from here to there and back

Last night, GP and I went to Family Night—a book fair and magic show at his school. It was a full-house, lots of kids running around, lots of parents. The noise level was intense.

The magic show in the auditorium was something he was really looking forward to. It didn’t start until 7 p.m. and though most nights he’s asleep by 7:30, we decided this was something special, something worth staying up past bedtime for.

About 20 minutes into the show, the magician got to the part where he asked for volunteers from the audience. GP’s hand shot straight up, “I hope I get picked,” he chanted under his breath—and he did. Eventually. For the rope trick. You know the one. Three different lengths of rope become one big long rope, which becomes three ropes of the same length.

And, he was so nervous. I could see him shaking, trying to steady himself. His face was flushed. To compensate (or overcome?), he got silly. Slapstick silly. He tugged the rope out of the magician’s hands. He pretended like the rope was coming out of his nose. He shadowed the magician’s every move. I tried desperately to get his attention, to signal, and though his eyes were darting around the crowded auditorium he never settled on me. The crowd, however, ate it up. The kids were laughing and cheering. Adults, too. All of which encouraged the antics. God bless the magician, he played right along as though it was all part of the act. The longest act I have ever seen. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

After his part was over, he asked if I liked his magic trick. “Well,” I said, “You got pretty silly up there.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted the kids to like me.”

Of course he wants to be liked. Who doesn’t? It’s so typical. So normal. So everyman.

But he is not the class clown. The funny suit is too big, too unwieldy, too hard to manage and control. And I realized in that moment, for the hundred millionth time, that there is still so much to learn. Beyond the social nuances, beyond the appropriateness of certain behaviors, beyond all of it and any of it there is simply this: You don’t have to be funny or silly or bouncing off the walls to be liked, you simply have to be yourself.

But he’s six, and I know plenty of adults who haven’t learned that lesson yet.

I know in some ways it is ridiculous that I post almost every day. But it’s become part of my routine. I can’t seem to get on with the other writing, the WIP, until I’ve posted. This—the blogging—is like a warm up. The way a runner stretches before a run, blogging stretches my mind, gets the creative juices flowing. One feeds the other in ways I can’t fully explain. It leads me to my voice.

That’s not to say, however, that I always have something to blog about. Take today, for example. The one tidbit I am stuck on is the fact that our Tassimo suffered a breakdown and had to be shipped off to some repair center in Brooklyn yesterday. As a result, I am drinking something resembling hot coffee, but in no way is it even close to the luscious lattes that have warmed my spirit for all these months.

If it wasn’t so cold out, I would be tempted to move operations to this place, where a seat by the fire and a nice big latte or cappuccino would go a long way toward making me feel better.

Since I’m too lazy to bundle up and pack up, I’ll settle for a spot on the couch and a cup of tea. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with a few good links. These posts spoke to me this week, for a variety of reasons.

• Rooster Calls. Okay, this isn’t a single post, but a new voice in the arena of special needs parenting. I have a feeling it’s a voice we’ll be hearing more of—and should be hearing more of—in the weeks and months to come.
• This Mom in Miami
  
• A moment of inspiration at Speak Softly
• Life lessons from Jennifer over at ParentDish
• Loving cupcakes and life at The Wonderwheel
• Taking on corporate responsibility at Good Job, Mama!
• And finally, good eats (all the time!!) over at Figs, lavender, and cheese. By the way, if you ever get in one of those “what’s for dinner” ruts, check out Cindy’s archives. This woman can cook.

Oh, and take a peek at the Library page. I’ve added some new books. If you like historical non-fiction, Revolutionary Mothers, the book chosen for my next book club meeting, looks like a good one. (I haven’t exactly started it yet. I’m kind of lost inside the story of Picturing Will. So far, it’s a fabulous read—thanks Vicki!)

About a week ago, I put my WIP on one of those portable USB drives and took it to Staples to get two copies printed. At 40,000 words, 159 pages (double-spaced), I thought it was time to read a hard copy.

Though writers say it all the time, it is enlightening to experience the work off screen, to hold pages in my hand, to read and actually feel the pacing, hear the cadence, see the gaps.

I feel well on my way here. I believe, for the first time, that I really can finish. And what happens after? Well, it almost doesn’t matter. Almost.

One of the things that struck me about what I have written so far is the timeline. It felt too strained, too artificial, too much like a framework that I needed more as a writer than a reader. So, I took a big long roll of easel paper and I mapped it out. I started before the book starts because much of the story is told as the main character remembers events leading up to the event. And as I took my pencil and wrote things down, erasing, moving, shifting scenes, I realized I didn’t need to break the book into parts as I originally envisioned. I realized that the story simply needed to flow—straight through—start to finish.

So with a few simple edits and less constraints, I am ready to begin the work on the second half. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a completed first draft by the time school lets out in June.

Oh, and that second copy? I sent it to a trusted reader. She called last night to say she sat up until 1 a.m. reading. She couldn’t put it down.

If that’s not motivation to finish, I don’t know what is.

This—

—led to this…

Resulting in this—

—and this.

To say his interest in drawing has increased doesn’t begin to cover it. The picture above was a two-day project beginning with a pencil drawing of a street in town and then much debate over whether markers, paint or colored pencils would yield the best result. He choose the pencils.

The “roadway” on the bottom of the drawing is littered with red, yellow, green and blue cars. As you can see, there is a lot of traffic on this street. Probably due to congestion at the Pizza Parlor, where he even drew in the tables and chairs under the giant pizza in the window (click the images for a larger view).

It was a gloriously uneventful day. Despite the fact that he moaned and groaned a bit this morning, GP headed off to class after a week off with a little skip in his step. While he was at school, I managed to do a lot of writing and three loads of laundry. Truly, an uneventful, but incredibly productive day.

Since we are expecting rain tomorrow, I wanted to give GP one last go at what was left of the snow this afternoon. We decided to delay the start of homework so we could do this—

—build a snow city of skyscrapers. Homework, by comparison, was a bit dull, but we muddled through.

After dinner, he set up an elaborate domino thing on the floor of his room. He figured out how to send a train down a hill to knock the first domino over, creating, well, a domino effect that was pretty cool. I just love the sound of those clicking tiles as they fall over.

Then, before bed, he informed me and James that the kids at school are interested in stuff that he doesn’t like. “Like what?” we asked.

“Like video games and Pokeman, stuff like that,” he said. “But some kids like what I like, so I’m okay with it.”

Uh huh. Okay. He’s okay.

Yes. It was a fabulously uneventful day.

The plan was loosey goosey. Nothing definite. One of those, we’ll be here if you want to come over, kind of things.

Yesterday, the boys wound up playing over two hours in the snow after a smile and a wave across the street brought the neighbors over for a good long chat. As the afternoon grew unbearably cold—hands and toes frozen despite mittens and boots—we managed to get the boys back into the house with a few half-hearted promises for more of the same today.

Only, the plan was pretty loose. And it just didn’t happen. Tonight, as I was helping GP into his pajamas, I said, “Wasn’t this a great day? I had so much fun.” Because despite the fact that the playdate wasn’t, we still managed to see an exhibit by this amazing artist, plus have a lovely Sunday dinner with Grandma and Uncle D.

Weepy, he turned to me and said, “You know what the worst part of today was? The worst part was that little J never came over to play. It makes me feel forgotten.”

“Forgotten? Oh no no no, sweetheart. Never forgotten.”

No matter how hard I tried to turn it around, he was sad. He missed his friend. He wanted to play.

And while it broke my heart to hear how upset he was, I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.

One of these days I’m going to figure out how to explain that sometimes people say things to be nice, to be social, to fill the empty space between them. It’s like the ubiquitous, “I’ll call you.” But to a boy who takes it all literally, who believes in every word spoken, this social nuance is not an easy thing to explain.

No, not easy at all.

He woke up asking for his snow pants and his mittens.

He brought all the heavy machinery out of the garage.

He tested the snow to make sure it was solid.

(It was.)

He put some finishing touches on yesterday’s snowman.

(Who had to be re-built this morning following a tragic fall during the night.)

He looked at the snow through a magnifying glass.

(Because, as you know, no two crystals are alike.)

He pulled chunks of icy snow off the bushes.

And he had a rip roarin’ good time.

As the dad on the small screen (we rented one of the Benji movies from the library) continued to mistreat his son, I felt I needed to say something, to make it clear to GP that not all kids have good parents. “It’s a good thing I have a really good dad, right mom?”

“Yes. It is. You are very lucky.” And because I couldn’t resist, I added, “What about me? Do you have a good mom too?”

“You are the best mom in the whole world,” this child who has stolen my heart exclaimed. “But don’t go spreading it around the neighborhood, okay?”

Um. Okay. Sure. I won’t tell a soul. I promise. You didn’t hear it from me. No sir.

I know you’ve wanted it for us too. You’ve played witness to the devilish storms that blow in and out, leaving a dusting that disappears before we have a chance to lace our (mostly unnecessary) boots. It’s been our very own winter of discontent.

But today, my friends, is different. Today is the real thing. Today the boots are necessary. 7:40 a.m., 4 inches on the ground, and it’s still coming down. Sticking to the trees, the roads, the grass. It’s a white out. Though, I was patiently told by my son that it is NOT a winter wonderland. “Winter wonderland can only happen at Christmas when there are Christmas lights everywhere,” in the world according to GP.

Regardless. I’ll leave you with this as I reach for my parka and boots. Have a great weekend.

In a few weeks, I will be sitting across the table from our district’s committee for special education to finalize plans for my son’s IEP and placement for second grade.

Two months ago, I could have told you exactly what that IEP document needed to say and what his classroom setting should be for next year. Today, however, I have no idea. The path from dead certainty to I-really-have-no-clue has been a twisty trail fraught with detours and dead ends. I have gone from absolutely knowing what doesn’t work to having no idea what does.

To say my son has struggled in first grade doesn’t begin to cover the extent of the disharmony and dysregulation he has experienced this year. Back in October, we toyed with the idea of asking for a one-on-one aide. By December, there was no doubt in my mind that the aide was our best hope. But then something happened.

But it was nothing. Nothing changed. Not his environment, not his teacher, not his schedule. Yet in a way I can’t quite put my finger on, he changed. He settled in. He relaxed. He hit his stride—emotionally, socially, and even to some extent, academically. The boy is walking the walk, talking the talk, and hitting curveballs out of the park. Every single day.

And so, on the one hand, it makes no sense to me to demand a one-on-one aide for next year. I wouldn’t even know how to make a case for it because the truth is, he’s managing just fine without one. But on the other hand, I don’t want to risk a repeat of this year, that long hard four-month settling in period. Second grade is stepped up on so many levels. He doesn’t have four months to spare, to get used to a new teacher, a new classroom, a new schedule. Maybe an aide could facilitate that transition?

But here’s what worries me: an aide can be restrictive, a barrier to his interaction with the class. And the wrong aide can be, well, more than just wrong.

I almost can’t believe how dramatic the turnaround has been. I wait, I wonder, I think, today will be the day—the day his teacher pulls me aside after school. But, no. I am greeted with smiles and waves and thumbs up. My son is happy, relaxed, feeling good.

I am not foolish enough to believe the hard stuff is behind us. But with every gain, with every homerun, momentum builds. There is still going to be a lot of back and forth, days when he falls apart because another kid took his place in line. But there will be just as many days where that kind of thing won’t phase him.

As I watch him now—at home, on playdates, in restaurants and stores, at OT and religion—I see a little boy who is stepping up to the plate, taking a swing and consistently making contact. And it’s all good, or mostly good, or damn good enough.

But school has never been his safe place. It is the place where he stands out, where his differences brand him and separate him. It is the environment that reduces him to tears of frustration and anger, and pushes him toward his greatest struggles, his biggest challenges. I’ve often said, If it weren’t for school…

So how do I use this understanding of his inconsistencies to lobby for the right placement next year? Why do I have this sinking feeling that “ideal” placement does not exist for him, not here, not in this school or in this district? Are we better safe than sorry? And what exactly does that mean, anyway?

We took a ride today out to Sands Point where the Amazing Animals exhibit has been extended through March.

Alligators snapped, macaws pecked, and the kids ran from habitat to habitat looking for wild reptiles and flying squirrels. The exhibit was small enough to walk two, even three times, and after, when the kids could no longer contain their energy, we took a hike down trail 3 to the Long Island Sound.

This week of winter break is zipping by, but in a fulfilling and sustaining sort of way. Our days have been touched by friendships and family and plenty of good times. Today we traveled in a small group of close friends, but we wound up running into some moms and cubs from a local scout troop. Friends from the neighborhood, from school. Everywhere we turn—at the exhibit, the library, the pizza parlor.

All of it good. And most especially good for the boy who is working hard on those social skills—initiating conversations, making connections, and participating fully. Sometimes he’s the quietest of them all, watching, observing, soaking it in. And sometimes he’s the leader, the silly one telling bad jokes and casting a wide net of humor to draw them in.

But best of all? He’s right there with them. A step or two behind, but holding his own. Figuring it out. Navigating his world.