from here to there and back

There are certain stories I need to hear. Like the one about the young boy diagnosed with autism who didn’t learn to read until he was in 3rd grade and is now on the honor roll in high school. And the one about the OT who had multiple learning disabilities, including dyslexia, who read at a 7th grade level in college and went on to, well, become an OT.

There is a version of the story for each of us that fills our hearts with hope and reminds us to never lose faith.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about all the extra work and therapy we do with our son. Now that he’s getting older, gaining a more mature sense of self-awareness, I have to ask myself the question: What message are we sending him with all this intervention? Are we telling him—not in words, but certainly through our actions—that he doesn’t meet expectations? That he isn’t fast enough or strong enough or smart enough? That all these things need to be fixed.

He’s made comments recently that give me pause. I have never had to worry about my son’s self-esteem, and yet, maybe I’m fooling myself. He takes such obvious pride in the things he does well, and we go to great lengths to compliment and praise and motivate. But I wonder. What about the things he knows he can’t do? How does he feel about those things?

When our kids are young, therapy is play. It’s fun and so incredibly cool to have a happy, chirpy grown up playmate with lots of great toys willing to spend an hour in the ball pit or doing art projects or letting you roll Cheerios around on your tongue. But as they get older, the dynamic changes. Therapy is more work than play and soon enough it becomes a question of “Why do I have to do this when none of my friends have to?”

We have never, not once, said anything other than “Everyone has to work harder at something” or a variation on that theme. It is our mantra. We don’t talk about autism or PDD-NOS—and maybe that’s a mistake—we speak instead of differences and challenges and how everyone has their cross to bear.

When I see how my son struggles in the classroom, recognize the things that hold him back, I tend to get frantic. I think, if only he could learn to do X, everything else will be fine. But there’s always another X. And I need to take a step back.

I need to remember that his story has yet to be told. There are countless pages between this and the end. I’ve said it before: He’ll get where he needs to be, on his own terms and in his own time. And I’m going to support him in that. 110 percent. 110 million percent.

But the older my son gets, the harder it is for me to keep things in perspective. Every blip feels like a bump. Every decision—therapy, school, sports, birthday parties, playdates, doctors appointments—it all feels so weighted.

There are stories I need to hear—like the one about the boy who couldn’t read until he was in 3rd grade. These are the stories I need to keep. Because they remind me of the simple fact that my son’s story has yet to be written.

I can’t think of a title for my first draft. (Yes, I know I told you I finished my “novel” but from here on out, until otherwise noted, I’m going to call it my first draft. No sense getting carried away.)

Emma is the main character, and from day one, I have simply thought of the work as Emma, but clearly, that will not do for a title. As you know, Emma has been taken.

On Tuesday, I took my portable USB drive over to Staples and asked them to print two copies of my draft. I secured a rubber band around one and stuffed it into a manila envelope. And because I have an odd addiction to shipping tape, I wrapped the envelope a few times too many, which I realize now, might make it impossible to open without a pair of scissors or a box-cutter. I sent this well-sealed package to a good friend, who also happens to be an award-winning writer and an editor, and a teacher of creative writing.

I ran the other copy through a 3-hole punch and placed it inside a 3-ring binder.

When I showed my son what 285 double-spaced pages looks like, he said, “My, that’s a lot of words.” And I said, “Yes. If I can do this, then you can write eight spelling words into sentences once a week without complaining.” I’m not sure whether I made my point. He simply rolled his eyes in response and wandered away.

I have one more story to share: On Tuesday, FedEx rang the bell and instead of leaving the package as they normally do, the driver was standing on the porch waiting for a signature. I signed, confused, wondering what could possibly be so important. I’m not going to tell you what my son said, because of course, he said, “Is that for me?” Only it wasn’t. It was for me. A bottle of very good champagne from a dear friend in Denver. My friend is a writer working on her first novel, too. She has been reading my pages all along and until that manila envelope reaches its destination, she is the only other person besides me to have read Emma’s story from start to finish.

Amazing thing, this internet. Say what you want about blogging and wasting time in front of a computer all day, but without this, the last year of my life would not have been possible.

I love these six-word memoirs, and I love the legendary story about Hemingway that started the trend. The story goes like this: Hemingway was challenged to write a short story in just six words.

This is what he wrote: For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

I’m no Hemingway, but since the game is making the rounds and Niksmom tagged me, I’ll give it a try. Here’s mine:

Lost, found—more than I expected.

I’m supposed to tag six, but you know how I feel about that. If you’re tempted, why not leave yours in the comments…

We tend to get a lot of deliveries from UPS and FedEx and even the US Mail. It is a rare day that a box or a fat envelope of some sort isn’t sitting on the dining room table awaiting its recipient. And every day, when my son comes home from school, he never fails to ask, “Anything come for me today?”

It’s a hopeful question, one that betrays my son’s love of product. In fact, this child is so into the experience of buying consumer goods that he tends to call guests who visit our home “customers.” As in, “Mom, another customer is here for dinner.”

We have a rainy day ahead of us and I am looking forward to catching up on laundry, wrapping up a freelance assignment, and maybe, just maybe, even taking a nap this afternoon. I’m a little surprised by how tired I’ve been this last week. I am finally catching up on doctor’s appointments and some long-avoided bloodwork for myself. I had gestational diabetes when I was pregnant and my doctor suspects it has returned in the form of late-onset or type 2 diabetes. Did you know that statistically, you have a very high risk of developing diabetes within 10 years of giving birth if you had it during your pregnancy? I hope I’m not going to be one of those statistics. Keep your fingers crossed. (Maybe your toes, too.)

After school activities are winding down. This is the last week of religion classes, and since we’ve dropped vision therapy—for now—(yes, I finally made a decision, and I’m getting more comfortable with that decision every day) we are left only with OT on Tuesday afternoons. A slower pace for the end of the school year is, without a doubt, a welcome change.

We also got word last week that we made it onto the roster of our first choice tutor/therapist for the summer. Miss R is an educational therapist and I have a feeling we are all going to love her. I don’t expect miracles in six weeks, but I am hopeful that my son will walk away with improved skills and a better handle on reading. (You can cross your fingers for this one, too.)

Here’s a question for the internets: If your school age child has a shadow (or a para or a one-on-one aide), do you tell him or her? Do you say, Miss X is a special classroom helper? Or do you say, Miss X is your special classroom helper? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

And, finally, this post over at Reimer Reason, is a lovely read to wrap up talk of Mother’s Day.

A friend is one to whom one may pour out all the contents of one’s heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that the gentlest of hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away. ~Arab proverb

Friday night we had friends over for dinner. Old friends. Pre-Mayberry friends.

I met my husband James when we worked together on the same magazine. Bugzy and Bob worked with us there, but also before and after in the way that people who write for magazines keep coming up against the same people who write for magazines over and over again.

Bob lives in Southern California. He surfs. He climbs rocks. He volunteers. And he writes—scripts, magazine articles, treatments for reality shows. Bugzy lives in New York. He is a documentary filmmaker and is currently writing a memoir, that will—trust me—be an instant bestseller. He’s got a once in a lifetime story to tell.

To say these guys are larger than life characters doesn’t begin to cover it. Bob is one of the kindest, gentlest souls I know. And Bugzy? Well, Bugzy is Bugzy. He’s Howard Beach meets the Upper West Side with a heart of gold. They are family men. Pied Pipers. Sitting around, talking about old times, laughing, joking, shaking loose our collective memories, I was reminded of a time when I was not the me I have become.

Friday night was a reunion of sorts. James and I haven’t seen Bob in countless years. He looks taller. But the truth is, we’ve all changed. We’ve grown up in ways that defy explanation, to find the true content of our hearts.

Last year on Mother’s Day, I wrote about my mom.

I wrote about how she has been an inspiration to me, and how I don’t always express just how much I appreciate her. I’m not sure I could say it any better than I already have. My mom is amazing, more amazing than you could ever know. She is lighthouse, beacon, bellwether to my storms.

But in the last year, my life has been touched by other moms, women who are out there in the dirt and the dust and the raging winds, raising their families and doing the best they can. Sharing their stories. Offering support. Every day. Yes, I’m talking about you. And you. And you and you and you. You are my neighborhood, my village, my country. I can’t imagine this journey without you.

Here’s to our joy, our sorrow, our collective worries.

And to the grace and beauty in each of you.

“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” ~Anne Lamott

I didn’t think it would feel so— Hmmm. I don’t know. Strange?

I thought I might want to shout it out, celebrate in some way, do a little dance. But the truth is, I’m feeling a little skittish. I almost can’t bring myself to type the words. I’ve written and rewritten this post about five times so far.

Clearly, shouting it out is not going to happen. Maybe I could simply whisper it into the wind.

I finished my novel.

There. I did it. Now you know.

Wednesday, May 7, sometime before noon.

And yet I hesitate to leave it at that. I feel the need to couch it, to stress the rewrites and revisions yet to come; months, maybe even another year of work. It’s just a first draft.

But the truth is, I wrote a novel. (Yes, I’m still whispering.)

And someday you may even get to read it.

This morning I opened my bedroom window to a cacophony of birds chirping. It wasn’t sweet and intermittent, it was raucous and intense and unrelenting.

I said, “Wow. Listen to those birds sing.”

And my son said,“They aren’t singing. They are having a meeting.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you know, it’s springtime, right? And birds have a lot to do in the spring.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Well, they have to show the babies how to fly and how to perch after they fly, and they have to get worms to feed the babies, and then they have to teach the babies the most important thing of all.”

“Really?” I said, quite amazed by this outpouring of bird knowledge. “What is the most important thing of all?”

“Not to get stepped on by humans.”

Yep. That sounds pretty important to me.

I wish I could open up the super-highways in his brain, create a smooth and even flow of traffic. He stumbles over a word, literally tapping his head to shake it loose. “I know that word,” he says. “I just don’t know it now.”

Driving home from religion last week, he asked me,“Mom, you know that story about that person who visited the three sheppard children? I don’t remember who that person was.”

“You mean the Blessed Virgin? Mary?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

I wonder what he retains. What bits stay with him. Usually the things he shares with me are obscure, like the story of the Miracle of Fatima or the fact that subway trains are the lifeblood of the city—and he’ll use that word, lifeblood, as though it were a common word for six-year-olds.

The truth is, I don’t know how his brain works. I know that there are times when I think he is one of the wisest people I know, and there are times when he can’t tell me that 2 + 2 = 4. I lose a lot of sleep wondering what all this means. He’s already behind the curve, he isn’t reading. At least not consistently. Lately, that seems like our biggest challenge. Consistency—across the board.

When I think about Friday’s IEP meeting, the thing that unnerves me more than any other is that I wavered. I wavered in my belief and my faith in my son. I let myself question the big important stuff you are never supposed to question about your children—like is he smart? and, can he learn? It’s going to take me a long time to forgive myself for that.

The thing about these meetings, they are disheartening under the best of circumstances. And even when you get the outcome you were hoping for, it is never the outcome you want.

Delilah is wondering a thing or two about me. And though I hardly ever participate in these funny internet games anymore, yesterday’s quirky facts put me in a bit of a navel-gazing mood. This one’s made the rounds, so again, I’m not going to tap you on the shoulder and holler, “You’re it!” If you want to play along, please do. Meanwhile, I give you five things:

Five things found in my bag:

1. a handy dandy iPhone (which is so much more than 5 things in 1)
2. a wallet
3. keys
4. sunglasses
5. Burt’s Bees tinted lip balm

Five favorite things in my room:

1. my bed
2. a framed tissue paper rainbow made by my son in kindergarten
3. three windows that look out over the trees
4. a small Lalique vase with two lovebirds in flight
5. a cedar chest my father-in-law made for me by hand

Five things I have always wanted to do:

1. write a book
2. stop worrying
3. own a sailboat
4. be very skinny
5. go to India

Five things I am currently into:

1. writing a book
2. worrying
3. Roseanne Cash
4. painted fingernails (sorry Jordan…I changed my mind)
5. photography

And since the fifth category is to tag five people and I’m not going to do that, I’ll leave you with five lovely photos:

…to blog about this morning’s IEP meeting, except to say that it was not warm and fuzzy, but we did, in the end, get the services we were hoping for. Because I do not have the heart to process this ungodly process or to fathom how I ended the school day in a weepy sisterly embrace with my son’s classroom teacher in front of about 75 other parents and their kids, I will leave you, instead, to ponder this:

I have been asked to reveal six unspectacular quirks about myself by the lovely Sustenance Scout. You can read about her quirky self here, and the rules of the game here. I will likely break those rules by breaking the tag—if you want to play along, by all means join in. I’m just not going to tap you on the shoulder and say, “You’re it!”

1. I love light, fun, chick-flick movies (Princess Brides and Runaway Brides and Pretty Women) but I do not love chick-lit. I like my books to weigh me down and break my heart.
2. I have to push the shopping cart. I cannot shop, cannot think, cannot process what I need unless I am pushing the cart.
3. I am a huge fan of opera music, but I have never been to an opera.
4. I do not like it when the shoes match the bag.
5. I am afraid of train and subway platforms. And though I used to make a big show of standing too close to the edge, I have since come to realize that standing on the edge of anything is a bad idea.
6. I am never quirky—not even in a good or bad way—according to my husband.