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They make it work somehow.
They speak their own language.
Or in this case, they "shriek" it.
And it doesn't matter whether or not anyone else "gets" it.
It just matters that they do.
To say that I love these two more than any human should be capable of loving someone else is the greatest understatement in the known universe..
Shrieks are Louder than Words from Jo Ashline on Vimeo.
Oh. and if you're wondering why they're just standing there, buck naked, freezing their keisters off, it's because we were waiting for the tub to drain.
So that I could clean out the poop.
Naturally.
Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Friday, July 16, 2010
Monday's Gonna Suck
She came into our lives three summers ago, a replacement for the therapist who got canned because he had fallen asleep while our four year old son played on the second floor balcony in our home. She didn’t have very big shoes to fill; our biggest requirement? Someone who would stay awake during the three hour sessions, and maybe help Andrew stop banging his head on every hard surface he came across.
We let her into our home and she ended up coming into our lives. We wanted someone who would be there for our son. She ended up being there for our entire family. We wanted to feel less alone in our situation. She ended up being a shoulder to cry on, a friend to rely on, someone who stepped over the dirty laundry without a second glance once I realized that keeping the house spotless for her arrival each afternoon was an impossible feat.
She witnessed our pain, filled us with hope, and has fielded approximately 3,453 questions since July 2007. She celebrated right alongside us each time our son reached a new milestone, and gave a damn when, inevitably, things would go straight to hell.
She’s been in our home, five days a week for the past three years.
And on Monday we have to say goodbye.
She’s been given the opportunity to help many more children, just like Andrew, and even though instinctively, all I want to do is grab onto her ankles and beg her to stay, I know that other families deserve to be touched by her kindness, her dedication, her invaluable knowledge, and most of all, her ginormous heart.
I have dreaded this moment for a long time. It’s something that, as families who have in-home therapists we’re lucky enough to love, have to eventually endure. It’s the price we pay for bonding with the person we entrust to take a crappy situation, like having a kid with autism, and making it better somehow. They are strangers at first, and we are weary, never knowing what to expect, yet always hoping for the best.
With Heidi, we got the very best.
After trying hard to make a good impression, I realized that eventually the truth would come out, and just a short three months into her gig, I let the dishes pile up in the sink, and began to change out of my work clothes for our sessions and into my signature drawstring pants and loose fitting top. Without a bra. And she put up with it. Every. Single. Day.
If that’s not family, I don’t know what is.
My Dearest Heidi: I don’t know what we’ll do without you, but I do know that you have given us the tools and the confidence to go forward and continue to do the right thing by our little boy. Thanks to you, I am the “World’s Greatest Primer.” I estimate that over the years, we have shared a million laughs, a zillion frustrations, and several hundred cups of caffeine.
On Monday afternoon, as I ask you for the last time “coffee or tea?” please know that your chair will always be waiting for you at our modest dinner table. You know. In case you ever feel like stopping by. Just to make sure we haven’t gone and mucked everything up without you here to supervise (also, in case they give us another therapist who demands I wear my bra during sessions).
Seriously though.
Please stop by.
And thank you, Friend.
For everything.
We let her into our home and she ended up coming into our lives. We wanted someone who would be there for our son. She ended up being there for our entire family. We wanted to feel less alone in our situation. She ended up being a shoulder to cry on, a friend to rely on, someone who stepped over the dirty laundry without a second glance once I realized that keeping the house spotless for her arrival each afternoon was an impossible feat.
She witnessed our pain, filled us with hope, and has fielded approximately 3,453 questions since July 2007. She celebrated right alongside us each time our son reached a new milestone, and gave a damn when, inevitably, things would go straight to hell.
She’s been in our home, five days a week for the past three years.
And on Monday we have to say goodbye.
She’s been given the opportunity to help many more children, just like Andrew, and even though instinctively, all I want to do is grab onto her ankles and beg her to stay, I know that other families deserve to be touched by her kindness, her dedication, her invaluable knowledge, and most of all, her ginormous heart.
I have dreaded this moment for a long time. It’s something that, as families who have in-home therapists we’re lucky enough to love, have to eventually endure. It’s the price we pay for bonding with the person we entrust to take a crappy situation, like having a kid with autism, and making it better somehow. They are strangers at first, and we are weary, never knowing what to expect, yet always hoping for the best.
With Heidi, we got the very best.
After trying hard to make a good impression, I realized that eventually the truth would come out, and just a short three months into her gig, I let the dishes pile up in the sink, and began to change out of my work clothes for our sessions and into my signature drawstring pants and loose fitting top. Without a bra. And she put up with it. Every. Single. Day.
If that’s not family, I don’t know what is.
My Dearest Heidi: I don’t know what we’ll do without you, but I do know that you have given us the tools and the confidence to go forward and continue to do the right thing by our little boy. Thanks to you, I am the “World’s Greatest Primer.” I estimate that over the years, we have shared a million laughs, a zillion frustrations, and several hundred cups of caffeine.
On Monday afternoon, as I ask you for the last time “coffee or tea?” please know that your chair will always be waiting for you at our modest dinner table. You know. In case you ever feel like stopping by. Just to make sure we haven’t gone and mucked everything up without you here to supervise (also, in case they give us another therapist who demands I wear my bra during sessions).
Seriously though.
Please stop by.
And thank you, Friend.
For everything.
Monday, May 31, 2010
How to Be Realistic While Holding Out for a Miracle
Monchichi was twelve months old when he really began to babble.
“mmmmmm”
“bababababa”
“moooooooo”
They were sweet sounds for sure, but I took them for granted, because let’s face it, all kids babble right?
Had I known then, that just a few short months later silence would overtake him and plunge us into years of misunderstandings and grueling guess work just to figure out what it was he needed or wanted, I would have treasured each and every syllable that passed through his perfect baby lips.
It wasn’t until October 2006 that I heard the sound of his speaking voice again. We sat on his bed, he and I, absorbed in Dr. Seuss’s “Green Eggs and Ham,” and as I read the book for the fifth time in a row that afternoon, I heard a distinct “how” coming from my non-verbal child. It took only seconds for me to realize that he was trying to say “house,” mainly because he kept pointing at it on the page. “Not in a house,” I said. Sure enough, he repeated “how,” clear as day. I read it again, and he grinned as he realized I understood what he was getting at. I tried not to startle him with the sudden waves of joy that crashed over me;I hugged him tight, careful not to crush him, and did what any proud and hysterical mother would do in similar circumstances: I told the whole freaking world. I called my parents, my husband, his parents, my sister, my best friend, and probably the greater part of Los Angeles and Orange Counties because This. Was. Big. News.
It was the first time since he went silent that I allowed myself to hope, just the teensiest, tiniest bit, that he might one day talk and tell me that he loves me, and that I make the best banana pancakes in the world. Or maybe he would tell me to go straight to hell. I. Didn’t Care.
I just wanted him to talk, and at this point, “how” was the closest thing to a miracle we’d ever had.
Three and a half years later, my son is still considered non-verbal. He didn’t wake up one morning and begin to speak in complete sentences. It’s happened before, with other kids, and my mom swears it will happen with her grandson one day, but I’m not convinced that it will be that easy, especially when I see him struggle to purse his lips together and create a distinct “p” sound during speech therapy. He has come a long way though, adding over 100 verbal approximations that can be understood by a trained ear. You would recognize his “yeth” or “no,” and most of his color words (“ur-el, for purple and “el-ow” for yellow are my two favorites) but for the most part, it takes someone who really spends a lot of time with him to understand what he’s trying to say. We’ve used a Picture Exchange System with him for years to supplement the approximations, but he’s outgrown the simplicity of this communication tool, and is no longer interested in giving us cards with pictures on them.
He wants to be heard.
I want him to be understood.
Which brings us to the present. At eight years old, Monchichi deserves to be able to express his ever-changing and developing needs. And he has yet to wake up and tell me “I could really go for some of those banana pancakes right about now, mom.” So we have to get realistic about the current development of our son and what we have to do, as his parents, to meet his needs; without giving up hope for that miracle my mom keeps talking about.
I know we have to buy him a communication device. Something that will speak for him. Something that will give him the opportunity to “talk” in a more efficient way. Something that will take the place of the words that are meant to come out of his mouth, but that just can’t find their way.
And this is a big deal to me. Because, of course I will not stand in the way of my son’s ability to have language at his disposal. Isn’t that a God-given right? What I do struggle with is the idea that purchasing this gadget, in a way, forces me to admit that we are no where near where I allowed myself to imagine we would be at this point in his life. And I feel that in order to accept this technological assistance, I have to sort of admit that there is a great big really possible chance that he may never actually talk.
Crap. You know?
So here I sit, researching tools that could help Monchichi live a higher quality of life, giving him the words he cannot utter himself, because he deserves it and needs it and we’re going to do everything in our power to give him whatever he needs to have an unbelievable life filled with fair chances and real opportunities.
But I would be lying if I didn’t admit that as I mentally compare which device would potentially work best for my beautiful son, my heart dares to yearn for the day he looks me square in the eyes and says “Go to hell mom.”
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Take That You Little Turd
I took the kiddos to a birthday party yesterday without my husband. He was stuck at home with some manual labor chores and as I pulled out of the driveway he looked absolutely miserable, holding his 12 pack of imported amber ale in one hand, a large cordless power tool in the other. I tell ya, it was all I could do not to turn the car around and demand he join us for fear that his Saturday would be ruined otherwise, but when I looked back to blow him one last kiss, he had disappeared. It must have been too much for him to bear to watch us depart.
Not long after we arrived at the party, Monchichi walked by the bounce house where Superman was, along with several other kids. Suddenly, I heard someone shout, "Hey S#%*! Hey you little S#%*!" and it took only a millisecond to realize this kid was yelling at my son. My. Son. The son that can't whip his head around and tell this joker to shut the hell up. The son that doesn't play with the other kids because he's not sure how, and he couldn't possibly keep up. The son that was wandering through the yard, minding his own business, enjoying the simple things; the things we usually forget about and take for granted.
I was only a few feet from the bouncer and with my hands and heart shaking, I began to make my way over, not really knowing what I was going to do or say once I got there. But before I could charge towards the craphead that made the mistake of picking on my kid, I heard Superman's voice, loud and clear, taking on this foul-mouthed bully. "What did you just call my brother? Did you just call my brother the "S" word? Hey! What did you just call my brother?!"
I watched as my secondborn, a skinny child of six years who still needs potty break reminders defended his big brother in front of everyone, without thinking twice about it. Without skipping a beat. Without worrying that he may have appeared uncool or would get laughed at. And I watched as the boys in the bounce house became silent, hanging their heads in brief shame for having laughed at something that was so obviously hurtful to their friend.
I made my way over to Superman, and after seeing the look of anger and shock in his eyes that someone would say something so cruel to his brother, it took all of my inner strength not to scoop my kiddos into my arms and head for the hills.
But I knew better.
I knew that the boy who said what he said does not know Monchichi. Does not know that he has autism, or that he cannot talk. He did not happen to single him out because he has special needs and that the only reason he was a target was because he was in the right place at the wrong time. This is a boy who would probably say the same thing to just about anybody else who crossed his path, and I have a feeling that he may be what you and I would call "a handful" in this industry.
I knew that maybe this was the first time someone had been so directly mean and rude to my son, but that it wasn't goint to be the last, and that unfortunately, there will be a time when he will be picked on because of his disabilities. But we can deal with that as it comes. Each experience thickens the callouses that allow us to function as a family and rise above what may sink others.
I knew that Monchichi had not heard him, and even if he did, he would not have understood what this kid meant, and I was grateful for that. That in some ways, he is protected from truly absorbing the kinds of words that are not supposed to be used by six and seven year olds to verbally assault a peer.
And most importantly, I knew that Superman had his back. Instinctively, he went into action, and it was heartfelt and passionate and appropriate. I've always known that he is a special kid, hand picked by God to be the "older" younger brother to Andrew. I have often called him a hero, because he is heroic in so many ways each day, as he tries to find his place in the world, making sure not to leave his brother behind.
But I'm not gonna lie.
Seeing him in action on Saturday was pretty freaking cool.
And I let him know it.
Because I'm counting on him to remember what it felt like to hear someone be a turd to his brother.
But mostly, I'm counting on him to remember what it felt like to do something about it.
Not long after we arrived at the party, Monchichi walked by the bounce house where Superman was, along with several other kids. Suddenly, I heard someone shout, "Hey S#%*! Hey you little S#%*!" and it took only a millisecond to realize this kid was yelling at my son. My. Son. The son that can't whip his head around and tell this joker to shut the hell up. The son that doesn't play with the other kids because he's not sure how, and he couldn't possibly keep up. The son that was wandering through the yard, minding his own business, enjoying the simple things; the things we usually forget about and take for granted.
I was only a few feet from the bouncer and with my hands and heart shaking, I began to make my way over, not really knowing what I was going to do or say once I got there. But before I could charge towards the craphead that made the mistake of picking on my kid, I heard Superman's voice, loud and clear, taking on this foul-mouthed bully. "What did you just call my brother? Did you just call my brother the "S" word? Hey! What did you just call my brother?!"
I watched as my secondborn, a skinny child of six years who still needs potty break reminders defended his big brother in front of everyone, without thinking twice about it. Without skipping a beat. Without worrying that he may have appeared uncool or would get laughed at. And I watched as the boys in the bounce house became silent, hanging their heads in brief shame for having laughed at something that was so obviously hurtful to their friend.
I made my way over to Superman, and after seeing the look of anger and shock in his eyes that someone would say something so cruel to his brother, it took all of my inner strength not to scoop my kiddos into my arms and head for the hills.
But I knew better.
I knew that the boy who said what he said does not know Monchichi. Does not know that he has autism, or that he cannot talk. He did not happen to single him out because he has special needs and that the only reason he was a target was because he was in the right place at the wrong time. This is a boy who would probably say the same thing to just about anybody else who crossed his path, and I have a feeling that he may be what you and I would call "a handful" in this industry.
I knew that maybe this was the first time someone had been so directly mean and rude to my son, but that it wasn't goint to be the last, and that unfortunately, there will be a time when he will be picked on because of his disabilities. But we can deal with that as it comes. Each experience thickens the callouses that allow us to function as a family and rise above what may sink others.
I knew that Monchichi had not heard him, and even if he did, he would not have understood what this kid meant, and I was grateful for that. That in some ways, he is protected from truly absorbing the kinds of words that are not supposed to be used by six and seven year olds to verbally assault a peer.
And most importantly, I knew that Superman had his back. Instinctively, he went into action, and it was heartfelt and passionate and appropriate. I've always known that he is a special kid, hand picked by God to be the "older" younger brother to Andrew. I have often called him a hero, because he is heroic in so many ways each day, as he tries to find his place in the world, making sure not to leave his brother behind.
But I'm not gonna lie.
Seeing him in action on Saturday was pretty freaking cool.
And I let him know it.
Because I'm counting on him to remember what it felt like to hear someone be a turd to his brother.
But mostly, I'm counting on him to remember what it felt like to do something about it.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Another Reason Why I Eat Cheese-Its at 1:00 O'clock in the Morning
Among the mystery cans and salad dressing bottles in the bed
among the in-home therapy each day after school
the YouTube videos on repeat
the inappropriate squeals during church
the stims and elopement that always keep us on our toes
there is that other thing we don't talk about quite as often
because, after dosing you with what can only be described as a crapload of medication twice each day,
we rarely see it for months at a time, and end up taking the silence for granted
then
like an overlooked child starving for attention
it stomps its feet
and throws a good old fashioned tantrum
while I'm feasting on mini-pizzas and homemade guacamole
Your eyes roll in the back of your head
a split second of disorientation for you
a lifetime of anguish for me
and when I turn to hold you in my arms
it happens again
and
again
and
again
and by the time Your daddy comes home
I am struggling not to crumple to the floor
and throw a #$#%%-ing tantrum of my own
Instead
we watch Princess and the Frog
and carefully tally the times
you are interrupted by
this neurological misfit
and I wonder what you're thinking
and what you would say to me if you could speak
and how I would trade places with you in a second
The beauty of your long lashes
pressed against your lids
don't make any sense
as you give in to this ugliness
and you are exhausted now
and so am I
but I wait until you sleep
before I let the weight of the world
consume me
Tomorrow
I will let you watch that part in Cars
as many times as you freakin want
and I'll let you snuggle with condiment bottles
and you can eat chocolate on my white comforter
and splash all the water out of the tub
and
while we cuddle on the couch
your breath steady against my neck
I'll have to really think about
how I'm going to accomplish
never letting you out of my sight
again
among the in-home therapy each day after school
the YouTube videos on repeat
the inappropriate squeals during church
the stims and elopement that always keep us on our toes
there is that other thing we don't talk about quite as often
because, after dosing you with what can only be described as a crapload of medication twice each day,
we rarely see it for months at a time, and end up taking the silence for granted
then
like an overlooked child starving for attention
it stomps its feet
and throws a good old fashioned tantrum
while I'm feasting on mini-pizzas and homemade guacamole
Your eyes roll in the back of your head
a split second of disorientation for you
a lifetime of anguish for me
and when I turn to hold you in my arms
it happens again
and
again
and
again
and by the time Your daddy comes home
I am struggling not to crumple to the floor
and throw a #$#%%-ing tantrum of my own
Instead
we watch Princess and the Frog
and carefully tally the times
you are interrupted by
this neurological misfit
and I wonder what you're thinking
and what you would say to me if you could speak
and how I would trade places with you in a second
The beauty of your long lashes
pressed against your lids
don't make any sense
as you give in to this ugliness
and you are exhausted now
and so am I
but I wait until you sleep
before I let the weight of the world
consume me
Tomorrow
I will let you watch that part in Cars
as many times as you freakin want
and I'll let you snuggle with condiment bottles
and you can eat chocolate on my white comforter
and splash all the water out of the tub
and
while we cuddle on the couch
your breath steady against my neck
I'll have to really think about
how I'm going to accomplish
never letting you out of my sight
again
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I'm Sorta Not Okay. I Guess.
On Sunday morning, I was awakened by my eight year old in his usual style: climbing on top of me and pulling my hair. He keeps doing it, because despite my best efforts to get him to stop, it works every time. It's hard to sleep while someone is trying to give you a haircut using their fists.
He gave me that wide goofy grin that makes my heart flutter and lets him get away with...anything.
Except on this particular morning, his giant toothy smile was short one tooth.
Not a big deal usually, since eight year olds are known to lose their baby teeth for more durable and ridiculously disproportionate permanent ones.
But I didn't even know this particular tooth was loose.
And he of course, didn't tell me. It just peacfully ended its existance in the middle of the night and he must have swallowed it; that's four out of five now that have made their way down his esophagus instead of inside an envelope.
The whole thing happened so quietly. The requisite wiggling and dramatic updates on a loose tooth's status that occur each time Superman goes through this childhood milestone weren't there.
In fact, Monchichi didn't notice it was missing at all. He just looked up at me, his head cocked to one side as I stared at the empty space where the tooth used to be, wondering how long it was loose, upset that I hadn't noticed in the first place.
Maybe it was because I was so sick this weekend. Or maybe it was because I'm overwhelmed about some personal realizations I have come to in the last few weeks. Or maybe it was just because I didn't want to go through the motions of pretending that he was going to understand something so abstract this time and that I could force some normalcy down our throats even when it tastes bitter and....wrong.
Whatever the reasons were, I went against Typical Mom Protocal, and didn't invite the tooth fairy to come celebrate tooth #5. There were no fake notes under his pillow in the morning, or crumpled dollar bills. There were no special treats to signal the departure of this renegade tooth.
I. Just. Couldn't. Do. It.
And it doesn't matter why, I guess.
We are on a journey, as parents of this very special little boy, where the road often winds around decisions that bear huge consequences. For him, and for us. And I have, over the years, taken many detours along the way in the hopes that I can guide him towards some more average experiences....the kind that don't come with major side effects and that require cheesy fictional characters and some imagination. But here I am, denying him the tooth fairy; and I think I may be sort of okay with that.
Because I'm sort of tired.
And
because
EVERYTHING is harder because of him.
It sucks to see that in print.
But it's so true..
And sometimes, it's all I have in me, to just get us to the dinner table, coax some calories into his mouth, and bathe the missed goals of the day right off of him.
Sometimes, it's all I have in me not to give in to the dark side, the side that wants me to fail and fluster, to say I'm not strong enough to endure this special needs life and that I never will be.
Sometimes, it's all I have in me not to get on top of the nearest table and shout "Hey everyone!! Look at me! I'm a big faker! I don't have it all together! I'm petrified on the inside! I have no idea what the hell I'm doing! I'm smiling only because if I don't, I may begin to feel the shards of glass that have wedged themselves inside my soul and then the truth will come out that I. Am. Scared."
So here I dwell today, somewhere between "Oh Mary*, you look great; how's little Marcus? and "Oh Mary, how 'bout you f#!$ off and die."
I suppose it's up to you whether you want to stick around and see how it plays out.
Friday Monchichi will be admitted to our local children's hospital and will be put under general anethesia for what most people consider a typical dental visit. Think of him, would you? We have a great team of doctors and I trust them (to an extent), but ultimately God is in charge and I'm hoping to catch him on a good day.
And maybe, just maybe, the tooth fairy will understand why I didn't summon her this weekend and will leave our copay under the pillow.
*Mary is a fictional character. Though that is my mother-in-law's name. But I'm not talking about her. This time.*
He gave me that wide goofy grin that makes my heart flutter and lets him get away with...anything.
Except on this particular morning, his giant toothy smile was short one tooth.
Not a big deal usually, since eight year olds are known to lose their baby teeth for more durable and ridiculously disproportionate permanent ones.
But I didn't even know this particular tooth was loose.
And he of course, didn't tell me. It just peacfully ended its existance in the middle of the night and he must have swallowed it; that's four out of five now that have made their way down his esophagus instead of inside an envelope.
The whole thing happened so quietly. The requisite wiggling and dramatic updates on a loose tooth's status that occur each time Superman goes through this childhood milestone weren't there.
In fact, Monchichi didn't notice it was missing at all. He just looked up at me, his head cocked to one side as I stared at the empty space where the tooth used to be, wondering how long it was loose, upset that I hadn't noticed in the first place.
Maybe it was because I was so sick this weekend. Or maybe it was because I'm overwhelmed about some personal realizations I have come to in the last few weeks. Or maybe it was just because I didn't want to go through the motions of pretending that he was going to understand something so abstract this time and that I could force some normalcy down our throats even when it tastes bitter and....wrong.
Whatever the reasons were, I went against Typical Mom Protocal, and didn't invite the tooth fairy to come celebrate tooth #5. There were no fake notes under his pillow in the morning, or crumpled dollar bills. There were no special treats to signal the departure of this renegade tooth.
I. Just. Couldn't. Do. It.
And it doesn't matter why, I guess.
We are on a journey, as parents of this very special little boy, where the road often winds around decisions that bear huge consequences. For him, and for us. And I have, over the years, taken many detours along the way in the hopes that I can guide him towards some more average experiences....the kind that don't come with major side effects and that require cheesy fictional characters and some imagination. But here I am, denying him the tooth fairy; and I think I may be sort of okay with that.
Because I'm sort of tired.
And
because
EVERYTHING is harder because of him.
It sucks to see that in print.
But it's so true..
And sometimes, it's all I have in me, to just get us to the dinner table, coax some calories into his mouth, and bathe the missed goals of the day right off of him.
Sometimes, it's all I have in me not to give in to the dark side, the side that wants me to fail and fluster, to say I'm not strong enough to endure this special needs life and that I never will be.
Sometimes, it's all I have in me not to get on top of the nearest table and shout "Hey everyone!! Look at me! I'm a big faker! I don't have it all together! I'm petrified on the inside! I have no idea what the hell I'm doing! I'm smiling only because if I don't, I may begin to feel the shards of glass that have wedged themselves inside my soul and then the truth will come out that I. Am. Scared."
So here I dwell today, somewhere between "Oh Mary*, you look great; how's little Marcus? and "Oh Mary, how 'bout you f#!$ off and die."
I suppose it's up to you whether you want to stick around and see how it plays out.
Friday Monchichi will be admitted to our local children's hospital and will be put under general anethesia for what most people consider a typical dental visit. Think of him, would you? We have a great team of doctors and I trust them (to an extent), but ultimately God is in charge and I'm hoping to catch him on a good day.
And maybe, just maybe, the tooth fairy will understand why I didn't summon her this weekend and will leave our copay under the pillow.
*Mary is a fictional character. Though that is my mother-in-law's name. But I'm not talking about her. This time.*
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Parking Lots Can Be Prolific
I am in the parking lot
digging for keys
coming
d
o
w
n
from
a pediatric dental visit
I am fumbling in my purse
among folded stacks of pre-op papework
forms I need to fill out
for the son that
refuses to open his mouth
and
requires a hospital stay
(they better give him an extra turn at the treasure chest for that)
She pulls her black suv into the parking spot next to mine
another suburban mom
another appointment
and
I hear her waking her sleeping beauty
small arms stirring in the carseat
a flash of brunette curls through the open passenger door
I stuff my boys into the back of the Volvo
absorbed in Deductibles
20% co-pays,
the potential risks of General Anesthesia
Deafeated
because
Why. Does. Everything. Have. To. Be. So. Hard?!
I turn to find
a tiny fairy princess
awakened
drenched in pink
her mama bending over her
making sure the straps aren't too tight
on her custom built
wheelchair
My self-pity
p u d d l e s
at my feet
I do not compare our pain
because
it doesn't make sense
to silently compete
we are both mothers, after all
I just quietly realize
that this world is filled with women
like me
loving their babies
fearful of the future
really freakin tired at the end of the day
I bet
if we went out for coffee
we could finish each other's sentences
the facts slightly fluctuating
but the bottom line,
our desire to protect, nurture, provide for our little ones without losing our minds
the same
and with this thought
I feel my strength renewed
despite knowing we will see plenty of
simple things
almost
always
become
very
complicated
in this silent communion
with this mother I do not know
I feel
a sense
of
peace
and on the short drive home
I wonder
if that
sturdy metal wheelchair
will manage to keep up
with her
daughter's
GIANT
dreams
digging for keys
coming
d
o
w
n
from
a pediatric dental visit
I am fumbling in my purse
among folded stacks of pre-op papework
forms I need to fill out
for the son that
refuses to open his mouth
and
requires a hospital stay
(they better give him an extra turn at the treasure chest for that)
She pulls her black suv into the parking spot next to mine
another suburban mom
another appointment
and
I hear her waking her sleeping beauty
small arms stirring in the carseat
a flash of brunette curls through the open passenger door
I stuff my boys into the back of the Volvo
absorbed in Deductibles
20% co-pays,
the potential risks of General Anesthesia
Deafeated
because
Why. Does. Everything. Have. To. Be. So. Hard?!
I turn to find
a tiny fairy princess
awakened
drenched in pink
her mama bending over her
making sure the straps aren't too tight
on her custom built
wheelchair
My self-pity
p u d d l e s
at my feet
I do not compare our pain
because
it doesn't make sense
to silently compete
we are both mothers, after all
I just quietly realize
that this world is filled with women
like me
loving their babies
fearful of the future
really freakin tired at the end of the day
I bet
if we went out for coffee
we could finish each other's sentences
the facts slightly fluctuating
but the bottom line,
our desire to protect, nurture, provide for our little ones without losing our minds
the same
and with this thought
I feel my strength renewed
despite knowing we will see plenty of
simple things
almost
always
become
very
complicated
in this silent communion
with this mother I do not know
I feel
a sense
of
peace
and on the short drive home
I wonder
if that
sturdy metal wheelchair
will manage to keep up
with her
daughter's
GIANT
dreams
Monday, March 29, 2010
Therapy Talk
If there's one thing we really strive for in monchichi's therapy program, it's to generalize his new skills and use them outside of his immediate community, so that we know he has mastered a particular task.
Lately, I find that I too have begun to generalize some of the things I have learned in his program.
On the plus side, I find myself saving some serious time by not engaging in frilly conversations.
Also, people no longer make eye contact with me and back away slowly as I approach.
Either way, I win.
Below, some examples. Add a singsong voice to each statement for that added condecending tone; fun times for everyone.
"Not a choice."
This is a great phrase to use on the telemarketer who calls to harrass you about purchasing that extra ironclad life insurance policy for your loved one/next door neighbor/pet. Also comes in handy when the husband asks to have the guys over for poker night.
"Good listening."
Comes in handy when you notice an eavesdropper lurking nearby as you share the latest gossip with your shallow mommy friends. May be used liberally with your kids, husband, pastor, in-laws, sponsor. Best used sarcastically. Add a dramatic eye roll to really drive home your point.
"Nice waiting."
Also a gem, this one is pretty much appropriate whenever someone is being a dung-hole and trying to push their way through line or whip into your parking spot before you've even had a chance to fully back out. Comes in handy in overcrowded waiting rooms and the DMV.
"Quiet hands."
Perfect for when your husband comes home and thinks that, after you've spent the day refereeing yourinsane adorable children, almost broken your right pointer finger cuticle while watching a workout dvd, eaten steamed brocolli and kale for dessert, and accidentally stepped in cat barf, that you're still somehow in the mood to rock his socks off.
As if.
Stay tuned for more.
Until then,
"Use your words."
Lately, I find that I too have begun to generalize some of the things I have learned in his program.
On the plus side, I find myself saving some serious time by not engaging in frilly conversations.
Also, people no longer make eye contact with me and back away slowly as I approach.
Either way, I win.
Below, some examples. Add a singsong voice to each statement for that added condecending tone; fun times for everyone.
"Not a choice."
This is a great phrase to use on the telemarketer who calls to harrass you about purchasing that extra ironclad life insurance policy for your loved one/next door neighbor/pet. Also comes in handy when the husband asks to have the guys over for poker night.
"Good listening."
Comes in handy when you notice an eavesdropper lurking nearby as you share the latest gossip with your shallow mommy friends. May be used liberally with your kids, husband, pastor, in-laws, sponsor. Best used sarcastically. Add a dramatic eye roll to really drive home your point.
"Nice waiting."
Also a gem, this one is pretty much appropriate whenever someone is being a dung-hole and trying to push their way through line or whip into your parking spot before you've even had a chance to fully back out. Comes in handy in overcrowded waiting rooms and the DMV.
"Quiet hands."
Perfect for when your husband comes home and thinks that, after you've spent the day refereeing your
As if.
Stay tuned for more.
Until then,
"Use your words."
Saturday, March 20, 2010
1 in 100 (Or Something Like That)
There is a mommy-to-be
out there
somewhere
rubbing her belly
stocking up on antacids
because she's
eating for two (and maybe, sometimes, when no one's looking, for three)
She
spends hours
researching the best carseat/stroller systems
daydreaming while doing the dishes
about walks in the parks
letting strangers take sneak peaks
at the most gorgeous baby ever to be born
Her husband
dutifully goes to work each day
socking away dollars and cents
daydreaming while driving towards the office
about teaching his son
to play catch
trying to keep his cool
as he maybe, sometimes, (okay, often)
brags to his co-workers
about his boy's God-given natural talent
They welcome
their future
in the east wing of their local hospital
possibly the most perfect afternoon of their young adult lives
ten tiny toes
an even tinier nose
and the doctor assures them there is nothing wrong
they have no reason to doubt
what he says
and feel giddy through the exhaustion
that this is the first day
of the rest of their lives
sure that everything will
always fall into place
for this shiny brand new family of three
They have no way of knowing (and this is probably best anyway)
that
something stealth and silent
will sneak upon their joyful plans
and test their faith
and love
for each other
for God
(and yes)
even for this little person (I learned long ago that it's okay to admit that)
wrapped like a burrito
tucked in between his
blissfully ignorant parents
Too soon
a new reality will set in
as milestones are ignored
and almost two years later
the camera still can't catch his eye
and they realize they can no longer blame
the photographer
So they begin to blame themselves
(that is the natural order of things, after all)
and sometimes
they go to bed
without saying goodnight
to one another
They finger point
and use four letter words
until one hits rock bottom
and the only thing left to do
is make the kind of decision you never even considered
as you exchanged love-soaked vows
in front of
165 of your closest friends and family
He picks her up
and
through the kind of embrace that signals a fresh start
they make a new vow
to
FIGHT
for a future
they did not plan
but
are willing
to save
1 in 100
(or something like that)
that's an awful lot
of dreams
being broken
beyond the east wings
of local hospitals
everywhere
out there
somewhere
rubbing her belly
stocking up on antacids
because she's
eating for two (and maybe, sometimes, when no one's looking, for three)
She
spends hours
researching the best carseat/stroller systems
daydreaming while doing the dishes
about walks in the parks
letting strangers take sneak peaks
at the most gorgeous baby ever to be born
Her husband
dutifully goes to work each day
socking away dollars and cents
daydreaming while driving towards the office
about teaching his son
to play catch
trying to keep his cool
as he maybe, sometimes, (okay, often)
brags to his co-workers
about his boy's God-given natural talent
They welcome
their future
in the east wing of their local hospital
possibly the most perfect afternoon of their young adult lives
ten tiny toes
an even tinier nose
and the doctor assures them there is nothing wrong
they have no reason to doubt
what he says
and feel giddy through the exhaustion
that this is the first day
of the rest of their lives
sure that everything will
always fall into place
for this shiny brand new family of three
They have no way of knowing (and this is probably best anyway)
that
something stealth and silent
will sneak upon their joyful plans
and test their faith
and love
for each other
for God
(and yes)
even for this little person (I learned long ago that it's okay to admit that)
wrapped like a burrito
tucked in between his
blissfully ignorant parents
Too soon
a new reality will set in
as milestones are ignored
and almost two years later
the camera still can't catch his eye
and they realize they can no longer blame
the photographer
So they begin to blame themselves
(that is the natural order of things, after all)
and sometimes
they go to bed
without saying goodnight
to one another
They finger point
and use four letter words
until one hits rock bottom
and the only thing left to do
is make the kind of decision you never even considered
as you exchanged love-soaked vows
in front of
165 of your closest friends and family
He picks her up
and
through the kind of embrace that signals a fresh start
they make a new vow
to
FIGHT
for a future
they did not plan
but
are willing
to save
1 in 100
(or something like that)
that's an awful lot
of dreams
being broken
beyond the east wings
of local hospitals
everywhere
Friday, March 12, 2010
Tonight We Will Sing Happy Birthday For the 1,356th Time This year. But Really Mean It This Time.
I imagined you a thousand times
as you rolled in my belly
while I read Dave Barry books
and ate pancakes that resembled
a mid-size sedan
You signaled you were ready
while I was pumping gas
into a car that had an empty (and clean) backseat
and I begged daddy to get me that giant burrito
but he floored it and got me to the hospital in record time
(I got ice chips and lime jello instead)
Oh Son.
Thank God the euphoria
and the unconditional love
flooded my insides the minute we met
because it
Hurt.
Like.
Hell.
getting you here
and I might have held a grudge otherwise
I fumbled
I tripped
I felt like a failure
those first few days
your skin wrinkled like a little old man
your tiny body disproportionate to your Giant needs
as I wondered what on earth I was doing
taking care of YOU
when most of the house plants I'd ever owned
um, didn't fare so well
You were my first
so I had no one to compare you to
but I knew something was wrong
as I kissed chubby fingers that wouldn't point
stared into endless blue eyes that were always looking beyond me
towards something I was beginning to dread
an emptiness that flickered
inbetween perfect smiles and soft lullabies
You defined motherhood for me
then the doctors redefined it
as they finally named your struggles
on an ordinary Spring afternoon
so I held you tighter
kissed you harder
tried to break through your gaze with my love on the way home that day
Eight years.
Eight years
filled to the brim
with triumphs
sorrows
hope
forgiveness
despair
the kind of laughter that threatens to never stop
Eight years
of the kind of Love
that only God is capable of creating
when he blesses a family
with a child like you
I write son because it is what I do
but I have yet to find the words
that would do justice
to what I feel in my heart
when you are in my arms
your sweet breathe in synch with mine
when you dot the house in mystery cans
and pull out the blow-up snowman in mid-June
when you steal pillar candles from unassuming hosts
and use string cheese as an accessory
when you enter a room and fill it with your light
and remind everyone around you
that love
and joy
and all that is good and pure and true in this world
can be felt
in the presence
of an amazing
little boy
like you
Happy Birthday Monchichi.
I love you.
as you rolled in my belly
while I read Dave Barry books
and ate pancakes that resembled
a mid-size sedan
You signaled you were ready
while I was pumping gas
into a car that had an empty (and clean) backseat
and I begged daddy to get me that giant burrito
but he floored it and got me to the hospital in record time
(I got ice chips and lime jello instead)
Oh Son.
Thank God the euphoria
and the unconditional love
flooded my insides the minute we met
because it
Hurt.
Like.
Hell.
getting you here
and I might have held a grudge otherwise
I fumbled
I tripped
I felt like a failure
those first few days
your skin wrinkled like a little old man
your tiny body disproportionate to your Giant needs
as I wondered what on earth I was doing
taking care of YOU
when most of the house plants I'd ever owned
um, didn't fare so well
You were my first
so I had no one to compare you to
but I knew something was wrong
as I kissed chubby fingers that wouldn't point
stared into endless blue eyes that were always looking beyond me
towards something I was beginning to dread
an emptiness that flickered
inbetween perfect smiles and soft lullabies
You defined motherhood for me
then the doctors redefined it
as they finally named your struggles
on an ordinary Spring afternoon
so I held you tighter
kissed you harder
tried to break through your gaze with my love on the way home that day
Eight years.
Eight years
filled to the brim
with triumphs
sorrows
hope
forgiveness
despair
the kind of laughter that threatens to never stop
Eight years
of the kind of Love
that only God is capable of creating
when he blesses a family
with a child like you
I write son because it is what I do
but I have yet to find the words
that would do justice
to what I feel in my heart
when you are in my arms
your sweet breathe in synch with mine
when you dot the house in mystery cans
and pull out the blow-up snowman in mid-June
when you steal pillar candles from unassuming hosts
and use string cheese as an accessory
when you enter a room and fill it with your light
and remind everyone around you
that love
and joy
and all that is good and pure and true in this world
can be felt
in the presence
of an amazing
little boy
like you
Happy Birthday Monchichi.
I love you.
Monday, March 8, 2010
There Are Certain Things I Wouldn't Want to Change
It is no secret
that I loathe you
and all that you take away
from my little boy
That he cannot
tell me
when his tummy hurts
or mention his boring day at school
recall the scary dream he had last night
or pout at the dinner table, and tell me that he hates my cooking
(I wouldn't even care if he said that, by the way)
That he cannot
ride a bike with his brother
or play tag with his friends
(the ones he made himself; the ones that call and invite him to movies,
and trade snacks with him during lunch)
that he will not tease a girl because her smile makes his heart swell and she smells like strawberries
But
(and this is such a tiny slither of a but)
there are these moments
where he does something
and I know
you play a part
and it's something
I wouldn't change for the world
because they are the moments
that suspend his
red-inked diagnosis
while for a few giddy seconds
we are given something
to talk about
There are certain things
I wouldn't want to change
This
is not
a peace treaty
We
will never be
friends
I still
plan
to
run you
out of town
one
stubborn step
at a time
I just may
giggle
while doing it
every
once
in a little while
that I loathe you
and all that you take away
from my little boy
That he cannot
tell me
when his tummy hurts
or mention his boring day at school
recall the scary dream he had last night
or pout at the dinner table, and tell me that he hates my cooking
(I wouldn't even care if he said that, by the way)
That he cannot
ride a bike with his brother
or play tag with his friends
(the ones he made himself; the ones that call and invite him to movies,
and trade snacks with him during lunch)
that he will not tease a girl because her smile makes his heart swell and she smells like strawberries
But
(and this is such a tiny slither of a but)
there are these moments
where he does something
and I know
you play a part
and it's something
I wouldn't change for the world
because they are the moments
that suspend his
red-inked diagnosis
while for a few giddy seconds
we are given something
to talk about
There are certain things
I wouldn't want to change
This
is not
a peace treaty
We
will never be
friends
I still
plan
to
run you
out of town
one
stubborn step
at a time
I just may
giggle
while doing it
every
once
in a little while
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A Tiny Glimpse Into the Inner-Workings of a Miracle
"Did you have a good day at school today baby?"
"No."
"Do you like riding on the bus?"
"No."
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Do you love mommy?"
"No."
"Do you want to go potty?"
"No."
"Do you want to watch Lightning McQueen?"
".........yeth"
Unconcerned with how much he really understands
Marveling at how perfect the little stinker's "No" sounds
Sort of misleading
As if he can utter any word he wants, at any given time
He was three when I finally heard the sound of his voice
Outside of a whine or cry
A fleeting glimpse
of
endless possibilities
and the next morning
I rose from the bed
Hope and Determination intact
instead of hiding inbetween ignorant sheets
waiting until the last minute
to face a day I was not grateful for
Now, here, in a living room messier than I care to admit
He sits on my lap
His curls dancing across my cheek
We are
engaged in
A conversation
I never thought would be possible
A conversation
I will never take for granted
A conversation
I have been waiting for
his entire life
"No."
"Do you like riding on the bus?"
"No."
"Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Do you love mommy?"
"No."
"Do you want to go potty?"
"No."
"Do you want to watch Lightning McQueen?"
".........yeth"
Unconcerned with how much he really understands
Marveling at how perfect the little stinker's "No" sounds
Sort of misleading
As if he can utter any word he wants, at any given time
He was three when I finally heard the sound of his voice
Outside of a whine or cry
A fleeting glimpse
of
endless possibilities
and the next morning
I rose from the bed
Hope and Determination intact
instead of hiding inbetween ignorant sheets
waiting until the last minute
to face a day I was not grateful for
Now, here, in a living room messier than I care to admit
He sits on my lap
His curls dancing across my cheek
We are
engaged in
A conversation
I never thought would be possible
A conversation
I will never take for granted
A conversation
I have been waiting for
his entire life
Thursday, February 25, 2010
God Doesn't Care Where You Sit, As Long As You Aren't Picking Your Nose in the Pew
Nothing challenges my faith in a merciful Lord like a Sunday morning mass filled with wailing babies and booger-eating toddlers. I'm not sure what the Bible's official position on the latter is, but I'm sure it involves the fiery pits of hell because gross, eating your boogers should be a mortal sin.
I go to church for two reasons:
1. My mother instilled in me the proper Catholic-prescribed level of crap-your-pants-fear during my childhood, reminding me each day that Jesus was watching my every move, which made going to the bathroom just a tad bit awkward
and
2. Now I can finally do the same to my own offspring, which makes 32 years of holding my pee until I almost pass out totally worth it.
Going to churchevery most Sundays is part of our family routine. We wake up at 6:30 a.m., eat breakfast, watch t.v., mope around for a few hours, then, like clockwork, we scramble to get dressed and make it to 10:00 o'clock mass.
At 10:25.
We usually sit in the very back, the nosebleed seats, if you will. I prefer it back there, where rows upon rows of people aren't staring at my back cleavage and watching me adjust my skirt everytime I stand up or sit down (if you know anything about Catholics it's that we prefer our commandments with a side of calisthenics, so there's a whole lot of up and down and swing your partner round and round going on during mass).
Plus, I get to be all judgmental about the parents who can't control their kids and make stern faces at the back of their heads, furrowed eyebrows and all.
Until recently.
When monchichi decided that church is a great place to practice shaving seconds off of his best f.p.m
(flaps per minute) time and beat his current record,
and
that sqwuaking like a bird with an amphetamine addiction is perfectly acceptable during the homily given by the priest.
Man. Those judgemental looks aren't nearly as much fun when you're on the receiving end.
We've been working really hard to keep our wonderful, lovingly obnoxious son from interrupting the three hundred or so members of our congregation from praying for forgivness for being such self-righteous jackasses and I thought our efforts were paying off.
Boy was I right!
Why just last weekend, upon our entrance through the church doors, an usher almost tripped trying to get to us before we could take our usual seats.
Instead, she whisked us away to a back room I didn't even know existed, with, get this, leather couches and a private bathroom.
She smiled sweetly
pointed to the speakers on the ceiling,
then
closed
the
door
behind
her.
We must have really made an impression on the priest.
Amen.
I go to church for two reasons:
1. My mother instilled in me the proper Catholic-prescribed level of crap-your-pants-fear during my childhood, reminding me each day that Jesus was watching my every move, which made going to the bathroom just a tad bit awkward
and
2. Now I can finally do the same to my own offspring, which makes 32 years of holding my pee until I almost pass out totally worth it.
Going to church
At 10:25.
We usually sit in the very back, the nosebleed seats, if you will. I prefer it back there, where rows upon rows of people aren't staring at my back cleavage and watching me adjust my skirt everytime I stand up or sit down (if you know anything about Catholics it's that we prefer our commandments with a side of calisthenics, so there's a whole lot of up and down and swing your partner round and round going on during mass).
Plus, I get to be all judgmental about the parents who can't control their kids and make stern faces at the back of their heads, furrowed eyebrows and all.
Until recently.
When monchichi decided that church is a great place to practice shaving seconds off of his best f.p.m
(flaps per minute) time and beat his current record,
and
that sqwuaking like a bird with an amphetamine addiction is perfectly acceptable during the homily given by the priest.
Man. Those judgemental looks aren't nearly as much fun when you're on the receiving end.
We've been working really hard to keep our wonderful, lovingly obnoxious son from interrupting the three hundred or so members of our congregation from praying for forgivness for being such self-righteous jackasses and I thought our efforts were paying off.
Boy was I right!
Why just last weekend, upon our entrance through the church doors, an usher almost tripped trying to get to us before we could take our usual seats.
Instead, she whisked us away to a back room I didn't even know existed, with, get this, leather couches and a private bathroom.
She smiled sweetly
pointed to the speakers on the ceiling,
then
closed
the
door
behind
her.
We must have really made an impression on the priest.
Amen.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Whatever Makes His Day Easier.....Right?
As Monchichi gets on the bus, he takes his sweet time picking out which giant seat he wants to sit in. I tell his bus driver, Veronica, how nice it is of her to let him spend a few moments figuring out the perfect place to plant his tiny keister.
"Whatever makes his day easier," She says with a smile.
To her, it is a simple statement. Black and white. He's got a tough gig with all of his disabilities, so if sitting in a different seat each day takes the edge off, why the hell not?
Whatever makes his day easier.
To me, it's a concept I struggle with daily.
How much is too much?
How much is not enough?
Should I give in, because he deserves some slack
or do I push him even harder because it's my job to challenge him and prepare him for the cold, insensitive, biased world he will inherit someday?
My inner dialogue on this matter usually goes something like this:
"Crap."
I don't know if what I'm doing as his mother is enough, or too much, or the perfect amount. I'm totally lost people. I do know that he's got a schedule most workaholics would find impossible to keep up with. If he's not in class, he's in speech therapy, or occupational therapy, or physical therapy, or behavioral intervention therapy. Every. Single. Day. He barely has enough time to hiccup before his next appointment; not to mention that the things that come naturally to you or I are akin to climbing up Mt. Everest, barefoot, for him.
Which brings me to this fine line I tread upon each time I am faced with a parenting decision.
Do I let him have the buttered noodles anyway, even though his refusal to eat dinner is in direct violation of our official agreement, because he's tired, because he's frail, because I can't stand to see him fall apart over something that I have total control over?
Do I let him take over my husband's side of the bed because he needs extra cuddles and kisses and someone to protect him as he drifts off to what I can only hope is a slumber sans the burdensome symptoms of his daily setbacks, even though I no longer shave my legs since spontaneous romps between the sheets are not really a concern with a 2nd grader passed out between us?
Do I turn the other cheek when he ignores my demands to "stop jumping on the bed," or "leave those soda cans alone," or "get down, let go, use your words?"
Or, do I stand my ground, keeping my focus on the prize; a little boy who is learning, one "NO" at a time, that there are rules, and boundaries, and consequences, and that I will not undermine his future by giving in to those enormous blue eyes every time they well up in dramatic frustration?
Like I said.
I don't know what the hell I'm doing most of the time.
My love for my son comes naturally.
The rest is mostly eenie, meenie, miney, mo.
I watch as the bus drives away, waving and blowing kisses not unlike someone watching helplessly as a loved one is being deported by armed security at the airport, trying to ignore the knot in my throat that appears each morning as I send my son to a place where he relies on others to take care of him.
(Not my favorite part of the day y'all).
I am deep in thought as I walk back into the house
realizing that my role is more potent than letting him have his way with a seat on a bus
or his favorite snack before dinner
or another episode of a show he didn't really earn
I am the one that has to
enforce the rules
follow through with the consequences
and gently nudge into shape
a little boy who needs me to do
whatever it takes
to make his entire
Life
easier.
"Whatever makes his day easier," She says with a smile.
To her, it is a simple statement. Black and white. He's got a tough gig with all of his disabilities, so if sitting in a different seat each day takes the edge off, why the hell not?
Whatever makes his day easier.
To me, it's a concept I struggle with daily.
How much is too much?
How much is not enough?
Should I give in, because he deserves some slack
or do I push him even harder because it's my job to challenge him and prepare him for the cold, insensitive, biased world he will inherit someday?
My inner dialogue on this matter usually goes something like this:
"Crap."
I don't know if what I'm doing as his mother is enough, or too much, or the perfect amount. I'm totally lost people. I do know that he's got a schedule most workaholics would find impossible to keep up with. If he's not in class, he's in speech therapy, or occupational therapy, or physical therapy, or behavioral intervention therapy. Every. Single. Day. He barely has enough time to hiccup before his next appointment; not to mention that the things that come naturally to you or I are akin to climbing up Mt. Everest, barefoot, for him.
Which brings me to this fine line I tread upon each time I am faced with a parenting decision.
Do I let him have the buttered noodles anyway, even though his refusal to eat dinner is in direct violation of our official agreement, because he's tired, because he's frail, because I can't stand to see him fall apart over something that I have total control over?
Do I let him take over my husband's side of the bed because he needs extra cuddles and kisses and someone to protect him as he drifts off to what I can only hope is a slumber sans the burdensome symptoms of his daily setbacks, even though I no longer shave my legs since spontaneous romps between the sheets are not really a concern with a 2nd grader passed out between us?
Do I turn the other cheek when he ignores my demands to "stop jumping on the bed," or "leave those soda cans alone," or "get down, let go, use your words?"
Or, do I stand my ground, keeping my focus on the prize; a little boy who is learning, one "NO" at a time, that there are rules, and boundaries, and consequences, and that I will not undermine his future by giving in to those enormous blue eyes every time they well up in dramatic frustration?
Like I said.
I don't know what the hell I'm doing most of the time.
My love for my son comes naturally.
The rest is mostly eenie, meenie, miney, mo.
I watch as the bus drives away, waving and blowing kisses not unlike someone watching helplessly as a loved one is being deported by armed security at the airport, trying to ignore the knot in my throat that appears each morning as I send my son to a place where he relies on others to take care of him.
(Not my favorite part of the day y'all).
I am deep in thought as I walk back into the house
realizing that my role is more potent than letting him have his way with a seat on a bus
or his favorite snack before dinner
or another episode of a show he didn't really earn
I am the one that has to
enforce the rules
follow through with the consequences
and gently nudge into shape
a little boy who needs me to do
whatever it takes
to make his entire
Life
easier.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Living in the Meantime
It started at a very young age.
I recall never being fully satisfied with what I had; always looking towards the next thing, promising myself that life would be great as soon as
I didn't have to shop at Kmart for back-to-school clothes
or
I could get my bangs to curl exactly like perfectly perky Sue's
or
that dumbass boy in algebra would write me dirty notes instead of that skank rebecca
or
I had a nicer car
or
the babies slept through the night
or
there was more money in our bank account
or
I finally lost those "few" extra pounds and could wear dresses again without having to use crisco to get them past my "strong" shoulders
or
they found a cure for autism
or
I finished my book
or
Or Nothing.
At 32 I can only begin to estimate just how much time I have wasted on waiting for something better to happen just so that I could really start living.
What a bunch of bullcrap.
Today I don't weigh what I should, but I cooked dinner in pink and pearls, shiny gloss coating my lips, simple gestures required in order to build a solid foundation of self-love; because if I don't, then who will?.
Today I didn't get published, but I wrote what my heart dictated and felt both free and fulfilled, basking in something I love to do, knowing how lucky I am to be supported on my personal quest.
Today no one called me with the news that a cure has been found for what afflicts my firstborn, but I held his hand in church as he inappropriatley giggled and jumped, stimming like crazy when the choir sang, his eyes wild and his grin contagious, my heart bursting as I breathed in this moment, anything beyond it quickly becoming irrelevant.
I still want a new car, a big house, a book contract, single-digit pants, and of course, a cure for Autism.
But I'm done pressing the pause button on what is already such a full and blessed life; one that deserves my full attention and enthusiastic participation.
So
I'm choosing to dream my dreams
and steadfastly head towards my unmet goals.
But make no mistake
I'll be living in the meantime.
I recall never being fully satisfied with what I had; always looking towards the next thing, promising myself that life would be great as soon as
I didn't have to shop at Kmart for back-to-school clothes
or
I could get my bangs to curl exactly like perfectly perky Sue's
or
that dumbass boy in algebra would write me dirty notes instead of that skank rebecca
or
I had a nicer car
or
the babies slept through the night
or
there was more money in our bank account
or
I finally lost those "few" extra pounds and could wear dresses again without having to use crisco to get them past my "strong" shoulders
or
they found a cure for autism
or
I finished my book
or
Or Nothing.
At 32 I can only begin to estimate just how much time I have wasted on waiting for something better to happen just so that I could really start living.
What a bunch of bullcrap.
Today I don't weigh what I should, but I cooked dinner in pink and pearls, shiny gloss coating my lips, simple gestures required in order to build a solid foundation of self-love; because if I don't, then who will?.
Today I didn't get published, but I wrote what my heart dictated and felt both free and fulfilled, basking in something I love to do, knowing how lucky I am to be supported on my personal quest.
Today no one called me with the news that a cure has been found for what afflicts my firstborn, but I held his hand in church as he inappropriatley giggled and jumped, stimming like crazy when the choir sang, his eyes wild and his grin contagious, my heart bursting as I breathed in this moment, anything beyond it quickly becoming irrelevant.
I still want a new car, a big house, a book contract, single-digit pants, and of course, a cure for Autism.
But I'm done pressing the pause button on what is already such a full and blessed life; one that deserves my full attention and enthusiastic participation.
So
I'm choosing to dream my dreams
and steadfastly head towards my unmet goals.
But make no mistake
I'll be living in the meantime.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Modify This
I am sitting across from a pretty little thing, hair pulled back behind her ears, a stack of papers in front of her, large solitaire diamond ring on her left hand.
She is alternating between praising my "adorable" son (I can't say I disagree) and going over proposed goals for the new year.
I wait until she is finished to ask if there is anything we could be doing at home to facilitate his Occupational Therapy program.
She tells me to buy bigger legos.
Lighter playground balls.
Specialized scissors.
"Think modified" she says.
I do.
I think about the fridge door that has to be bolted shut because monchichi thinks muenster cheese slices are appropriate couch accessories.
I think about the safety-locked bathroom and cupboard doors beacause my Trader Joe's Peanut Sauce kept making it's way into the bathtub and cooking dinner with the mystery cans was becoming the culinary version of russian roulette.
I think about the youtube video on repeat, a daily ritual to help get the anti-seizure meds down his uncooperative throat.
I think about the giant orange construction fence used to block the driveway on lazy summer afternoons.
I think about the pre-cooked bags of noodles in the fridge, waiting to be doused in melted butter, because the bags under his eyes are finally fading and he might have actually gained a pound or two this month.
I think about the coaxing, the hand holding, the 853 times we've had to sing Happy Birthday in the past six months.
I think about missed playdates and midnight pharmacy runs, paranoid calls to the doctor and therapist-supervised community outings.
I think about how someone else might look at our life and wonder what the hell is going on and that it makes no sense and why aren't we pulling our hair out and drinking our breakfast on the rocks?
I think about not being able to get out of bed in the middle of the night to pee without feeling a tug on the perpetual umbilical cord and that maybe I could do without a toilet companion.
I think about how it's all we know and that our love is a force more powerful than fear or anger or resentment and that mystery can dinners aren't nearly as awful as they sound.
I look across the table
at this pretty little thing
as she smiles sweetly
obviously proud that she has given me this sage advice
"Honey," I say, smiling sweetly right back at her, "it's a modified Life."
She is alternating between praising my "adorable" son (I can't say I disagree) and going over proposed goals for the new year.
I wait until she is finished to ask if there is anything we could be doing at home to facilitate his Occupational Therapy program.
She tells me to buy bigger legos.
Lighter playground balls.
Specialized scissors.
"Think modified" she says.
I do.
I think about the fridge door that has to be bolted shut because monchichi thinks muenster cheese slices are appropriate couch accessories.
I think about the safety-locked bathroom and cupboard doors beacause my Trader Joe's Peanut Sauce kept making it's way into the bathtub and cooking dinner with the mystery cans was becoming the culinary version of russian roulette.
I think about the youtube video on repeat, a daily ritual to help get the anti-seizure meds down his uncooperative throat.
I think about the giant orange construction fence used to block the driveway on lazy summer afternoons.
I think about the pre-cooked bags of noodles in the fridge, waiting to be doused in melted butter, because the bags under his eyes are finally fading and he might have actually gained a pound or two this month.
I think about the coaxing, the hand holding, the 853 times we've had to sing Happy Birthday in the past six months.
I think about missed playdates and midnight pharmacy runs, paranoid calls to the doctor and therapist-supervised community outings.
I think about how someone else might look at our life and wonder what the hell is going on and that it makes no sense and why aren't we pulling our hair out and drinking our breakfast on the rocks?
I think about not being able to get out of bed in the middle of the night to pee without feeling a tug on the perpetual umbilical cord and that maybe I could do without a toilet companion.
I think about how it's all we know and that our love is a force more powerful than fear or anger or resentment and that mystery can dinners aren't nearly as awful as they sound.
I look across the table
at this pretty little thing
as she smiles sweetly
obviously proud that she has given me this sage advice
"Honey," I say, smiling sweetly right back at her, "it's a modified Life."
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Going to an IEP Meeting is Like Getting a Root Canal. By Your Mechanic. In the Back of Your Car. Without Novocaine.
We've got it all wrong with the waterboarding.
You want to get terrorists to talk, get them to sit through a few IEP (that's Individualized Education Program for those of you missing out on these rambunctious little get togethers) meetings and they'll be admitting they invented trans fats.
Monchichi's is tomorrow.
As in, C.R.A.P.
It's that time of year again, when I get to try, with the least amount of hysterics possible, to convince our local school district that my special needs son deserves having a few extra pennies invested towards his academic progress and overall well-being. The district has their own opinion on this matter; mainly, he's got his own desk complete with a lopsided chair, and there's a flushing toilet down the hall. So what more could I possibly expect from them?
How about putting aside that big fat bottom line for a moment, loosening that clearance rack tie, and remembering, for just one teeny tiny second, that a child is at stake here.
Not just any child either.
My child.
I'm not high maintenance.
I don't ask for horseback therapy or private dolphin swimming sessions.
Not because I don't believe they are helpful. Hell, I get out of bed each morning because I choose hope instead of hoplessness. I just don't think the school district should be footing the bill for a romp with flipper.
But, I do have a problem with politics and head games.
As in, why the frack are you trying to take away speech therapy from a non-verbal child,
or
reduce physical therapy from a boy who comes home covered in bruises because he can't keep up on the playground and has the balance of a three-legged coffee table?
I don't believe in burning bridges. For my son's sake I keep it civil.
I don't throw tantrums, I don't make threats. I pray for guidance and I try to not hate the service coordinator before I've gotten to know her. But, as the teachers and therapists throw around words like "goals" and "benchmarks" and "80% accuracy," it's hard not to look across the table and stare into her beady little eyes, and wonder what it must be like to crush the futures of innocent children for a living. Does she deny our son what he so desperately needs and then laughs about it over kung pao chicken during lunch?
Listen.
I'm no fool.
Having Autism in America is infinately better then having it in say, Siberia.
And if you've been reading this blog as faithfully as you let on, then you also know that I practice gratitude as often as possible. Even when I'd much rather stick out my tongue, throw myself on the ground, and kick and scream my way to victory. So I get it. Yay America. Yay running water. Yay for not forcefully institutionalizing our beloved offspring (anymore).
Does that mean I have to settle for beady-eyed service coordinators?
Maybe.
But I don't have to settle for what she says is good enough for my son.
And tomorrow, when I sit among a roomful of people claiming to know what's best for him,
I'm going to make sure everyone understands
that the only person who's qualified to make such a pompous claim
is me.
You want to get terrorists to talk, get them to sit through a few IEP (that's Individualized Education Program for those of you missing out on these rambunctious little get togethers) meetings and they'll be admitting they invented trans fats.
Monchichi's is tomorrow.
As in, C.R.A.P.
It's that time of year again, when I get to try, with the least amount of hysterics possible, to convince our local school district that my special needs son deserves having a few extra pennies invested towards his academic progress and overall well-being. The district has their own opinion on this matter; mainly, he's got his own desk complete with a lopsided chair, and there's a flushing toilet down the hall. So what more could I possibly expect from them?
How about putting aside that big fat bottom line for a moment, loosening that clearance rack tie, and remembering, for just one teeny tiny second, that a child is at stake here.
Not just any child either.
My child.
I'm not high maintenance.
I don't ask for horseback therapy or private dolphin swimming sessions.
Not because I don't believe they are helpful. Hell, I get out of bed each morning because I choose hope instead of hoplessness. I just don't think the school district should be footing the bill for a romp with flipper.
But, I do have a problem with politics and head games.
As in, why the frack are you trying to take away speech therapy from a non-verbal child,
or
reduce physical therapy from a boy who comes home covered in bruises because he can't keep up on the playground and has the balance of a three-legged coffee table?
I don't believe in burning bridges. For my son's sake I keep it civil.
I don't throw tantrums, I don't make threats. I pray for guidance and I try to not hate the service coordinator before I've gotten to know her. But, as the teachers and therapists throw around words like "goals" and "benchmarks" and "80% accuracy," it's hard not to look across the table and stare into her beady little eyes, and wonder what it must be like to crush the futures of innocent children for a living. Does she deny our son what he so desperately needs and then laughs about it over kung pao chicken during lunch?
Listen.
I'm no fool.
Having Autism in America is infinately better then having it in say, Siberia.
And if you've been reading this blog as faithfully as you let on, then you also know that I practice gratitude as often as possible. Even when I'd much rather stick out my tongue, throw myself on the ground, and kick and scream my way to victory. So I get it. Yay America. Yay running water. Yay for not forcefully institutionalizing our beloved offspring (anymore).
Does that mean I have to settle for beady-eyed service coordinators?
Maybe.
But I don't have to settle for what she says is good enough for my son.
And tomorrow, when I sit among a roomful of people claiming to know what's best for him,
I'm going to make sure everyone understands
that the only person who's qualified to make such a pompous claim
is me.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Decoding the Non-Verbal Child: A Guide for Parents and Loved Ones
I love to talk.
Let me rephrase that.
I love to hear myself talk. And I'm pretty damn good at it. In fact, when coupled with what some may refer to as dangerous hand gestures, I am a communicating badass.
I once had a group of friends bet that I couldn't talk while sitting on my hands. I took that bet, and promptly lost. Apparently, talking with my hands was just as important, if not more so, than talking with my mouth. My voice and my limbs worked hand in hand to relay important messages such as "I can't believe Sue kissed Bobby at Billy's party. What a slut!" or "Dude, I nailed that last keg stand."
Ever the great communicator, (and obviously eloquent as hell) it has been a mild inconvenience to parent a non-verbal child. I use the world mild only because this blog is not equipped to handle the kind of language that comes to mind when I discuss this particular issue. So whenever you see the word mild, imagine it is preceded by #@%##ing. See if that helps to drive the point home. Mildly.
I have quite a bit of experience now under my belt, with non-verbal communication. And I feel obligagted to share my knowledge with you because I came up with what I think is a catchy post title and knew I had to follow it up with an actual post. You are very spoiled and demanding readers that way.
So below are some basic non-verbal cues followed by their definitions. Try some at your next dinner party to test personal boundaries and thin out that evite roster for your next event.
Hand Flapping: Severe excitement. Or overexposure to documentaries about migrating birds and/or windmills. Either way, make sure you keep a safe distance. I've seen speeds reach up to 55 F.P.M. (Flaps Per Minute)
Head Banging: Not to Metallica. Like against a wall or other skull fracturing surface. Usually indicates slight
annoyance. As in, "I can't believe we're having chicken for dinner again, when clearly I prefer glazed ham."
Hair Pulling: Not his. Mine. Typically translates to "Hey dingbat, it's 6:01 a.m. on a Saturday. What do you think this is, the Hilton? Get up and make me some breakfast bitch."
Intense tapping: Commonly used to indicate that what he lacks in vocabulary, he makes up in doing something over and over and over again until you're not sure but you might possibly prefer to be skinned alive by red ants while drinking someone else's snot.
Bright, Beautiful, Heart-Wrenching Grin: A daily maneuver to remind me that no matter how frustrated I may get, I'm gonna love almost every arm-flapping-body-tapping-hair-pulling moment I spend with him. An underhanded move that melts my heart each time the stinker uses it.
Because dammit (insert head banging)
he's right.
Let me rephrase that.
I love to hear myself talk. And I'm pretty damn good at it. In fact, when coupled with what some may refer to as dangerous hand gestures, I am a communicating badass.
I once had a group of friends bet that I couldn't talk while sitting on my hands. I took that bet, and promptly lost. Apparently, talking with my hands was just as important, if not more so, than talking with my mouth. My voice and my limbs worked hand in hand to relay important messages such as "I can't believe Sue kissed Bobby at Billy's party. What a slut!" or "Dude, I nailed that last keg stand."
Ever the great communicator, (and obviously eloquent as hell) it has been a mild inconvenience to parent a non-verbal child. I use the world mild only because this blog is not equipped to handle the kind of language that comes to mind when I discuss this particular issue. So whenever you see the word mild, imagine it is preceded by #@%##ing. See if that helps to drive the point home. Mildly.
I have quite a bit of experience now under my belt, with non-verbal communication. And I feel obligagted to share my knowledge with you because I came up with what I think is a catchy post title and knew I had to follow it up with an actual post. You are very spoiled and demanding readers that way.
So below are some basic non-verbal cues followed by their definitions. Try some at your next dinner party to test personal boundaries and thin out that evite roster for your next event.
Hand Flapping: Severe excitement. Or overexposure to documentaries about migrating birds and/or windmills. Either way, make sure you keep a safe distance. I've seen speeds reach up to 55 F.P.M. (Flaps Per Minute)
Head Banging: Not to Metallica. Like against a wall or other skull fracturing surface. Usually indicates slight
annoyance. As in, "I can't believe we're having chicken for dinner again, when clearly I prefer glazed ham."
Hair Pulling: Not his. Mine. Typically translates to "Hey dingbat, it's 6:01 a.m. on a Saturday. What do you think this is, the Hilton? Get up and make me some breakfast bitch."
Intense tapping: Commonly used to indicate that what he lacks in vocabulary, he makes up in doing something over and over and over again until you're not sure but you might possibly prefer to be skinned alive by red ants while drinking someone else's snot.
Bright, Beautiful, Heart-Wrenching Grin: A daily maneuver to remind me that no matter how frustrated I may get, I'm gonna love almost every arm-flapping-body-tapping-hair-pulling moment I spend with him. An underhanded move that melts my heart each time the stinker uses it.
Because dammit (insert head banging)
he's right.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Adaptive Doesn't Have to Mean Butt Ugly
Dude.
I was just surfing the internet, trying to gather some information on adaptive bicycles (which by the way cost about the equivalent of a suburban mortgage payment) and other such equipment, and it has come to my attention that there is a very real and very hideous movement going on.
What the hell is this?
http://www.adaptivemall.com/specneedtric.html
Englarge the photo.
What do you see?
Nope. Not the bike.
The MULLET.
Why does the neurotypical friend/sibling have a decent haircut and a fashion-forward t-shirt depicting characters from a favorite Disney Pixar film?
Why is the boy on the adaptive bike sporting a mullet and a tie dyed monstrisity reminiscent of a bad trip?
Who is the marketing crackhead that approved this photo?
Here's another.
http://www.especialneeds.com/home.php
Wait about ten seconds.
The image will flash on your screen.
Three children with special needs with really bad haircuts.
I don't know. To me, special needs kids are just as deserving of a decent hairstyle as the next kid. Especially if you're going to be on an advertisment. When was the last time Walmart had models with mullets? I mean, even Walmart (which, let's be honest, is a total Mullet Magnet) knows better than that.
Now, I know there's always a flipside. Of course I don't think we should use perfectly poised neurotypical children modeling chew rings in their mouths or flashing dazzling smiles as they're photographed being strapped into a cocoon-like hammock designed for meltdowns. There is nothing shameful about the very real and very unique needs of our amazing children and they ought to always represent our diverse community honestly and relevently in print and television ads.
But what does that have to do with each person's God-given right to a fair and equal haircut?
I say Enough!
Bring on the buzzers!
Bust out the shears!
Put the bowl back in the kitchen cupboard and quit using it as a cutting template!
I'm so irked, I may not finish my rice noodles tonight.
Carbs.
I am turning down carbs people.
Now you know I'm pissed.
*Please. Before you get all huffy and politically correct on my @ss, remember
a. I'm a mom of a special needs kid
b. He has a great haircut
c. This is MY blog, so neener, neener, neener,
d. I am right. You are not.
e. The title of the post is not referring to our kids, dummy. It's a call to action on their behalf. DUH.
I was just surfing the internet, trying to gather some information on adaptive bicycles (which by the way cost about the equivalent of a suburban mortgage payment) and other such equipment, and it has come to my attention that there is a very real and very hideous movement going on.
What the hell is this?
http://www.adaptivemall.com/specneedtric.html
Englarge the photo.
What do you see?
Nope. Not the bike.
The MULLET.
Why does the neurotypical friend/sibling have a decent haircut and a fashion-forward t-shirt depicting characters from a favorite Disney Pixar film?
Why is the boy on the adaptive bike sporting a mullet and a tie dyed monstrisity reminiscent of a bad trip?
Who is the marketing crackhead that approved this photo?
Here's another.
http://www.especialneeds.com/home.php
Wait about ten seconds.
The image will flash on your screen.
Three children with special needs with really bad haircuts.
I don't know. To me, special needs kids are just as deserving of a decent hairstyle as the next kid. Especially if you're going to be on an advertisment. When was the last time Walmart had models with mullets? I mean, even Walmart (which, let's be honest, is a total Mullet Magnet) knows better than that.
Now, I know there's always a flipside. Of course I don't think we should use perfectly poised neurotypical children modeling chew rings in their mouths or flashing dazzling smiles as they're photographed being strapped into a cocoon-like hammock designed for meltdowns. There is nothing shameful about the very real and very unique needs of our amazing children and they ought to always represent our diverse community honestly and relevently in print and television ads.
But what does that have to do with each person's God-given right to a fair and equal haircut?
I say Enough!
Bring on the buzzers!
Bust out the shears!
Put the bowl back in the kitchen cupboard and quit using it as a cutting template!
I'm so irked, I may not finish my rice noodles tonight.
Carbs.
I am turning down carbs people.
Now you know I'm pissed.
*Please. Before you get all huffy and politically correct on my @ss, remember
a. I'm a mom of a special needs kid
b. He has a great haircut
c. This is MY blog, so neener, neener, neener,
d. I am right. You are not.
e. The title of the post is not referring to our kids, dummy. It's a call to action on their behalf. DUH.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The Park is Not a Choice Today
I don’t want to take you to the park today.
God.
Am I even allowed to say that out loud?
I don’t want to chase after you, and watch you watch the other kids having fun.
I don’t want to glare at the other parents, trying to catch them staring at you and imagining them making judgments about you
While their healthy, chubby, “normal” children squeal and play stupid games
Like hide and seek, or tag, or kickball
I don’t want to try and convince you to climb up the stairs and slide down the slide and swing on the swing when all you really want is to jump up and down and flap your arms and escape from my heavy clutch so you can RUN
Free and Fearless
Possibly into the busy street just yards away
Possibly into the arms of a stranger
Possibly towards a group of children
That may reject you
I don’t want to ask you questions that you won’t answer
Like “are you having fun?” or “do you think this place is better than the park we went to yesterday?”
I don’t want to feel this way
But today I do
With impatience and frustration
Greeting me along with the rise of an indifferent sun
That insists on shining despite
The darkness in my heart
I don’t want to take you to the park today
And maybe that makes me weak
Or lazy
Or irresponsible
But if you should decide to crawl up here beside me
I will hold you
In my arms
And smell your hair
And whisper in your ear
Watch you effortlessly fall asleep
Because you feel safe
And I would be happy with that
Because I just don’t have
The energy
To chase you
At the park
Today
God.
Am I even allowed to say that out loud?
I don’t want to chase after you, and watch you watch the other kids having fun.
I don’t want to glare at the other parents, trying to catch them staring at you and imagining them making judgments about you
While their healthy, chubby, “normal” children squeal and play stupid games
Like hide and seek, or tag, or kickball
I don’t want to try and convince you to climb up the stairs and slide down the slide and swing on the swing when all you really want is to jump up and down and flap your arms and escape from my heavy clutch so you can RUN
Free and Fearless
Possibly into the busy street just yards away
Possibly into the arms of a stranger
Possibly towards a group of children
That may reject you
I don’t want to ask you questions that you won’t answer
Like “are you having fun?” or “do you think this place is better than the park we went to yesterday?”
I don’t want to feel this way
But today I do
With impatience and frustration
Greeting me along with the rise of an indifferent sun
That insists on shining despite
The darkness in my heart
I don’t want to take you to the park today
And maybe that makes me weak
Or lazy
Or irresponsible
But if you should decide to crawl up here beside me
I will hold you
In my arms
And smell your hair
And whisper in your ear
Watch you effortlessly fall asleep
Because you feel safe
And I would be happy with that
Because I just don’t have
The energy
To chase you
At the park
Today
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