The Humbling Abode
Vanilla Honeybush Tea
This is overdue, both the blog and the topic. A friend asked me to ponder what it means to be a mom - to choose to be a mom at all. I've been ruminating on the topic since. There's so many ways to answer that.
For one thing, everybody's sick all the time and that's going to throw off your blogging days from time to time. But then you also get those gems, in that three-year-old lisp:
Tttthhhhbbb-ttthhhbb-ttthhhhbbbpt.
"Ovi, are you tooting?"
"No, Mommy! It must have been a helicopter... in my butt... that made that sound!"
And then there are the buttons missing from the keyboard as I struggle to type this on my husband's computer because my computer can no longer be moved without the screen disconnecting and going black... all courtesy of my little fucking angels.
The one thing that has really hit home for me, one thing that I had not really thought out, is that there is a difference between being a "single mom" and being a "solitary mom." Single moms might still have family and close friends who support them in the raising of a child, even if it's just by keeping them from going crazy while raising a child. I can't imagine trying to be a mom without my husband helping me. I lean on him - heavily. But he's also almost all I have to help me here.
We are hundreds of miles from the nearest family. We're also transplants to the area and, though we have some friends, we never established those kinds of... daily... friendships before starting our family. The kinds where people come over and hang out, and just check in and bring you coffee. Even the few friendships we've made with neighbors haven't been that close. We might chat for a while coming from or going to the laundry room, we might get a knock when someone's locked out or needs to borrow something. Mostly, our neighborly visits have pertained to "hey, could you keep it down - the baby's trying to sleep."
Those are not the kind of friendships we would have if we had grown up in the area - and our friends and family had stayed in the area, too. And if I were just better at cultivating friendships. I'm a very friendly person, and the friends we have have often said we could call on them whenever. But I tend to keep my crap to myself. I've been head-down, trying to get it together. How do I call someone up, or strike up a conversation for the sole purpose of dragging someone into my crazy? Or to drag me out of it, really.
It would be nice if I were religious. Churches are one of the few socially acceptable places where you can walk up to a stranger and say, "I need some help." But I'm not religious, nor am I seeking any religion be a fix for my earthly problems. I'm sure they'd probably be happy to chat with me anyway, but it never felt right, or at least, comfortable. Seeking therapy was more to the point, and more effective while I had it.
But even therapy can't fix problems like being stuck at home all day without so much as a lunch break. Eating lunch is not the same as getting a lunch break. When you take a lunch break at work, you generally get to clock out. At least, you get to hide somewhere and power through your sandwich before someone rings a bell and you're on deck again. No such luck at home. Even when the boys are playing by themselves, I'm still on duty. The noise - the noise - is still going, and I must be ready at a moment's notice to separate them or save one or both from imminent injury. Naps? Ha! Nap time is fight time around here and I have finally given up trying.
Naptime elicited tweets from me pining to be more like a cartoon mom because, "Miss Spider doesn't lose her shit over naptime."
But this is me and we know that I have more going on than a lot of people would normally have to deal with. There's the postpartum depression and anxiety stuff, there's the fibromyalgia, the financial woes (okay, most of us that have that crap, but I've had the court kind, too), and now we know we've been trying to cope with a child with autism. I don't want to scare anyone off with my grousing. Nor do I want to diminish the struggles a couple with just one totally healthy, developmentally normal child may experience.
One child is hard. One child under the best of circumstances is hard. Don't let anyone who was a single parent and raised 5 kids while working 3 jobs and earning 2 degrees tell you that you have nothing to complain about. But a lot of things that are hard are doable. But... should you do it? That is a much harder question.
I have so many friends with so many stories. Many of my school friends ended up getting pregnant while still in school, or shortly afterward. My older brothers both started their own families very young. The results of all these early families has been mixed. Many are still struggling today, but I can't think of a single one saying they would go back and not have that child they have borne and raised. Once that child is there in your arms... As my mother told me years ago, while I struggled with the decision of whether or not to continue my first pregnancy, you just won't be able to imagine your life without your children.
I might still question if I made the right choices, to be a mother at all, I might wish I had done things differently. But given the opportunity, I could not choose to not have my boys. In unromantic fairness, by choosing this family, I have chosen to not have the other children that might have been - I've still got plenty of eggs, after all. But two is plenty. For us, and, frankly, more than enough for the planet.
But there are so many more stories... stories of couples who desperately want to conceive but can't, those who've had a multitude of miscarriages or even stillbirth... It's a harrowing experience. It is such a forceful biological drive for most of us, once it has been triggered... to have it denied... That's something I can only imagine, and I try not to if I can.
For some, it is a deliberate choice to not have a child. Sometimes a person can come to see themselves as someone who would struggle to be a good parent. Sometimes that's a physical challenge and sometimes mental. Only they can say whether or not that's a fair conclusion.
But sometimes the choice is only to delay until such and such is better, the situation more stable. Often completing your education and getting a career established is the rationale. And that seems perfectly sound logic. Sometimes that takes longer than expected. Relationships change, and sometimes the fertility clock has already chimed by the time a person feels situationally ready to start a family. It's not impossible for older couples to get pregnant, even without fertility assistance. But biology starts to work against you, and even youth is no guarantee.
The question is: do you need it? Is it worth it? Is it right for you?
Okay, that's several questions. Some people who remain childless, whether because they were unable to conceive or because they found some reason they felt was more compelling to not conceive, they often find some peace with the situation. I hope they do, anyway. They may find fulfillment in a life's work, some passion that they recognize would make it difficult for them to pursue and be a good parent as well. Or, they may find their peace in some kind of surrogate relationship, raising or mentoring a close family member or friend.
Sadly, I know that that often isn't enough. A pain remains, more deeply for some, that I simply can't speak to.
My husband talks about our children as his "immortality." I roll my eyes at this. When he and I kick off - we're done. Our children will have their own lives and destinies. They will bear the mark of our parenting, for better or worse. But we will not own them. They alone will own themselves. And who cares about immortality anyway? It's a damn overrated concept.
People (okay, I'm looking at you men of old) have been so flipping fixated on their name and their "seed" carrying on. Who cares? Okay, on some genetic diversity level, sure, it's sad to have that special little batch of DNA out of the mix. But the world will get over it. Sorry. Yes, your desire to reproduce is healthy and normal and I'm not being dismissive of that. But get over yourself. At least, when it comes to your perpetuity.
Gah. It's late, and I have hardly spoken of adoption and step-parenting and those special people who occupy the role of a parent without any official title. I don't want to leave this as if they were not also parents, too.
And the money! Our beaten down wages and our absurd health care system and our chaotic and pathetic public assistance programs and our lack of mandatory paid maternity leave - are huge hindrances to even becoming a parent in the first place, let alone being able to be a good parent once you've brought a child into this overburdened world. And that brings me - at last - to choice.
Everyone should have as much support as we can muster to choose for themselves whether or not to start a family and who and how many get to join it. It is, perhaps, our most innate and compelling instinct. But this is the world we live in, and it's just not an easy choice to make. Someday, if we don't all voluntarily choose smaller families, or adopting instead, we will not have the luxury to choose for ourselves. Limited resources for a crowded planet will make the choice for us. But for any size of family, it's exhausting, excruciating, hilarious, frightening, joyous and trying.
It's a hard and beautiful thing to be a parent.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Sunday, October 19, 2014
The Cult of Pumpkin Spice
Starbucks
12oz Decaf Soy Pumpkin Spice Latte w/Light Whip
...yes, I felt rather douche-y when she called out my order. But I figured if the soy pumpkin spice steamer (just steamed milk with flavoring) cost almost $4, then I might as well order the infamous Starbucks PSL and just go for it. I regret this decision. It's not worth the hype and the $4.55 price tag.
I've tried various pumpkin spice creations this autumn and I am mostly disappointed. The pastries have been the most successful (I fondly remember devouring half a pumpkin spice cheesecake in one night, but I was pregnant at the time, so I have an out), but the beverages have been mostly too "flavored" and sicky sweet. I favor just focusing on the wonderful warm spices - nutmeg, cinnamon, and clove - and stop ramping up the sugar and the strange, artificial squashy flavor. My favorite fall drink is a "harvest coffee" which is just the spices and a little hazelnut and vanilla flavoring in regular coffee, with a little bit of whip or some soy - just a bit. A true comfort beverage.
End coffee ramble.
Some of you reading this (some of my old barista brethren and sistren) are probably nodding and smiling and thinking fondly of your next visit to ye old coffeehouse. Or, like me, you are thinking of all things autumn: cool evenings and scarves, the smell of wet, fallen leaves. Others are probably groaning or being outright condescending. And it's you people I want to talk to today. You may have your rationale for your distaste - I, too, am pretty damn annoyed with the Cult of Pumpkin Spice. Capitalism is great for ruining a good thing with its commoditization and market over-focus. But, still, I ask you all:
Don't poop on other people's happiness.
And, while we're at it, don't let anyone ever make you feel bad for what brings you joy.
I think back to when I was a kid imagining my future career. I seriously wanted to be just about everything at once. And everything was a possibility. I was never told I couldn't do something because I was a girl, and girls couldn't do math or drive trucks for a living. But my dad let his distaste be known for some of the careers I thought I wanted to go for, like being a singer or an actress. I think he tried to walk it back later on when he realized that I was into those things. But the damage had been done, so to speak.
My dad was the center of my young universe. He gave me the gift of wonder, of questioning, of a slightly off-beat taste in humor. And I felt embarrassed to like something he didn't think so much of. So I diminished my dreams of doing those things and refocused on other things that I loved... that he happened to esteem a bit more than the theater stuff. I wasn't fully aware until I was older how I had altered my desires around my father's opinions.
Now, I'm secure enough to hold on to the things that I love, to defend them without being defensive. The same holds true of my opinions. It was jarring during my adolescence, when I starting running into situations where my peers had vastly different ideas than I did, and I didn't know how to respond at first. Now, I can still love and esteem the person and allow for us to have different opinions and preferences. It's also why I'm not so rigid on some of my opinions any more, because the truth is probably somewhere in between. I know my mind, I know why I believe what I believe and how much room there is for alternate perspectives.
Live and let live. That's why I don't declare outright hatred or wrongness for anything... like pumpkin spice lattes or Justin Bieber, everyone's favorite pop culture whipping-boy.
I will engage in discussions about opinions if I think it's an appropriate situation to do so, but without any hate or condescension. In particular, if I think someone is being hateful or hurtful to others, whether they have intended to or not, I have decided to be the one to (lovingly) poke a hole into their worldview. Too often we are insulated in these ideological bubbles and only hear the same, increasingly myopic, flippant, and hostile commentary rebounding back at us. I may not always come off even-tempered and kind (especially at 2 am over the internet) but it's all meant with love.
Because people are people... quothe Depeche Mode... and everybody deserves respect and space to love what they want to love, so long as they're not hurting anybody else. Simple enough, right?
So... to wrap up this ramble... as a parent myself, now, I have vowed to keep my opinions about the things my boys like to myself. I am really leaning on their father to do the same. No matter how young they are, they can still absorb the contempt and snide remarks about some of the most annoying of their cartoons and such. And it's never too early to cultivate the practice of allowing them the freedom to love what they want.
And, fortunately, at this age, I can limit their access to the most annoying stuff (they have no idea who Barney is, so no one send them any videos for Christmas, please!). Right now they have excellent taste in music, if you are someone who believes that excellent taste includes the Beatles, the Pretenders (Oliver's doll "Chris" is now "Chrissy"), Talking Heads, the Smiths, TV on the Radio, Henry Rollins, Foo Fighters, Radiohead, lots of Moby, and the Smashing Pumpkins, which Henry requested in the car today since we were on our way to pick out our Halloween pumpkins.
Alright, I've lost the plot again. The boys are done playing in the Barnes & Noble kids section and are itching to go home.
I guess I can add on a happy note that, while I did not pursue a career as a singer, music is actively part of my life. I'm singing again in a choir at the local community college. I might even go out for a solo this quarter. I don't need the celebrity I once imagined as a child - just the little joy, each Tuesday night, of getting together with other people who share the love.
Aaaand I'm done.
12oz Decaf Soy Pumpkin Spice Latte w/Light Whip
...yes, I felt rather douche-y when she called out my order. But I figured if the soy pumpkin spice steamer (just steamed milk with flavoring) cost almost $4, then I might as well order the infamous Starbucks PSL and just go for it. I regret this decision. It's not worth the hype and the $4.55 price tag.
I've tried various pumpkin spice creations this autumn and I am mostly disappointed. The pastries have been the most successful (I fondly remember devouring half a pumpkin spice cheesecake in one night, but I was pregnant at the time, so I have an out), but the beverages have been mostly too "flavored" and sicky sweet. I favor just focusing on the wonderful warm spices - nutmeg, cinnamon, and clove - and stop ramping up the sugar and the strange, artificial squashy flavor. My favorite fall drink is a "harvest coffee" which is just the spices and a little hazelnut and vanilla flavoring in regular coffee, with a little bit of whip or some soy - just a bit. A true comfort beverage.
End coffee ramble.
Some of you reading this (some of my old barista brethren and sistren) are probably nodding and smiling and thinking fondly of your next visit to ye old coffeehouse. Or, like me, you are thinking of all things autumn: cool evenings and scarves, the smell of wet, fallen leaves. Others are probably groaning or being outright condescending. And it's you people I want to talk to today. You may have your rationale for your distaste - I, too, am pretty damn annoyed with the Cult of Pumpkin Spice. Capitalism is great for ruining a good thing with its commoditization and market over-focus. But, still, I ask you all:
Don't poop on other people's happiness.
And, while we're at it, don't let anyone ever make you feel bad for what brings you joy.
I think back to when I was a kid imagining my future career. I seriously wanted to be just about everything at once. And everything was a possibility. I was never told I couldn't do something because I was a girl, and girls couldn't do math or drive trucks for a living. But my dad let his distaste be known for some of the careers I thought I wanted to go for, like being a singer or an actress. I think he tried to walk it back later on when he realized that I was into those things. But the damage had been done, so to speak.
My dad was the center of my young universe. He gave me the gift of wonder, of questioning, of a slightly off-beat taste in humor. And I felt embarrassed to like something he didn't think so much of. So I diminished my dreams of doing those things and refocused on other things that I loved... that he happened to esteem a bit more than the theater stuff. I wasn't fully aware until I was older how I had altered my desires around my father's opinions.
Now, I'm secure enough to hold on to the things that I love, to defend them without being defensive. The same holds true of my opinions. It was jarring during my adolescence, when I starting running into situations where my peers had vastly different ideas than I did, and I didn't know how to respond at first. Now, I can still love and esteem the person and allow for us to have different opinions and preferences. It's also why I'm not so rigid on some of my opinions any more, because the truth is probably somewhere in between. I know my mind, I know why I believe what I believe and how much room there is for alternate perspectives.
Live and let live. That's why I don't declare outright hatred or wrongness for anything... like pumpkin spice lattes or Justin Bieber, everyone's favorite pop culture whipping-boy.
I will engage in discussions about opinions if I think it's an appropriate situation to do so, but without any hate or condescension. In particular, if I think someone is being hateful or hurtful to others, whether they have intended to or not, I have decided to be the one to (lovingly) poke a hole into their worldview. Too often we are insulated in these ideological bubbles and only hear the same, increasingly myopic, flippant, and hostile commentary rebounding back at us. I may not always come off even-tempered and kind (especially at 2 am over the internet) but it's all meant with love.
Because people are people... quothe Depeche Mode... and everybody deserves respect and space to love what they want to love, so long as they're not hurting anybody else. Simple enough, right?
So... to wrap up this ramble... as a parent myself, now, I have vowed to keep my opinions about the things my boys like to myself. I am really leaning on their father to do the same. No matter how young they are, they can still absorb the contempt and snide remarks about some of the most annoying of their cartoons and such. And it's never too early to cultivate the practice of allowing them the freedom to love what they want.
And, fortunately, at this age, I can limit their access to the most annoying stuff (they have no idea who Barney is, so no one send them any videos for Christmas, please!). Right now they have excellent taste in music, if you are someone who believes that excellent taste includes the Beatles, the Pretenders (Oliver's doll "Chris" is now "Chrissy"), Talking Heads, the Smiths, TV on the Radio, Henry Rollins, Foo Fighters, Radiohead, lots of Moby, and the Smashing Pumpkins, which Henry requested in the car today since we were on our way to pick out our Halloween pumpkins.
Alright, I've lost the plot again. The boys are done playing in the Barnes & Noble kids section and are itching to go home.
I guess I can add on a happy note that, while I did not pursue a career as a singer, music is actively part of my life. I'm singing again in a choir at the local community college. I might even go out for a solo this quarter. I don't need the celebrity I once imagined as a child - just the little joy, each Tuesday night, of getting together with other people who share the love.
Aaaand I'm done.
Monday, August 18, 2014
We're all made of alphabet soup.
Home, again, Home, again.
Peppermint Chamomile Tea
Yeasty Popcorn
I'm blogging early this week because I suspect I may not get my Out Day this weekend. Appointments, sick kiddos, that kind of thing going on... Plus, I need to write tonight, and this is more productive - for all mankind - than getting sucked into Facebook.
And when I say, "I need to write," I mean it. It calms my brain. I usually have a journal at the ready, but that has fallen off lately and is too frequently interrupted during the day to be effective. I feel the difference when I don't get to write. I need it. I have written without light, without a pen, using fingers upon the bedsheets, or even upon the air.
That's just how my mind works, one of its quirks... Maybe there's a label for it. Depression, anxiety, I know, but maybe a little OCD, too. I know I have what they call a "ruminating" mind. As in, I think too much, about everything, all the time. But is there a more specific diagnosis to be made? And how many people qualify for some term of medical distinction?
There's a hazard in finding the term that describes you. As much as it can be comforting to validate your feelings of being abnormal, it can also become your identity. It can limit your view of yourself, your expectations for yourself, and hinder your personal progress. And it can do the same when others know you by your diagnosis. Oh, that's Phil, who's autistic...
When you think about it, that's kind of like saying, Oh, that's Phil, who is thumbs... We all have thumbs, generally speaking. We all have brains. We don't need to put the characteristics of each feature in front of our interactions with the person.
On the other hand, there is something to be said for having a diagnosis, for knowing the lay of the land. Whenever you interact with anyone, you can't know exactly what you're going to get, but you can have certain reasonable expectations. But with someone with a mental illness, you could get something drastically unexpected. So, there's value in being able to calibrate your expectations accordingly, if you are given the opportunity.
And that's our biggest challenge with our son, Henry. We don't have a diagnosis for his quirks, which leaves us wandering almost blind in dark territory. To outsiders, he usually looks like a perfectly normal (and especially adorable) 4 year-old. Even his outbursts likely strike most people as typical 4 year-old tantrums. Often, when I try to explain his behavior, people don't take me too seriously: "Sounds like a toddler to me!"
But Henry is not quite right.
We were almost lucky that he had speech delays because it got us in the system early. By the time of his 2-year check-up, he only used about a dozen words, though he should have had about 50 by then. That got us a referral for an evaluation through the school system, and Henry started meeting with an early intervention teacher.
From the first day, when she showed him how to sign the word "more," his language started taking off. Not only did he master the signed words quickly, but his spoken words increased. He progressed so much that by his next evaluation, he didn't quite qualify for more services. But his teacher advocated for him, saying she felt like he needed a little more help. She knew something was still a little off. We had spoken about autism and she said she didn't think that was it, but he was still pretty young. As she put it, there were indicators, but there were counter-indicators.
Henry is very smart. He picked up his alphabet and his numbers way earlier than most kids. He likes patterns, for things to be a certain way - but only so much. He gets obsessive about things - oh dear god, the doors! Music and sounds are particularly appealing, we discovered. He can become super-focused on something, or listen to the same song, or even the same sound, for extended periods of time. Hours, if we let him. But he can be affectionate and compassionate and will make eye-contact, unlike most autistic kids.
But how he interacts is... a little off. He still does "parallel play" where he's playing around other kids but doesn't really play with them. He interacts better with Oliver, but it's usually Oliver who's directing play. The other day, a little girl from the apartment complex looked Henry square in the eye and asked, "Do you want to play with us?" Henry didn't answer her. He wandered away like no one was there.
[Intermission: It's midnight... Oliver woke up... he coughed, he chatted, he had some juice, he threw up the juice, he asked for a cup of fruit... now he's curled up on the edge of the little bed waiting for Mommy to get off the computer. This is why I don't blog from home.]
What has become most obviously "off," though, is Henry's lack of questions. As Oliver, who will be 3 in less than three months, has become more verbose (he has always been way ahead of other kids his age), it has become apparent what Henry is not doing. It came home for me when, as my husband went banging and cursing around the kitchen, Oliver asked me, "Is Daddy okay? Does Daddy have a boo-boo?" Henry doesn't do that. He will ask if he needs permission for something - "Can I have the MobiGo?" - but I can't think of him ever asking exploratory questions like, "Where are we going?" or "Why does it do that?"
But our biggest problem is dealing with Henry's emotions. Oliver will protest and pitch a fit for something he wants. Henry gets hysterical. Seriously, he looks like he's having a panic attack sometimes. And often, he's freaking out over something like wanting me to help him with a puzzle he can already do by himself. If I say that I have to do dishes right now, he will pull me toward the puzzle table and repeat, "No! You have to match!" - not with a headstrong toddler look, but with a look of great anxiety. The day before he put the puzzle together, start to finish, by himself. But once he gets it in his mind that I need to help him, he can't move forward until I do. Sometimes all I need to do is match two pieces and then he will take over and finish the rest on his own. But if he's in that particular mindset, and I insist on my "no," he may likely scream and cry, or become violent and hit his brother - and he will not let it go. He will shut down, unable to move on with the puzzle on his own, or unable to move on to some other toy.
And most disturbingly, in his nervousness, he hurts himself. He chews his nails (I heard the audible 'snap' tonight, when he thought he saw a fly in his bed), and he will even give himself little cuts by pinching his skin with what's left of his nails. All over his body, but especially on his fingers, there are little red sores from him doing this.
So what's wrong with him? Autism Spectrum? Anxiety disorder? ADHD? OCD? There's a whole alphabet soup floating around him. We just want to know what we're dealing with.
We may not be responsible for the topography of Henry's mind - he was born with that. But the way we deal with Henry, the way we interact - whether we yell, or encourage, or soothe, and show him how to manage his strong emotions - helps to cultivate the landscape of his mind. We are carving out roads, planting trees and far too few flowers, laying the foundations for what his mind will become. This is true with any person, but some minds will always require special care and attention.
[Two days later: Out Day. Mix Bakeshop. 16oz Soy Chai.]
So...
Like I said before, while it's nice to have a diagnosis to illuminate the detour signs, the warnings - "There be dragons here!" - in the end, we have to let people chart their own course and be whoever they are going to be. No diagnosis can decide who they are unless they - and we - let it. After all, no "normal" person is exactly like any other "normal" person, so why would we expect someone with an alphabet soup brain to be exactly like anyone else, even someone with the same letters floating in their bowl? And is there such a thing as a "normal" person, anyway? I think we've all got some flavor of alphabet soup swirling around upstairs.
For my money, given his love of music and repetition, I think Henry's letters are going to end up being DJ.
Maybe DJ Spews-a-lot.... ;)
Peppermint Chamomile Tea
Yeasty Popcorn
I'm blogging early this week because I suspect I may not get my Out Day this weekend. Appointments, sick kiddos, that kind of thing going on... Plus, I need to write tonight, and this is more productive - for all mankind - than getting sucked into Facebook.
And when I say, "I need to write," I mean it. It calms my brain. I usually have a journal at the ready, but that has fallen off lately and is too frequently interrupted during the day to be effective. I feel the difference when I don't get to write. I need it. I have written without light, without a pen, using fingers upon the bedsheets, or even upon the air.
That's just how my mind works, one of its quirks... Maybe there's a label for it. Depression, anxiety, I know, but maybe a little OCD, too. I know I have what they call a "ruminating" mind. As in, I think too much, about everything, all the time. But is there a more specific diagnosis to be made? And how many people qualify for some term of medical distinction?
There's a hazard in finding the term that describes you. As much as it can be comforting to validate your feelings of being abnormal, it can also become your identity. It can limit your view of yourself, your expectations for yourself, and hinder your personal progress. And it can do the same when others know you by your diagnosis. Oh, that's Phil, who's autistic...
When you think about it, that's kind of like saying, Oh, that's Phil, who is thumbs... We all have thumbs, generally speaking. We all have brains. We don't need to put the characteristics of each feature in front of our interactions with the person.
On the other hand, there is something to be said for having a diagnosis, for knowing the lay of the land. Whenever you interact with anyone, you can't know exactly what you're going to get, but you can have certain reasonable expectations. But with someone with a mental illness, you could get something drastically unexpected. So, there's value in being able to calibrate your expectations accordingly, if you are given the opportunity.
And that's our biggest challenge with our son, Henry. We don't have a diagnosis for his quirks, which leaves us wandering almost blind in dark territory. To outsiders, he usually looks like a perfectly normal (and especially adorable) 4 year-old. Even his outbursts likely strike most people as typical 4 year-old tantrums. Often, when I try to explain his behavior, people don't take me too seriously: "Sounds like a toddler to me!"
But Henry is not quite right.
We were almost lucky that he had speech delays because it got us in the system early. By the time of his 2-year check-up, he only used about a dozen words, though he should have had about 50 by then. That got us a referral for an evaluation through the school system, and Henry started meeting with an early intervention teacher.
From the first day, when she showed him how to sign the word "more," his language started taking off. Not only did he master the signed words quickly, but his spoken words increased. He progressed so much that by his next evaluation, he didn't quite qualify for more services. But his teacher advocated for him, saying she felt like he needed a little more help. She knew something was still a little off. We had spoken about autism and she said she didn't think that was it, but he was still pretty young. As she put it, there were indicators, but there were counter-indicators.
Henry is very smart. He picked up his alphabet and his numbers way earlier than most kids. He likes patterns, for things to be a certain way - but only so much. He gets obsessive about things - oh dear god, the doors! Music and sounds are particularly appealing, we discovered. He can become super-focused on something, or listen to the same song, or even the same sound, for extended periods of time. Hours, if we let him. But he can be affectionate and compassionate and will make eye-contact, unlike most autistic kids.
But how he interacts is... a little off. He still does "parallel play" where he's playing around other kids but doesn't really play with them. He interacts better with Oliver, but it's usually Oliver who's directing play. The other day, a little girl from the apartment complex looked Henry square in the eye and asked, "Do you want to play with us?" Henry didn't answer her. He wandered away like no one was there.
[Intermission: It's midnight... Oliver woke up... he coughed, he chatted, he had some juice, he threw up the juice, he asked for a cup of fruit... now he's curled up on the edge of the little bed waiting for Mommy to get off the computer. This is why I don't blog from home.]
What has become most obviously "off," though, is Henry's lack of questions. As Oliver, who will be 3 in less than three months, has become more verbose (he has always been way ahead of other kids his age), it has become apparent what Henry is not doing. It came home for me when, as my husband went banging and cursing around the kitchen, Oliver asked me, "Is Daddy okay? Does Daddy have a boo-boo?" Henry doesn't do that. He will ask if he needs permission for something - "Can I have the MobiGo?" - but I can't think of him ever asking exploratory questions like, "Where are we going?" or "Why does it do that?"
But our biggest problem is dealing with Henry's emotions. Oliver will protest and pitch a fit for something he wants. Henry gets hysterical. Seriously, he looks like he's having a panic attack sometimes. And often, he's freaking out over something like wanting me to help him with a puzzle he can already do by himself. If I say that I have to do dishes right now, he will pull me toward the puzzle table and repeat, "No! You have to match!" - not with a headstrong toddler look, but with a look of great anxiety. The day before he put the puzzle together, start to finish, by himself. But once he gets it in his mind that I need to help him, he can't move forward until I do. Sometimes all I need to do is match two pieces and then he will take over and finish the rest on his own. But if he's in that particular mindset, and I insist on my "no," he may likely scream and cry, or become violent and hit his brother - and he will not let it go. He will shut down, unable to move on with the puzzle on his own, or unable to move on to some other toy.
And most disturbingly, in his nervousness, he hurts himself. He chews his nails (I heard the audible 'snap' tonight, when he thought he saw a fly in his bed), and he will even give himself little cuts by pinching his skin with what's left of his nails. All over his body, but especially on his fingers, there are little red sores from him doing this.
So what's wrong with him? Autism Spectrum? Anxiety disorder? ADHD? OCD? There's a whole alphabet soup floating around him. We just want to know what we're dealing with.
We may not be responsible for the topography of Henry's mind - he was born with that. But the way we deal with Henry, the way we interact - whether we yell, or encourage, or soothe, and show him how to manage his strong emotions - helps to cultivate the landscape of his mind. We are carving out roads, planting trees and far too few flowers, laying the foundations for what his mind will become. This is true with any person, but some minds will always require special care and attention.
[Two days later: Out Day. Mix Bakeshop. 16oz Soy Chai.]
So...
Like I said before, while it's nice to have a diagnosis to illuminate the detour signs, the warnings - "There be dragons here!" - in the end, we have to let people chart their own course and be whoever they are going to be. No diagnosis can decide who they are unless they - and we - let it. After all, no "normal" person is exactly like any other "normal" person, so why would we expect someone with an alphabet soup brain to be exactly like anyone else, even someone with the same letters floating in their bowl? And is there such a thing as a "normal" person, anyway? I think we've all got some flavor of alphabet soup swirling around upstairs.
For my money, given his love of music and repetition, I think Henry's letters are going to end up being DJ.
Maybe DJ Spews-a-lot.... ;)
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Remember that what you're doing is absurd
Home
Sans coffee
In honor of a dear old friend becoming a new parent (of twins!) this week, I thought I would compile some of the unsolicited parenting advice I threw at him, plus some other stuff I remembered afterward.
1. "Neh" is the hungry cry. There are other cries that all newborns share - the tired cry, the gassy cry - but that was the most useful one for me. Go to YouTube for examples.
2. ShamWow, my firends. ShamWow.
3. If someone's parenting advice feels wrong, it probably is. For you, anyway.
4. While it is true that every pregnancy/newborn is different, knowing that doesn't really help you when you're new to all this. Just ask at what temperature/symptom/frequency-or-consistency-of-poop do you call the doctor.
5. Write it down. Your memory will be bad even when it's working, so jot down anything and everything somewhere handy.
6. WebMD will be your greatest frenemy.
7. Have no ambition beyond sleep-eat-poop. If you think you can get something done, you almost certainly won't, and this will only depress you. Give up on trying for as long as you need to.
8. You are not ready for this level of tired. You might think you know sleep dep - I sure do! But you really don't understand the dangerous level of fatigue you will be slogging through for the next several weeks to months. After my second child, I actually went to the dollar store and bought a pair of readers because I thought my eyesight was starting to go. I was just that tired.
9. Walk away when you need to. Sometimes you will never understand why the baby is crying - or why you're crying - and the best thing to do is put the child somewhere safe while you go outside and contemplate your mailbox.
10. Remember that what you're doing is absurd. We live in a bizarre society where we are not immersed in extended family and lifelong friends, living with us or within shouting distance. In a more "primitive" situation, we would never be parenting alone. There would be a host of loved ones stepping in to help you raise the child. They would be there to watch the child, entertain it, while you got some extra sleep or had a bath or deigned to pick up something. We would never be left for half the day or more alone with a little person who needed so very much. Even having two parents with only one working is biologically ridiculous to accomplish the task at hand. So keep that in mind, and look to ways to diffuse the stress throughout the day. Make a phone tree of friends and family to call every day, throughout the day, just to help you laugh. It really is medicine to the mind and body. And, hopefully, they will stop by sometimes, too, to bring you coffee and do the dishes.
One more special note about breastfeeding. All the recent medical information available nowadays is vindicating those dirty, savage hippies who thought "breast is best." Turns out, it really is. Babies who've been breastfed have better health outcomes, physically and mentally, throughout their lives. It's beneficial for the mother, too, physically and mentally. (It did wonders for dropping my dress size, too - bonus!). In America, the recommendation is to breastfeed for at least one year - this is why WIC will provide vouchers for breastfeeding moms through the child's first year. And the World Health Organization (WHO) recommends two years of breastfeeding, if possible. Advocates encourage even longer, if you can. (We're not talking Game of Thrones longer - but to a couple of years old seems to be just fine).
That being said, if a mom chooses not to breastfeed, we need to support her just as much as we need to support moms who decide to breastfeed. There are a number of reasons a woman might choose not to or be unable to breastfeed, and no one should judge or shame her because of that. Plus, formula has come a long way and is a better substitute than it was 50 or 60 years ago, when breastfeeding was stigmatized. Part of the push behind the breastfeeding movement today is to overcome that old stigma, as well as the continuing sexualization of breasts to the point where moms are prevented from nursing in public, or - more distressingly - women feel uncomfortable nursing their newborns. When women are made to feel like doing the most natural and important things for themselves and their baby is wrong - that's a big, damn problem.
So, this is why we need to be culturally accepting of a mother's choice, and personally helpful wherever we can. Just making mom a sandwich, keeping her hydrated, rubbing her back, can make a world of difference. We can also do a lot socially. Oregon is one of the more progressive states when it comes to supporting moms, including protecting public nursing, having employers provide breaks for a working breastfeeding mom to pump, as well as a sanitary and private location to do it. No, bathrooms are not acceptable.
And let's just take a moment to love on the dads. Dads can share all the tasks and emotions that moms get, though the execution of some things might have to be modified.
And let's also give some love and respect to all those who don't have kids, and maybe won't. You are loved, too, and there's no need to feel left out if you want to come in. There's a place for everyone in a child's or parent's life.
Okay, there are books and books of advice out there, and my brain still has not recovered from the sleep dep even though my youngest is almost three. But I will leave you all with one last thought...
11. Come graduation, they won't remember any of this.
Oh, look at that!
The boys just got home and Henry just threw up... on a ShamWow. Laundry time!
(Did I mention...? 12. Something's always wet.)
Sans coffee
In honor of a dear old friend becoming a new parent (of twins!) this week, I thought I would compile some of the unsolicited parenting advice I threw at him, plus some other stuff I remembered afterward.
1. "Neh" is the hungry cry. There are other cries that all newborns share - the tired cry, the gassy cry - but that was the most useful one for me. Go to YouTube for examples.
2. ShamWow, my firends. ShamWow.
3. If someone's parenting advice feels wrong, it probably is. For you, anyway.
4. While it is true that every pregnancy/newborn is different, knowing that doesn't really help you when you're new to all this. Just ask at what temperature/symptom/frequency-or-consistency-of-poop do you call the doctor.
5. Write it down. Your memory will be bad even when it's working, so jot down anything and everything somewhere handy.
6. WebMD will be your greatest frenemy.
7. Have no ambition beyond sleep-eat-poop. If you think you can get something done, you almost certainly won't, and this will only depress you. Give up on trying for as long as you need to.
8. You are not ready for this level of tired. You might think you know sleep dep - I sure do! But you really don't understand the dangerous level of fatigue you will be slogging through for the next several weeks to months. After my second child, I actually went to the dollar store and bought a pair of readers because I thought my eyesight was starting to go. I was just that tired.
9. Walk away when you need to. Sometimes you will never understand why the baby is crying - or why you're crying - and the best thing to do is put the child somewhere safe while you go outside and contemplate your mailbox.
10. Remember that what you're doing is absurd. We live in a bizarre society where we are not immersed in extended family and lifelong friends, living with us or within shouting distance. In a more "primitive" situation, we would never be parenting alone. There would be a host of loved ones stepping in to help you raise the child. They would be there to watch the child, entertain it, while you got some extra sleep or had a bath or deigned to pick up something. We would never be left for half the day or more alone with a little person who needed so very much. Even having two parents with only one working is biologically ridiculous to accomplish the task at hand. So keep that in mind, and look to ways to diffuse the stress throughout the day. Make a phone tree of friends and family to call every day, throughout the day, just to help you laugh. It really is medicine to the mind and body. And, hopefully, they will stop by sometimes, too, to bring you coffee and do the dishes.
One more special note about breastfeeding. All the recent medical information available nowadays is vindicating those dirty, savage hippies who thought "breast is best." Turns out, it really is. Babies who've been breastfed have better health outcomes, physically and mentally, throughout their lives. It's beneficial for the mother, too, physically and mentally. (It did wonders for dropping my dress size, too - bonus!). In America, the recommendation is to breastfeed for at least one year - this is why WIC will provide vouchers for breastfeeding moms through the child's first year. And the World Health Organization (WHO) recommends two years of breastfeeding, if possible. Advocates encourage even longer, if you can. (We're not talking Game of Thrones longer - but to a couple of years old seems to be just fine).
That being said, if a mom chooses not to breastfeed, we need to support her just as much as we need to support moms who decide to breastfeed. There are a number of reasons a woman might choose not to or be unable to breastfeed, and no one should judge or shame her because of that. Plus, formula has come a long way and is a better substitute than it was 50 or 60 years ago, when breastfeeding was stigmatized. Part of the push behind the breastfeeding movement today is to overcome that old stigma, as well as the continuing sexualization of breasts to the point where moms are prevented from nursing in public, or - more distressingly - women feel uncomfortable nursing their newborns. When women are made to feel like doing the most natural and important things for themselves and their baby is wrong - that's a big, damn problem.
So, this is why we need to be culturally accepting of a mother's choice, and personally helpful wherever we can. Just making mom a sandwich, keeping her hydrated, rubbing her back, can make a world of difference. We can also do a lot socially. Oregon is one of the more progressive states when it comes to supporting moms, including protecting public nursing, having employers provide breaks for a working breastfeeding mom to pump, as well as a sanitary and private location to do it. No, bathrooms are not acceptable.
And let's just take a moment to love on the dads. Dads can share all the tasks and emotions that moms get, though the execution of some things might have to be modified.
And let's also give some love and respect to all those who don't have kids, and maybe won't. You are loved, too, and there's no need to feel left out if you want to come in. There's a place for everyone in a child's or parent's life.
Okay, there are books and books of advice out there, and my brain still has not recovered from the sleep dep even though my youngest is almost three. But I will leave you all with one last thought...
11. Come graduation, they won't remember any of this.
Oh, look at that!
The boys just got home and Henry just threw up... on a ShamWow. Laundry time!
(Did I mention...? 12. Something's always wet.)
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