moving forward

 

 

I’ve mentioned my dear friend, Drama Mama a number of times here. She writes a wonderful blog that she calls Like a Shark. Though I may well be off base, I’ve always assumed that the rationale behind her title was that as mothers, particularly the kind of mothers that she and I are, we have no choice but to keep moving. That may not have been her intention when she named it, but nonetheless that is what it has come to mean to me.

No matter what sharks do, they don’t stop moving. They sail through the water at mind boggling speeds and change direction without warning when they have to. They mate, they hunt, and they swim. They do not stop moving.

Weeks like this one remind me, in no uncertain terms, that I am a shark. Whatever happens, I keep moving.

The week began with the teasing incident on Sunday afternoon. I licked my wounds on Sunday night. On Monday, I struggled to find a way to handle it that I could live with. You generously offered your insightful advice and your support, and I am grateful for both.

In case you didn’t see it, I left the following update in the comment section following the post:

         All,

I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your collective advice and support. I also know I don’t have to tell you. That’s the best part.

I also appreciate your anger. It sucks for all of us.

I feel like I owe it to you to walk you through my decision. So here’s what I did. I’ll get to the why in a minute.

I opted against making the phone call to the little boy’s mother. Instead, I chose to speak with their teacher. (The boy is in Kendall’s class.) We spoke first thing in the morning, before school started. She was satisfyingly upset. She gets it – she’s one of the good ones. She feels this stuff.

She was eager to help. She was everything one would hope when making this kind of heart-in-the-mouth call. She immediately had a plan of action. She promised to be on high alert for a similar situation. If it arises (as I suspect it will) she will be all over it and I can assure you there will be a lesson in it. She also assured me that she would revisit the basics with ALL of the kids regarding respecting and understanding each other’s differences, how to use words respectfully, how to express their feelings, and what kinds of words are not acceptable – ever. There was more. That’s what I can remember.

Now – the why.

I had decided last night to wait until I had calmed down (meaning after a night’s attempt to sleep) to make the call. Matt very wisely suggested that before I do anything, I call my dad and seek his advice. I suspect he did that because he knew what my dad would say.

You may remember that my dad was a middle school principal for 45 years. There’s not much that he hasn’t seen in the way of inter-parental interaction. He knows people, he knows kids, he knows parents – he’s seen nearly every version of these movies played out time and again and he knows how the different scenarios tend to wind up. Yeah, I so have the best dad ever! Anyway, he’s my sage and he knows of what he speaks. So I called Dad.

He made an extremely good argument for NOT calling. I was disappointed. I was revved up. I was ready for action. Mama Bear was looking to change the world one phone call at a time .. GRRRRR. But I listened. Cause well, see above. He knows his stuff, people.

Dad’s point was that there was some fairly significant downside risk in making the call. Aside from the expectation that the mom would likely be understandably defensive (which I dismissed believing fully in the power of my charms, thank you, April .. lol) there was a likely outcome that I would not have considered.

He said that he’s often seen these situations backfire. Ultimately, thanks to an attempt by the parents to fix it, the kid in question winds up focusing all their attention on their target. In all likelihood, he said, the parents would not know how to handle the situation in a way that would deter him. They might very well inadvertently add fuel to his fire.

For all the world, it certainly appeared that the boy was seeking attention with his actions. The great thing about Kendall’s presumed lack of awareness (I hope) is that he didn’t get it. He DID get it from her big sister, but since she’s not typically around them, that would not normally be the case. We’ve all studied at least enough ABA to know that when we don’t get attention for our attention seeking behaviors, we eventually give up and try a different tact, right? So, the idea of purposely focusing attention on all of this may well be counter-productive.

The teacher will more likely have the tools to handle it productively, sensitively and appropriately. Thus, I defer to her for now.

Sooooooo, in the end, I have decided that the real gift to my daughter in this situation is not the tough call, but the restraint not to make it. You’re right, M, it won’t be easy. I have found that parenting often is not.

Thanks again for all of your support. Y’all rock!

The conversation with Kendall’s teacher was wonderful. She is this week’s personal miracle. She sent me a long, detailed e-mail at the end of the school day. She thanked me for bringing the incident to her attention. She outlined the actions she had taken during the day and told me about how she planned to proceed.

She told me about the wonderful book that she had read and discussed in depth with the kids that day - a story called Odd Velvet.  She told me about the conversation that they had around it about how to look past their own assumptions, how to see the beauty in people, about what it means to be a real friend.

She talked about specific actions she took with the little boy to help work on his social growth and understanding. They worked through scenarios. She has a plan in place to continue the effort. She will follow through with it. I trust her.

She ended her note with the following:

These kids have taught me so much in the 88 days we have been in school. I love it –  especially Kendall.  She is a little girl who has taught me things that I can’t even put into words, and has helped me be more aware of my interactions with other people.  Kindergarten is the best and having an inclusive classroom is even better! 

There are teachers and then there are heroes. The ones who stretch and challenge not just their kids, but themselves. The ones who learn while they teach and teach what they’ve learned. The ones who are helping us make a better world for our precious kids.

So yes. We keep moving forward.

I’ll talk about the rest of the week’s events when I can.  Suffice to say that it’s been the kind of week that shows you what you really value – and even more importantly, what you don’t. It’s the kind that reminds you that stuff is just stuff and that the people that you love are all that matter. Times like these make you remember just who you are.

And me? Well, I’m the kind (just like you) who keeps moving. You know – like a shark.

romance

 

romance

a candle lit dinner

a sunset walk on a windswept beach

a rose on a pillow 

breakfast in bed

 

romance

sweet, whispered words 

a slow dance

cheek to cheek

to a favorite song

 

romance

a moonlight serenade

a drawn bath

chilled champagne

before a a roaring fire 

 

(OR)

 

romance

a husband who knows that his wife is struggling

that she needs some room

to breathe

to gather her strength

to keep the demons at bay

 

romance

a plea to take their older daughter to that drop-off birthday party

and then to take the hour before pick-up for HERSELF

at a nearby cafe

alone

 

romance

a yellow post-it note

on the screen of the laptop

that he packed away in her bag

to take to the cafe

to exorcise the demons

one that simply reads

“i love you”

 

romance

three words

on a two-inch yellow square

that force her to remember that she’s not alone

that knights in shining armor

aren’t just the stuff of fairy tales

and that if she remembers where to look

sometimes

they even leave clues

to light the way home

 

yes.

romance.

she doesn’t even know

 

The kids were happily crammed into a crowded table at their classmate’s birthday party. They were carefully painting their plaster sculptures, chattering and bustling, sharing paints and cups of water for cleaning brushes.

Kendall was hard at work painting her plaster clown. From the looks of it, not a single color on the palate had escaped her brush.

From a couple of seats away, Darby glanced down at her sister and called out encouragement. “Kendall, you’re doing a great job!”

A little boy across the table from Kenz chimed in.

“Yeah, you’re doing a great job making a mess, Kendall. Nice mess. What a great job. You’re just dumb.”

He barely finished the last sentence before Darby angrily shot back. 

“Stop making fun of my sister.”

“But she doesn’t even pay attention,” he said. “Watch this.”

He looked right at my baby girl, diligently painting her project and he shouted, “Hey Kendall, DOYNG!”

She didn’t flinch. She kept painting.

“See?” he said, looking around the table at his captive audience. He looked smug, having proven his point. “She doesn’t even pay attention.”

I took a step closer, but a clear, determined voice from across the table stopped me in my tracks. I know that voice better than I know my own, but there was an anger in it that I didn’t recognize.

“STOP IT!” said the voice. “STOP MAKING FUN OF MY SISTER.”

“She doesn’t even know,” the little boy said flippantly.

The voice got stronger, clearer. “It doesn’t matter if she knows it or not. STOP making fun of her. You don’t make fun of ANYBODY. EVER.”

I felt like a raw nerve.

I was proud.

I was angry.

I was torn to shreds.

For Kendall.

For Darby.

For all of us.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks in the car on the way home. My stomach churned with the bile of anger and fear. Is this what happens at school? Is this Kendall’s life when we’re not around?

The kids are getting older. They’re seeing the differences. They’re seizing on one another’s vulnerabilities. It’s what kids do. Hell, it’s what adults do.

He may be right; she may not know. She may not understand. I’m not convinced. She sees so much more than we think she does. But even if she doesn’t know now, she will. Then what?

Can I protect her from the sting of ignorance? 

That little boy is not a bad kid. Not by a long shot. Later in the party, Kendall yelped sharply when the kids were crowded into a line. He was the first one to ask her what was wrong.

I’m debating calling his mom tomorrow. If I do, I’m going to start the conversation by telling her that she’s got a kid with a heart. I haven’t yet decided if it’s the right thing to do. It would not be an easy conversation.

But how else do we do this? If not by changing perception and talking to each other – building understanding one tough conversation at a time, then how?

I’m taking suggestions.

Anyone?

Beuller?

darbypalooza

 

 

I swear I had no intention of making this a whole week of Darby posts. It just kind of happened organically - this ode to my eldest daughter. Before I could stop myself it had turned into a virtual Darbypalooza.

I half-heartedly apologize for the overload, but I’ve got to tell you, I just don’t want to keep these little moments to myself. They’re just too much fun to share.

Kendall has been under the weather for the past few days. Nothing serious, but she’s been fighting a fairly nasty head cold accompanied by a mild fever. Despite our best efforts, the poor little thing has yet to figure out the concept of blowing her nose, so a head cold can be pretty debilitating.

Darby has been an angel to her little sister. OK, maybe not 24/7, but she’s had some moments of greatness. 

She offered up her very own sacred ‘Benny the blanket’ for cuddles “Benny always makes me feel better, Kenz.”  She suggested watching Dora. “Really, Mama, it’s ok, she’s sick!”  She covered her with her favorite pink blanket. “Because when you’re sick you shouldn t get cold.”

And then there was the card.

Last night, the girls and I hunkered down in the den for some quiet time before bed. Kendall leaned against me like a sweet lump of warm love. Her little cheeks were chapped and flushed with fever.  She was uncharacteristically still. It broke my heart to see her that way, but I reveled in the quiet closeness.

Darby sat at the coffee table, hard at work. Markers and pens and scraps of paper and tape littered the table, as they so often do when she’s creating a secret masterpiece.

After twenty minutes or so she emerged carrying a folded piece of paper. She walked over to Kendall and ever so gently announced that she had something for her. She beamed at me as her little sister worked to sound out the words.

Get Better soon, Kendall

Dear Kendall,

I know it’s hard to be sick.

I hope you get better soon.

Love,

Darby

In case you didn’t recognize him, that’s a painstakingly drawn Boots the Monkey, Kendall’s all time favorite character.

Yeah, so it’s the week of Darby posts. But honestly, can you blame me?

not completely honest

 

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain ~ The Wizard of Oz

 

I was hanging clothes in Darby’s closet last night as she crawled into bed. She sat watching me, wide-eyed, drinking me in as she always does.

With a deep breath she said, “Mama, I feel like you’re not always completely honest with me.”

OK. There is no possibility that this can be a good start to a conversation -any conversation. I stopped in my tracks and looked at her, concerned.

“What do you mean, honey?’

“Well, about Santa Claus. I don’t feel like you’re completely honest with me. Is he real?”

I had to turn away. I hid my smirk in the row of dresses in her closet, pretending to straighten a little shift on its hanger.

I did my best to compose myself and walked over to the side of her bed.

“The magic of Santa Claus is real, sweet love.”

I let that hang in the air, not saying anything else. I thought that the fewer words I used the less chance I’d have to get myself into real trouble. I could see that my little Clarence Darrow was preparing her cross examination.

“Ok, but is Santa himself real or not?” she asked, the picture of innocence.

I couldn’t meet her eyes. I fussed with the blanket at the end of her bed.

“That’s up to you, honey.”

I could feel her little eyes burning right through me.

“What does that mean, Mama? How could it be up to me?”

Suddenly I was five years old, sitting in the car between my parents as we drove down a tree lined street in my hometown. Those were the days before car seats, of course. I was perched between their seats, glaring accusingly at each of them in turn. I was frustrated beyond belief. Neither would give me an answer. “Either Santa’s real or he’s not. Why does it matter what I think about it? I’m just asking if he’s real or he’s not. Just tell me.”

It was all I could do not to smile at history’s repetition.

“Well, baby, if you believe in Santa, then the magic is real. But you have to believe. So it’s up to you.”

The wheels turned. At the speed of light, I watched her process my words. In a flash, she had her answer.

“I believe, Mama.”

“Well then, darlin, he’s real.”

As she smiled at me I was struck by a thought.

Someday she will understand that completely honest is not necessarily all it’s cracked up to be.

secret handshake

 

When Kendall was in preschool, we were desperate to learn and adapt the techniques that her ABA team was using to help foster social interaction. They had welcomed us in to observe them in action, but we knew that our physical presence in the room would have a disastrous effect. Our BCBA generously offered to record sessions periodically and to give us the videos to watch at home. The result was an invaluable glimpse into Kendall’s world.

In one of the videos, she can be seen practicing her newest skill set – raising her hand and waiting to be called on. As one hand went up, the other made its way immediately toward her mouth, holding one little finger gently to her lips in a ’shushing’ sign. The motion was fluid, the result of hours upon hours of practice. There both hands would stay until she was called upon.

This process had taken an inordinate amount of work to master. While it might seem like a simple enough task, many of us know full well just how much so called simple tasks can actually entail. Breaking it down, a few of its components are as follows:

Understanding (by virtue of verbal and social cues) that a question has been asked of the entire class (in this case four kids)

Knowing that you are expected to attempt to answer the question

Raising your hand and waiting quietly to be called on (helped by the neat little trick of the finger on the lips)

Remembering that you must not call out the answer while your hand is raised (an early pit fall that proved difficult to overcome)

Watching for further verbal and social cues that will show you who has been called on

Staying calm and quiet while other children are talking

Accepting the possibility that you may actually not be called on at all

Lowering your hand once you have either answered or the process is complete

That’s an awful lot to master, but, thanks to the diligence of her incredible ABA team, by the time she left pre-school, my girl had it down. In the last video we have, Kendall can be seen raising one little hand, shushing with the other and waiting patiently to be called on. 

I remember commenting to our BCBA how cute I thought it was that the kids made the shushing sign. “What a great strategy it is for them,” I marveled. 

“Oh, yeah,” she chuckled. “You can always tell which ones are ‘our kids’ when you walk into an elementary school classroom. They always have their little fingers to their lips.”

I got to thinking about some of the more subtle signs that identify our kids. Not the big ones, the little ones. The ones that may linger long after the bigger ones begin to fade.

As they become more adept at handling their challenges –  as they take on luncheons in five star hotels or speaking engagements in front of hundreds of people, will they still recognize these telltale signs in one another? Will they see the slight flap of fingers that emerges here or there in a moment of stress? Will they catch the stimming on a smooth surface that no one else would ever know to identify? Will they notice a repeated phrase or single word diction? Will they see someone across a room wince at a loud noise or notice that someone else might (like them) resist meeting their eyes?

Will they one day use these signs as a roadmap to find each other? I wonder. Will they feel a sense of kinship? Or will these subtleties more likely escape them?

Darby went to a party the other day at her friend ‘Emma’s’ house. She and this little girl have a lot in common, including their status as siblings of kids on the spectrum. They get each other. They speak the same language. They live with siblings who sometimes defy their best attempts to engage and understand them.

Emma and Darby had made plans ahead of time. They had activities planned and a list of things they were going to do. Darby, Emma had assured her, would be the ’special helper’ throughout each of the activities. They would begin with a play salon at which they would style each party-goers hair. Of course, they hadn’t run any of this by Emma’s mom, and when it came time for the actual party, the best laid plans of mice and seven year olds had to take a backseat to the constraints of time. 

The next morning, Darby told me all about the party. I asked if they had indeed styled hair and if she’d gotten to be the special helper as promised. “No,” she said, with a shrug. “It didn’t work out. I guess there just wasn’t enough time.”

I said that I was sorry to hear that and that she must have been a little disappointed.

“You know, Mama,” she began. “I was a little, but really it was no big deal. And Emma made a point of thanking me for being so flexible. She said she really appreciated the fact that I was as flexible as I was. She told me I was a really good friend for being so understanding.”

These girls are SEVEN YEARS OLD.

This language. This composure. This hyper awareness of other people and their feelings. This sensitivity to the needs of friends. This constant stream of encouragement and praise. Like the finger flapping or the stimming or the perseveration might be for our kids with autism – are these the things that will identify the siblings to one another?

Because damn it all, if these kids find each other, lean on each other, understand each other – our world will never be the same.

Just imagine the possibilities if they join forces.

michael

 

It is Inauguration Day. The dawn of a new era. I had a wonderful little piece of America the Beautiful that I had planned to share on this historic and incredibly poignant day. I’m sorry to let you down, but I’ve decided to abandon my original plan in order to share a story with you. I can only assure you that what follows here is in keeping with the spirit of the day – HOPE.

So join me, won’t you?

On Friday night, I spoke at the Autism Speaks Greater Boston awards dinner. I was nervous, but I found it interesting that I was far more anxious about finding the time to put together what I would say than I was about actually having to say it. Quite a contrast from the last time I spoke in front of largely the same crowd back in August, when it was all I could do to hide my shaking knees behind the podium. 

As for the speech itself, I used a lot of material from ‘diary’ and pieced it together in a way that hopefully got my message across.

I had the unenviable task of following an incredible young speaker. His name is Michael Mayes and he is an eighteeen year old senior at Marshfield High School, just to the South East of Boston. Mike was fantastic. He was poised; he was charming; he was completely engaging. He commanded the room and grabbed our hearts from the moment he took the mic.

Mike is a successful student, an outstanding athlete, a mentor to young children, a role model, and a political activist. He is one of just twenty-eight young people selected by Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick to serve on a state-wide youth advisory council. Quite a resume to boast at eighteen. He looks forward to attending Colby Sawyer College next fall. And let me tell you, they will be lucky to have him.

Oh, and Mike has autism.

He talked about the teachers who gave him a chance – the ones who believed in him and who saw what he was capable of. He talked about the coaches who knew he could do anything he wanted to do. He made special mention of his wonderful, dedicated parents and his obviously beloved aide, Mrs Ridge, who has been with him since kindergarten. She sat beaming at him from their table, no less proud than his own parents. 

In short, Mike is what it’s all about. Confident, funny, soon-to-be-running-the-world Mike. Mike who came up to me after I spoke and told me that I had done a good job. “You told really good stories,” he said. Mike, who stood before a Red Sox pavilion full of parents and offered himself up as living proof that our efforts matter – that success is within our reach.

After I spoke, a number of people came over to me to share their thoughts. The support, the caring, the raw outpouring of emotion at these gatherings is gratifying and overwhelming. From the grandfather who told me about his grandson’s first words (a full sentence at eight) to the mom with tears in her eyes who told me that despite a joking protest in my speech, I am indeed the mother of the year (I’m not by a long shot; but I loved her for saying it). From the man who told me that he knows a lot of people who get $25k a speech who don’t speak as well as I just had (I of course thanked him and told him I’d do it for $20k) to the mom who chided me for making her cry (again). From the uncle with a birthday party story of his own to the mom who I had met after I spoke at the Kick-off and then had seen again at a lecture not long thereafter. She came to tell me how much she adored Kendall. I was confused. Did she somehow feel like she knew her? Turns out I had mentioned the Superstars class to her and her son now attends every week with my baby girl. The world gets smaller.

There was a string of parents, adults with autism, friends and grandparents telling me their own stories. And then there something entirely different.

(Come a little closer. This is important.)

A lady came over to my table and sat down with an obvious sense of urgency and purpose. “You need to know something,” she said. “My boy – he didn’t speak when he was five.” She paused, then repeated each word, one at a time. “He. Didn’t. Speak.”

She drew her chair closer to mine – the better to make sure I was really listening, really hearing her. And then she continued.

“I need you to hear that,” she said. “I need you to understand that. Keep working. Keep at it. It will all come together.”

I was trying to be respectful, but she must have seen the confusion on my face. She realized that she hadn’t yet introduced herself. 

“I’m Mike’s mom.”

Time stopped. All the noise in the room disappeared. Nothing else existed.

This incredible young man who had stood before a crowd of nearly 300 people and drawn in every last one of them. This funny, charming teenager who was so poised and engaging. This young man who was part of three championship teams. This kid who coached baseball in the summers and was headed off to college next fall. This young adult who was confident and self possessed and who clearly knew who he was and where he was going.

That young man had no words when he was Kendall’s age. 

“He didn’t speak,” she said.

She paused again, staring right into my eyes.

“Will you remember this?” she asked.

I promised her I would never, ever forget. We hugged. The embrace of battle-worn mothers who barely know one another and yet who know it all. 

So, please – just as I promised Mrs Mayes, I want you to promise me. Promise me that you won’t forget Mike and all that he represents. Mrs Mayes said, “Keep working. Keep at it. It will all come together.”

Mrs Mayes is no doubt a neat lady, but she’s no different than you or I. She had the strength. She found the tools. So will we. Just like her, we have the love for our children that won’t let us fail. And someday, if they should want to, our kids will be the ones standing in front of the crowd inspiring all of us to greater heights. 

click here to see the video of my speech

(Note .. It starts out a bit rough and very noisy. If you stick with it, you’ll see it gets better in short order. Thanks to Matt, my loving videographer.)

bowling for dollars

photo by John Robison

 

 

On Monday night, my dear friend Megan and I attended the Flutie Bowl, a fundraiser here in Boston for the Flutie Foundation. The event appeared to be a huge success, attended by folks from all walks of life, including a good number of New England Patriots.

Long before I had any personal association with autism, I  was aware of the Fluties’ amazing work on behalf of their son, Dougie. So when my friend, John mentioned the fundraiser, I was immediately on board. Even if it was (gasp) a Monday night.

Laurie and Doug Flutie Sr (the dreamy one in the middle of the picture above)  began the foundation back in 1998. On their website, it says the following:

Doug and Laurie are fortunate to have the resources to provide their son with the educational opportunities, special equipment and tools necessary for Doug, Jr. to live a happy and rewarding life. They realize, however, that there are thousands of families of children with autism who struggle every day to pay for similar services. Their primary objective is to provide families with a place to turn when they are in need of support and autism resources.

And that, my friends is why I dragged my butt out (along with Megan’s butt) on a Monday night to bowl.

ed note .. OK, OK, so I didn’t actually bowl. I was wearing stilettos. I mean, of course I was, right? And man, those bowling shoes would have just killed the whole mojo. Now, if I had me a nifty bowling shirt like Doug, maybe. Or, maybe not.

ed other note .. Sincere thanks to my friend John for not only taking that picture, but for hunting down poor Doug and dragging him over to indulge my very childish (and mildly stalkerish) desire for a photo with a childhood crush hero. Heaven knows what he actually had to say or do to get him to come over, but apparently even a guy who stared down 300 lb defensive linemen doesn’t stand a chance against John on a mission.

ed um other, other note .. Apologies to my dear, sweet husband for my complete and utter ignorance in the area of professional football. The poor guy was stuck home with a nasty stomach bug and had to miss the event. I’d imagine that a half-decent wife would at least have offered even a half hearted run-down of the football players in attendance. Perhaps she’d even have something slightly more illuminating than, ‘Well, there was this really, really tall white guy with immensely broad shoulders – kinda like Paul Bunyon. Oh, and this crazy tall black guy with even broader shoulders.’  I’m so sorry, honey. You deserve better. Really.

a village of her own

 

 

It seems to be the season of the birthday party here in Boston. I am amazed at the sheer volume of invitations that seem to arrive daily for my daughters. 

Each party has a life of its own, and comes with its own set of challenges. This coming weekend, Darby will attend her very first slumber party. We wait with bated breath, half expecting a call in the middle of the night, but hoping (I think) that she can make it through. 

With Kendall of course, the challenges are different. 

This past weekend, I took her to a gymnastics party to celebrate with a little boy from her class and twenty or so of their friends and classmates. As we always do, we prepped in the car. “What do we do if it gets too loud?” “What do you do if you need a break?” She seems to have the concept down.

Last June, thanks to a local grass roots autism initiative, I had the opportunity to help create what was to be a four session long gym class for kids on the spectrum. The class was a great success and has continued on to this day, with little Miss Kendall leading the charge of enthusiastic participants.

I think her status as a founding member of the ’superstars’ class has helped make it possible for her to tolerate the controlled chaos of a gym party. She is accustomed to the running and jumping and even the pounding music. She covers her ears when the teacher prompts the “Happy Birthday” yell. She even follows along and participates to some degree in nearly all of the activities.

We arrived with the throng of other kids and found our way to the cubbies to peel off our snow gear. I barely noticed the other parents shooing their kids into the gym with a wave and turning on their heels to leave. Is this when we began to drop Darby off at birthday parties? Kindergarten? I suppose it was. Different milestones.

The birthday boy’s mom came over as I was signing Kendall in. Apparently a conversation had preceded my arrival. “This is the mom I told you about,” she said to the young lady at the door. She’s going to want to stay.” I smiled at her and followed Kendall in. There didn’t seem to be a need for me to say anything else.

Kendall ran in and joined the other kids as they jumped in and out of a huge foam pit. While the other kids lined up and eagerly awaited a turn swinging from a rope, Kenz seemed perfectly content to wedge herself in between the foam blocks in a tight little corner. I did my best to make myself invisible.

The party began with each child taking their place around a gigantic parachute in the middle of the floor. Kendall ran around the perimeter for a while as the other kids got settled in. I gave her some time to find her bearings and then prompted her to join them.

The parachute rippled and spun as the kids followed the instructors’ direction. The birthday boy took a ride in the middle and then got wrapped as a gift and spun open, much to his delight. The kids then lifted the billowing parachute high over their heads and peeked at one another in the colors underneath. As they all held on tight and made funny faces at each other, Kendall let it go.

She ran under the parachute into the middle, much to the instructors’ dismay. She found her way out, but was disoriented once she reached daylight. She began to gently gallop her way around the floor, completely indifferent to the action in the middle. I started to move toward her, ready to draw her back into the fold. And then I stopped.

Kendall, you need to come over here.

Kendall, you can stand over here. I have a spot for you.

Come on, Kendall. It’s ok. Stand here with me.

Kenzie, here’s a place. Look, it’s on the red part!

No less than six little voices – gently encouraging her, showing her where to go, how to follow along. Her friends. Looking out for her. I stayed invisible.

They moved from the parachute over to a long stretch of in-ground trampoline. The kids clustered on the floor in a tight clump of knees and elbows, awaiting instruction. Kendall hesitated just long enough to be left without a space in which to sit. She stopped and started, obviously unsure of how to approach finding a spot for herself.

One of her Critter party friends sat right in the middle of the group. I watched in awe as she scooted three kids over and made a hole right in the center for my baby. She patted the floor next to her, now wide open. Kendall didn’t react. Slowly, patiently, gently this little girl encouraged Kendall to sit down next to her. Kendall, there’s room for you. She patted the floor again. Come sit here. 

After the trampoline, it was time for a short break in the action. The kids made their way over to a water fountain and dutifully lined up behind one another to await their turn. Kenz took the long way over, running her hands along walls, gym mats and the floor along the way – always taking in the textures of her world. By the time she got there, there was only one little girl behind her on a very long line. (She happened to be another of the Critter party friends.)

Each child took a drink from the the water fountain. And then it was Kendall’s turn. I stood a good distance away as she stared the fountain down. It must have worked differently than the ones at school and she hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do with it. She crouched down and peered underneath it. She tentatively touched the spout with a tiny finger. Nothing happened. I took two steps toward her, ready to help. Again, I stopped in my tracks.

The little girl behind her stepped forward. Do you want me to show you how it works, Kendall? I can do it for you if you want. She pushed the button and Kendall happily lapped up the water. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Again and again, the scene was replayed. One little girl gently prompted her to sit on top of the parachute like the rest of the kids, another held a handle for her to grab when they all seemed to be taken. A little group of them tried to explain to her that she had been tagged by a zombie while playing ‘mummy cross my tomb’  so she had to walk like them now. Watch, Kendall. Can you move your arms and legs like us? We’re zombies too! Some of their overtures worked; some didn’t. They didn’t seem to mind.

These kids were looking out for her. They were keeping her in the mix. They were including her.

Over the past few months I’ve talked a lot about this village that I’ve found here in blog land. This incredible network of support and love and understanding. A place where I know that people speak my language, have my back and won’t let me slide through the cracks. And meanwhile, the most wondrous thing has been happening. My daughter has been finding the exact same thing. 

What a glorious thing it is to know that Kendall has a village of her own.

 

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my stylist

 

I took Darby shopping with me last weekend. I had a gift certificate to Bloomingdale’s that was burning a hole in my pocket, so we went trolling for post-Christmas bargains. She was getting bored. Gee, I can’t imagine why. What could be more exciting for a seven year old than looking through endless racks of women’s clothing. No? not so much? Well, I did my best to make it fun by suggesting that she pick some things out for me to try on.

She came alive with her mission, darting from rack to rack in search of the perfect item. And the kid’s got style, let me tell you. She chose some beautiful things. She chose some kooky things (just try it, Mama – you can’t tell just by looking at it on the hanger) and she began to take a sense of ownership in the whole experience. 

I picked up a cute, slightly funky dress/ top and held it up for closer inspection. My little stylist crinkled her little nose and dismissed it. “That won’t work on you, Mama. It has weird seams on the b**b part. Just put it back. You won’t like it”

Uh, scuse me, Little Miss Thang. You – seven, me – thirty-ei .. well, um – not seven. I’m going to try it on. Besides, someone very wise once said, “you can’t tell just by looking at it on the hanger.”

“Whatever,” she said. “But it’s not going to work for you.”

She turned on her heel and continue her hunt for designer treasure. I defiantly threw my new favorite dress/ top over my arm (cause, you know, I’m the mom and I’m so mature) and forged on. 

We poked around for a little while longer and then headed into the dressing room for the moment of truth. I tried on a top she had chosen for me. She sat smugly by and said, “I told you that one would be cute.”

Whatever, I thought as I put it into the ‘probable’ pile.

I tried on MY dress/ top. I willed it to look good. (It didn’t.) The weird seams were, well, weird. I turned from side to side, searching for at least one decent angle from which to view this abomination. I wasn’t giving up. I sucked in my tummy. I stood on my toes.

 ”What do you think, Darb?”

“Ok, Mama. I have to be honest with you. It makes your b**bs look really big. And if we’re being honest, that’s the LAST thing you need.”

As I took it off and put it into the ‘not in a million years’ pile, my half pint stylist could barely suppress her smirk as she said, “I told you it wouldn’t work for you.”

Stacy? Clinton? If you decide to take some time off, may I recommend a stand-in?

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