When "OMG,That Sucks" Doesn't Even Begin to Cover It

I've been keeping things pretty light-hearted around here lately.  Sure, once in a while I make you suffer through a bout of poetry that probably only makes sense to me, or I touch upon our struggles of raising a special needs child, or I vent about random crap that needs to be vented about so that I can clear my head and proceed with Life.  But for the most part, I hope you expect a good laugh when you drop by. So I feel it only fair to preempt my post tonight with a fair warning that what you are about to read is not for the faint of heart.  That doesn't mean you shouldn't stay; it just means I want you to be aware of the magnitude of it.

Suz Broughton, who is a columnist for OC Family Magazine and the lead blogger for OCFamily.com wrote a post today about a little girl who lives here in Orange County named Maddie James; a tow-headed beauty, aged five, who loves the sea and looks pretty darn fabulous in her tiny spectacles, and who, as of January 16th, 2011, has been given only months to live.

Like most of you, I simply cannot wrap my mind and my heart and my soul around this kind of information.  I hate suffering of any kind, but when it touches a child, something inside of me ignites and a raging fire burns until I am incapable of thinking or feeling anymore at all.

I know the struggles of parenting.  I have gone to bed sobbing from exhaustion and fear, cradled in the cold, hard, unforgiving grasp of reality, wondering if my prayers are being heard, and on the darkest nights of all, wondering who the hell I'm praying to anyway.  But none of that matters when I read a story like this, nothing makes sense when I read a story like this; I am humbled and terrified and inspired by it and as I stare into the face of this tiny, precious, beautiful little angel, I am stripped bare of all of my previous complaints and worries and priorities and I am just a floundering human being, raw and vulnerable and wanting, more than anything to understand.

But that is not my place, and instead, I choose to focus on what I, You, WE, can do.
So before you do anything else tonight, please read this little girl's story, and the amazing plight of her mom and dad.

I know that by the time you read this your children will probably be snuggled up in their beds, your mental reel playing back a day filled with spilled milk, pick ups, drop offs, missing shoes, burned dinner, too much homework, messy bedrooms and backseat brawls. 

And I hope, more than anything else in the whole wide world, you're also thinking how damn lucky you are do have to do it all over again tomorrow.

My Best Friend's Bathtub is Dirtier than I Thought.

You can learn a lot about people by visiting them in their homes.   Color schemes, knick knacks, window treatments, florals vs. solids; these important details can often provide a tiny glimpse into the hearts and minds of the residents, illustrating their passions, hobbies, and personal habits.

A spotless kitchen, for instance, with nary a gadget in sight and a fridge covered in take out menus, may be indicative of a homeowner who prefers delivery to dishes.

A worn lazy-boy located front and center in a living room which boasts a television set larger than the square footage of most three car garages could be a sign that someone spends their days (and nights) glued to quality programming such as ESPN, ESPN 2, ESPN IX and ESPN For the Divorced Dumbass Who Chose ESPN over His Wife.

And some of the most intimate details of a person's life, of course, can often be found in their bathroom.  Electric toothbrushes, air fresheners, anti-wrinkle cream, one-ply toilet paper; the bathroom is a breeding ground for personal information (raise your hand if you're a liar and have never opened someone else's medicine cabinet) and can offer true insider information on the people in your life.

So imagine my horror when I went to use the bathroom at my best friend's house, someone I thought I knew well, and my sense of sight was assaulted by um, this in her bathtub:

Now, I don't know what's worse:  thinking that her five year old daughter had something to do with this (in which case, may I suggest a medically induced coma until she's 21), or that my best friend's soriority days at a prestigous university were back to rear their ugly head (in which case, may I suggest less wine with breakfast).

The truth folks, is that there are no winners here.

Except of course, Ken.

A Picture Worth the Pain it Brings

There is a photo that hangs

in her bedroom

tucked in a frame she bought

when she still shopped at walmart

It sits there

against the calm of the forest green wall

the color chosen by her husband

a man willing to paint the walls hot pink

if she so desires

She walks by this photo often

as she brings in the laundry

or

on her way to the shower

or

while she ushers the children away

and

playfully leads her husband inside

But it is today

on her way past the photo

that she pauses

long enough to stare into the lightness of her youngest son's eyes

the black palm trees and sunset hues of his hawaiian shirt

a perfect reminder of

the mid-June luau that ended his first year of preschool

a perfect reminder

of other things

She closes her eyes as she stands before this photo

and remembers vividly
the events of this life changing day

A mother among mothers

her smile strained against her lying lips

graciously thanking teachers

making playdates she never intends to keep

though she takes the time to take this photo

her pride for her son in stark contrast

to the hatred she has for herself

She goes home on this day

and opens the wine a little earlier than normal

"in celebration" she tells herself

though she does not feel joy but pain

She is drunk by the time he is home

no dinner on the table

the children perched in front of the television

stale snacks littering the floor

she avoids his gaze

because she has broken her promise again

waiting for him to retreat so she can continue pretending

everything is

just as it should be

but he is tired this time

fed up this time

tells her to go to hell this time

and for some

unknown

inexplicable

baffling reason
she believes him this time

The memories fill her up

turn her inside out

confine her for a moment

and she forces her eyes open before

they consume her completely

She stands in front

of this photo

taken on the day

when the world fell apart

then made sense again

a photo she keeps

to give her the courage

to remember

a day

she cannot afford

to forget

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.