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.

Wordless Wednesday - Special Olympics Golf Regionals

The Gym, A Girl, & Inclusion

The Boy and I were walking through the health club yesterday. I was going to a class, he was going to the playroom. Ah, the playroom. Intended for the youngest of members, those under 8 years old. The Boy, now 9, still goes in the playroom. I don't dare leave him unsupervised, wreaking havoc all over the gym. And they graciously let him continue to come in and play. All of the gym employees know him, have for years. And they understand. It sometimes is a little awkward when I go to pick him up and the other moms are picking up kids who are literally half his size. Not kidding, he's a very tall 9 year old. Sometimes we get some weird looks from the other moms. But whatever, I no longer let these silly little things bother me. My boy loves the playroom and has fun. And the playroom supervisors enjoy having him. In fact, one has become our trusted kid sitter. (I believe in using sitters who know what they are signing up for and are familiar to The Boy)

Anyway, back to my story. As we were walking through the gym to the playroom, a girl who looked to be about his age said "hi (The Boys name)". He turned to her and said "hi (The Boy's name)" right back to her. His focus was getting to the play room where he could play with all the toys. I assumed he was just echoing her greeting without paying much attention. And he went right back to obsessing over the toys in the playroom, his interaction done.

So I struck up a conversation with her. I asked her how she knew The Boy. She goes to his school. I asked her if she was in his (GenEd) class. She said no, she was in second grade. (He's in third.) This puzzled me a little so I asked her how she new The Boy. With a big grin she replied "oh, I see him around school and sometimes we play together at recess." 

And I nearly stopped in my tracks.

Here is a kid who is not in his class, has no "formal" interaction with him, and yet she sometimes plays with him at recess. Presumably unprompted, on her own. I'll be honest here, my heart nearly exploded on the spot. I worry ALL THE TIME about how The Boy integrates into the general population at his school. Do they accept him? Does he socialize with them? Is he comfortable interacting with them? Are they comfortable interacting with him? Is he developing relationships? Does he have friends? And on and on.

I think about these things all the time. Because in the end, our goal for the The Boy is to live a full, productive adult life with a job and social life out in the community. What form this takes, well we don't know yet, but that is the general goal. And how can he reach that goal if we don't start now with interactions with his typical peers. Encouraging social interactions from both sides. Encouraging him to be part of the community now, his community at school as well as the community at large. Developing relationships. Encouraging inclusion, acceptance, understanding on all parts. And more importantly, everyone enjoying those interactions and relationships.

Exchanges like the one I had with that young lady truly encourage me. Seriously, my heart was singing. It was so full of peace and love and hope. I wanted to hug her, but didn't want to scare her. 

I know, I know, its a far cry from an elementary school to the adult community at large (or even the high school). I don't completely live in a Pollyanna world. I know that we have a very long road to travel. But its a start in the right direction. And I'll take my encouragement where ever I can find it.

Oh, and the girl's name? Turns out it is the same as The Boy's. He wasn't echoing, he was really saying hi to her. 

English Language Learners

Where I work we have several employees for whom English is a second language. I don't interact with them directly very often, only about HR issues. But when I do, I'm always struck by how their use of English is so similar to The Boy's. Or maybe I should say The Boy's use of language is similar to theirs; almost as if English is a second language for him.

Last weekend The Boy was outside riding his bike. I'll say that again, he was riding his bike. Still so amazing to me. Anyway, I went outside to check on him and saw blood running down his leg. It looked like he had fallen off the bike and scraped up his leg. Without a word or any tears, typical. And worrisome, but that is a topic for another post.

When I asked him if he got hurt his reply was "Yes. My leg is not feel good." He didn't say my leg hurts, or my leg is bleeding, or even my leg doesn't feel good. He said "My leg is not feel good." Not exactly how any of us would say that. His point was clear enough, anyone would understand his message. It's just different, and a little awkward. And is usually one of the first signs to strangers that he is unique. Perhaps I should just tell them that he is an English Language Learner.

Now, if I could just figure out what his native tongue is...

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Living in a Literal World

The Boy loves his pajamas. And I mean, he LOVES them. If we are at home, he has pajamas on. As soon as he gets home from school, he changes. He has a fond preference for the all cotton (no fire retardant), long sleeve, long pant, form fitting pajamas that look like long johns. I'm convinced this is because he likes the pressure it gives him all over his body. He craves deep pressure. But that really has nothing to do with this post.

Today when he was trying to change into his pajamas after school (which takes considerable effort on his part due to his motor planning skills) he was putting them on backwards. They were halfway up his legs with the tag in the front. I looked at what he was doing and casually said "the tag needs to go in back." 

I watched as he took them off, looked at me quizzically and then proceeded to put them behind his back. Then he looked at me quizzically again not knowing what to do next. I couldn't help it, I started laughing. 

"The tag needs to go in back". Such a simple statement I probably told my older boys a gazillion times to make sure they put their pants and shirts on the right direction. Most kids know exactly what you mean. Not The Boy. What he heard was "the tag needs to go on your back" and that was all. The implied "when they are on your body" just wasn't there for him. So he put the tag on his back and looked at me for what to do next. 

I probably shouldn't have laughed. But it was funny. Or heartbreaking. I prefer to go with funny. I'd rather laugh than cry. 

Wordless Wednesday - How Big is Your Airport?

Tired

I love The Boy more than life itself. And I wouldn't change a hair on his head. He is just the way he is supposed to be, made perfectly. But that doesn't mean I don't get overwhelmed sometimes. And frustrated. And just plain tired. Yesterday was one of those days. A day for a small pity party and a good cry. I. Was. Tired.

I sent the following email to my sister: 

Crap. I'm having one of those days where I'm just so damn tired of it all. I just want one calm, easy morning where I don't have to make a juice cocktail or administer meds. Where I don't have to sprinkle enzymes on everything. One day where I don't have to pin him to the floor just to brush his teeth or chase him through the house to brush his hair. One quiet morning where I don't have to listen to the school schedule 84 times before the bus arrives. Hell, one morning where I don't have to make the exact same toast and scrambled eggs for breakfast. I just want one peaceful shower, just one! I'm just so tired of it all. It's the same damn thing every day; lather, rinse, and repeat. I'm old and I'm tired.

I used to feel guilty for these feelings. But you know what? I'm human. I'm allowed to feel what I'm feeling. It doesn't mean I love my son any less. Or wish he was different. We all get overwhelmed and frustrated and just plain tired sometimes. Its OK, really it is. For me, its important to acknowledge these feelings. Vent to someone who understands. Get it out. And then move on with my day. 

After The Boy got on the bus, I had a good cry. And then I got ready for my day and left for work.