This morning as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I heard The Boy from the other room. Spider-Man and The Hulk were saving the day. Careening through the living room to save someone. I stopped what I was doing and I listened as he played. And I wanted to stop time. I wanted to freeze the moment and forever etch it into my memory. A moment in time to cherish.
You see, this was the boy who had no words until he was well over 3. The child who had no imaginative play at 6 years old. None. He simply did not know how to play. We spent hours, months even, trying to show him how to play.
Everyday after school we would take Mr. Potato Head and show The Boy how to build him. And then how to play with him. "Where would he go?" We would ask. And always the answer would be "da stowe". Because that's where we went, to the grocery store. The Boy had no imaginative play. Had no idea how to even begin. He only knew what we did, so Mr. Potato Head went to the store.
We painstakingly worked on it. Every day. We took Mr. Potato Head and the Mrs. and Jr. to the park and to the pool and to the library. All in our basement.
And slowly, over months, The Boy began to play with Mr. Potato Head and his family. Always the same scripts that we had played out for him before. Word for word, we would hear Papa, or Mama, or Jr jump in the pool or swing on the swings or buy a pear at the store. But it was a start. An attempt at imaginative play. Something he knew and was familiar with.
So we expanded our repertoire. We played with Buzz Lightyear and Woody, Dusty and Leadbottom and Ripslinger. What would they do, we asked. And the scripts came from the movie. Nothing novel. So we offered ideas, came up with our own storylines for these beloved characters. And he watched, enraptured with what his buddies were doing. And then he would mimic. And we were so excited. Because mimicking was a new skill. We celebrate the small things.
It took months. A year perhaps. But slowly, cautiously, he began to play. Novel story lines emerged. He expanded his characters to Paw Patrol, Jake and the Pirates, Doc McStuffins. All characters he knew from his shows. And then he began to play with stuffed animals and creates scenes outside in the yard. And when I stopped to watch or listen, I was amazed.
This is a gift: A non-verbal little boy who, a few years later, is now playing in the living room with Spider-Man and The Hulk, creating scenarios where the hero save the day. I want to remember this forever.
My Side of Typical
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Thursday, July 23, 2015
A Little Bit of Patience and Kindness Please
In our town, we have a couple of thoroughfares that are heavily used. These 4 lane roads with 35 mph posted speeds (but everyone goes 40 or even 45) are in mostly commercial/business areas although there is some multi family housing in the area. As you can imagine, crossing the street as a pedestrian might be challenging at best, darn near impossible at worst. Until our city installed pedestrian crossings. These are a new addition, I think we have 5 or 6 of them now. They have greatly improved pedestrian safety. But not everyone is pleased with them as they slow the progress of the traffic.
Yesterday as I was driving home from work, I was stopped at one of the pedestrian crossings with a car next to me also waiting. As I watched the person crossing the street, I recognized him as a Special Olympics participant. He has basketball practice at the same time as The Boy. He always says hi to The Boy and me when we see him. Clearly there is some Adult DD housing somewhere in the area as more often than not I recognize the people crossing the street as Special Olympics participants.
This particular person, we'll call him Troy, has some ambulatory issues. So he moves a little slower than the average Joe. (Whoever wanted to be average anyway) As he was making his way in front of the car beside me, the driver honked and made gestures for Troy to hurry along. And my heart broke just a little. I tried to hide it as I smiled and waved at Troy, hoping he would think I was the one that honked. He smiled and waved back, yelling "Hi (The Boy's) mom". But I don't think he was fooled. Not for a minute. And my heart broke a little bit more.
In that instance what I saw was my boy in 15 or 20 years. I see him doing his best to maneuver his way through this world that simply was not made for him. I see him taking care of himself, following the rules, happy with his life and in his world. I see him proudly walking back home from the nearby store with a snack paid for with his own earnings. And then I see some jack@$$ being impatient and unkind. Yelling at "the retard" to hurry up. Honestly, I go from a broken heart to my blood boiling in about 0.6 seconds.
Sometime I want to yell from the rooftops "What is wrong with people?!?!" And I don't mean the ones with developmental disabilities. I mean all the people who are so impatient and unkind. The ones who think those extra 10 or 20 seconds affected their life. Really? What did it actually cost you to wait? Most likely nothing. But I can tell you what it cost the Troy's of the world when you treat them that way.
It costs them their dignity. It costs them their self respect. It costs them their confidence. It costs them their ability to go out into this world which is just as much theirs as it is yours. It eventually costs them the ability to work, socialize, live even semi independently. Because if every time you venture out into the world you are treated like you don't belong, like you aren't good enough; well eventually you believe it. And then you quit trying.
How hard is it to just be kind. Patience doesn't cost a thing. But it can sure make another person's life a whole lot more manageable, and dare I say, even better.
As Ellen says when she ends her show every day "Be kind to one another." Please.
Yesterday as I was driving home from work, I was stopped at one of the pedestrian crossings with a car next to me also waiting. As I watched the person crossing the street, I recognized him as a Special Olympics participant. He has basketball practice at the same time as The Boy. He always says hi to The Boy and me when we see him. Clearly there is some Adult DD housing somewhere in the area as more often than not I recognize the people crossing the street as Special Olympics participants.
This particular person, we'll call him Troy, has some ambulatory issues. So he moves a little slower than the average Joe. (Whoever wanted to be average anyway) As he was making his way in front of the car beside me, the driver honked and made gestures for Troy to hurry along. And my heart broke just a little. I tried to hide it as I smiled and waved at Troy, hoping he would think I was the one that honked. He smiled and waved back, yelling "Hi (The Boy's) mom". But I don't think he was fooled. Not for a minute. And my heart broke a little bit more.
In that instance what I saw was my boy in 15 or 20 years. I see him doing his best to maneuver his way through this world that simply was not made for him. I see him taking care of himself, following the rules, happy with his life and in his world. I see him proudly walking back home from the nearby store with a snack paid for with his own earnings. And then I see some jack@$$ being impatient and unkind. Yelling at "the retard" to hurry up. Honestly, I go from a broken heart to my blood boiling in about 0.6 seconds.
Sometime I want to yell from the rooftops "What is wrong with people?!?!" And I don't mean the ones with developmental disabilities. I mean all the people who are so impatient and unkind. The ones who think those extra 10 or 20 seconds affected their life. Really? What did it actually cost you to wait? Most likely nothing. But I can tell you what it cost the Troy's of the world when you treat them that way.
It costs them their dignity. It costs them their self respect. It costs them their confidence. It costs them their ability to go out into this world which is just as much theirs as it is yours. It eventually costs them the ability to work, socialize, live even semi independently. Because if every time you venture out into the world you are treated like you don't belong, like you aren't good enough; well eventually you believe it. And then you quit trying.
How hard is it to just be kind. Patience doesn't cost a thing. But it can sure make another person's life a whole lot more manageable, and dare I say, even better.
As Ellen says when she ends her show every day "Be kind to one another." Please.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Our Kind of Inclusion
I posted the following on my facebook page during spring break:
"I'm a mom. I worry. Its what we do. And I'm really good at it. So when I dropped The Boy off at a new day camp on Tuesday, I worried all day at work. Until I picked him up, all smiles and exclaiming it was "way fun!"
But still, a little nagging part of me worries about how much more work he is for the camp leaders, how many accommodations he needs, is he participating, interacting, if he is disruptive, etc. I realize putting my special boy in "typical" activities takes extra effort on everyone's part. Yet, I am a firm believer that this is not only good for him but necessary, and that it is good for everyone else involved especially his peers. I do recognize what we are asking of others. It does take extra effort. I sometimes wonder how much I should be asking.
Today as I dropped The Boy off at camp, the leader followed me back out of the room to say and I quote "(The Boy) is awesome. We love having him, he is so much fun." It totally made my day. Guess I'm not asking too much.
Inclusion works people, it really does."
I'm a firm believer in inclusion. For obvious reasons. But I was also a firm believer even before the bonus that is The Boy arrived in our lives. Before any diagnosis or therapies or medications or special diets or IEP's or.... When the older boys were young, I believed in inclusion because I believe its just as beneficial for the "typical" kids as it is for the kids with special needs. I wanted my boys to understand that we are, each of us, a small part of the whole called humanity and all the parts are equally important. The whole cannot exist without each part. But, that is not what I started out to write about.
Its now summer, and The Boy attends day camp throughout most of the summer. This is for 2 reasons. Practically speaking, I work part time. So The Boy needs to do something for about 4-5 hours a day. But more importantly, it is our way of keeping him engaged with others. He doesn't qualify for ESY in our district (don't even get me started on this, I'll rant for hours) so we needed to come up with some way for him to continue interacting with peers, listening and following directions, taking turns, participating in group activities, etc. Skills that he needs during the school year but that can fall behind just being at home all summer. So, day camp it is.
As he gets older and progresses, and since the camps he's attended in the past have gone so well, we've been venturing into some new territory. Expanding his camp resume so to speak. And since he loves basketball, I signed him up for a basketball camp at our gym. It was just 4 days, with a small group of 4th and 5th graders. I knew it would be a stretch. When I say The Boy loves basketball, I mean he loves to shoot baskets. And he's a really good shot. He also enjoys dribbling and passing the ball. But a scrimmage or game? Well that's just a little too much for him....at least for now. Games move too fast, his processing time is slower and he struggles to keep up, gets overwhelmed, and shuts down. The result is him standing in the middle of the court not moving as the game takes place around him. He basically becomes an obstacle for the other players to avoid.
So why would I sign him up for a basketball camp you might ask. And that's a really good question. But as I said earlier, he loves basketball. And he loves our gym. And they love him. The person who runs the youth basketball program knows The Boy, his daughter and The Boy were in the same classroom for 3 years. When I talked to the program director about the possibility of including The Boy in the camp, he was all for it. And he knows what he's getting into.
The Boy learns a lot from observing. So we figured he would do the activities he could, hopefully attempt some new ones, and watch the ones he wasn't comfortable doing. You see, as far as I'm concerned, sometimes inclusions looks like all the kids doing the same activity. And sometimes it looks like a child doing a slightly modified activity. And sometimes it looks like a child watching his peers doing an activity he's not quite ready to participate in. And all of that is OK. It's not exclusion if the child is the one choosing not to participate in a particular activity. He gets just as much out of watching and learning and cheering for his peers as they scrimmage.
And maybe someday he'll be ready to be part of the scrimmage. Whether he is or not is totally up to him. It does not matter to me if he ever plays in a scrimmage or a game. But as long as he wants to, I will continue to give him opportunities to learn and grow and try. Because as my Dad told me growing up "How do you know that you can't unless you try. Again and again and again."
"I'm a mom. I worry. Its what we do. And I'm really good at it. So when I dropped The Boy off at a new day camp on Tuesday, I worried all day at work. Until I picked him up, all smiles and exclaiming it was "way fun!"
But still, a little nagging part of me worries about how much more work he is for the camp leaders, how many accommodations he needs, is he participating, interacting, if he is disruptive, etc. I realize putting my special boy in "typical" activities takes extra effort on everyone's part. Yet, I am a firm believer that this is not only good for him but necessary, and that it is good for everyone else involved especially his peers. I do recognize what we are asking of others. It does take extra effort. I sometimes wonder how much I should be asking.
Today as I dropped The Boy off at camp, the leader followed me back out of the room to say and I quote "(The Boy) is awesome. We love having him, he is so much fun." It totally made my day. Guess I'm not asking too much.
Inclusion works people, it really does."
I'm a firm believer in inclusion. For obvious reasons. But I was also a firm believer even before the bonus that is The Boy arrived in our lives. Before any diagnosis or therapies or medications or special diets or IEP's or.... When the older boys were young, I believed in inclusion because I believe its just as beneficial for the "typical" kids as it is for the kids with special needs. I wanted my boys to understand that we are, each of us, a small part of the whole called humanity and all the parts are equally important. The whole cannot exist without each part. But, that is not what I started out to write about.
Its now summer, and The Boy attends day camp throughout most of the summer. This is for 2 reasons. Practically speaking, I work part time. So The Boy needs to do something for about 4-5 hours a day. But more importantly, it is our way of keeping him engaged with others. He doesn't qualify for ESY in our district (don't even get me started on this, I'll rant for hours) so we needed to come up with some way for him to continue interacting with peers, listening and following directions, taking turns, participating in group activities, etc. Skills that he needs during the school year but that can fall behind just being at home all summer. So, day camp it is.
As he gets older and progresses, and since the camps he's attended in the past have gone so well, we've been venturing into some new territory. Expanding his camp resume so to speak. And since he loves basketball, I signed him up for a basketball camp at our gym. It was just 4 days, with a small group of 4th and 5th graders. I knew it would be a stretch. When I say The Boy loves basketball, I mean he loves to shoot baskets. And he's a really good shot. He also enjoys dribbling and passing the ball. But a scrimmage or game? Well that's just a little too much for him....at least for now. Games move too fast, his processing time is slower and he struggles to keep up, gets overwhelmed, and shuts down. The result is him standing in the middle of the court not moving as the game takes place around him. He basically becomes an obstacle for the other players to avoid.
So why would I sign him up for a basketball camp you might ask. And that's a really good question. But as I said earlier, he loves basketball. And he loves our gym. And they love him. The person who runs the youth basketball program knows The Boy, his daughter and The Boy were in the same classroom for 3 years. When I talked to the program director about the possibility of including The Boy in the camp, he was all for it. And he knows what he's getting into.
The Boy learns a lot from observing. So we figured he would do the activities he could, hopefully attempt some new ones, and watch the ones he wasn't comfortable doing. You see, as far as I'm concerned, sometimes inclusions looks like all the kids doing the same activity. And sometimes it looks like a child doing a slightly modified activity. And sometimes it looks like a child watching his peers doing an activity he's not quite ready to participate in. And all of that is OK. It's not exclusion if the child is the one choosing not to participate in a particular activity. He gets just as much out of watching and learning and cheering for his peers as they scrimmage.
And maybe someday he'll be ready to be part of the scrimmage. Whether he is or not is totally up to him. It does not matter to me if he ever plays in a scrimmage or a game. But as long as he wants to, I will continue to give him opportunities to learn and grow and try. Because as my Dad told me growing up "How do you know that you can't unless you try. Again and again and again."
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
To Error is Human
I've been thinking a lot the past few days. I know, that can be dangerous, but sometimes I just can't help myself. Like a lot of people's, my Facebook feed looks like a billion bags of Skittles exploded all over the internet. I don't mean that derogatory at all, in fact it's quite happy and cheerful. The colors that is. All of the posts, not so much. It seems everyone has an opinion and wants to share it.
I'm a naturally curious person. And I've always liked to watch people and ponder human nature. I find the diversity of humanity fascinating. So I've been reading a lot. Posts and opinions and blogs. Some of them have made me chuckle. Some of them have made me think, and rethink. And some of them have made me angry.
I consider myself a "woman of faith", I call myself a Christian. I may not wave the Christian flag in front of everyone, but my faith is very important to me. Important and deeply personal. Most of what I learned about faith came from my Dad. And of course, the church I was raised in. But first and foremost, it was my Dad who taught me about God and Jesus and unconditional love.
One of the first things my Dad taught me was the Golden Rule. You know the one, "Do unto other as you would have them do unto you." Way before he ever brought up the 10 Commandments or any other biblical teachings. You see, he believed that a three year old could understand the simplicity of the Golden Rule, but would have no clue about adultery or coveting or most of the other stuff. But treating others the way you wish they would treat you? With kindness and respect and dignity, even when you don't agree? Even a preschooler could understand that. And he expected us to not only understand it, but live it.
My dad, who went to seminary, who owned more Bibles and books about the Bible than all other kinds of books in our house combined. (Including children's books. And we had a lot of children's books. Reading was a highly loved skill in our household.) This man who loved The Lord, who loved to delve into the scriptures, he knew that the Bible teaches many, many different things. And that these many teachings can, and are, interpreted differently by different people. This is why we have many different denominations, all based on the same ancient book.
God created us with free will. And one of the ways we use that free will is to interpret the teachings in the Bible. Do we make mistakes? We most assuredly do. I'm sure I do, I'm pretty sure you do to. But you know what? God forgives us when we make those mistakes. He sees our hearts, knows that we are trying to do the right thing. Even if its not what he intended. And He loves us anyway. In spite of our short comings or because of them, I'm not really sure. But I know He loves me.
For my Dad, the most important lesson in the entire Bible was to love one another. And to view all other scriptures through this lens of love. I can't tell you how often I heard from my Dad: "All we have to do is love one another. That's it. Just love each other, the rest is up to God." It was his way of telling us that it is not our place to judge. That our place is to be kind, respectful, love each other. All the others. No exceptions. Period. I agree with my Dad.
So I'm going to love my fellow humans. All fellow humans, whether they are straight, LGBTQ, disabled, Muslim, atheist, or are different in any other manner. I will love them. And I will break bread with them. And I will celebrate with them. Right where they are.
Am I right? Is my interpretation of the Bible the correct one? I can't say. But what I can say is that in the end, when I'm standing before my Creator I can tell Him that I did what I really thought was the right thing, what I thought His Book was teaching me. If I'm wrong, I believe He will forgive me and welcome me through the pearly gates. And I will know that even though I was wrong, at least my error didn't harm anyone else. Because if I'm going to error, I want to error on the side of not causing anyone else harm.
"All we have to do is love one another. That's it. Just love each other, the rest is up to God."
I'm a naturally curious person. And I've always liked to watch people and ponder human nature. I find the diversity of humanity fascinating. So I've been reading a lot. Posts and opinions and blogs. Some of them have made me chuckle. Some of them have made me think, and rethink. And some of them have made me angry.
I consider myself a "woman of faith", I call myself a Christian. I may not wave the Christian flag in front of everyone, but my faith is very important to me. Important and deeply personal. Most of what I learned about faith came from my Dad. And of course, the church I was raised in. But first and foremost, it was my Dad who taught me about God and Jesus and unconditional love.
One of the first things my Dad taught me was the Golden Rule. You know the one, "Do unto other as you would have them do unto you." Way before he ever brought up the 10 Commandments or any other biblical teachings. You see, he believed that a three year old could understand the simplicity of the Golden Rule, but would have no clue about adultery or coveting or most of the other stuff. But treating others the way you wish they would treat you? With kindness and respect and dignity, even when you don't agree? Even a preschooler could understand that. And he expected us to not only understand it, but live it.
My dad, who went to seminary, who owned more Bibles and books about the Bible than all other kinds of books in our house combined. (Including children's books. And we had a lot of children's books. Reading was a highly loved skill in our household.) This man who loved The Lord, who loved to delve into the scriptures, he knew that the Bible teaches many, many different things. And that these many teachings can, and are, interpreted differently by different people. This is why we have many different denominations, all based on the same ancient book.
God created us with free will. And one of the ways we use that free will is to interpret the teachings in the Bible. Do we make mistakes? We most assuredly do. I'm sure I do, I'm pretty sure you do to. But you know what? God forgives us when we make those mistakes. He sees our hearts, knows that we are trying to do the right thing. Even if its not what he intended. And He loves us anyway. In spite of our short comings or because of them, I'm not really sure. But I know He loves me.
For my Dad, the most important lesson in the entire Bible was to love one another. And to view all other scriptures through this lens of love. I can't tell you how often I heard from my Dad: "All we have to do is love one another. That's it. Just love each other, the rest is up to God." It was his way of telling us that it is not our place to judge. That our place is to be kind, respectful, love each other. All the others. No exceptions. Period. I agree with my Dad.
So I'm going to love my fellow humans. All fellow humans, whether they are straight, LGBTQ, disabled, Muslim, atheist, or are different in any other manner. I will love them. And I will break bread with them. And I will celebrate with them. Right where they are.
Am I right? Is my interpretation of the Bible the correct one? I can't say. But what I can say is that in the end, when I'm standing before my Creator I can tell Him that I did what I really thought was the right thing, what I thought His Book was teaching me. If I'm wrong, I believe He will forgive me and welcome me through the pearly gates. And I will know that even though I was wrong, at least my error didn't harm anyone else. Because if I'm going to error, I want to error on the side of not causing anyone else harm.
"All we have to do is love one another. That's it. Just love each other, the rest is up to God."
Thursday, June 18, 2015
R and B
The Boy and I were at the pool the other day (where we are nearly every afternoon during the summer) and a girl runs up to him shouting "R! R! Do you remember me? B from first grade?"
This beautiful young lady was in The Boy's kindergarten and first grade classrooms, but moved out of state part way through first grade. He saw her once in second grade when she came back and visited the school. They haven't seen each other in almost 2 years. But as soon as The Boy walked out the door to the pool, she recognized him and ran up to greet him, like they still see each other every day at school.
They played together off and on for the 2 hours we were at the pool that afternoon. Reconnecting a friendship that started in kindergarten. A friendship that started because of the kind, thoughtful heart of this young lady.
The first day of kindergarten Miss "B" watched as I helped The Boy find his name above a hook and then place his backpack on the hook. I could see her out of the corner of my eye with a thoughtful look on her face as she noticed how he needed a little extra help, how he didn't talk much, how he shied away from the other kids and the teacher. I'm not positive, but I'm fairly certain she noticed his death grip on my hand with her keen sense of observation.
On the second day, she was waiting at the door when we arrived. She greeted him by name and said "come sit by me in morning circle." This became the morning routine.
I watched throughout that school year as the relationship developed. I'll admit I was a little concerned that it would be a care taker/dependent relationship. But what I watched unfold was a real friendship. True, there were times when she was clearly his helper. Like the first time he attempted a fire drill (with noise cancelling headphones of course). When the alarm went off, she was immediately at his side, holding his hand, reassuring him that it would be OK. She guided him out the door to the field where the class gathered. Her genuine concern for him was obvious. (I was there in the wings just in case it all went to crap and he needed to escape.)
But I watched them at recess too. Where they played with each other on the playground, laughing and having fun. I watched on field trips when she asked him to sit with her on the bus and they looked at books together. Always books about heavy equipment or airplanes, his favorites. I'm sure these wouldn't have been her choice, but she was probably one of a few 6 year old girls who could name all the construction vehicles. Yes, she tailored their activities to his interests, but she was clearly enjoying it too.
The last day of school as the class walked to the nearby park, they skipped hand in hand, her singing silly songs as they giggled and laughed, stopping to pick flowers or look at a bug. I walked a few paces behind and realized that my boy had a friend. His first friend. A true friend. A friend who valued him and all his unique quirkiness. Someone to sing with and laugh with and skip down the street hand in hand with. All because of a little girl with a beautiful heart.
To those who say kids with ASD struggle to develop true friendships, I give you "R and B":
P.S. I'd like to say the story ends with her having moved back to our town and their friendship continuing to blossom. But no, she was just here for the day. She no longer lives out of state, but in a town a few hours from us. I'm hoping this means she will be back to visit occasionally. And she's no longer a full head shorter than he is. :)
This beautiful young lady was in The Boy's kindergarten and first grade classrooms, but moved out of state part way through first grade. He saw her once in second grade when she came back and visited the school. They haven't seen each other in almost 2 years. But as soon as The Boy walked out the door to the pool, she recognized him and ran up to greet him, like they still see each other every day at school.
They played together off and on for the 2 hours we were at the pool that afternoon. Reconnecting a friendship that started in kindergarten. A friendship that started because of the kind, thoughtful heart of this young lady.
The first day of kindergarten Miss "B" watched as I helped The Boy find his name above a hook and then place his backpack on the hook. I could see her out of the corner of my eye with a thoughtful look on her face as she noticed how he needed a little extra help, how he didn't talk much, how he shied away from the other kids and the teacher. I'm not positive, but I'm fairly certain she noticed his death grip on my hand with her keen sense of observation.
On the second day, she was waiting at the door when we arrived. She greeted him by name and said "come sit by me in morning circle." This became the morning routine.
I watched throughout that school year as the relationship developed. I'll admit I was a little concerned that it would be a care taker/dependent relationship. But what I watched unfold was a real friendship. True, there were times when she was clearly his helper. Like the first time he attempted a fire drill (with noise cancelling headphones of course). When the alarm went off, she was immediately at his side, holding his hand, reassuring him that it would be OK. She guided him out the door to the field where the class gathered. Her genuine concern for him was obvious. (I was there in the wings just in case it all went to crap and he needed to escape.)
But I watched them at recess too. Where they played with each other on the playground, laughing and having fun. I watched on field trips when she asked him to sit with her on the bus and they looked at books together. Always books about heavy equipment or airplanes, his favorites. I'm sure these wouldn't have been her choice, but she was probably one of a few 6 year old girls who could name all the construction vehicles. Yes, she tailored their activities to his interests, but she was clearly enjoying it too.
The last day of school as the class walked to the nearby park, they skipped hand in hand, her singing silly songs as they giggled and laughed, stopping to pick flowers or look at a bug. I walked a few paces behind and realized that my boy had a friend. His first friend. A true friend. A friend who valued him and all his unique quirkiness. Someone to sing with and laugh with and skip down the street hand in hand with. All because of a little girl with a beautiful heart.
To those who say kids with ASD struggle to develop true friendships, I give you "R and B":
P.S. I'd like to say the story ends with her having moved back to our town and their friendship continuing to blossom. But no, she was just here for the day. She no longer lives out of state, but in a town a few hours from us. I'm hoping this means she will be back to visit occasionally. And she's no longer a full head shorter than he is. :)
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Family Photos
Since I've been posting photos for Wordless Wednesday, I've been going though some of my pictures. And I was reminded of a conversation I had with Mr. Fixit years ago when we were looking at proofs of our kids. Our oldest, 11 years old at the time, had a bright red cast on his right arm from hand to elbow. We were attempting to make our selections from the proofs and we were not agreeing on anything. He held one up and I said no. I held one up and he said no. I asked him why, all three boys looking in the general direction of the camera, 2 of the three smiling (The Boy rarely smiles for the camera). What about this photo didn't he like. His response was that he could see the cast. To which I responded that was one of the reason I liked it. He was shocked. Why would I like a photo that showed the cast; a dirty, grimy, graffiti-ed anomaly.
Here's my take on it. I want photos of my kids that show them in that moment with all their wonderful, messy, quirky, imperfections. I don't want photos of my kids dressed to the nines all spit and polish sitting perfectly on a rock by a stream. I want the photo that shows the hole in my sons jeans, his bare toes in the water with his shoes discarded aside. I want the photo with the dirt on his cheek and his hands from the rocks he is throwing into the water. I want to see the look of pure joy that radiates from his eyes as he drops a handful of leaves on his brother's head. That is my boys.
When my boys are grown and gone and I'm 80 years old living in a retirement home I don't want to look at a photo album full of posed pictures that do not represent the life we lived. I want to remember all the imperfect moments of our life. The cast and what it represented. I want to remember the story.
It started out common enough, the story of many a broken arms. He was at baseball camp, dove to catch a pop fly, and landed on his arm. Although in pain, he told his coach he wanted to stay the rest of the day and watch. So he did. That night we were heading out of town to attend a sports festival at the Fun House. He was signed up for the kids Tri. He insisted his wrist would be fine with some Advil and an ace bandage, it was just sprained. He refused to go to the doctor, didn't complain at all. So we loaded up the car and left.
The next day was the Tri. We put a brace on his wrist, gave him more Advil and off he went to the starting line. We went to the first transition to wait for him to exit the water. When I saw him, I knew. I KNEW. He was in severe pain, ghostly white, holding his arm up gingerly trying to run to his bike. I started yelling at him to get off the course, to stop. Yelling at the top of my lungs; screaming like a maniac. He looked at me and shook his head no. And he kept going. Off on his bike with his arm held up, only one hand on the handlebars. I watched him ride off and then ran to the finish to wait.
I would not have believed it, but when he crossed the finish line he was past ghostly white. He had tears in the corners of his eyes. I took him by his good hand straight to the medic tent. The medic took about 30 seconds to tell us to take him into town to the emergency room; he was pretty sure it was broken. So I load him in the car and off we go. It's a 20 minute drive.
During the 20 minute ride, that child of mine informed me that he was sure it was broken. I asked him why he thought so. He then told me that when he fell on it at baseball camp, he heard it snap. You what?!?!? Why in the world would you have not told us? Because I wanted to run the Tri he said. After a stern lecture about how he should have said something, he could have further injured it, or caused permanent damage, blah, blah, blah (all the appropriate parenting jargon) we arrived at the emergency room.
In the end, it was broken. Both bones. My dumb kid ran a Tri with 2 broken bones. Thankfully, no permanent damage was done. And now, 8 years later, we laugh about this story. Really? What 11 year old runs a tri with broken bones. What parent allows it. We do not dwell on the bad parenting part (I should have taken him to the doctor the day it happened, no options) or the poor judgment of the 11 year old. We talk about the good characteristics he showed: perseverance, commitment, mental toughness. And when I look at the photo of the boys with the oldest in a bright red, grimy cast I smile. That kid was something else.
That's what I want to remember with the help of photos that document our unique, messy, quirky, glorious lives.
Here's my take on it. I want photos of my kids that show them in that moment with all their wonderful, messy, quirky, imperfections. I don't want photos of my kids dressed to the nines all spit and polish sitting perfectly on a rock by a stream. I want the photo that shows the hole in my sons jeans, his bare toes in the water with his shoes discarded aside. I want the photo with the dirt on his cheek and his hands from the rocks he is throwing into the water. I want to see the look of pure joy that radiates from his eyes as he drops a handful of leaves on his brother's head. That is my boys.
When my boys are grown and gone and I'm 80 years old living in a retirement home I don't want to look at a photo album full of posed pictures that do not represent the life we lived. I want to remember all the imperfect moments of our life. The cast and what it represented. I want to remember the story.
It started out common enough, the story of many a broken arms. He was at baseball camp, dove to catch a pop fly, and landed on his arm. Although in pain, he told his coach he wanted to stay the rest of the day and watch. So he did. That night we were heading out of town to attend a sports festival at the Fun House. He was signed up for the kids Tri. He insisted his wrist would be fine with some Advil and an ace bandage, it was just sprained. He refused to go to the doctor, didn't complain at all. So we loaded up the car and left.
The next day was the Tri. We put a brace on his wrist, gave him more Advil and off he went to the starting line. We went to the first transition to wait for him to exit the water. When I saw him, I knew. I KNEW. He was in severe pain, ghostly white, holding his arm up gingerly trying to run to his bike. I started yelling at him to get off the course, to stop. Yelling at the top of my lungs; screaming like a maniac. He looked at me and shook his head no. And he kept going. Off on his bike with his arm held up, only one hand on the handlebars. I watched him ride off and then ran to the finish to wait.
I would not have believed it, but when he crossed the finish line he was past ghostly white. He had tears in the corners of his eyes. I took him by his good hand straight to the medic tent. The medic took about 30 seconds to tell us to take him into town to the emergency room; he was pretty sure it was broken. So I load him in the car and off we go. It's a 20 minute drive.
During the 20 minute ride, that child of mine informed me that he was sure it was broken. I asked him why he thought so. He then told me that when he fell on it at baseball camp, he heard it snap. You what?!?!? Why in the world would you have not told us? Because I wanted to run the Tri he said. After a stern lecture about how he should have said something, he could have further injured it, or caused permanent damage, blah, blah, blah (all the appropriate parenting jargon) we arrived at the emergency room.
In the end, it was broken. Both bones. My dumb kid ran a Tri with 2 broken bones. Thankfully, no permanent damage was done. And now, 8 years later, we laugh about this story. Really? What 11 year old runs a tri with broken bones. What parent allows it. We do not dwell on the bad parenting part (I should have taken him to the doctor the day it happened, no options) or the poor judgment of the 11 year old. We talk about the good characteristics he showed: perseverance, commitment, mental toughness. And when I look at the photo of the boys with the oldest in a bright red, grimy cast I smile. That kid was something else.
That's what I want to remember with the help of photos that document our unique, messy, quirky, glorious lives.
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