I was your mother and everything about you did, does, and will bring me joy. (More true now than I could have known then.) 

I love you, Jeremiah Christopher. Welcome to the world!

Love,
Mama