When Bambam was 2.5 years old and not uttering a single work yet, I had but one single wish. If he could just talk. If he could just tell me what he needed, wanted, liked, hated, was scared of, etc our lives would be so much easier. The endless meltdowns would slow down, possibly end. It was to me the answer to everything.
With hours and hours of therapy and patience, he did eventually start speaking. And has not shut up since. I have never been around a child with such severe verbal diarrhea. That child is never quiet. He talks incessantly, and usually about one topic that he perseverates on day after day after day for weeks. The topic may change every few weeks, but after 3-4 weeks of hearing about the same biplane, or pizza delivery man, or bulldozer I'm about ready to use the pirate bullet on myself. How much is one parent expected to take?
Last weekend Miracle Boy was gone. And Bambam was obsessing over this fact. He is after all Miracle Boy's shadow. Sometimes I feel bad for that teenager as Bambam follows him all around the house. So starting at 6:30 Sunday morning Bambam started with "When brother home?" or "when brother time?" or "brother home 10 minutes?" or "brother home an hour?" or "brother home yet?" or ..... you get the idea. Every 5 minutes there was some version of this question. And he doesn't just ask the question, he has to poke you too, just to make sure he has your attention. Imagine: poke, poke, poke every 5 minutes. And he does not discriminate on where he pokes you, arm, leg, stomach, back, boob. Poke, poke poke, "brother home 10 minutes?" over and over and over again.
By 10:00 am I had locked my self in my bathroom. I know, mother of the year award. But seriously, if he poked me one more time I was going to loose it. Poke, poke, poke. If you don't think that is irritating, you are a saint.
I love that he can talk and tell us what he needs, when noises are too loud, that he likes the garbage truck, that the neighbor's dog is his friend. I love the things he says, he's funny without trying. Having him tell me that he had lunch with TJ and played with Ben at recess is beautiful to me. He's worked so long and hard so he can tell me. But silence, just a few minutes of silence, well they say its golden. I'm not sure, I don't think I've heard it in oh 4 years or so. Perhaps I should borrow his noise cancelling headphones.
My Side of Typical
Showing posts with label family life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family life. Show all posts
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
A Love Story
The local radio station is running a contest. They are asking readers to send in their love stories. The top stories will be posted on line and voted on by the general listening public. The winner receives a dinner for two and a gift certificate to a local jewelry store. I'm really not interested in the prize, but I've been very tempted to enter our story.
You see, our love story is not full of roses and candy and date nights. In fact, I don't remember the last time I received flowers from my husband. But ours is a love story none the less. It goes something like this:
I met my husband almost 15 years ago through mutual friends. We were both divorced and single parents of preschool aged boys. After 6 years together, we married almost 9 years ago. 6 years is a long time to wait, we were both a bit gun shy. And we knew that blending families is hard which is why the divorce statistics for 2nd marriages increases from 50% to 60%. But we were committed and it was working even with some bumps along the way.
Then 7 years ago, we received unexpected news. We were having another child. This was not planned. Our boys were almost 10 years old. We had other plans. They would be off to college in 8 years, we could do something different. We had been planning to semi-retire, move, see the world, etc. Now, we needed to adjust all that and get ready to welcome a new bundle of joy.
I won't lie, tears were shed. But once the shock wore off and all the "advanced maternal age" tests came back "normal", we settled into welcoming our bonus. But the surprises were not over. A "difficult baby" eventually led to a diagnosis of autism and a host of other comorbid diagnoses. Now we were not only a blended family but also a "special needs" family. And those statistics are even worse. Divorce rates for families with a special needs child are said to be 80-90%. Those odds are not very encouraging. And here is where our love story really kicks in.
My husband has continued to work at a job that he had plans to leave. He goes every day because we need not only the steady income, but more importantly, the health insurance. He comes home every day between 3:30 and 4:00. No going out for a drink after work. He comes home to give me a break and spend time with our son. He rarely goes out with the guys.
Day in and day out, he is in the autism trenches with me. He changes pull ups on a 7 year old. He acts excited about the same damn airplane video for the 100th time that day. He stays home from gatherings with our son, encouraging me to go and enjoy myself. He takes numerous hours off from work to attend IEP meetings, doctor appointments, evaluations, etc. He pulls our 4'4" tall, 65 pound son on a tag along bike, and the child does not peddle. Many nights he gives up his side of our bed when Bambam has a rough night. We now joke that the guest room is daddy's room. He understands when I fall asleep on the couch by 9:00 many nights in a row from complete exhaustion.
My husband and I have not had a weekend away in over 7 years. I'm not sure when we will. I may not remember the last time I received flowers, but I do remember the last time he stayed home with Bambam and encouraged me to go have some "me time". I do remember the last time he paid thousands of dollars for doctors appointments and medications and therapies instead of getting a new car or a new anything. I do remember when he went out to play in 16 degree weather because Bambam was already out the door. I do remember that he always gets in the pool with Bambam, no matter how cold it is. I do remember that he is still here, everyday, being my tag team partner in this wrestling match called autism.
Now, none of this is to say that he is perfect. None of us are. He can be impatient. He sometimes yells when he shouldn't. And he's not very good at recognizing when he needs to step back and refuel. But he's here. Everyday. Doing his part. Loving our son.
I read almost daily about autism dads who leave. And daily I'm thankful that my husband is still here. A long time ago I was told that "love is the act of living out a commitment". If so, my husband is the definition of love. It may not be all roses and violins, but this is our love story. And I think its beautiful.
You see, our love story is not full of roses and candy and date nights. In fact, I don't remember the last time I received flowers from my husband. But ours is a love story none the less. It goes something like this:
I met my husband almost 15 years ago through mutual friends. We were both divorced and single parents of preschool aged boys. After 6 years together, we married almost 9 years ago. 6 years is a long time to wait, we were both a bit gun shy. And we knew that blending families is hard which is why the divorce statistics for 2nd marriages increases from 50% to 60%. But we were committed and it was working even with some bumps along the way.
Then 7 years ago, we received unexpected news. We were having another child. This was not planned. Our boys were almost 10 years old. We had other plans. They would be off to college in 8 years, we could do something different. We had been planning to semi-retire, move, see the world, etc. Now, we needed to adjust all that and get ready to welcome a new bundle of joy.
I won't lie, tears were shed. But once the shock wore off and all the "advanced maternal age" tests came back "normal", we settled into welcoming our bonus. But the surprises were not over. A "difficult baby" eventually led to a diagnosis of autism and a host of other comorbid diagnoses. Now we were not only a blended family but also a "special needs" family. And those statistics are even worse. Divorce rates for families with a special needs child are said to be 80-90%. Those odds are not very encouraging. And here is where our love story really kicks in.
My husband has continued to work at a job that he had plans to leave. He goes every day because we need not only the steady income, but more importantly, the health insurance. He comes home every day between 3:30 and 4:00. No going out for a drink after work. He comes home to give me a break and spend time with our son. He rarely goes out with the guys.
Day in and day out, he is in the autism trenches with me. He changes pull ups on a 7 year old. He acts excited about the same damn airplane video for the 100th time that day. He stays home from gatherings with our son, encouraging me to go and enjoy myself. He takes numerous hours off from work to attend IEP meetings, doctor appointments, evaluations, etc. He pulls our 4'4" tall, 65 pound son on a tag along bike, and the child does not peddle. Many nights he gives up his side of our bed when Bambam has a rough night. We now joke that the guest room is daddy's room. He understands when I fall asleep on the couch by 9:00 many nights in a row from complete exhaustion.
My husband and I have not had a weekend away in over 7 years. I'm not sure when we will. I may not remember the last time I received flowers, but I do remember the last time he stayed home with Bambam and encouraged me to go have some "me time". I do remember the last time he paid thousands of dollars for doctors appointments and medications and therapies instead of getting a new car or a new anything. I do remember when he went out to play in 16 degree weather because Bambam was already out the door. I do remember that he always gets in the pool with Bambam, no matter how cold it is. I do remember that he is still here, everyday, being my tag team partner in this wrestling match called autism.
Now, none of this is to say that he is perfect. None of us are. He can be impatient. He sometimes yells when he shouldn't. And he's not very good at recognizing when he needs to step back and refuel. But he's here. Everyday. Doing his part. Loving our son.
I read almost daily about autism dads who leave. And daily I'm thankful that my husband is still here. A long time ago I was told that "love is the act of living out a commitment". If so, my husband is the definition of love. It may not be all roses and violins, but this is our love story. And I think its beautiful.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Fairness
"Fairness does not mean everyone gets the same thing. It means everyone gets what they need."
This is never more evident than in a household with a special needs child. Bambam was born when the older boys were 10 and 10 1/2. At that time The Quiet One was not living with us. So Miracle Boy felt the brunt of the changes. He had to learn real fast that fair does not mean equal.There were many days when he had to "fend for himself" in one manner or another because we were tied up with Bambam. In some ways he had to grow up faster than their peers. And sometimes it makes me sad.
Gone were the days of big family vacations. Gone were the weekend skiing trips. For several years my ability to volunteer at his school or athletic events was not a possibility. I even began missing some of his events. I had never missed an event before. He had longed for years for a sibling that lived in our household, used to cry for The Quiet One to move here. Be careful what you ask for, he got way more than he bargained for. This was not what any of us had planned.
The fact is, we hadn't planned any of it. Bambam was a bonus. So while we were trying to adjust to the idea of a third child, we got the additional shock that he was a "difficult baby". Which eventually lead to autism and a host of comorbid diagnoses. And there is no way to make things equal in a house with typical and special needs children. And sometimes even to determine what they all "need".
Bambam's needs are fairly evident: He needs therapies (OT, PT, SLP), social communication classes, adaptive activities, many doctor appointments, etc. I pick him up from school an hour early every day and take him to one of his appointments or activities. I work with him at home. We rarely leave him unsupervised (only if he's in the next room and we can hear him and check on him easily). He commands the bulk of our time and financial resources.
The older boys are mostly understanding. Although we sometimes get comments. For example, its been a long standing rule in our house that we do not buy our kids the latest electronic gadgets. When Miralce Boy got his first iPod, he paid half of it and we paid the other half as his birthday present. Since then, he has bought his own technology. But when Bambam was 5, we got him an iPad. One of the boys made a comment about Bambam getting an iPad when they don't have one. My response was "If you would like to change places with him, be a 5 year old autistic kid who struggles every day to navigate a world that is hostile but get an iPad; I'm sure he would love to be a 15 year old kid with lots of friends, a job, doing well in school, a girlfriend, etc. but give up the iPad" We've never hear another word about what Bambam has. I really think they get it and they want their baby brother to have all the help he needs.
But, there are still days I'm left to wonder, are the older boys getting what they need? I no longer worry about fairness, life simply is not fair. But, how much are we short changing these 2 other kids? There are times it feels like we are forced to pick which child to help. Do we funnel all of our resources into Bambam to help him learn life skills he so desperately needs? Or do we funnel some of them into Miracle Boy's college tuition to help him grow and learn and be the best that he can be? Miracle Boy is capable, he's bright and personable and has great potential. He's done well in school and has lofty goals. I feel like he's earned a reward of some assistance with tuition. But is this a need? How do I choose which child to help?
This is never more evident than in a household with a special needs child. Bambam was born when the older boys were 10 and 10 1/2. At that time The Quiet One was not living with us. So Miracle Boy felt the brunt of the changes. He had to learn real fast that fair does not mean equal.There were many days when he had to "fend for himself" in one manner or another because we were tied up with Bambam. In some ways he had to grow up faster than their peers. And sometimes it makes me sad.
Gone were the days of big family vacations. Gone were the weekend skiing trips. For several years my ability to volunteer at his school or athletic events was not a possibility. I even began missing some of his events. I had never missed an event before. He had longed for years for a sibling that lived in our household, used to cry for The Quiet One to move here. Be careful what you ask for, he got way more than he bargained for. This was not what any of us had planned.
The fact is, we hadn't planned any of it. Bambam was a bonus. So while we were trying to adjust to the idea of a third child, we got the additional shock that he was a "difficult baby". Which eventually lead to autism and a host of comorbid diagnoses. And there is no way to make things equal in a house with typical and special needs children. And sometimes even to determine what they all "need".
Bambam's needs are fairly evident: He needs therapies (OT, PT, SLP), social communication classes, adaptive activities, many doctor appointments, etc. I pick him up from school an hour early every day and take him to one of his appointments or activities. I work with him at home. We rarely leave him unsupervised (only if he's in the next room and we can hear him and check on him easily). He commands the bulk of our time and financial resources.
The older boys are mostly understanding. Although we sometimes get comments. For example, its been a long standing rule in our house that we do not buy our kids the latest electronic gadgets. When Miralce Boy got his first iPod, he paid half of it and we paid the other half as his birthday present. Since then, he has bought his own technology. But when Bambam was 5, we got him an iPad. One of the boys made a comment about Bambam getting an iPad when they don't have one. My response was "If you would like to change places with him, be a 5 year old autistic kid who struggles every day to navigate a world that is hostile but get an iPad; I'm sure he would love to be a 15 year old kid with lots of friends, a job, doing well in school, a girlfriend, etc. but give up the iPad" We've never hear another word about what Bambam has. I really think they get it and they want their baby brother to have all the help he needs.
But, there are still days I'm left to wonder, are the older boys getting what they need? I no longer worry about fairness, life simply is not fair. But, how much are we short changing these 2 other kids? There are times it feels like we are forced to pick which child to help. Do we funnel all of our resources into Bambam to help him learn life skills he so desperately needs? Or do we funnel some of them into Miracle Boy's college tuition to help him grow and learn and be the best that he can be? Miracle Boy is capable, he's bright and personable and has great potential. He's done well in school and has lofty goals. I feel like he's earned a reward of some assistance with tuition. But is this a need? How do I choose which child to help?
Monday, January 21, 2013
I OK
As I was getting ready this morning, Bambam came into my room and said, "I OK". This is a clear sign that something has happened. So I start to question him.
Me: What happened?
Bambam: It slippy
Me: Did you fall down?
Bambam: Yessss
Me: Did you get hurt?
Bambam: Yesssss
Me: Where did you get hurt?
Bambam: On da ground.
(I should be used to this literal kid by now. New question.)
Me: Where does your body hurt?
Bambam: My foot. Kiss it.
So I did. And that was the end of it for Bambam. But not for me.
Like many kids with an ASD, Bambam has sensory processing issues. He appears to be hyposensitive to pain and temperature. I've seen him hit his head on the corner of a cabinet, putting a small hole in his head with blood running down his face and he not even cry. It is not uncommon for him to have scapes and bruises and us have no idea how he got them. Once, after noticing that he was limping we looked at his foot to see his ankle swollen to double its normal size. Thankfully it was not broken. But this all freaks me out just a little.
Clearly his body reacts to pain, he was limping and that's why we looked at his foot. But he doesn't express anything, or at least very little, about it. He rarely says "ow". He knows he got hurt, he came and told me "I OK". But he doesn't cry and he never complains about being in pain. Ever. Not even when he has 104 degree fever or is vomiting for the 4th time in an hour. Is this just because he doesn't know how to express the pain? Or does it really not register as pain? I don't know. Nor do I know if it matters. The fact is that I remain in fear that some day he will have a broken bone and we won't discover it for a week.
Me: What happened?
Bambam: It slippy
Me: Did you fall down?
Bambam: Yessss
Me: Did you get hurt?
Bambam: Yesssss
Me: Where did you get hurt?
Bambam: On da ground.
(I should be used to this literal kid by now. New question.)
Me: Where does your body hurt?
Bambam: My foot. Kiss it.
So I did. And that was the end of it for Bambam. But not for me.
Like many kids with an ASD, Bambam has sensory processing issues. He appears to be hyposensitive to pain and temperature. I've seen him hit his head on the corner of a cabinet, putting a small hole in his head with blood running down his face and he not even cry. It is not uncommon for him to have scapes and bruises and us have no idea how he got them. Once, after noticing that he was limping we looked at his foot to see his ankle swollen to double its normal size. Thankfully it was not broken. But this all freaks me out just a little.
Clearly his body reacts to pain, he was limping and that's why we looked at his foot. But he doesn't express anything, or at least very little, about it. He rarely says "ow". He knows he got hurt, he came and told me "I OK". But he doesn't cry and he never complains about being in pain. Ever. Not even when he has 104 degree fever or is vomiting for the 4th time in an hour. Is this just because he doesn't know how to express the pain? Or does it really not register as pain? I don't know. Nor do I know if it matters. The fact is that I remain in fear that some day he will have a broken bone and we won't discover it for a week.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Just Ask
Mr. Fixit and I spent an hour last night looking for the TV remote. At about 6:30 tonight, Bambam asked if he could watch some of "my TV". That means either PBS or Disney channel. Since PBS was well past kids programming, Mr. Fixit put the Disney channel on and disappeared into the office. About 7:00, Bambam decided to go downstairs with "brother" and I couldn't find the remote.
I looked everywhere: in the basket where it belongs, on the side table, on the coffee tabel, on the counter in the kitchen, on the breakfast table, under the coffee table, on the couch, under the blanket and pillows, in the couch cushions. No luck. At which point I went into the office and very irritated asked Mr. Fixit where put the darn thing. His response, "I haven't been in the family room in an hour, I have no idea where it is." But you were the last one to use it I countered. So into the family room he follows me to join the search.
In the mean time, it's now 8:00 so I go get Bambam ready for bed. And I hear Mr. Fixit grumbling because he can't find the remote either. At one point he says rather sarcastically that maybe Bambam used it. On a whim I asked Bambam if he knows where the remote is. And he says, "Yesss, I put away." You put it away? Where? Unner da couch. And then he marches right over the the end of the couch, leans down, and pulls the remote out from under it. Well, huh.
Who would have thought to ask him? Seriously, its a crap shoot when you ask Bambam a question if you are actually going to get an answer that is even on topic. And as far as I know, this child has never really paid any attention to the remote. He doesn't play with it or attempt to change the chanels or anything. So I never really thought to ask him.
I can only imagine what was going on inside his little head as he watched us searching for the remote. That stinker knew where it was the whole time. All we had to do was just ask him.
Lesson learned: Never underestimate my autistic 7 year old, and he apparently has a wicked sense of humor.
I looked everywhere: in the basket where it belongs, on the side table, on the coffee tabel, on the counter in the kitchen, on the breakfast table, under the coffee table, on the couch, under the blanket and pillows, in the couch cushions. No luck. At which point I went into the office and very irritated asked Mr. Fixit where put the darn thing. His response, "I haven't been in the family room in an hour, I have no idea where it is." But you were the last one to use it I countered. So into the family room he follows me to join the search.
In the mean time, it's now 8:00 so I go get Bambam ready for bed. And I hear Mr. Fixit grumbling because he can't find the remote either. At one point he says rather sarcastically that maybe Bambam used it. On a whim I asked Bambam if he knows where the remote is. And he says, "Yesss, I put away." You put it away? Where? Unner da couch. And then he marches right over the the end of the couch, leans down, and pulls the remote out from under it. Well, huh.
Who would have thought to ask him? Seriously, its a crap shoot when you ask Bambam a question if you are actually going to get an answer that is even on topic. And as far as I know, this child has never really paid any attention to the remote. He doesn't play with it or attempt to change the chanels or anything. So I never really thought to ask him.
I can only imagine what was going on inside his little head as he watched us searching for the remote. That stinker knew where it was the whole time. All we had to do was just ask him.
Lesson learned: Never underestimate my autistic 7 year old, and he apparently has a wicked sense of humor.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Brother
Bambam adores his brothers. Both of them. But he has a special bond with Miracle Boy. I'm sure this is because Miracle Boy has always lived with Bambam. He's always been there, a constant. He loves The Quiet One just as much. But in times of stress, he wants Miracle Boy.
Other than Mr. Fixit or me, Miracle Boy is the only one that can put Bambam to bed. When he needs help going potty or needs changed he turns to Miracle Boy. (Actually me if I'm home; Miracle Boy is a close 2nd even before Mr. Fixit.)
He follows Miracle Boy around the house, wants to hang out with him in the basement, sit next to him at dinner and in the car, mimics him. And he calls him "Brother". It is the sweetest thing. He occasionally refers to him by name; but most of the time he simply calls him "Brother". He loves it when Miracle Boy babysits him: "Brother stay with me?" with a huge grin on his face.
And for the most part, Miracle Boy is up to the challenge. (He is after all a teenager, so sometimes he squawks about it) On school holidays, he frequently acts as Bambam's care provider so I can work. He stays with him so Mr. Fixit and I can have the occasional date night. He is an integral part of what makes our household work.
So I should not have been surprised this past weekend. We were at the Fun House and went sledding for the first time this season. As expected, Bambam was hesitant, something outside the norm. Nothing Mr. Fixit said could convince Bambam to go down the hill with him. So Bambam watched as everyone else went on a run. And he still refused when Mr. Fixit tried to get him to go along the next time. That is until Miracle Boy asked if he wanted to come sledding with him. With that, he took off in a run with a huge grin and went sledding with "Brother".
Other than Mr. Fixit or me, Miracle Boy is the only one that can put Bambam to bed. When he needs help going potty or needs changed he turns to Miracle Boy. (Actually me if I'm home; Miracle Boy is a close 2nd even before Mr. Fixit.)
He follows Miracle Boy around the house, wants to hang out with him in the basement, sit next to him at dinner and in the car, mimics him. And he calls him "Brother". It is the sweetest thing. He occasionally refers to him by name; but most of the time he simply calls him "Brother". He loves it when Miracle Boy babysits him: "Brother stay with me?" with a huge grin on his face.
And for the most part, Miracle Boy is up to the challenge. (He is after all a teenager, so sometimes he squawks about it) On school holidays, he frequently acts as Bambam's care provider so I can work. He stays with him so Mr. Fixit and I can have the occasional date night. He is an integral part of what makes our household work.
So I should not have been surprised this past weekend. We were at the Fun House and went sledding for the first time this season. As expected, Bambam was hesitant, something outside the norm. Nothing Mr. Fixit said could convince Bambam to go down the hill with him. So Bambam watched as everyone else went on a run. And he still refused when Mr. Fixit tried to get him to go along the next time. That is until Miracle Boy asked if he wanted to come sledding with him. With that, he took off in a run with a huge grin and went sledding with "Brother".
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Ashamed
Yesterday we spent the evening with our good friends, kids included. Bambam loves to go to our friend's house. He's known them his whole life. Their girls are 2 and 5 years older than him and they adore him. Almost like older sisters or even little mothers. They are fiercely protective of him.
We had a great evening eating leftover Christmas dinner and snacks, a couple of cocktails, and a game of dice while the kids played. Then, towards the end of the evening I looked over and saw some dark spots on the back of Bambam's shirt. Uh oh. My heart sank. I quickly grabbed his backpack and hearded him into the bathroom. Just as I suspected, a complete blowout.
This is not unexpected. Bambam has been fighting a bug for about 4 days now. Between that and the holidays, he hasn't exactly been regular. In fact, we had nothing for a couple of days. I've been waiting for the blowout to occur. And when I say blowout, I mean up the back, in his shirt, in his pants, up to his belly button, down his legs, almost in his socks BLOWOUT. Had we been home, I would have dumped him in the shower. Instead I'm in a small powder room trying to clean him up with toilet paper and wipes. He doesn't want to stand still, tries to open the door, wants to go play. And I find myself getting impatient.
To add insult to injury, I don't have a complete change of clothes with me. I have extra pullups (always) and a shirt, but no pants. Now I have to go ask for a pair of sweats to borrow for the ride home. And I found myself embarrassed. Somehow almost overnight I feel like things have changed. It's never bothered me before when he's had an accident at their house, I've even borrowed clothes before. There is nothing new here. But now he is 7. And he seems so much bigger. And he's made such huge gains in so many other areas. And it just feels wrong. And I want to leave quickly.
These are new emotions for me. I've never been embarrassed by anything about Bambam. He is a loving child with special needs doing his best to navigate through this world. And I was embarrassed. And now I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I was embarrassed. I feel like a bad mom unworthy of the love of this sweet boy.
We had a great evening eating leftover Christmas dinner and snacks, a couple of cocktails, and a game of dice while the kids played. Then, towards the end of the evening I looked over and saw some dark spots on the back of Bambam's shirt. Uh oh. My heart sank. I quickly grabbed his backpack and hearded him into the bathroom. Just as I suspected, a complete blowout.
This is not unexpected. Bambam has been fighting a bug for about 4 days now. Between that and the holidays, he hasn't exactly been regular. In fact, we had nothing for a couple of days. I've been waiting for the blowout to occur. And when I say blowout, I mean up the back, in his shirt, in his pants, up to his belly button, down his legs, almost in his socks BLOWOUT. Had we been home, I would have dumped him in the shower. Instead I'm in a small powder room trying to clean him up with toilet paper and wipes. He doesn't want to stand still, tries to open the door, wants to go play. And I find myself getting impatient.
To add insult to injury, I don't have a complete change of clothes with me. I have extra pullups (always) and a shirt, but no pants. Now I have to go ask for a pair of sweats to borrow for the ride home. And I found myself embarrassed. Somehow almost overnight I feel like things have changed. It's never bothered me before when he's had an accident at their house, I've even borrowed clothes before. There is nothing new here. But now he is 7. And he seems so much bigger. And he's made such huge gains in so many other areas. And it just feels wrong. And I want to leave quickly.
These are new emotions for me. I've never been embarrassed by anything about Bambam. He is a loving child with special needs doing his best to navigate through this world. And I was embarrassed. And now I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I was embarrassed. I feel like a bad mom unworthy of the love of this sweet boy.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
A Fraud
Usually I feel like an open book. I don't really hide much. My life is what it is and if you are willing to listen, I will share it with you. But, lately I've been feeling like a fraud.
I can not tell you how often I hear the words "you are such a great parent" or "I don't know how you do it" or "I could never do what you do" or "Your kids are so lucky to have you" or my favorite (which came from the LRC teacher at school) "Bambam hit the jackpot when he got you for parents". Really??? I don't feel like any of this is true. And if this is the picture I present to you, then I'm a fraud. Because here is what my days are really like:
I barely even say hi to my teenagers as they get themselved up, ready, and out the door to school. Our conversations in the morning exist of "bye mom, we're leaving" answered by me with "have a good day, love you guys". That's it. Most days I don't even know what they are wearing as I'm in my bedroom getting ready when they walk out the door and the words above are yelled down to the front door. Great parenting? I think not.
Bambam watches Curious George and The Cat in the Hat every morning so I can get his breakfast made, our lunches done and get myself ready before getting him ready for school. Seriously, TV first thing in the morning, every morning. And, I don't have time in the mornings to patiently wait and work with him on dressing himself. I know more than anyone that we are supposed to work on adaptive skills. I just don't have time in the mornings so I still dress him at 7 years old. Some days we are still late for school. Not exactly parent of the year.
My teenagers go either straight to their sports practice or to the athletic club from school. Often they are not home by dinner time so we eat in shifts. Sitting down for a family dinner is a rarity at our house. And Bambam doesn't really eat dinner, it's just not his thing. So he sits in the family room doing his iPad while Mr. Fixit and I eat dinner. Now that's good parenting.
The dinner dishes don't always get done after dinner. In fact, some days they don't get done until I get home from work the next day. And my house is not always dusted, vaccumed, swept and mopped. The laundry piles up. I will never win the Betty Homemaker Award.
Miracle Boy has been on the varsity golf team every year in high school. I have never yet watched a golf tournament. In 3 years, I've never seen him play. Granted, they play during the week when I'm either at work or have Bambam with me. And its not convenient. But a great parent would make it happen.
I do not get to all the things I'm supposed to work on with Bambam every day. The fine motor work, gross motor work, sensory diet, academic work, social skills, play dates, adaptive skills, speech and language skills, theraputic listening, brushing, etc. Some days we don't even read for 10 minutes. Some days I fail him miserably.
I am not a great parent. I'm just a parent, just like all the other parents out there. I really want to be a good parent. But life is not perfect. It's messy and chaotic and the days are shorter than necessary. I often make mistakes and fall short. I'm impatient, I yell, I make snap decisions I regret later. And when people tell me what a great parent I am or how lucky my kids are, I feel like a fraud.
I can not tell you how often I hear the words "you are such a great parent" or "I don't know how you do it" or "I could never do what you do" or "Your kids are so lucky to have you" or my favorite (which came from the LRC teacher at school) "Bambam hit the jackpot when he got you for parents". Really??? I don't feel like any of this is true. And if this is the picture I present to you, then I'm a fraud. Because here is what my days are really like:
I barely even say hi to my teenagers as they get themselved up, ready, and out the door to school. Our conversations in the morning exist of "bye mom, we're leaving" answered by me with "have a good day, love you guys". That's it. Most days I don't even know what they are wearing as I'm in my bedroom getting ready when they walk out the door and the words above are yelled down to the front door. Great parenting? I think not.
Bambam watches Curious George and The Cat in the Hat every morning so I can get his breakfast made, our lunches done and get myself ready before getting him ready for school. Seriously, TV first thing in the morning, every morning. And, I don't have time in the mornings to patiently wait and work with him on dressing himself. I know more than anyone that we are supposed to work on adaptive skills. I just don't have time in the mornings so I still dress him at 7 years old. Some days we are still late for school. Not exactly parent of the year.
My teenagers go either straight to their sports practice or to the athletic club from school. Often they are not home by dinner time so we eat in shifts. Sitting down for a family dinner is a rarity at our house. And Bambam doesn't really eat dinner, it's just not his thing. So he sits in the family room doing his iPad while Mr. Fixit and I eat dinner. Now that's good parenting.
The dinner dishes don't always get done after dinner. In fact, some days they don't get done until I get home from work the next day. And my house is not always dusted, vaccumed, swept and mopped. The laundry piles up. I will never win the Betty Homemaker Award.
Miracle Boy has been on the varsity golf team every year in high school. I have never yet watched a golf tournament. In 3 years, I've never seen him play. Granted, they play during the week when I'm either at work or have Bambam with me. And its not convenient. But a great parent would make it happen.
I do not get to all the things I'm supposed to work on with Bambam every day. The fine motor work, gross motor work, sensory diet, academic work, social skills, play dates, adaptive skills, speech and language skills, theraputic listening, brushing, etc. Some days we don't even read for 10 minutes. Some days I fail him miserably.
I am not a great parent. I'm just a parent, just like all the other parents out there. I really want to be a good parent. But life is not perfect. It's messy and chaotic and the days are shorter than necessary. I often make mistakes and fall short. I'm impatient, I yell, I make snap decisions I regret later. And when people tell me what a great parent I am or how lucky my kids are, I feel like a fraud.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Trapped in the Car
As luck would have it, The Quiet One and I were in the car today. Just the 2 of us. I love it when I have one or the other teenager trapped in the car with me, just the 2 of us with no distractions. OK, maybe some Christmas music in the background. But they are my captive audience. I have the best conversations with them in the car.
Since they both now drive, this doesn't happen very often. Don't get me wrong, I love that they now drive. It makes my life so much easier. I'm no longer a taxi for 3, now it's just 1. But, I sometimes miss that one on one time in the car. So I try to create situations where it happens. And today it happened with The Quiet One. And this is awesome. As his alias implies, he is quiet. He doesn't volunteer information unless you ask. So the time in the car with him is great.
With the holidays coming up, I asked him if he was excited to go see his mom. Of course he is. So we talked about that a little bit, what they had planned, would he see his grandma, etc. Then I asked him if he sees his old friends when he visits there. And he said not really. He sees one, but not the rest. And then he went on to say that the kids there are different. Different how I ask. And he says "There sort of all punks." I find this to be an interesting comment, these were his friends. And then he goes on to say "You know, I'm really glad I moved up here." Say what?
This is the child who moved into our household under duress, for lack of a better word. He was failing high school, getting in trouble, had been arrested twice, smoking pot, etc. He was sullen and angry when he got here. Did not want to be here, was angry at his mom for shipping him away. Angry at us for making him come. Angry he was taken away from his friends. He was counting the days till he could return.
This same child is now telling me how glad he is that he lives here. He went on to say that the kids here are nicer, that even when they are joking and having fun they are still respectful. He actually used that word "respectful". He likes that there is no need for a police officer at the high school here, that there is no graffiti on the walls. It's nicer.
And I'm sitting there in awe. I'm in awe that he not only sees these differences, but that he is acknowledging it. That he is outwardly saying "I like it here, I'm glad I live here now." And I got a little teary. But I kept it in check because teenage boys don't appreciate a little happy cry. But what I did say is "Honey, I'm so happy that you like it here. Thank you for sharing that with me. You just made my day."
I have the best conversations with my kids in the car.
Since they both now drive, this doesn't happen very often. Don't get me wrong, I love that they now drive. It makes my life so much easier. I'm no longer a taxi for 3, now it's just 1. But, I sometimes miss that one on one time in the car. So I try to create situations where it happens. And today it happened with The Quiet One. And this is awesome. As his alias implies, he is quiet. He doesn't volunteer information unless you ask. So the time in the car with him is great.
With the holidays coming up, I asked him if he was excited to go see his mom. Of course he is. So we talked about that a little bit, what they had planned, would he see his grandma, etc. Then I asked him if he sees his old friends when he visits there. And he said not really. He sees one, but not the rest. And then he went on to say that the kids there are different. Different how I ask. And he says "There sort of all punks." I find this to be an interesting comment, these were his friends. And then he goes on to say "You know, I'm really glad I moved up here." Say what?
This is the child who moved into our household under duress, for lack of a better word. He was failing high school, getting in trouble, had been arrested twice, smoking pot, etc. He was sullen and angry when he got here. Did not want to be here, was angry at his mom for shipping him away. Angry at us for making him come. Angry he was taken away from his friends. He was counting the days till he could return.
This same child is now telling me how glad he is that he lives here. He went on to say that the kids here are nicer, that even when they are joking and having fun they are still respectful. He actually used that word "respectful". He likes that there is no need for a police officer at the high school here, that there is no graffiti on the walls. It's nicer.
And I'm sitting there in awe. I'm in awe that he not only sees these differences, but that he is acknowledging it. That he is outwardly saying "I like it here, I'm glad I live here now." And I got a little teary. But I kept it in check because teenage boys don't appreciate a little happy cry. But what I did say is "Honey, I'm so happy that you like it here. Thank you for sharing that with me. You just made my day."
I have the best conversations with my kids in the car.
Monday, November 26, 2012
That Kid
When Miracle Boy was little and I would take him places that kids like to go, I always noticed That Kid. You know what I'm talking about. That Kid who is just a little too noisy, a bit too rambunctious, too rough or wild, etc. And I would watch That Kid and wonder: Where are his parents? Where is the discipline? What is wrong with him? Yes, I am ashamed to admit that I would watch with judging eyes. Never bothering to wonder what his story was, what his circumstances were.
Now, I have That Kid. As I sit here at the edge of the pool watching Bambam play in the water, I notice that he's splashing a little too hard. Jumping a little too close to the basketball game. Running full speed into the water. He's careful not to actually run into, jump into, or touch anyone else, but he sure gets close and splashes A LOT. And it does not matter how many time I say slow down, calm down, move down the pool; this is who he is. He craves this impact with the water. Its part of the sensory thing. I cannot take him to a pool and expect him to act otherwise, it will never happen.
So I look around at the other parents and I wonder. Which ones are asking themselves where are his parents. And which ones are asking why he's not disciplined. And which ones are wondering what is wrong with him. Because I know it is happening. I know because once upon a time I was That Parent.
Now, I have That Kid. As I sit here at the edge of the pool watching Bambam play in the water, I notice that he's splashing a little too hard. Jumping a little too close to the basketball game. Running full speed into the water. He's careful not to actually run into, jump into, or touch anyone else, but he sure gets close and splashes A LOT. And it does not matter how many time I say slow down, calm down, move down the pool; this is who he is. He craves this impact with the water. Its part of the sensory thing. I cannot take him to a pool and expect him to act otherwise, it will never happen.
So I look around at the other parents and I wonder. Which ones are asking themselves where are his parents. And which ones are asking why he's not disciplined. And which ones are wondering what is wrong with him. Because I know it is happening. I know because once upon a time I was That Parent.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
More Evaluations
On Monday Bambam goes in for another round of evaluations and tests. 4 hours of testing with a neuro-psychologist. A new Doctor that he doesn't know. In an unfamiliar setting. In an environment where he knows he's being evaluated and wants to do things "right". It is a familiar formula which always equals a very anxiety riddled little boy. I wish I could do it for him.
I do not like being the one to take him, exposing him to what is for a him a hostile environment, a painful experience. As parents we want to protect our children. Keep them from pain, anxiety, fear. But sometimes it cannot be helped. I know it is for the greater good. Making sure we are on the right track, providing him with the services and accommodations needed to reach his full potential. But that won't make Monday any easier. Sometimes being a parent is hard.
I do not like being the one to take him, exposing him to what is for a him a hostile environment, a painful experience. As parents we want to protect our children. Keep them from pain, anxiety, fear. But sometimes it cannot be helped. I know it is for the greater good. Making sure we are on the right track, providing him with the services and accommodations needed to reach his full potential. But that won't make Monday any easier. Sometimes being a parent is hard.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
The Mean Mom
When Miracle Boy was 6, he and I spent a week at the coast. Just the two of us. It is one of my favorite memories. We spent time playing on the beach, going to the aquarium, a whale watching trip, browsing the tourist shops, and generally having a great time on our mini-vacation.
While browsing in one of the tourist shops, Miracle Boy happened upon a framed poem entitled "Mean Moms". After reading it, he quickly and with a grin deemed me a mean mom. I don't remember all of the poem, but it went something like this:
Mean moms make their children eat vegetables.
Mean moms give their children a bedtime.
Mean moms don't let their children watch TV all day.
Mean moms make sure homework is done.
etc
You get the idea. And then the last line of the poem was "The world needs more mean moms!".
Ever since that trip 11 years ago, Miracle Boy has referred to me as a mean mom, almost always with a grin. I hope this means that he understands that all my decisions, discipline, consequences, praise, etc are made with his best interest at heart. I'm certainly not a perfect parent, and I make more than my share of mistakes. But I try to put my kid's best interest at the heart of everything.
The teenage years are hard, even under the best of circumstances. And I'm not sure ours is the best of circumstances: A blended family, a special needs little brother, a step brother with his own struggles, and a biological father with major issues. Miracle Boy is a great kid, but during these teenage years I find that we are butting heads more and more. He of course is pushing the envelope, fighting for his independence, wanting to live his own life. I of course want to keep him close, protect him, try to save him from learning the lessons that I learned the hard way. I cannot tell you how many time a week I hear the words "but it's my life to live, my lessons to learn."
I just hope that during these turbulent teenage years he remembers why I'm such a "mean mom". I love that boy with every fiber of my being.
While browsing in one of the tourist shops, Miracle Boy happened upon a framed poem entitled "Mean Moms". After reading it, he quickly and with a grin deemed me a mean mom. I don't remember all of the poem, but it went something like this:
Mean moms make their children eat vegetables.
Mean moms give their children a bedtime.
Mean moms don't let their children watch TV all day.
Mean moms make sure homework is done.
etc
You get the idea. And then the last line of the poem was "The world needs more mean moms!".
Ever since that trip 11 years ago, Miracle Boy has referred to me as a mean mom, almost always with a grin. I hope this means that he understands that all my decisions, discipline, consequences, praise, etc are made with his best interest at heart. I'm certainly not a perfect parent, and I make more than my share of mistakes. But I try to put my kid's best interest at the heart of everything.
The teenage years are hard, even under the best of circumstances. And I'm not sure ours is the best of circumstances: A blended family, a special needs little brother, a step brother with his own struggles, and a biological father with major issues. Miracle Boy is a great kid, but during these teenage years I find that we are butting heads more and more. He of course is pushing the envelope, fighting for his independence, wanting to live his own life. I of course want to keep him close, protect him, try to save him from learning the lessons that I learned the hard way. I cannot tell you how many time a week I hear the words "but it's my life to live, my lessons to learn."
I just hope that during these turbulent teenage years he remembers why I'm such a "mean mom". I love that boy with every fiber of my being.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
The Onslaught of Mail
The mail at our house has gotten a bit ridiculous. Now, instead of asking if anyone has gotten the mail today we ask if anyone has gotten Miracle Boy's mail. Miracle Boy is a fairly good student and did reasonable on the SAT. Apparently that means every school in the country has to send him mail. And I'm not kidding. He gets at least 8 pieces of mail a day. Every.Single.Day. Our mail box is littered with postcards, letters, DVDs, and 8 x 10 full color, glossy, multi-page catalogs. I cannot imagine the expense that goes into producing these. Perhaps tuition wouldn't be so high if they weren't sending out these catalogs.
I do not remember this from 30 years ago when I was a Senior in high school. And I wasn't a slouch. I was in a comparable position to Miracle Boy. Yet I do no remember getting an onslaught of advertising from every college or university in the country. I find it irritating. And may possibly wallpaper the playroom in college advertising. It is bright and colorful and full of promising looking young people. Perhaps it will inspire the other 2 kids.
I do not remember this from 30 years ago when I was a Senior in high school. And I wasn't a slouch. I was in a comparable position to Miracle Boy. Yet I do no remember getting an onslaught of advertising from every college or university in the country. I find it irritating. And may possibly wallpaper the playroom in college advertising. It is bright and colorful and full of promising looking young people. Perhaps it will inspire the other 2 kids.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
The Fortunate One
We are so very fortunate. We are one of the lucky ones. Yes, we live with autism day in and day out. And yes, it can be stressful and overwhelming at times. But we have amazing support. From family, from friends, from teachers and aides and neighbors. The list is long. And every day I'm thankful for each and every one of these people. The teachers who are endlessly patient, the aides who are loving and caring, the doctors who don't dismiss us and listen when we say there is an issue, the friends who include us in their gatherings, their kids who take Bambam as he is and do their best to engage him in their play, grandparents who will babysit anytime...
But, today, at this moment what I'm most thankful for is my amazing sister. I could never do this without her. She is my sounding board, my support, my cheerleader, my adviser. When I call her upset that Bambam can't do the activity the other kids at school were doing, she listens. And then she reminds me what he can do. And that he will do the other things too, in his own time. When I'm on my last nerve, she invites me to her house for an afternoon of "sister time". And if the stars line up and the gods are smiling, maybe, just maybe an overnight sister trip. She sends me mismatched socks in the mail with a picture of the other mismatched socks on her own feet. The note says: When having a very bad day, put on the sister socks and know that I'm standing with you in solidarity. What 49 year old woman does that? One who sees the fear, anxiety, pain, anguish, the overwhelming feelings that can sometimes accompany raising a child with autism. One who knows and understands that mama occasionally needs a break, or she might break. One who loves me unconditionally, no matter what, period. One who's been watching out for me my whole life. I am truly the fortunate one.
But, today, at this moment what I'm most thankful for is my amazing sister. I could never do this without her. She is my sounding board, my support, my cheerleader, my adviser. When I call her upset that Bambam can't do the activity the other kids at school were doing, she listens. And then she reminds me what he can do. And that he will do the other things too, in his own time. When I'm on my last nerve, she invites me to her house for an afternoon of "sister time". And if the stars line up and the gods are smiling, maybe, just maybe an overnight sister trip. She sends me mismatched socks in the mail with a picture of the other mismatched socks on her own feet. The note says: When having a very bad day, put on the sister socks and know that I'm standing with you in solidarity. What 49 year old woman does that? One who sees the fear, anxiety, pain, anguish, the overwhelming feelings that can sometimes accompany raising a child with autism. One who knows and understands that mama occasionally needs a break, or she might break. One who loves me unconditionally, no matter what, period. One who's been watching out for me my whole life. I am truly the fortunate one.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
The Dentist, Round 2
After school started, it was finally my turn to go to the dentist. I haven't been in a "while". But with Bambam now in first grade, I'm hoping to have a little time to get some of these much neglected items done.
The first thing the dentist says (after no decay, yeah) is "I see you grind your teeth". I do not grind my teeth. He insists he sees wear patterns consistent with grinding. I insist I do not grind my teeth, never have. He is smiling and nodding his head. Its irritating. Then he asks if I have any extra stress in my life. At which point I laugh. Out loud. Almost hysterically. I think I scared him. He asks if I can reduce some of the stress. Am I seeing a therapist or my dentist? Not unless I get rid of the children or my parents. It is what it is and I deal the stress the best I can. And most days I think I'm doing a pretty good job of it.
He asks that I pay attention to what I'm doing when I feel the most stressed. I love my dentist, he's a great guy. But really, what I don't need is someone else telling me I'm too stressed, I need to slow down, take care of myself, blah, blah, blah. So I assure him I will, but I DO NOT GRIND MY TEETH. And off I run to pick up Bambam early for lunch so he can avoid the fire drill.
Skip to later that afternoon when Bambam is resisting getting changed and the whole house is smelling like poop. I'm trying to get him into the bathroom when I notice that (I'll be damned) I am CLENCHING MY TEETH! In my attempt to not yell, I've clamped my mouth shut. Hard. Huh. Stupid dentist. Now I have to tell him he was right, which he already knew.
How could I have not noticed this? Now I'm sure I've been doing it for several years.One more thing to stress about...
The first thing the dentist says (after no decay, yeah) is "I see you grind your teeth". I do not grind my teeth. He insists he sees wear patterns consistent with grinding. I insist I do not grind my teeth, never have. He is smiling and nodding his head. Its irritating. Then he asks if I have any extra stress in my life. At which point I laugh. Out loud. Almost hysterically. I think I scared him. He asks if I can reduce some of the stress. Am I seeing a therapist or my dentist? Not unless I get rid of the children or my parents. It is what it is and I deal the stress the best I can. And most days I think I'm doing a pretty good job of it.
He asks that I pay attention to what I'm doing when I feel the most stressed. I love my dentist, he's a great guy. But really, what I don't need is someone else telling me I'm too stressed, I need to slow down, take care of myself, blah, blah, blah. So I assure him I will, but I DO NOT GRIND MY TEETH. And off I run to pick up Bambam early for lunch so he can avoid the fire drill.
Skip to later that afternoon when Bambam is resisting getting changed and the whole house is smelling like poop. I'm trying to get him into the bathroom when I notice that (I'll be damned) I am CLENCHING MY TEETH! In my attempt to not yell, I've clamped my mouth shut. Hard. Huh. Stupid dentist. Now I have to tell him he was right, which he already knew.
How could I have not noticed this? Now I'm sure I've been doing it for several years.One more thing to stress about...
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Personal Responsibility
In our house getting ready for the new school year includes not only school clothes shopping, and haircuts, but also trips to the dentist. In the past 2 days I've dragged all 3 kids to the dentist.
Miracle Boy was first. Teeth look great, no decay. But a broken tooth from an unfortunate incident with a surf board last summer! I remember the incident. He told me about the 2 broken brackets on his braces and we got those fixes. No one mentioned a broken tooth, not him, not the orthodontist. Sigh. It's getting fixed now. Luckily, there is no decay and he should be good as new shortly.
The Quiet One was next. Not so great. 8 cavities. 8 cavities in one year??? At least I think it's 1 year. The Quiet One came to live with us full time last summer. I'm assuming his mom took him to the dentist regularly before that. I'm pretty sure she did. But, 8 cavities??? Wow. A BIG lecture from the dentist on personal hygiene and diet (read stop going to 7-11 and buying junk food and energy drinks).
As I stand listening to the dentist tell me about his 8 current cavities that need filled and the dozen more they can see forming in the x-rays, I'm left speechless. This is difficult for me. For lack of a better term, I "inherited" The Quiet One last year at the age of 15, almost 16. Let me repeat, almost 16. Almost grown. Habits formed. Attitudes firmly in place.
And here I'm going to insert the back story:
Mr. Fixit and I starting dating when The Quiet One was 2 and Miracle Boy was 3. 6 years later, when the boys were 8 and 9, we married. I've been around for potty training, starting school, learning to tie shoes, learning to read, etc. But, since The Quiet One lived primarily with his mom, I was always sort of on the outskirts. I was not the primary caregiver, disciplinarian, teacher. I offered support and reinforcement when he was with us, but didn't take a leading role. I don't like to step on anyone's toes.
When The Quiet One was 10, he was living out of state with his mom. Due to distance, our visits were less frequent. And we could see changes happening. At that time I had a frank conversation with Mr. Fixit which went as follows: "You need to do what you can to get him up here full time. We can see what is happening. He is struggling in school. He is struggling with making appropriate choices and gaining personal responsibility. He needs more assistance and guidance now. I do not want to wait until he is a teenager with bigger issues before he is shipped up to us as a last resort." There were a myriad of signs that things were starting to go in a questionable direction for him. My big fear was that I would get a teenager failing school, dabbling in drugs, etc. With another teenager and a younger child in the household, that was cause of great concern for me. Right or wrong, those were my feelings.
Flash forward 4 years and we get a call in early June. The Quiet One's mom caught him smoking pot and is sending him up to us right now (2 weeks before school is out) for the whole summer. He is just finishing 8th grade. He has a cumulative GPA of a 0.83. I do not understand how a kid with a 0.83 GPA is promoted from 8th grade into high school. (In my humble opinion this symbolizes what is broken in our educational system. But that is another post.)
So we spend a summer trying to convince everyone involved that he should remain up here for the coming school year. But It's a no go. In August he goes "back home" to begin his Freshman year in high school. We did get an agreement that if he failed any classes his first semester or had any other trouble, he would return in January to live with us. January came with an F on his report card, but no child. Frustration does not begin to portray what I was feeling. Being in a position with absolutely no authority, who's opinion really doesn't count, and watching a child slowly failing was more than I could handle. I needed to either step in and do something, or wash my hands of the whole affair and not be forced to watch. I could do neither.
During the 2nd semester of his Freshman year he proceeded to get charged with arson (set a garbage can on fire at school), fail 2 more classes, and get charged with possession of a controlled substance (on the school campus). Finally, at the age of 15, failing school, experimenting with drugs, and with 2 serious charges against him, he was shipped up to us as a "last resort". My worst nightmare, right?
Really, not so much. What I need to explain about The Quiet One is that he's not the "bad kid" he may sound like. He's a kid who needs a lot of guidance and quite honestly still needs some hand holding at the age of 16. He needs very clear rules and guidelines. Personal responsibility and accountability are not high on his list. His biggest problem is that he's a follower. And he got mixed up with "the wrong crowd". Being a follower, he did what his friends were doing. No homework and making very poor choices. We knew the first step to turning things around was getting him away from the kids he was "following".
And what a difference a year can make. He has made up 2 of the classes he failed (tutoring through summer school), passed all his classes his sophomore year (not without struggles, loss of privileges, and lots and lots of hand holding), works part time in our business, and has not been in any trouble. School will always be difficult for him, our goal is to see him graduate. He is polite and respectful, his new friend's parents (whom we all know) enjoy having him over, he even has a girlfriend. That's not to say life is all rosy and perfect. Remember the 8 cavities? Its a far cry from arson, but we don't want him running around toothless at the age of 20.
As I said, personal responsibility is not high on his list. His room is a pig sty, he clearly doesn't take good care of his teeth, he leaves dishes and garbage all over the house, home work will not get done without reminding, nothing will get done without some prodding. This leads me to my current frustration: How to teach personal responsibility to a 16 year old. This is the age where we should be backing off, not stepping in. In two short years he will be moving on to whatever comes next for him. And I fear he will not be prepared. Is 16 too late to teach these things? I don't know, but we're on a path to find out. And we'll start with letting him know that after this round of fillings, he will be paying for any future fillings out of his own money. Welcome to real life consequences.
Wish us luck.
Miracle Boy was first. Teeth look great, no decay. But a broken tooth from an unfortunate incident with a surf board last summer! I remember the incident. He told me about the 2 broken brackets on his braces and we got those fixes. No one mentioned a broken tooth, not him, not the orthodontist. Sigh. It's getting fixed now. Luckily, there is no decay and he should be good as new shortly.
The Quiet One was next. Not so great. 8 cavities. 8 cavities in one year??? At least I think it's 1 year. The Quiet One came to live with us full time last summer. I'm assuming his mom took him to the dentist regularly before that. I'm pretty sure she did. But, 8 cavities??? Wow. A BIG lecture from the dentist on personal hygiene and diet (read stop going to 7-11 and buying junk food and energy drinks).
As I stand listening to the dentist tell me about his 8 current cavities that need filled and the dozen more they can see forming in the x-rays, I'm left speechless. This is difficult for me. For lack of a better term, I "inherited" The Quiet One last year at the age of 15, almost 16. Let me repeat, almost 16. Almost grown. Habits formed. Attitudes firmly in place.
And here I'm going to insert the back story:
Mr. Fixit and I starting dating when The Quiet One was 2 and Miracle Boy was 3. 6 years later, when the boys were 8 and 9, we married. I've been around for potty training, starting school, learning to tie shoes, learning to read, etc. But, since The Quiet One lived primarily with his mom, I was always sort of on the outskirts. I was not the primary caregiver, disciplinarian, teacher. I offered support and reinforcement when he was with us, but didn't take a leading role. I don't like to step on anyone's toes.
When The Quiet One was 10, he was living out of state with his mom. Due to distance, our visits were less frequent. And we could see changes happening. At that time I had a frank conversation with Mr. Fixit which went as follows: "You need to do what you can to get him up here full time. We can see what is happening. He is struggling in school. He is struggling with making appropriate choices and gaining personal responsibility. He needs more assistance and guidance now. I do not want to wait until he is a teenager with bigger issues before he is shipped up to us as a last resort." There were a myriad of signs that things were starting to go in a questionable direction for him. My big fear was that I would get a teenager failing school, dabbling in drugs, etc. With another teenager and a younger child in the household, that was cause of great concern for me. Right or wrong, those were my feelings.
Flash forward 4 years and we get a call in early June. The Quiet One's mom caught him smoking pot and is sending him up to us right now (2 weeks before school is out) for the whole summer. He is just finishing 8th grade. He has a cumulative GPA of a 0.83. I do not understand how a kid with a 0.83 GPA is promoted from 8th grade into high school. (In my humble opinion this symbolizes what is broken in our educational system. But that is another post.)
So we spend a summer trying to convince everyone involved that he should remain up here for the coming school year. But It's a no go. In August he goes "back home" to begin his Freshman year in high school. We did get an agreement that if he failed any classes his first semester or had any other trouble, he would return in January to live with us. January came with an F on his report card, but no child. Frustration does not begin to portray what I was feeling. Being in a position with absolutely no authority, who's opinion really doesn't count, and watching a child slowly failing was more than I could handle. I needed to either step in and do something, or wash my hands of the whole affair and not be forced to watch. I could do neither.
During the 2nd semester of his Freshman year he proceeded to get charged with arson (set a garbage can on fire at school), fail 2 more classes, and get charged with possession of a controlled substance (on the school campus). Finally, at the age of 15, failing school, experimenting with drugs, and with 2 serious charges against him, he was shipped up to us as a "last resort". My worst nightmare, right?
Really, not so much. What I need to explain about The Quiet One is that he's not the "bad kid" he may sound like. He's a kid who needs a lot of guidance and quite honestly still needs some hand holding at the age of 16. He needs very clear rules and guidelines. Personal responsibility and accountability are not high on his list. His biggest problem is that he's a follower. And he got mixed up with "the wrong crowd". Being a follower, he did what his friends were doing. No homework and making very poor choices. We knew the first step to turning things around was getting him away from the kids he was "following".
And what a difference a year can make. He has made up 2 of the classes he failed (tutoring through summer school), passed all his classes his sophomore year (not without struggles, loss of privileges, and lots and lots of hand holding), works part time in our business, and has not been in any trouble. School will always be difficult for him, our goal is to see him graduate. He is polite and respectful, his new friend's parents (whom we all know) enjoy having him over, he even has a girlfriend. That's not to say life is all rosy and perfect. Remember the 8 cavities? Its a far cry from arson, but we don't want him running around toothless at the age of 20.
As I said, personal responsibility is not high on his list. His room is a pig sty, he clearly doesn't take good care of his teeth, he leaves dishes and garbage all over the house, home work will not get done without reminding, nothing will get done without some prodding. This leads me to my current frustration: How to teach personal responsibility to a 16 year old. This is the age where we should be backing off, not stepping in. In two short years he will be moving on to whatever comes next for him. And I fear he will not be prepared. Is 16 too late to teach these things? I don't know, but we're on a path to find out. And we'll start with letting him know that after this round of fillings, he will be paying for any future fillings out of his own money. Welcome to real life consequences.
Wish us luck.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Welcome to blogging
So, am I really doing this? Am I starting a blog? I guess I am. So here goes...my first post.
I've toyed with starting a blog for some time now. And then I think, seriously? Its not like I don't have enough items on my ever growing To Do list. With 2 teenagers, a 6 year old with autism, a job, part owner of a business, responsibility for my aging parents (can we say Sandwich Generation?) and lets not forget the husband with his own job, what I need is one more item to add to that my list.
But that's not really how I look at it. Writing can be a release, almost therapeutic (and a lot cheaper than a therapist).. It helps me work through issues. It helps me clear my thoughts and gain perspective. Blogging isn't meant to be another responsibility, but an outlet. Like running. Something that I can do for me, to help me, and hopefully my family. Because as anyone can tell you, when you're dealing with teenagers, a stepchild, and autism, there are plenty of issues to chew on! So I'm going to give it a try and see how it goes.
In all honesty I've been stalking several bloggers. Reading them regularly and enjoying them immensely. Bloggers talking about autism, teenagers, raising kids, and family life in general. And I think I'm finally ready to take the plunge. I don't know if anyone else will ever read this or if it's just for me. But I'm giving it a try. Wish me luck.
I've toyed with starting a blog for some time now. And then I think, seriously? Its not like I don't have enough items on my ever growing To Do list. With 2 teenagers, a 6 year old with autism, a job, part owner of a business, responsibility for my aging parents (can we say Sandwich Generation?) and lets not forget the husband with his own job, what I need is one more item to add to that my list.
But that's not really how I look at it. Writing can be a release, almost therapeutic (and a lot cheaper than a therapist).. It helps me work through issues. It helps me clear my thoughts and gain perspective. Blogging isn't meant to be another responsibility, but an outlet. Like running. Something that I can do for me, to help me, and hopefully my family. Because as anyone can tell you, when you're dealing with teenagers, a stepchild, and autism, there are plenty of issues to chew on! So I'm going to give it a try and see how it goes.
In all honesty I've been stalking several bloggers. Reading them regularly and enjoying them immensely. Bloggers talking about autism, teenagers, raising kids, and family life in general. And I think I'm finally ready to take the plunge. I don't know if anyone else will ever read this or if it's just for me. But I'm giving it a try. Wish me luck.
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