the pictures that don’t make the album

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We took a trip to the mall on Saturday. Why I had my camera with me is a long story. All right, fine, not really so long. OK, OK, you beat it out of me…

A friend called to tell us that she had spotted Darby’s photo at the Macy’s on 34th Street in New York. About thirty seconds later, we were headed out to our nearest Macy’s, camera in hand.

Of course we had to take some snapshots (you know, for the grandparents) so, on Mama’s request, little Miss Thang hammed it up for Mamarazzi.

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(That’s actually Lord and Taylor. They had it too!)

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It was kind of nice to have the camera as we walked around the mall. We were able to capture some of the moments that normally would have slid right by.

Like Kendall walking around Claire’s in the purple boa whose siren song she couldn’t resist.

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Or showing off her new magnetic earrings that made her feel ‘just like Darby.’

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Yes, having a camera at the mall meant capturing moments that I normally would not have.

Including a few that would never make it into any photo album.

A few that remind us that the simplest things are often the hardest for our beautiful little girl.

The ones that show just how hard Kendall works every day.

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The ones of my baby sitting down to have a bite to eat in the food court.

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Trying to shut out the noise.

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With whatever she can.

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Yes, the ones that break my heart.

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hugs

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“He loved constantly, instantly, spontaneously, without thought or words. That’s what he taught me. Love is not something you think about; it is a state in which you dwell.
That was his gift.”

~ Joshua in Lamb by Christopher Moore

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Yesterday, I took Darby and Kendall into a clothing shop with me. That’s getting easier. Not easy, but easier. Quieter. Less destructive. The frustrated and/ or panicked yelps are fewer and farther between. The knocked-over displays and scattered piles of clothing are steadily dwindling. Not there yet, but close. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. It’s even almost fun. At the very least it’s no longer like chewing glass.

While I was paying for the fabulous shirt that I found (on a REALLY good sale!) Kendall made her way over to a male mannequin in the window. She stood just inches from him and looked up warily into his face. I watched her intently as she reached out and slowly, gently touched his hand. The shopkeeper completely abandoned our transaction to watch the interaction with me. We both smiled as she reached her little arms around her new friend’s waist and lightly laid her head on his plastic abs. A hug.

She made her way back to me just in time for me to finish up and collect my purchase. Darby was off in another direction, peeking at heaven knows what she may have found. I looked up and smiled at a girl of about twenty shopping with her mom. Flash forward. Might we look like that someday?

Kendall let go of my hand and walked straight up to the girl. She didn’t say a word as she wrapped her arms around the girl’s waist and gave her a tender squeeze. It happened so fast that I could barely react. The girl was wonderful. She was shocked, but laughing. Both she and her mom gave me sweet, gracious smiles as I ushered us toward the door.

As we walked out, Darby lowered her voice into a conspiratorial tone. “Mama,” she stage-whispered, “Kendall HUGGED that lady. Why did she DO that?”

I looked at Kenz, humming contentedly as she made her way along the sidewalk.

“Well,honey,” I said with a shrug, “perhaps she thought she looked like she could use a hug.”

I explained to Kendall that we don’t hug people that we don’t know. I told her that we can say, “hello” to them or we can shake their hand if we’d like to, but that it’s unexpected to walk right up to them and give them a hug.

I thought of adding, “which is a little sad, really” but I left that part for another day.

fashioning change

 

 

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Ralph Lauren.

Supporting autism research.

My girl front and center in the ad.

No accidents.

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Now go shop!

(Or spread the word to anyone you know who might have two nickels left to rub together!)

click here!

(and here for another shot of Darby)

tell them what they won, johnny!

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The goal is not to change your subjects, but for the subject to change the photographer.

~Author Unknown

For six years, the paparazzi had nothing on me. I’d skulk behind trees, crouch around corners, blend like a chameleon into the shrubs. I was ruthless –  expertly stalking my quarry, waiting (im)patiently for just the right moment to pounce.

When I got my new camera last year, the first order of business was to outfit it with a high-powered telephoto lens. Friends teased me about it. I looked like I was working for the foreign press.

Once behind the camera, I had no shame. I’d jump up and down, make ridiculous noises, make an utter spectacle of myself. Heck, I’d even burp on cue to elicit a response. (Yes, I can.)

Rare birds? Hollywood stars? Politicians?

No, my subjects were far more elegant, far more seductive and far more elusive than any of those have ever been. For six years, I longed for a shot of these two rare beauties.

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Those eyes.

That light in them – it’s not a trick of the camera. It’s Kendall.

For six years I ached for those eyes.

For a while, we played a game of cat and mouse. I turned, she turned. Around and around we would go. I called her name, she, well, didn’t do anything. I was heartbroken. I longed for those eyes.

We invented games. Big eyes, little eyes. We brought objects to our eyes. We taught her to orient her body toward us. In school she was taught to point at her partner in conversation. Her gaze awkwardly followed.

Eventually, we all settled into a happy medium. A comfortable compromise. She looks in the right direction. Enough to appear attentive. But when she wants to, when the mood strikes and Aquarius is in the Seventh House, she squares right in.

It happens more and more lately. I catch her looking right at me. She stops me in my tracks. I’m unaccustomed to looking at her head on. Her beauty takes my breath away. I almost don’t recognize her face without the slight angle that I’ve viewed it from for so long.

She stares at me, watching me. It is completely overwhelming.

Her terms. Her timing.

But there they are.

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Those eyes.

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On the morning of her birthday, we had a couple of extra minutes before school. She’d let me put pigtails in her hair. She looked adorable. Since the pigtails never last long, I figured I’d snap a couple of pictures while I could. I grabbed the camera, outfitted with the foreign press lens that got me that picture above from twenty yards away. Gingerly, I gave her some warning. “Kendall, I’m going to take a couple of pictures of you, OK?”

She didn’t answer, but instead walked right into the middle of the kitchen, stood stock still and said, “CHEEEEEEESE!”

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And there it was. Six years in the making.

I nearly fell over, but I kept shooting.

There had been times when I had caught similar shots of her. Some were staged with Matt standing behind me, contorting himself to get her attention. Some were the Christmas card photos, taken by professional photographers after hours of cajoling and prodding and praying. A hundred shots for one. Some were moments like that one above when the camera was quicker than she was, when, as she turned her head, the shutter captured that split second that my eye would have missed.

I have those photos in my house. They are framed. They are cherished.

But they never felt honest. They represented what I hoped for, but not what WAS. Looking at them made me happy, yet filled me with longing.

On the evening of her birthday, our neighbors joined us for cake. We lit the banana candle and sang together as quietly as we could. As we sang, I focused my camera. I was ready to zoom in tight, get a picture of her blowing out the candle.

Our young neighbor cheerily sing-songed, “Kendall, look at Mama for a picture! Smile!”

Oh no. I cringed. My shoulders crept to my ears and my body tensed. I braced myself for the defensive shriek that was sure to come. It didn’t.

Instead,  this is what I got:

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By the time that Easter morning rolled around a couple of weeks later, there were no holds barred. I went for the Holy Grail. A photo of both of the girls. Together.

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And I got it.

Better than I ever would have dared to hope for.

Her terms. Her timing.

(And now I’ve got the pictures to prove it.)

six years in the making

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The following pictures were six years in the making. They were taken with a standard camera, with no one but me standing behind it. They may look like regular old pictures to you, but I assure you, they are far more to me. Do you see what is so extraordinary about them?

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Oh, the banana candle? Yeah, um, long story. The short version goes something like this: Boots (you know, the monkey?) once took a little time off from costume designing and had a birthday. Well, being a monkey he loves bananas, so naturally he had a banana candle on his cake. Being a kid who loves Boots the monkey, Kendall therefore kept saying “I would have a banana candle on my cake.” I therefore thought it would be pretty funny to stick a candle in a banana. So much for the short version, but anyway, the banana candle has nothing to do with why the picture is so different than all those that preceded it.

Perhaps you can see it better here:

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How about if I blow it up a little?

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Or maybe in this one?

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Any guesses?

Ooh, wait. Here’s one more, from Easter morning:

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Perhaps it’s not obvious. Perhaps they just look like regular, er typical, kid pictures.

I’d love to hear what you see.

(Answers tomorrow)

cranky

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I spent most of yesterday evening doing my best impression of a bag of ‘Whaaaaaah!’ I was cranky. Like really cranky. Like giving into hormones shouting, “Salt! Sugar! Salt! Sugar!” kind of cranky.

It was one of those afternoons. The girls needed space from each other. I needed space from myself. But wherever we went, we all seemed to be there.

Kendall’s gym class usually has seven to nine kids. Yesterday there were two. It was adorable. It was just her and this little boy that she knows from preschool. Without all the other kids, I could watch her. Really watch her. But it was one of those days.

One of those days when the sweet, enthusiastic teenage instructor tried to help her follow along. She tried to put her hands in the right spot, to show her where her body needed to be. Kendall shrieked like she was being burned.”DON’T TOUCH ME!” she yelled.

Some days I see a little girl who is using words. Some days I see my baby figuring out how to communicate what she needs. Yesterday, all I could see was a little girl screaming, “Don’t touch me!”  Oy.

It was one of those days when words fail more than they come. When perseveration rules the day and nerves are quickly frayed. When patience becomes a distant memory.

Yes, it was just one of those days. One of those dinners. One of those evenings as we got ready for bed.

Darby asked if we could go on a magical adventure before bed. I didn’t have it in me. I promised tonight, we’d head off to Fairy Land. Instead, we measured things. Everything. My nose, it turns out, is 5 centimeters long. Darby’s right leg, from knee to toe is 26 centimeters long. While she measured, she played the clown, determined to exorcise my inner Eeyore. She turned it into a game. She jumped on her bed, making silly faces and pretending to fall with a dramatic flourish.

Nothin’.

She told me about the porta-potty on the school playground that someone seems to have abandoned. I guess just hearing ‘porta-potty’ was supposed to make me laugh. But Eeyore stood strong.

She stood on her bed and scratched her head. She looked around the room. Hands on hips. Eyes narrowed. Mouth screwed up to one side. Thinking mode.

A smirk took over her face. Inspiration had struck.

“Mama, which one do you want first? The doctor one or the waitress one?”

I went with doctor. It fit my mood.

“The doctor says, ‘I’m sorry to tell you that you have twenty-four hours to live.’ The patient says, ‘Wow, this couldn’t be any worse.’ The doctor says, ‘Oh, yes it can. I forgot to tell you this yesterday!’”

She’s told me that joke at least twice a day since she found it in a book last week. I laugh every time. I can’t help it. It’s funny. Maybe it’s the delivery. Maybe it’s that she’s eight.

She saw the corner of my mouth forcing its way into a smile. She went in for the kill.

“The customer says, ‘I’d like a coffee with no cream, please.’ The waitress says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we’re out of cream. Would you like a coffee without milk?’”

Even Eeyore had to laugh.

no boo boos

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There’s bound to be some consequences
Sneaking under other fences

~ Clay Walker,  Then what?

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We took the girls out for ice cream last night. Despite a bitter wind, 54 degrees and sunny had us feeling giddy. Our SUV was parallel-parked along the left side of a one-way street. Kendall stood beside me as I opened the back hatch to grab my jacket. As always, I said, “Stay close, Kenz.” As always, she did.

I reached into the car to grab the coat, standing on my toes to see over the tailgate. I looked into the car for approximately three seconds. It couldn’t have been more than that. It didn’t have to be.

I didn’t feel her next to me. Her little shoulder wasn’t grazing my leg as it does when she’s ’staying close.’ I looked down in slow motion, like I was falling off a cliff in an old movie. She was darting around the side of the car, a good four to five feet into the road.

It was 6:30 p.m. We were parked right in front of a busy T stop (train station), right in the center of town. A car whizzed by, stirring the wind and blowing her hair back in its wake.

I yelled out sharply. “Kendall, KEN-dall! NO!”

I grabbed her. Hard. I crouched down and pulled her to me.

I couldn’t breathe.

She was fine. FINE. But I held tightly her to me. I just couldn’t let her go. She let me hold her. She was eerily calm. She didn’t scream when I screamed. She didn’t pull away or fuss when I held her against me. She stood there with me, cheek to wet cheek in baffled, stunned silence.

When a child yells in a store, Kendall yelps in response. The few times that I’ve raised my voice to her, she has let out a scared shriek. Even if I yell to Matt across the house, she shouts in response. Kendall is not silent. Nor still. Her reaction to all of this just wasn’t HER. At all.

We took a few deep breaths and gathered ourselves together to walk to the ice cream shop. By the time the kids were halfway through their scoops, all seemed fine. Kendall was still a little quiet, but it was getting close to bedtime. We had a nice walk back to the car, a calm ride home. The girls played through shower/ bath time and no one seemed any worse for the wear.

After her bath, Kendall sat on the floor of her room, huddled under her lion towel. I snuggled her up for a ‘Kendallion hug’ and told her I’d be right back. I just had to run to the bathroom. I came back a minute later to find her crying. Nothing in the room had changed. She sat exactly where I’d left her. She was alone. There was nothing around her that appeared to be the culprit.

The cry worked its way into a full blown sob. She cried so hard she gagged and choked. She caught her breath and then cried harder. She ran headlong into me and let me squeeze her, then bounced off of me like my skin was burning hers. Then again. And again. Just like she did when she was little and I called her my little ‘hit and run.’

I tried to hold her, to soothe her, to tell her she was safe. She looked terrified. Nothing I could say would calm her. She was yelling through the sobs, “You love me!” and “No boo boos. I don’t have any boo boos.”

I tried to rock her, to hold her. I tried to get her to breathe, but the jagged sobs had turned into hiccups. Her tiny little body was shaking.

Finally, feeling helpless, I pulled out the biggest gun I’ve got. I brought her into my bed to cuddle up under the covers. She was still sobbing as I turned on the TV. The sobs eventually subsided about halfway through Dora. I gotta give it to that little exploradora, she knows how to draw my kid in. Kendall even eked out a “Mochila” to help Dora call her backpack.

In the bed, Kendall held onto me for dear life. She curled herself around me, clamped her little leg around mine and held my arm across her chest. Finally, she was calm.

Darby piled in for the end of Dora and all seemed to have returned to our version of normal. Matt and I split off for bedtime and Darb showed me the latest children’s book that she’s writing about a camp-out. She dismissed my only narrative suggestion because, “Mama, this is for little kids. I don’t think they can read the word settled”. Oooookay.

I headed into Kendall’s room for songs and snuggles. She looked around on her bed and realized that someone was missing. “Mama,” she began, “COULD you go downstairs and get JoJo PLEASE?”

The language was fabulous! “Sure, honey. I’ll be right back, OK?”

“Oh yeah.”

Off I went to grab the errant JoJo. Blissfully (and uncharacteristically), I knew right where she was, so it didn’t take but a minute. I came back with a grin and a JoJo only to find Kendall crying again. She pulled me to her and yanked me down onto her bed. “We would cuddle!” she said as she buried her face into my neck. The sobs overtook her again.

She couldn’t tell me what was upsetting her, though it didn’t take Encyclopedia Brown to put it all together. The ‘no boo boos’ was the kicker, I think. She was reassuring herself that she hadn’t gotten hurt. That she was OK.

We did our best to talk about it. I asked her if she had been scared when Mama pulled her out of the street and yelled. She said that she was. She asked, “Do we go in the street without a grown-up?” The same question I answer every single time we cross the street on the way to school. Every. Single. Time. We stop, we look both ways and then I ask her, “What do we need before we can cross?” She answers, “A grown-up.” I ask her if she has one. She points to me and off we go. Every. Single. Time.

Some water, a toaster waffle and a lot of snuggling later, she finally calmed down and went off to bed, calm and seemingly happy.

I tore into myself for the three seconds that could have meant disaster. Please don’t tell me I shouldn’t have. You would have done the same. My stomach churned for most of the night.

I thought about Kendall. About all of us.

Our emotions ~ they’re there, aren’t they? The good, the bad, the ugly – they’re all there. The fear, the joy, the anger. The pride, the confusion, the insecurity. They may hide for a while; they may be stunned into submission, but they’re still there. We may be able to squelch them long enough to get through the day, but ultimately we can’t deny their existence. They come out somehow, somewhere. They creep under our splintered fences and make themselves known one way or another.

But according to Kendall, once we let ourselves FEEL them – as messy as they may be – we can go to bed, calm and seemingly happy.

connecting four

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The girls and I were settling in at home after school one day last week. As Kendall headed off to the big table in the den to color and Darby foraged in the fridge for a snack, I went through their folders. I scanned the notices and found the notes from Kendall’s aide. I read about writer’s workshop and recess and who she had engaged to play with throughout the day. She’d had her Social Pragmatics class with three other kids, which sounded like a success. Kendall’s two Social Prags classes are arguably the most important parts of her week. The curriculum sheet said they were currently working on sharing, cooperative play, and complimenting friends.

Behind all the official stuff, I found an adorable sheet of paper. It was shaped like a star and had cartoon eyes, hands on ‘hips’ and a big, silly, red-tongued grin. On it, in clear print, were the words, “Kendall, you did a great job playing Connect Four,” signed (with a smiley face) by Ms B, the Social Prags teacher.

It’s my understanding that they were using a modified version of Connect Four as an exercise in turn taking, sharing, and cooperative play. They also used the process as an opportunity to practice their interactions and to talk about ‘expected’ vs. ‘unexpected’ behaviors. (i.e. Licking the checker while you wait – unexpected. Asking a friend to hand you a checker – EXPECTED! Yeah!)

Of course I made a big fuss over the note. I brought it into the den where Kendall was now surrounded by magic markers and we read it together. I was beaming. My kid’s playing Connect Four! Ok, so it’s modified, but so what?  She’s playing a game WITH OTHER KIDS – something that seemed outright impossible two years ago. The fact that there are three other kids did not escape me. Connecting four.

Darby wandered in from the kitchen and read over over my shoulder. “They’re playing Connect Four?” she asked. By now we’d lost Kendall into her art. She was intently drawing the full cast of JoJo’s Circus (in Halloween costumes).

Darby, however, was now fully engaged. She started in, a mile a minute.

“Mama, you should see Connect Four in my classroom. Holy Moly. The kids ALL gather around whoever’s playing and they yell and scream and root for them and it gets reeeeeeeeally loud and crazy and you can’t concentrate at all anymore and everyone crowds in on you and Ick! Mama, I played it once but I’d NEVER want to do it again. It was awful.”

I looked at Kendall, concentrating every fiber of her being on coloring in Skeebo (dressed up as a bear). How could she ever  … ? How would she ever … ?

Darby blissfully stopped talking for a second as she followed my gaze to her sister. She scrunched her nose and nonchalantly added, “Kendall would HATE playing Connect Four in second grade.”

Yeah, I got that, Darb. But thanks.

Have you ever heard Sesame Street’s Baby Bear sing his own version of The bear went over the mountain? In his wittle baby voice, he sings:

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“The bear went over the mountain

The bear went over the mountain.

The bear went over the mountain,

To see what he could see.

The bear went over the mountain

The bear went over the mountain.

The bear went over the mountain,

And what do you think he saw?

He saw another mountain.

He saw another mountain.

He saw another mountain,

So what do you think he did?

The bear went over the mountain

The bear went over the mountain.

The bear went over the mountain,

To see what he could see.”

And so it is. Sometimes, the top of one mountain just means you can see the others more clearly. But that’s all right. We’ve got our climbing gear in order.

happy easter

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Wishing you and yours a very Happy Easter.

Or Passover.

Or Sunny Spring Sunday.

May you find hope, peace and a sense of promise in this season of renewal.

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Eggs decorated by the Wilson girls with loving guidance from Julie. Thanks, Jules!

feeling like kendall

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Kendall has a new thing lately. More accurately, she has a LOT of new things lately. The past couple of weeks have seen huge developmental upswings. It has felt like one of those watershed moments in time where a lot of hard work seems to be coming together all at once. Where small, slow baby steps suddenly give way to quantum leaps.

Maybe I’m just seeing her progress differently. Maybe it simply looks different from where I’m standing ~ here at home, closer to the action. Perhaps these are no more than the same old miracles that happen every day, but I’m recognizing them for what they are. Either way, it’s a wonder to behold.

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She’s been exercising her will.

“Kendall, it’s time to put away the markers and wash up for dinner.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, sweetheart, it’s time to start finishing up.”

“No it’s not. I’m doing what I’m doing.”

I’m doing what I’m doing. How I love that!

“Kenz, baby, Mama’s going to count down now.”

“No, you’re not. Not yet!”

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She’s been adding colloquialisms to her speech, coloring it in with detail.

“Oh no! I hurted my foot!”

“Oh, what happened, honey?”

Her usual answer would be “I hurted it.”

“I banged it really hard.”

Not just “I banged it” but “I banged it really hard.”

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She tried out a ‘why’ question!

One night last week, Darby wasn’t feeling well and she headed off to bed early. As Kenz showered and got ready for bed, I reminded her to keep her voice down so that Darby could get some much needed sleep. She has a habit, when asked to be quiet, of SHOUTING, “We have to be quiet!” but we’re working on it. I nudged again, using the language she knows from school, “We have to remember to use our #1 voice, OK?”

As I dried her off, she asked, “Why are we being quiet again?”

The ‘why?’ Oh, I don’t need to tell you, do I? The ‘why’!!! But even the ‘again’ ~ a superfluous word, really. Simply there to round out her question, to make it more conversational than simply purposeful. It was just so different than her usual speech.

“Because Darby’s sleeping.”

“Oh yeah.”

She uses ‘oh yeah’ all the time, but it is a scripted response to yes or no questions. The intonation is always exactly the same and it is ALWAYS used to mean ‘yes’. But this ~ this was entirely different. This was ‘Oh yeah, I forgot.’ Like “Gee, I coulda had a V-8.” It was natural, expected.

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But my favorite ~ my absolute, hands-down favorite new development is becoming a pretty regular thing.

Out of the blue, Kendall stops what she’s doing and comes over to me. Sometimes she looks at me, more often she doesn’t. But no matter what she’s doing, she stops to declare, in a loud, earnest voice, “I feel like Kendall.” I have no idea what she really means by it, but it makes my heart soar.

In and of itself, the statement is blissfully devoid of judgement. It begs no comparison to anyone or anything else. It honors of her very being – her Kendall-ness. It is intrinsically accepting and celebratory. I find it breathtakingly beautiful.

I tell her she is the Kendalliest Kendall there ever was. And that I can’t think of a better thing to be.