you’re sorry

*

Kendall and I stood in the upstairs guest room among the assorted detritus of babyhood. We sifted through long since cast aside quilted books and soft, worn rattles in a desperate search for a long-lost Elmo doll.

Kendall picked up a flimsy nylon tutu that had fallen out of a box and stepped into it. Amid all of the souvenirs of years past up there –  the first toys, the early books of colors and shapes, the gifts from friends and family – I never would have given the tutu a second thought. In and of itself it had no significance to me. It likely would have been one of the first candidates for a trip to Goodwill.

Kendall spun around in the tutu and said, “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

I looked up from the bin through which I was digging. “What’s that, honey?”

“I cried and I cried and I cried,” she said again.

I must have looked confused, but she wasn’t looking at me. Even if she had been, she wouldn’t have picked up on the nuance of my expression.

“I wanted my ballet slippers,” she said, still spinning, “and I cried and I cried and I cried.”

ed note .. please follow the link above before reading on. It’s important. Please? I’m asking nicely. Click on it. Read it. The rest of the story is meaningless without it.

I stopped in my tracks. There are so many moments with my little girl that literally take my breath away that I know I must lose credibility when I use the phrase. But, for the millionth time in our life together, she did indeed take my breath away.

“Honey,” I heard myself say before I could stop to think about the words, “I am so, so sorry that I yelled at you that day. I just didn’t understand.”

She kept spinning.

“I cried and I cried and I cried,” she said. “And then I had the white water and it made my tummy feel better.”

White water? I scanned my memory, but came up dry. Mine is obviously no match for hers. If she says there was white water, there must have been white water.

“Milk, honey?” I asked. “Did you have milk that day?”

“I had the white water and it made my tummy feel better.”

She picked up a Zoe book from a nearby bin and began to read the single words on its pages. The conversation was over.

I took a deep breath and resumed the search for Elmo, digging through bin after bin of stuffed animals. Kendall suddenly hit the floor. She was crouched into a defensive ball, covering her ears with her arms and clasping her hands behind her head. She yelled into her knees, “NO COOKIE MONSTER!“

I looked down at my hands. I had picked up the leg of ‘Blueberry the blue bear’ to see if Elmo might be hanging out below him. Apparently the blue leg had looked to her like it belonged to a certain cookie loving ball of terror. The last time she had seen Cookie Monster had been in this room. Three years ago. I assured her there was no Cookie Monster. We went through it all again - Cookie Monster doesn’t live here anymore. He’s all gone. You’re O.K.

When children have traumatic experiences, parents often make each other feel better by assuring one another that it’s harder on us than it is on them. We tell each other that they’ll never even remember it as they get older. Over the years, I’ve tried to find solace in those platitudes, but something down deep just wouldn’t let me believe in them when it came to Kendall. The little voice has always told me that it’s not that she won’t remember, it’s that she’ll never forget.

Giving up on finding Elmo upstairs, we made our way back down to Kendall’s room. I brought the Zoe book downstairs with us and at the last second I grabbed the tutu and brought it down too. As much as I may have wanted to leave it behind, bringing it along felt like the right thing to do. When we got into Kendall’s room, I held it out to her and asked if she wanted to put it on.

I sat on her floor and watched her get into it. I stayed put as she went into her closet to find some sparkly princess shoes. Shoes on, she turned to me. “What is this?” she asked, holding the tutu between her fingers.

“That’s a tutu, honey,” I said. “You had it when you were little.”

She walked over and stood directly in front of me. I looked up at her from my spot on the floor.

“And you’re sorry that you yelled at me.”

“Yes, baby,” I answered. “I am so sorry that I yelled at you.”

I didn’t try to hide the tears that streamed down my face. Maybe I thought somehow they would help her to understand just how sorry I really am.

She looked right at me. I still get taken aback when I see her full face that way – dead on. Her eyes searched my face, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m crying, honey,” I answered.

“What did you hurt?”

“Well,” I began, “I didn’t really hurt anything, baby. I’m feeling a little sad.”

“Did you hurt your heart?” she asked.

I said that to her once when Darby was crying after her fish died. Kendall had been determined to know what she had hurt. She wouldn’t let it go. If she was crying, she must have hurt something. Did she hurt her arm? Did she hurt her eye? Did she hurt her tushy? Did she hurt her head? There was no end in sight and Darby needed my attention. I had finally come up with “Well, honey, she hurt her heart.”

And there it was right back at me. I must have hurt my heart.

“You know, honey,” I said, “In a way I guess I did hurt my heart. I’m sad because I’m so sorry about the day that you couldn’t find your ballet shoes.”

She began to walk away. She circled the room slowly. I sat and waited. Suddenly, with no warning she pounced into my lap. She curled her little body into me and threw her arms around my neck. I hugged her back as hard as I could. Just as quickly as she had pounced, she got up and left the room.

I’ve always wondered if someday Kendall and  I will sit down together and read through the posts that I’ve written about all of these moments in her childhood (and my motherhood). So many times I’ve hoped that she will someday fill in the missing narrative – HERS. At times I’ve also been terrified that she will do just that, not sure that I can handle it. But overwhelmingly, I pray that day comes. And more and more, I think it will.

Because it seems that the little voice – the voice that says, She’s taking it all in. She’s engaging her environment even when we think she’s not. She’s remembering. She’s watching.  She knows. She sees. That voice is right. And so too I think it’s right when it says, She’ll never forget.

She’ll know it wasn’t easy. She’ll know her Mama made mistakes. She’ll know I couldn’t always protect her, no matter how much I may have wanted to. But I hope and I pray that when she looks back over it all she’ll know more than anything that I tried. That I did everything I could think to do to understand her, to help her, and – above all – to love her. And that she will know deep down that for those times that I stumbled – when try as I might I just didn’t get it – that I am so, so sorry.

comic relief – a short story

.

“Well, I’m about as tall as a shotgun and just as noisy.”

~ Truman Capote

As I walked out of the girls’ school last Friday, the third graders were just returning from their field trip. I was surprised when a teacher that I don’t know particularly well stopped me in my tracks.

She leaned in conspiratorially as she said, “Can I tell you a story?”

I tried to gauge the look on her face. Her friendly smile offered no clues as to whether or not this would be the kind of story that I could handle in my present state or whether it might well be the kind that would reduce me to a simpering puddle right there on the sidewalk.

I’m fairly certain that I nodded.

She explained that she had seen me earlier in the day and had assumed that I would be chaperoning the field trip. When she realized that I wasn’t with them, she’d mentioned to Darby that she’d thought I’d be coming along.

“So, Darb,” she’d said, “Where’s your mom? I thought I saw her at school this morning.”

“You did,” Darby had answered. “She’s helping out in my sister’s class today. My dad’s coming on the field trip.”

“Oh,that’s nice,” said the teacher. “Which sister?”

She told me that Darby had looked confused. “What do you mean ‘which sister?’” she’d asked. “I only have one.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” the teacher said. “I always thought you had two.”

And my older daughter – my sweet, loving, affectionate little girl – looked her right in the eye and said, “Oh, you’re probably thinking of my mom. She’s just really short.”

the storm

*

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.

~ William Shakespeare

*

Matt had put himself in a bind. He’d volunteered to chaperone Darby’s field trip (starts with ‘A’, rhymes with Barboretum) and without realizing the overlap, he’d also committed to help with a Halloween themed project in Kendall’s classroom at the exact same time. I was thrilled for the excuse to bail him out. Oh dear, what shall I do? Looks like I may just HAVE to sneak out of work early that day and help out. *wink, wink, sigh *

I couldn’t have been happier as I set up shop with two other moms in Kendall’s classroom. We were each charged with leading a Pumpkin Math station.

One was an observation station where the children observed various types of pumpkins and gourds and then recorded their observations. One (mine) was a counting station where the kids took a stab at estimating how many seeds had come out of the pumpkin and then sorted them into groups of ten and counted them out together. We then compared their estimates to the actual results and tallied up how many friends had guessed too high, too low and just right. The third was a weighing station where they estimated the pumpkin’s weight and compared it to other objects around the room.

We set up our individual stations while the kids were out at recess and I was nearly vibrating with excitement by the time they came back in.

The kids were adorable. They were chatty and friendly and silly and sneaky and eager to touch and feel and smell and explore everything around them. They guessed everything from 100 to 2000 seeds and grew wide eyed as we counted them out. Every one of them wanted to reach into the pumpkin, eager to dig right into what they were learning. It was heady stuff, watching them drink it all in.

Kendall’s group came over in the second rotation. I watched her with her aide, our spectacular Miss N. I started out just as I had with the last group, by showing them the pumpkin and asking them what they thought had been inside of it. Kids shouted answers over each other and we sorted through the noise as I called on one child at a time. Kendall fidgeted and looked around. I asked the kids if they knew what ‘estimate’ means. Two little hands shot up in the air. I looked over at Kenz. She was playing with the counting cards in front of her. I called on one little boy who looked like he might just burst if he didn’t get to say, ‘A really good guess!’ Miss N kept Kenz on track as we moved along and the kids wrote their estimates on their worksheets.

Things were moving fast. I was under the gun to get through the lesson in the alloted twenty minutes. I knew Kendall would need help – a lot of help –  following what was going on around her, but this time it wasn’t my job. It was all on Miss N. She kept her moving, feeding her numbers and helping her figure out what to write on her page.

On the last rotation, the teacher came over to relieve me so that I could follow Kendall’s group. I caught up to them at the observation table where Kendall was sitting in front of a miniature pumpkin. Miss N was prompting her with questions. “Kendall, what shape is the pumpkin?” she asked.

Kendall answered, “Orange.”

“It is orange, Kendall,” said Miss N patiently. “That’s its color. Can you tell me what SHAPE it is?”

I drifted into some of the other bits and pieces of conversation around the table.

“What’s that word for figuring out the size of something round? Excuse me, Ms F, do you know if it’s the circumference or the radius that tells you how big it is? Are we going to measure these? Do we have rulers?”

“Mine is a funny shape. It looks like it’s having a baby! Tee hee!”

“This one’s not a pumpkin. It’s a squash. Or is it a gourd? Um, is this a gourd? I have to write that down. How do you spell gourd?”

And then I focused back in on my girl.

“Kendall, can you tell me what shape it is?”

“A circle.”

“Good job! Let’s write that down now.”

She set to writing the letters, one at a time. Miss N had set up her notebook in front of her like an easel to make it easier to write. She began to write her first letter – a ‘T”. She started in the wrong spot and Miss N gently pointed out where she needed to be, drawing a smiley face on the page as a guide. She handed her a pink eraser and Kendall erased her ‘T”. Over and over and over again, Kendall would write, erase and write again. Miss N would let her go for a while, allowing her to get the thought out, but eventually she’d have to remind her what she needed to do. Finally – FINALLY – she had a five word sentence on the page.

‘The pumpkin is a circle.”

She fussed and said that she was done. Hell, I’d be done too. Miss N calmly said that she needed to write just one more thing about the pumpkin. “What color is the pumpkin, Kendall?”

The kids around us were still chattering excitedly about their gourds and squashes.

“This one’s really bumpy! Check it out; it’s like it has a diseeeeeease! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“It’s orange.”

“That’s right. Good job, Kendall. So let’s write that down.”

Kendall looked exhausted.

After stealing a good long hug, I left with the other moms. I met Matt outside and we scurried off to enjoy a couple of precious hours before pick-up. On impulse, we decided to head into town for lunch.

We sat down in a lovely little Italian place off the town green. I smoothed the white cotton tablecloth as I ordered a very grown-up sounding meal. I took a deep breath and sat back in my chair. And then it happened.

In the middle of the day, in a particularly civilized little dining room surrounded by older couples and ladies-who-lunch, the storm came. I didn’t recognize it at first. It’s been a long time since it’s been around. But it was undeniable. It wasn’t any of the usual suspects. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t frustration or heaviness or weariness. It wasn’t anxiety or even fear.

It was rage.

Suddenly and without warning, I was choking on the silent scream of impotent rage. For a fraction of a second, I couldn’t see. The room went dark and the air disappeared. I couldn’t move. I had this strange thought afterwards – that I’d wanted to flip the table. Just stand up and turn it over. To cause upheaval, commotion, noise. But as in a slow motion nightmare, I was paralyzed.

Just as quickly as it had come, it passed. The only remnants were the tears on my face and the tension in every muscle in my body. I felt like I’d been in a car wreck.

I get sad. I do. I get sad and I get tired. I get frustrated and weary. But until that day, I guess I hadn’t gotten angry in a really long time. That day, I was ANGRY.

I was ANGRY that my girl has to work so God damned hard to do what seems to come so easily for everyone else. I was ANGRY that she is trying to figure out the difference between a color and a shape when everyone around her is talking about radius and circumference. I was ANGRY that she has to write and erase and write and erase to get one God damned word on a page. I was ANGRY that she has to puzzle through every single interaction that is somehow so natural for everyone around her. I was ANGRY that she has to struggle to keep up with a world whose pace and focus are so completely different from hers. I was ANGRY that every little thing is so God damned hard for her.

Why my girl?

Why my baby?

Why anyone’s baby?

Just why?

The clouds passed that day, but they’re still close. And I can’t get past this sinking feeling that they’re not really gone. No – if I had to put money on it, I’d say I’m standing smack in the eye of the storm.

one day a year

*

Kendall the Backyardigan

*

*

Darby the Washing Machine

What, your kid didn’t dress up as a large household appliance?

*

Halloween.

.

The highest of high holy days in our little family.

.

The day we perseverate on plan for ALL YEAR LONG.

.

The one blessed day a year that my littlest girl’s absolute favorite pastime is actually socially acceptable. The day upon which we can FINALLY walk through the neighborhood in costume. The day upon which we are ALLOWED to ring every doorbell we see. The day upon which we can shout “TRICK OR TREAT!” and not get funny looks because it’s August. The day upon which my youngest daughter has better social skills than half the kids around her because she is so well practiced that she NEVER forgets to say, “Thank you! Happy Halloween!” even if it sounds EXACTLY the same each and every time. The day upon which Darby gets to show off all her creative glory and walk around in a box. The day that she gets Oohs! and Ahhs! at every single door. The day that my kids are happy doing the same thing, at the same time, together.

.

The second we walked through the door after trick or treating, the girls shed their costumes. Darby wriggled out of her box with a sigh Oof, that was getting heavy! while her sister peeled off her dress, mask and shoes smack dab in the middle of the kitchen. Darby ran to the table with her loot and immediately began to negotiate. OK, Mama, how many pieces can I eat tonight? Three? Oh, man. Well, is that three meaning three or three with one for good luck so really four? And if I eat this little Hershey’s kiss, that doesn’t really count as a whole one, right? So that would be like two and then two little ones, but that would only still really be three and then I could still have one for good luck, right? (She got three small pieces. This ain’t Mama’s first rodeo, kid.)

.

Her little sister had an entirely different plan. She searched through her bag to find the one thing in which she had any interest. It didn’t take long to spot her quarry – a bright red lollipop. She unwrapped it slowly and carefully. She touched it to her tongue – once, then again – and then handed it to me. She then turned to Matt and asked him for some buttered toast.

.

As Darby hemmed and hawed over which little morsels of sugary deliciousness to save and which to devour on the spot, Kendall peeled the crust off of her toast and ate it bite by bite. When she was done she asked for another slice.

.

The lollipop languished in a glass on the counter. It was never touched again. She went up to bed without ever looking at her treat sack again.

.

For one little girl, it’s just not about the candy. It never is.

*

*

ed note ~ As you may remember, for the last four years running Kendall has managed to choose the one character from each of her beloved books and shows for which there was no costume available. The first costume that she ever chose was Boots the Monkey from Dora. I believe they now make a Boots costume, but three years ago I had to outsource to Canada. Next up was JoJo the clown from JoJo’s Circus. Long since discontinued by Disney, I lucked out and found one on Ebay. Last year she was Ming Ming the Duckling from the Wonderpets, which they only made to size 2T. I hobbled that one together with a little bit of this, a little bit of that and a whole lot of trips to the craft store. This year, she was Tasha the Backyardigan. As you may recall from this post, they make almost every other Backyard friend – Pablo, Uniqua, Tyrone – but there was not a Tasha to be found. (Miss T you are our hero!)

.

It’s almost uncanny. If I didn’t know better I’d have thought that little miss was online scouring the web to ensure that none of her picks were out there before declaring a winner.

.

Yesterday, Kendall made her announcement for next year. Yes, I’m pretty sure that we’ve set a new record with a decision for the following year’s costume on November First, but that’s not the point.

.

Her choice? Toodee, her favorite character on Yo Gabba Gabba. Check it out for yourself … Yo Gabba Gabba Friends Costumes. Not a Toodee in the bunch. Once again, my baby did not disappoint.

.

Canada?

.

Miss T?

.

Ebay?

.

Anyone?

.

On second though, let’s just get through Christmas first, shall we? Kendall told me last night she’d like a Jesus doll for Christmas. Of course, she means THIS Jesus:

*

*

Don’t you worry, kiddo. Mama’s on it.

*

Hoping you and yours had a very Happy Halloween!

*

all you need to know

 

***

I wonder ~

Do you know that I sneak into your room to watch you sleep, secretly hoping that you might wake up, even for a second?

When you do wake up and I’m not here, do you wonder where I am?

Do you understand why Mama has to go to work, baby?

Do you know that it kills me to leave?

Do you know that my heart breaks every single time I get into the car and drive away?

Do you know that I think of you every moment of every day?

Do you know how desperately I want to restructure your world – to make it less hostile, less foreign?

Do you know how hard I try to make things easier for you?

Do you know that I would give my right arm to take away your fears?

Do you know that I carry your worries with me? That I flinch when a baby cries even when you’re not in the room? That I wish that somehow that helped?

Do you know that there is nothing, NOTHING that I wouldn’t do to ensure your safety and happiness?

Do you know that it cuts me to the core when you say, Don’t touch me! even as I burst with pride that you finally have the words to say it?

Do you know how grateful I am for those hit-and-run hugs that come at me with all the force of the universe, even if they end just as abruptly as they start?

Do you know that your laughter has the power to heal?

Do you have any idea how much you’ve changed me?

Or how grateful I am to have been changed?

Do you know how many people are rooting for you? How many people cheer your victories and hold you in their hearts when you stumble?

Do you know that you are smart as a whip?

Do you know that you have autism?

Does that strange word that we use mean anything to you?

Does it help to know that there’s a name for the things that you struggle with? That you are not alone in those struggles?

Do you know that as you grow up there will be an army of people out there with similar experiences?

Will you want to find them?

Will you take comfort in their friendship?

Will you find pride in being different or will you choose to try to blend in?

Or both?

Do you know that as long as you can make that decision for yourself, I will feel as though Daddy and I succeeded?

Do you know that I envy you your complete lack of pretense?

Do you know that you are the most authentic person I’ve ever met?

Do you know that you make the world better, simply by being who you are?

Do you know that you touch hearts and change minds and bring everyone around you to a higher place?

Do you know that I have already learned far more from you than I will ever teach you?

Do you know how proud I am to be your Mama?

***

I love you, baby – with every fiber of my being.

Don’t worry about the rest of it.

That’s all you need to know.

just start

*

“Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase; just take the first step.”

~ Martin Luther King Jr

*

In our first official act, the Inclusion Committee has established a column in our school’s newsletter. OK, so I carved it out of the Parent’s Advisory Council Liaison’s column. Which wasn’t that hard to do because I’m the Parents Advisory Council Liaison and it was my column. But stay with me, folks. I’m building to something here.

Have you heard about the Inclusion Committee?

30 members strong and growing, the Inclusion Committee is a wonderful and dynamic mix of parents, teachers and staff members. The committee works to raise awareness about what it means to be an inclusive community and how each of us can play a role in fostering an environment of tolerance, compassion and understanding for all.

We are already working on the planning for our school-wide celebration of Inclusive Schools Week in December. Volunteers are welcome! Contact Jess Wilson at (my e-mail) for more details.

On the day that we started this thing, I was chatting back and forth with my friend (and first official volunteer!), Deb via e-mail. During that exchange, she wrote something to me that simply begged to be shared. It was an emotional plea, a call to action and an instruction manual all in one. It started with the words, ‘Here’s what I want to say to parents”.

And it sparked an idea.

Your submissions wanted!!!

We are thrilled to announce a new format for our little space here in the Newsletter. We want to hear from you! We will be highlighting submissions from the entire school community that answer one of two questions:  

What does inclusion mean to you?

OR

What would you like your community to know?

We are seeking submissions from parents, students, teachers and staff. By definition, inclusion INCLUDES all of us!!

Please send your submissions via e-mail to (my e-mail) with ‘newsletter’ in the subject line. Due to limited space, some submissions may not be published, but please don’t be discouraged. We will do our best!

And now, without further adieu .. our first submission comes from a parent of three (of our school’s) students and answers the question What would you like your community to know? 

***

Think back to when you were in elementary school. Everyone can remember that one kid … the awkward one … the one who may have talked differently, or looked different, or had unusual habits. And everyone can remember at least one time either watching or even participating in a moment of unkindness, or excluding, or giggling, or just avoidance.

None of us could know then what a parent’s love for a child felt like. Imagine how the parents of that child from elementary school felt seeing their baby being treated poorly by peers. Think of the pain and isolation of not only the child, but of the parents as well – neighbors, even friends.

Well there are many more kids with “differences” now. There is NO ONE whose child is not affected. If you are not the parent of a child with “differences” you are absolutely the parent of a child who has classmates with “differences”.  The teachers can not be role models of compassion in a vacuum.  Fear of differences is powerful.

If an invitation to a birthday party or a play date feels too big … start with a simple conversation. Start with asking your child to give someone outside of their circle of friends a turn in their game, extend a compliment, a gesture or even a smile.

Just start.

I told you it begged to be shared.

 

so dumb

“Stupid is a SAD word. Dumb is kinda like saying STUPID.”

~ Kendall Wilson

***

Darby had asked me to come into her room “to talk for just a moment, Mama”. A moment quickly gave way to an hour. Little Miss didn’t need to talk, she needed to TALK.

***

“Like when I have play dates over who don’t really know maybe, and they look at Kendall with that ’she’s so WEIRD’ look. You know that look, Mama? The ‘why is she so WEIRD’ look? Or like when neighborhood girl was over and she said, ‘You know how your sister is so dumb?’”

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Don’t let her see it.

“You didn’t tell me about this, honey. What did she say exactly?”

“Well, we were playing and she just said, ‘You know how your sister is so dumb?”

Damn it, I was so hoping I’d misheard. I was praying she was going to say, “You know how your sister pits her plumb? … hits her drum? … sucks her thumb?” Anything but that. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

“So what did you say, love?”

“I told her that she’s NOT dumb at all. That she’s actually really, really smart and that if she said stuff like that ever again she couldn’t be my friend.”

We talked for a long, long time. I gave her some words that she might be able to use next time. My sister’s brain works differently than yours and mine, but that doesn’t mean she’s not smart. It just means that some things can be more challenging for her. We spent a lot of time detailing Kendall’s challenges and talking about the strengths that are actually wrapped inside each and every one of them. She started repeating them back to me.

“Ooh, like how she can repeat anything just like she heard it – what’s that word for it, Mama?”

“Echolalia, baby.”

“Right, echolalia. It may seem like it’s not good now, but when she speaks Spanish like Dora it sounds just like someone who grew up speaking Spanish instead of like us which sounds like, well, you know, someone who is just trying to speak Spanish.”

“Exactly, love. Exactly.”

And I tried to drive home the fact that she didn’t have to have those kinds of conversations alone. I told her that Daddy and I would always be there to help.

“But, Mama”, she said. “I DO have to handle it alone. I mean, maybe I don’t really, but I’m just telling you, that’s what it FEELS like.”

“Oh, honey, I know,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. She’s the one reporting back from the front lines. We’re just sitting safely inside HQ drinking coffee and talking strategy. What the hell do we know? “I know it feels like you have to do an awful lot by yourself. I understand completely why you feel that way. But please, please know that you have a lot of people who can help.”

I ran through a list of people at school. The social worker that she adores, her teacher, the inclusion facilitator – the wide and caring and wonderful network of people who can HELP. And I came back again to me and Matt.

Matt and I talked that night and into the next morning. We agreed that we needed to talk with neighborhood girl’s mom. It then took us three e-mails, two phone messages, two outside consultations and five actual conversations before we decided how we wanted to handle it. “I need to ask your help” is the approach we decided on. “I’m sure you can imagine how hurtful those words would have been to Kendall had she heard them and how hard they were for Darby to hear. We’re sure she didn’t mean to be hurtful, but children can say some difficult things when they don’t fully understand a situation.”

It took a night’s sleep and lot of restraint to get to that point. “I need your help” was NOT our first reaction. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to be hurtful” sure as hell wasn’t mine.

The next morning, Darby hung out with me while I showered, as she so often does. “Hey, Darb,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I talked to Daddy last night and we both feel that its important for us to have a conversation with neighbor girl’s mom, OK?”

She nodded and said, “Yeah, I understand.”

I called the school social worker first thing in the morning. She was wonderful. “I’ll pop in and give her my schedule so she’ll always know where she can find me,” she said. She promised to make it seem like something she had already been planning to do as a matter of course.

I tried to push it out of my mind for a while.

I worked on the notes from our first inclusion committee meeting. I looked at the words on the screen that described the meeting for those who hadn’t been able to come.

We each talked a bit about what inclusion means to us – from honoring and respecting every individual’s contribution to the community to celebrating one another’s unique strengths and making the effort to look beyond the surface and to really get to know one another and understand each other’s stories. We talked about learning from one another, creating an environment in which every member of the community feels welcomed and empowered. It was a thought-provoking exchange and hopefully the first of many.

I organized some of the ideas that had come from our brainstorming session. I looked them over with a new sense of urgency. This stuff matters. It will make a difference. It has to.

I was grateful that we had already designated Sunday Darby Day – the yearly celebration of all things Darby. Not her birthday, not a holiday, simply Darby Day. The one day a year upon which the entire Wilson clan is subject to the whim and wish of little Miss Darby Delicious. She’d been tweaking the schedule all week long ahead of the big day.

~ Wake-up when I get up. Even if it’s before 6:45, I can go in to your room, and you can’t say it’s too early cause it’s DARBY DAY!

~ Cuddle time – with no books and no shows – just CUDDLES!

~ Breakfast – decorate-your-own-pancake bar (NOT THE FROZEN PANCAKES, Mama – HOME MADE ‘REAL’ PANCAKES with icing and chocolate chips and pink sugar and you can’t say that’s gross and no way can I have that stuff for breakfast cause it’s DARBY DAY!

And on it went …

And thank God for all of it. For things to DO, a difference to make, the things to look forward to – and for knowing that we would soon be celebrating Darby in all her Darbiest glory.

Because otherwise I might have drowned in the thought that it took two adults – two adults who are steeped in sensitivity, two adults with a pretty decent grasp of human interaction, two adults with a lifetime of experience  -  three e-mails, two phone messages, two outside consultations, and five actual conversations to figure out how to handle what my 8 1/2 year old deals with on the fly EVERY SINGLE day.

These kids are carrying

an

awful

lot

of

weight.

when?

“Meeeeee I have another muffin please?”

“Sweetie, you asked very nicely, but we’re only having one each. If you want one later, you can have it after dinner, OK? First dinner and then muffin.”

“But I really want one.” (Kendall’s new and almost irresistible attempt to get anything and everything that she wants)

“I know, baby, but we’re going to have dinner very soon, so we’re not having any more muffins right now. You can have another one AFTER dinner. First dinner and then muffin.”

I was ready to press rewind and replay the whole conversation. It’s what we do around these parts when there are a lot of words flying around. But Kendall’s next question – just a single word – kept us right on course.

“When?”

HUH?

STOP THE PRESSES!

Do we have sound effects around here? I’d like to insert [song comes to a screeching halt as needle scratches across record].

“When?” Did she just say, “When?”

Matt and I exchanged a look. The Holy crap, did she really just say that? look. Oh yeah, she did.

Mark your calendars, my friends. This was the last of the coveted ‘W’ questions to enter Kendall’s vocabulary.

She is 6 1/2.

Any idea how much will power it took not to give her a damn mini-muffin?

Ed note – this post has been gathering dust for nearly three weeks now. We have yet to hear ‘when’ again since that day, but don’t you worry. We will. Ooh, maybe I just need to break out the mini-muffins!

buttoned up

*

*

“Let me tell you the secret that has led me to my goal: my strength lies solely in my tenacity”

~ Louis Pasteur

Buttoning, I think I mentioned recently, is a new, hard won skill. But like all new skills in our world, it’s not consistently available. It plays hide and seek and dissapears just when you need it most.

But once in a while, it’s in the void that we find greatness. It’s the times that ease is farthest from us that we find out who we are. And sometimes, something as simple as a button can help us define our character.

Kendall’s Hello Kitty pajamas have just three buttons down their front. They are oversized pink plastic numbers, just as you’d expect to find on children’s pj’s – made to enable the young wearer to button them fairly easily by themselves. Well, most young wearers of course.

Kendall took the pajamas from my hands. She laid the pants out on the floor, sat down in front of them, and pulled them up. As soon as she couldn’t pull anymore she stood back up to get them over her little bottom. She then tried to put the shirt on over her head, but it wan’t going to make it. She cried out as her head got momentarily stuck in the too-small hole.

I reached out to help, then pulled my hand back as I saw that she had found her way out. She managed to get the shirt off and she laid it out on the ground just as she had done with the pants. I watched her meticulously unbutton each of the three buttons, then pull the top on like a jacket. Without fanfare, she went to work on the bottom button.

She was tired and easily frustrated. It was right before bed, for goodness sake – the worst possible time to be working on something challenging. She began to cry. “Kenz,” I said as gently as I could. “Can Mama help you, honey?”

I didn’t want her to feel defeated. It was late at night. It wasn’t the time to be a hero.

She looked right at me (yup, right at me) and with all the conviction in the world she said, “NO.”

She twisted and turned that damned button. She yelled out in frustration.She pushed and pulled and contorted her little fingers until she got it halfway through the hole. And then the sucker slipped right out. She yelled out again.

The tears streamed down her face. “Honey, I know you want to do this yourself, but maybe we should try it tomorrow when it’s not so late,” I said, feeling completely impotent.

She cried harder, but didn’t make a move.

“Kendall,” Darby said softly. “Do you want us to stop looking at you?”

I hadn’t even thought of it. We were simply adding to the pressure, staring at her, looking for all intents and purposes like we might pounce at any time.

“Yeah, Darby. You would,” she answered.

We turned our bodies to make it clear that we were no longer watching her. And I did my best to conceal my furtive peeks.

Kendall turned herself around and faced the wall as she began to work again. I did my best to pretend to be engrossed in conversation with Darby. “Oh, yes, love, that sounds wonderful. I’m sure you’re going to love the trip to the arboretum.”

Once in a while I offered quiet praise. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’re doing so well.” She didn’t respond. I didn’t ask her to.

Nearly twenty minutes. It took my girl TWENTY GOD DAMNED MINUTES to button her PJs. And she stuck with it. For TWENTY MINUTES. She worked through her frustration and her tears and SHE DID IT. She would not give up.

I’ll never forget sitting across from our beloved neuropsych, Dr. I’dfollowthismantotheendsoftheearth about a year and a half ago. He was making an impassioned argument for addressing Kendall’s anxiety. We had been holding out, trying to avoid medication, exhausting every other option first. Part of the reason we were attracted to the doctor in the first place is that he’s not a guy who is big on meds. Unlike many other doctors that we encountered along the way, he doesn’t view himself as a giant Pez dispenser, indiscriminately handing out psycho pharmaceuticals like candy. Ask me sometime about the developmental pediatrician who once told me in a six minute phone call that she’d happily write a scrip for my daughter, whom she’d never met. She’d just like me to stop by with her for ten minutes or so just so she could see her first. It was the first and last time I ever spoke to the woman. But that’s just not Dr I’dfollowthismantotheendsoftheearth’s MO – so when he brought it up, we listened.

He made the very convincing case that the risks of letting Kendall’s anxiety run unchecked were far greater than the risks of the miniscule dose of medication that we would ultimately decide to give her. He actually said that he’d never felt more strongly about it with any child he’d seen to date. This ain’t his first rodeo. He’s seen a LOT of other children. He talked that day about the ‘hump of frustration.’ In order to learn anything new, he explained, we all have to push our way up and over the learning curve. And there’s stress involved in doing so. To take on anything new, one has to be able to make it through their frustration. At that time, Kendall wasn’t learning a whole lot of anything. She was screaming. And crying. And getting stuck over and over and over again in the vortex of her own anxiety.

I still worry about the medication. I think about the risks every single day. But – they gave her the ability to push her way over the first hump. And then another. And another. And along the way, she’s been able to pick up a whole lot of tools that had been previously out of reach. She’s learned how to calm herself down. She’s learned to ask for what she needs – breaks, walks, headphones, hugs. Once she began to understand that frustration was surmountable, there was nothing she couldn’t do.

Like buttoning herself into her PJs. All by herself, thank you very much. And the result – the pure, unmitigated joyful pride on that little tear and snot streaked face – was worth every bit of angst it took to get there.

You know, so often I feel like we project our own tenacity onto Kendall. Defiance, my friend M likes to call it. As in, ‘this kid defies any and all limitations.’ And she does. But she doesn’t always own it. Accomplishing a goal someone else sets just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

But as she stood there beaming in her buttoned up jammies, it couldn’t have been more clear – this one was ALL Kendall.

Ed note – many of you who wrote to me offline in response to this post suggested that we should be upping Kendall’s dosage. But, just as we did when we made the decision to medicate in the first place, we are exhausting other options first. After a long conversation with her developmental pediatrician, I feel very comfortable with our decision to hold off. I shared the same thoughts to her that I’d written into the post’s comments the night before -

after hearing from so many of (my friends) (both online and off) that (their) little (and not so little) ones are struggling right now too, i’ve come to believe that the time of year has an awful lot to do with the added stress on their already taxed systems.

the rapidly changing seasons, the screwy weather (at least here in the northeast where we’ve vacillated between 38 degrees and snow and 68 and sun all within 24 hours), the dramatically shorter days and far less time out of doors to get the jigglies out are conspiring to make life tougher for our kids.

add to that the fact that expectations are ramping up dramatically at school right now – the early days of getting to know classroom routines and reviewing old material are quickly giving way to getting down to business.

it’s not easy on kids who thrive on routine and who need to know what to expect.

She not only confirmed my reasoning, but told me that nearly every child she follows is having a tough time of it right now. She said the changes of season are always harder for our kids (we knew that, didn’t we?) and that anticipation of the holidays likely isn’t helping either.

“So, what do you want to do?” she asked.

I told her what we had done the night before. We had gone to a ball field after dinner. We played imaginary baseball and ran the bases. We played tag and we chased each other in and out of the dugout. We ran until the last of the light finally disappeared. And as I watched Kendall, I welled up with emotion. It was suddenly so obvious, watching her run. She’s fast, that kid. She has this funny little upright trot and her hair trails behind, looking like its trying to catch up with her. She was smiling. From ear to ear she smiled as her face cut through the wind. I said to Matt,”She’s FREE.”

It was good for ALL of us.

We are now on a mission to make up for the exercise she’s lost to the waning daylight hours. Yesterday at school her aide worked with the OT and they came up with a slew of exercises and activities for her. They ran outside twice yesterday. They took a break in the fitness room. They jumped over a balance beam and designed a stretch against the wall. It’s helping. A LOT. Her aide reported a great day.

And Mama’s breathing again.

excuse me – the heathen version

Ed Note ~ If you’re easily offended, this may not be the post for you. If you think it best, I promise not to hold it against you if you simply click somewhere else and come on back tomorrow. But if you decide to keep reading, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

And the Lord said unto Adam,

Adam, quick, pull my finger!

*

On Friday night I had come straight from work to meet Matt and the girls at our usual Friday evening haunt. Since we had both of our cars, we had to drive home separately after dinner. Matt took my car and I took his so that I could stay with the girls. Once I see them on Friday after work, I’m rarely willing to relinquish them again.

And so it was that Darby, Kendall and I were making our way to Matt’s car to head home. We held hands and the girls chattered as we walked down the sidewalk. Two completely different conversations overlapped in the somewhat maddening stereo effect that is the hallmark of life with the Wilsons.

I’ve color coded the speakers in an attempt to allow you to follow who is speaking at any given time. Not that I can always follow who is speaking at any given time and I’m there, but hey, good luck.

***

The players ..  

Darby – talking about her upcoming field trip

Kendall – running through her script of Godspell inspired questions

Mama – whose sense of humor hits a new low

****

So, Mama, guess where our field trip is going to be? C’mon guess! It’s the best place EVER!

Oh, I um .. hmm, Darb, I’m not sure, honey.

What did Jesus say BEFORE He bumped His head?

Huh, What’s that Kenz? Oh, um .. he said ‘STROKE!’

OK, So it starts with ‘A’ but that’s ALL I’m telling you, Mama. Can you guess?

Oh, I, er, um .. hmm, Darb, let me think.

What did Jesus say AFTER He bumped His head?

 What, Kenz? Oh, he said, “Ow!”

C’mon, Mama! Guess!

OK, Darb .. the Aquarium!

What did Jesus have on His head?

A heart, honey. Jesus had a heart on his head.

Nope, try again, Mama. Good guess though.

Damn, thought I had it. Ummmmm .. the Apple store?

Shuddup. You try and come up with a field trip place starting with ‘A’ that’s not aquarium. Yeah, not so easy now is it, tough guy?

What rhymes with Jesus?

I opened the car door and the girls climbed in. Kendall went in first and settled in, still running through her prescribed litany of Godspell questions.

What rhymes with Jesus?

Darby followed her.

So, Mama, it’s a place you know. And you love it there. Starts with ‘A’.

Yeah, Darb, so you mentioned.

What rhymes with Jesus?

Kenz, we need to take a break for just a sec, OK? I have to close the door, honey.

I checked for fingers and toes and then closed the rear door and stepped to the front. As I got into the car I .. hmm, how shall I put this? I – oh gosh, this is terribly embarrassing. Mom, I’m sorry, but if I leave this part out there’s really not much to the story. OK, fine .. I passed gas, OK? It happens, people. Don’t judge. I’ve been eating a lot of vegetables. Anyway, it was kinda well, loud and really, really, really embarrassing. But being the mature and graceful role model that I am, I handled it in exemplary fashion. Or not.

I erupted into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

Kendall was unfazed. What rhymes with Jesus?

Cheezus, Kenz. Cheezus rhymes with Jesus.

Darby looked at her sister and then at me, trying to determine the source of the um, interruption.

Mama, who did that?

What did Jesus bump when He fell down?

I tried to bite my tongue, I swear I did, but it just came out. I was laughing hysterically. Jeneil, I’m so, so sorry for what follows. Brandon, please forgive me. Pastor Karla, I do hope you’ll still come over for dinner after this …

 Jesus, honey. I think it was Jesus.

I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

Um, Mama? Jesus isn’t here.

What did Jesus bump when He fell down?

I giggled uncontrollably. Oh, honey, Jesus is ALWAYS with us. You know that.

And then I snorted.

What did Jesus bump when He fell down?

Jesus bumped His HEAD, Kenz. Fine, Mama. Yeah, I get that, but He’s not HERE as in HERE in the car FARTING. Nice try. So, um, what do you say?

What did Jesus say AFTER He bumped His head?

At the EXACT same the same time, Darby and I answered Kendall.

“Excuse me!’ Jesus said, ‘Excuse me!”

And then we rode the waves of laughter all the way home.