April 30, 2008
My son has been troubled by one particular bad dream for the last two nights. In his dream, he is holding on to the outside of a sinking ship and he is very scared. He’s quite clear on how this dream starts out good and then turns bad. I don’t know where this dream comes from, but maybe it comes from listening to the song Titanic by Dan Zanes. GP knows the story of the sinking ship from the song and from The Magic Treehouse book #17, Tonight on the Titanic, by Mary Pope Osborne.
It’s been about a year since we read the book together, but this past weekend, we popped the Zanes CD into the car and listened all the way from here to the east end. A trigger? Maybe. But he can’t let it go. The bad dream has colored his conversations for two days.
Coming back from spring break has been a bit bumpy. There’s been a lot of drama and some tears and a fair amount of anxiety. We’ve stopped doing the eye exercises at home, and we are this close to quitting altogether. The developmental optometrist called last night to encourage us to stick with it for three more weeks of in-office therapy sessions and then a re-evaluation. I understand why he wants us to continue. He wants to learn something—have the means to compare and contrast—and he doesn’t want to lose the time and effort we’ve put into it so far. But it’s a struggle. And I already told my son we could stop.
Friday is our IEP meeting. I think it will be a good meeting, but I won’t really know until all is said and done. I have some early feedback that the district is on board with our requests and I’m hopeful that the meeting will involve little more than working out the actual logistics. I want my son in a mainstream classroom for 2nd grade with a one-on-one aide. He needs the support academically, but also socially and I’m hoping that this plan will be approved. It’s a little tricky though, because even though this year didn’t start out well, he’s settled in and currently negotiating the classroom with very little support. A one-on-one is more restrictive, but I think it’s fair to say we can make a strong case for our point of view. His teachers and the district autism consultant support the idea—but I’m still keeping my fingers and toes crossed, just in case.
Most of the time, I know we are going to be okay. My son is an amazing kid. He has a great life. His diagnosis is not going to weigh him down. PDD-NOS. What exactly does that mean? My guess is that as he grows and matures and learns to cope with and compensate for his delays, it won’t mean much. At least not to us.
But as we stand here, in the muddy waters of being six and having “issues” and needing therapy and support and lots and lots of handling with care, I can sometimes lose sight of how okay everything really is. I let it pull me down—I feel like I am the one hanging on to the side of that sinking ship. And I make it harder on myself than it needs to be.
But I know how to swim.
And that is what I’m going to tell my son about his dream. It’s okay. Let go. You can swim.
April 30, 2008 at 10:48 am
SB had nightmares the whole time we were reading that particular Magic Treehouse book (last fall).
Good luck with the IEP meeting … I’ll be anxious to hear the outcome.
April 30, 2008 at 11:38 am
Nightmares can be tough. Even the “adult” book about the Titanic was called A Night to Remember and I’m afraid GP is not going to “let go” because he is sincerely afraid. I think this one is going to be on repeat in his precious brain for awhile. I don’t think it was the Zanes song. I have a feeling it might have been the scrappy looking fishing boats bumping against each other by the Montauk Harbor pier. He seemed stunned by their size and state of disrepair.
On the other hand, once he got over his fear of the surf, he was eager to inch out further with me in tow (and with FREEZING toes) that very same afternoon.
He will let go. He will swim. Some challenges are huge for him, but he has his own way of coping. He’s GP. It’s not usually easy in this world for him, but once he makes it “his” world the issue shrinks to a size he can stare down and wear down with his own special charm.
April 30, 2008 at 2:10 pm
I know all too well that sinking feeling. Thanks for the reminder to let go… I needed that.
Best of luck with the IEP meeting!
April 30, 2008 at 8:04 pm
Will be thinking good thoughts for the IEP…and for GP. It’s a tough thing to feel that fear and find one’s own way of coping and moving through or letting go. I have faith it will come when he is ready.
April 30, 2008 at 9:15 pm
wow. I needed to read this one tonight. How true your last few paragraphs are…and how difficult to let go and be grateful for what is so good and so beautiful in our sons. Thank you for lifting my spirits tonight. Our IEP is less than a week away and I feel I am drowning in all the “what if’s”. So thanks for providing some light tonight.
April 30, 2008 at 10:49 pm
“I let it pull me down—I feel like I am the one hanging on to the side of that sinking ship. And I make it harder on myself than it needs to be.
But I know how to swim.”
I love this. I feel this too. I always thought it would get easier but sometimes I think it gets harder. Depends on the day. I hope making the decision in regards to eye therapy gets easier. I know that struggle, wondering how much to force and when to let go. It is so hard. Hugs.
May 1, 2008 at 8:08 am
boy, i remember listening to that Magic Tree House book with Fluffy in the car (we had it on tape) and the whole vibe in the air shifted as the story unfolded. we stopped it and skipped past it to the next story. too scary.
your boy IS amazing and remarkable. I have no doubts that this PDD-NOS will not slow him down. i am crossing my fingers for your IEP meeting. i envision you getting exactly what you’re asking for next year.
May 1, 2008 at 12:07 pm
Sharing a poem on this topic:
“First Lessons”, by Phillip Booth
Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man’s float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.
– I love your blog. Keep it up.
May 1, 2008 at 12:59 pm
Hi there…
I didn’t see an email link, hence my comment.
I write a blog called Special Needs Parent which is geared towards parents of kids with
special needs. The site caters to everything from mild learning disabilities all the way to children in a vegetative state.
On Tuesdays, I feature another blogger who has children with special needs. I was
wondering if you’d be interested in being featured. This would entail me emailing you a Word document interview, your answering the questions and returning them, along with a picture if you’re comfortable with that. It would then be featured (with a link of
course) on one of the Tuesdays.
Please let me know if this is something you’d be interested in, and thank you for your
time.
May 4, 2008 at 12:58 pm
This post definitely spoke to me. I know you think I am a little crazy with the running, but it is the thing that kind of reminds me of this: I AM strong. If I keep moving, reaching, trying, I will be alive. But if I just sit and worry and don’t DO, I actually go backward, slipping under. And it is the same for my son, who cannot let his fear and worry take him down. I keep sending him back in the rough water because he has to see that he can swim, too.
Thank you for expressing this so eloquently.
As Dori says in finding Nemo, “just keep swimming,” which I tell myself when I am running, “just keep running.” You can insert whatever it is that helps you let go and prove how capable you really are.