Month: October 2015

Time Management and a Lack Thereof

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This evening we have a typical scenario.

Maddie has two things to do tonight before she goes to bed. Tomorrow I’m going to pick her up from school and drive her north to spend the night with her cousin. For several years they have been going to a special Halloween event in my sister’s neck of the woods. It’s always the Friday before Halloween, which is a bummer because Friday night traffic is a true horror show. But I’ll do it anyway. I have no idea how much time I’ll be spending in the car, but it’s for the benefit of two pretty fabulous girls, so I’m going to suck it up and do it. I’m going to take some backroads I haven’t taken before in order to avoid the inevitable multi-hour backup that’s especially bad at this time of year.

So I give her two things to do before her early bedtime: take a shower and pack up her stuff for the Halloween event and the sleepover. I inform her that I would not be reminding her constantly. If she wants me to spend half the day in the car driving her out of town and returning home (oh, yes, and doing the same thing the next day), she was going to have to have some initiative.

“I’m gonna go finish watching Batman Begins,” she pronounces enthusiastically after finishing her dinner.

“Well, you have those two things to do,” I remind her.

“But it’s Batman,” she emphasizes, with bulging eyes and a wide grin. How could I not share her passion?

“Well, how much of the movie is left?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long do you think it’ll take you to shower and pack?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I have no idea!” she insists, with a smile on her face in anticipation of her movie time.

“You’ll need to keep track of time. You need to watch the clock.”

“Well, that’s not gonna happen.” She’s probably right, but I would sure appreciate a different attitude. At least an “I’ll do my best!” But I guess at least she’s realistic.

“Maddie, you have to get those things done tonight, before bedtime, or I’m not driving you tomorrow.”

And here we are again. Oh, boy. The waves of regret are already crashing over me. I’m remembering the Giants’ game fiasco, in which I withheld a privilege and then it all came back to bite me in the butt, and what should have been a fabulous day turned into one of the worst experiences in recent memory.

This time, though, it should be more in my control. I mean the sticking to the consequences part. In no way am I in control of Maddie.

The problem with these consequences, as is often the case, is that if I don’t drive her to her cousin’s house, there’s going to be a very disappointed girl on the other end. I hate that part.

At 1 hour and 15 minutes before she is supposed to go to bed, I’m 100% certain she has done nothing. The problem is she has absolutely no clue how to keep track of time.

I was reminded of that this morning. As usual I woke Maddie up at 6:30. It’s still dark at that time. After a gentle wake-up, which this morning included puppy kisses, I hung out for a few minutes, then left to start the food-related tasks of the morning. I returned several times over the next 30 minutes, and at 7:00 I started to panic.

“It’s seven o’clock, Maddie. You really have to get up now,” I said.

“I will,” she replied, holding onto the blanket I was trying to remove. I stayed for a moment to ensure she was actually out of bed and getting dressed, and then I returned to the kitchen to finish my work.

The cab arrives daily at 7:15. At 7:12 I realized she still wasn’t upstairs, so I shoved her lunch and her water bottle into her backpack and ran downstairs. She was in the bathroom.

“Maddie! You have to leave in two minutes!” I said, knocking on the door.

“What?! Really?!” She opened the door, still in her underwear, her clothes and shoes still lying neatly on her bed.

And that might be the source of our morning issues. She just has no sense of time passing. She never has. When she was little, that came in handy (as it does with most little ones). If we were at the park, I could give a five-minute warning and then 30 seconds later announce it was time to go. The kids didn’t know the difference and that was fine.

Now, it’s not so fine. What do I do? I have tried Time-Timers, with red triangles that shrink as time passes, a nice visual representation of time. I could say, “You have to be ready in three songs.” I can give her the time every two minutes for a half hour. But it doesn’t matter. Time awareness, and so time management, just isn’t part of her makeup. I’m not sure she has completely internalized how long a minute actually is. 

She has no idea how long her math assignment might take, or how long it takes to drive somewhere, or how long she’s been in the shower. How do you plan your daily life when you can’t conceive of any of that? Or if you don’t really care? I think that’s the other part of the problem. Not interesting!

I go into her room again this evening to check on her progress.

“What time do you think it is?” I ask her.

“I don’t know. Seven o’clock?”

“Look at your clock.” It was 7:20. She had less than 40 minutes to finish packing and take a shower before my deadline. That sounds like plenty of time, but for her that’s a mad rush.

“Maddie, stop what you’re doing. Finish packing the things you absolutely need first. If you have time, you can move onto other stuff.” Packing for a trip to her cousin’s house typically includes a pillow case full of stuffed animals, some costume stuff, and maybe a game or two, in addition to the usual overnight stuff. I want her to leave all the optional stuff for the end. For her, though, it’s all the fun stuff that seems most important, so she usually packs that first. I suspect I’ll finish her other packing tomorrow, despite the rules I set down tonight.

And then, I see a light bulb over her head. “I need to do something really important!” She holds up one of her new gray plastic swords, which is partially colored in with black Sharpie. I can see what she means: she needs to finish coloring. “It might take quite a bit of time, though.” Finally, a clue about time.

Just as I feared. I had laid down some pretty clear expectations, but Maddie’s poor time planning has gotten in the way. AGAIN. What am I going to do now?

“How about if I just brush my hair and wash my underarms instead of taking a shower?” That’s a common substitute for her, but she’d already done that the night before. That long 15-year-old-girl hair is going to start getting nasty.

I stick to my guns…for a minute. It’s all I can do to muster up a “No. I told you what you had to do and you made the choice to watch the movie.”

I am having an internal battle. I really don’t want to take her trip away from her. Also, her intentions are pretty good, but she forgot something. Do I punish her for that? Ugh. I don’t know.

Last night I was half-watching an old episode of The Big Bang Theory. I love that show. I was pretty sure I’d seen all the episodes at least once, but apparently not. This episode focused on Sheldon’s lack of a driver’s license. In case you haven’t seen the show, Sheldon is a brilliant scientist who probably has Asperger’s (even though nobody ever says that). He doesn’t read people very well, he has a tough time with sarcasm, and he’s very regimented in everything he does. Because he didn’t have a driver’s license, he was expecting his friends to deliver him wherever he needed to go. His demands were very matter-of-fact, and his friends were losing their patience. Usually I find this show hilarious, but last night I was kind of sad watching it. Sheldon wasn’t doing anything on purpose. He really couldn’t help it. In the middle of the episode, his friends insisted he get his license, but it turned out he was a horrific driver. Back to his friends driving him everywhere. The bad news is many of his irritating behaviors are beyond his control. The good news is he still has friends.

So tonight I think of Sheldon. He can’t help that he doesn’t roll with change. He can’t help that driving isn’t going to be part of his life. Maddie can’t help that she’s terrible managing time. (She’ll likely never drive, either). I would certainly like her to try and improve, but maybe she never will. And I don’t want to make her feel like a failure because of her challenges.

While Maddie is showering, I have a great idea. You’re not going to believe this, but it involves duct tape. Why color a sword when you can just apply a couple strips of duct tape and call it good? I share my idea with Maddie. She says, “You’re a GENIUS.” Whoever would have thought I would solve Maddie’s problem…with duct tape?!

I let her stay up a bit longer to finish her swords. Once again, I give in to the situation. I don’t think of it as wimping out or giving up. I think of it as coming to grips with reality.

When I say goodnight to Maddie, we review the evening’s events. I am hoping something will land. I point out that she had made choices that made things difficult. “I know. I’m so stupid.” Well, that’s not what I want her to think about herself. At all. I just want her to learn the things that don’t come so easily, like time management.

And in the end, I realize tonight is not the night that is going to happen. I’m not sure when it’s going to happen. Or if. But I do know these ultimatums aren’t having the intended results.

This is such a journey. Every day I learn something. Maybe about myself. Maybe about Maddie. Maybe about parenting. Maybe about life. The key is being open to the lessons, being willing to redirect, to change course, to admit I’m wrong, to try something else and hope it works. And not be discouraged if it doesn’t.

I’m working on that.

She Who Can, Crafts. She Who Can’t Craft…Really Really Can’t

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Halloween is coming up and Maddie is prepared. Or preparing, anyway. For a kid who loves superheroes and animated characters more than anything, and who makes duct tape swords in her spare time, a special day designated to the imagination and dressing up is maybe better than Christmas.

I have to confess, I’m not sure what her costume is this year. It’s some character from Bleach, the complex anime show she knows in extraordinary detail (which she is happy to share with you whether you like it or not).

Last week she wanted to go to the Halloween spirit store, to which I reluctantly drove her one evening. I sat in the car and she went in with her debit card and bought some stuff, including, you guessed it, a couple of plastic swords. As if she doesn’t have enough.

She has also created a mask of some sort and asked my mom for some sewing help. She doesn’t even ask me anymore. That’s probably because of the costume incident of sixth grade. Suffice it to say sewing hates me as least as much as I hate it. Sewing, in this case, apparently includes using scissors.

The public middle school used to hire a lively, gifted, inspiring woman to lead the kids in an entertaining and educational event called “A Trip Through the Ancient World” or something like that. Kids spent weeks learning all about ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome. Each kid was assigned a historical figure, and they were to memorize a brief biography of that character and, on the day of the big event, dress as that character.

I can’t tell you how much my heart just sinks whenever a craft-related assignment comes home that requires parental help. I didn’t want to spend a fortune buying a costume, either. So I had to come up with something. And fast.

Luckily for me, her character was a Hebrew slave, so her clothes didn’t have to look particularly good or at all fancy. Still, I called my very creative friend in a panic, asking what to do.

“Just buy a piece of fabric, fold it over, cut a whole for the head and sew up the sides.”

“I don’t have a sewing machine. Anyway, I can’t sew.”

“Maybe you could just buy some kind of rope and tie it around her waist.”

Now that’s a project I can get behind, except for the part about going to the fabric/craft store. Nothing like stepping into JoAnn Fabrics to give me a panic attack. I hate it that much. But as a mom, you gotta do what you gotta do.

So I mustered up my courage and drove to the store, ready to get that brown fabric and a rope tie. That was literally all I had to buy. So I found the fabric that looked kind of right, some kind of brown muslin (my mom sewed a lot when I was a kid, so I do know a little about fabric). And for some reason I picked up a smaller piece of muslin in a natural color. I have no idea why I did that, but it ended up becoming integral to the success of the costume. (I use the term “success” loosely, as you will see.)

All I had to do was cut a hole in the middle of the brown fabric so Maddie could stick her head through. Then I would tie the rope around her waist to hold the fabric against her body. Right on! Ancient slave clothes are so easy!

Being the crafty genius that I am, I folded the fabric into quarters so I didn’t have to cut a whole circle. I would just have to cut a quarter circle, open the fabric, and voila! Circle! After I did that, I opened the fabric up to admire my work, and there it was: a GIGANTIC hole that would fit completely over Maddie’s little shoulders, and the whole thing would fall right to the ground. You have got to be kidding me, I said to myself. You can’t even cut a circle right!

It was the night before the event, so there was no time to get more fabric. Luckily I still had an option. That’s where the second piece of muslin came into play. I carefully cut a more appropriately-sized hole, but that fabric on its own was too small for a whole costume, so now I had to actually sew the brown fabric over the lighter fabric so it would both stay on her body and be long enough to work. I was pretty irritated at myself, but I got out my needle and thread (I have had the same sewing kit my entire adult life) and began to sew those pieces together. They stayed okay, but I would say an untrained monkey would have done a nicer job. There were random stitches placed haphazardly on both shoulders. Thank goodness for brown thread on brown fabric, is all I can say.

Fortunately, Maddie didn’t care at all. I am so grateful for that kid sometimes. She could have been irritated or disappointed or embarrassed, but she was not only fine with the final outcome, she was grateful! I sent her off to school with her pathetic excuse for a costume, and she was happy.

I showed up at school along with a few parents to watch this play/game show. Among the beautifully adorned princesses was my shabbily dressed Hebrew slave. Perfect, really, although I have no doubt that anybody from that period would have taken more pride in their craftsmanship than I had. Oh, well. I guess I have other gifts.

Fortunately, the costume wasn’t that meaningful in the end, except that somebody without any costume at all would have stood out. My crappy creation seemed to go unnoticed. I told my friend Laura my story and we both had a good laugh. I may not be crafty, but I can recognize the humor in almost any situation. I really thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Years later, when Maddie is concocting her complicated costumes–for Halloween or Comi-con or just everyday dress up–I am NOT the person she consults. She knows better. If there’s sewing involved, she most certainly doesn’t ask me. At best, I’ll say no. At worst, well…

So this year’s costume, the anime character, is almost done. Maddie came up with the plan and did most of the work. My mom did a little problem-solving and sewing. There is one small task left to do, but I don’t even know what it is because my mom bypassed me and went directly to my husband for this little tidbit. Sometimes being left out is a good thing. For us all.

I’m pretty sure that final job, whatever it is, will complete the costume. What I’ve seen so far is amazing. Maddie really took her time to conceive of and execute this thing. Apparently that gene skipped me.

What I love about Maddie (among a gazillion other things) is not only how much she enjoys the process of making things, but the pride she has once she’s done. She would gladly don her costume for anybody who happens to stop by. She will pose with full dramatic effect. You can take as many pictures of her as you like.

Tomorrow, the day before Halloween, some of her friends are wearing costumes to school. She’s probably leading the effort. I’m pretty sure that even if nobody else was participating, Maddie would still pack up her costume (swords included) and wear it all day long. And she would feel awesome.

So here are today’s life lessons:

I can’t sew, and that’s OK.

Be grateful for your grateful, fearless, creative kid.

Be willing and able to laugh at yourself. Life is so much better that way. 

Today I Chose to Be Happy

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Today Maddie wouldn’t go to school. And this time I didn’t care. I really didn’t.

Well, at first I was kind of miffed, and then I decided to let it go. It’s amazing what letting things go can do for you!

I was in a good mood all day. I wasn’t mad at Maddie. She wasn’t mad at me. I wasn’t mad at myself.

Maddie even did all the things I asked of her with little prodding. She did her homework while I was out, made herself dinner, and took a shower on her own. She even remembered to brush her hair afterwards. That’s new!

I played a card game with my kids tonight. We hugged and laughed and were happy together. I enjoyed my children. Isn’t that nice?

Tomorrow is likely to be fine in the school department. It’ll be Wednesday, so Maddie has something to look forward to. I expect a relatively easy (for us, anyway) morning.

It’s one of those times that I feel good about my parenting. I definitely had a choice to make this morning. I could have pushed Maddie to go to school, an effort that most likely would have been futile. And I would have ended up frustrated and angry and exhausted and stressed out. But I chose the zen approach–go with the flow. And guess what! It turns out the flow is kind of pleasant.

And really that’s not a surprise. I’m generally a go-with-the-flow kind of person. I often say I’m flexible to a fault. But when it comes to parenting, there are times when you have to stick to your guns. It’s harder than giving in, but it must be done.

On the other hand, sometimes it’s okay to give in. Not just okay, but the right thing to do. I wasn’t giving in to Maddie, though. I was giving in to the situation. Giving over to my life as it is. Accepting things, really.

And it was liberating.

Life Lesson #27, I guess.

My Life, The Roller Coaster Ride

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Whenever I hear the phrase “roller coaster ride,” I typically think of the highs and lows it represents. True, a thrilling roller coaster has its ups and downs, usually fraught with some amount of excitement and unpredictability (or even harrowing predictability), but a good one also has some twists and turns. Parts are fun, parts are exciting, and some parts make you wish you could just get off that thing. Like, now.

Such is today.

Last week I was tickled pink by the discovery that Maddie apparently has straight A’s. Woohoo! A thrilling surprise!

And today we are back in the “my kid won’t get out of bed” portion of the ride. Oh, boy, my favorite! This, I suppose, feels more like that slow climb at the beginning of a roller coaster, which I’ve always found uncomfortable. Something else is coming, whether exciting or terrifying, but it’s something. This part is the drudgery.

Or maybe it’s like the entirety of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, which basically just makes my neck hurt. Too much jerking around. I have spent an awful lot of time at the chiropractor lately.

Today Maddie announced she doesn’t get enough sleep. Well, that is not at all true. She is 15 years old and we make her go to bed between 8:00 and 8:30. I wake her up at 6:30. So she’s getting in the neighborhood of 10 hours of sleep. Maybe nine and a half. But I get it. When my alarm goes off each day, it sends a wave of despair throughout my body. Ugh. Not only is it dark, but my first order of business is the most important and typically the most challenging. It’s not a great way to start the day. Dark in a couple ways, I guess.

This morning Maddie needed a few extra minutes for her morning routine. She didn’t shower last night, as scheduled, so in lieu of a shower she was supposed to spend a few minutes this morning doing some cleanup. You know, because of the smell. When I made this pronouncement last night, I wasn’t optimistic. She’s usually shoving a few bites of breakfast in her mouth when the cab pulls up in the morning, and I’m lifting her backpack onto her back and putting her sweatshirt in her hand while escorting her to the door. “Have fun! I love you!” I say, trying to be calm and encouraging. I really want to say, with my hands in fists and my jaw clenched, “Get your ass up there, Maddie!” but I don’t talk to her like that.

So this morning, she is lying in bed. Not moving. Not talking. Nothing. Finally, she says, “I need more sleep.” Finally. Words. 

I give in a little. I see the writing on the wall. Or some of it anyway. So I call the transportation guy and let him know the cab doesn’t need to make a stop here this morning, but Maddie will need a ride home. Oh, I am so hilarious! I am still thinking she’s going to school.

The problem is, I have things to do today. I have to be home by 9:30 to receive a furniture delivery. And then I have other plans. It is not workable for me to spend the 45-60 minutes driving her to school whenever she feels like it. Nor do I think that’s reasonable.

“You can sleep for an hour,” I tell her, “and then I have to drive you to school because I need to be home.”

“That’s not enough sleep,” she says.

“How much do you need? What time are you thinking?” I ask. Reality is beginning to sink in. She doesn’t answer.

“You’re not planning to go to school at all, are you?”

“No, not really.”

Well, at least I have an answer. I can stop the negotiating and finagling, but I’m very unhappy with the situation. It’s Tuesday. She doesn’t like Tuesdays, we have established. Well, now neither do I.

This makes me think of the very first time we took the kids to Disneyland. She was four, and my son was 2. It had been more than 20 years since my last visit. I was so happy! We entered the park, and in a fit of nostalgia, headed straight to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. It’s slow and easy, but it’s dark in there. I had forgotten, also, about two small drops in the beginning of the ride. It’s so dark that they come as a surprise. After the first one, little Maddie said, in her deadpan delivery, “Oh. This isn’t good.”

No, it’s not good, but there we are, stuck on the ride, whether it’s good or not.

I turn off her light and exit the room. I’m trying to take some deep breaths and let it go. I feel the tension in my neck and, I swear, in my brain. I’m stretching and breathing. Whatever part of the ride this is, I hate it. It’s that one upside-down twist too many.

Actually it reminds me of a ride called the Hammerhead Shark at Discovery Kingdom in Vallejo. You just swing up one way and hang there for what feels like an eternity. Then you swing down the other way, and up again for another seventeen hours. The one and only time I rode that thing, I actually feared for my life. I wasn’t entirely convinced the bars that were clamped in front of me would continue to hold me, and then I’d fall face first into the ground. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. Luckily, I never ever have to get on that thing again.

I wouldn’t say that Maddie’s refusal to go to school feels especially dangerous, but it’s symbolic of the struggle we face, and of the uncertainty that comes with it. Also the lack of control I feel over the circumstances. Just as gravity would have taken over had the ride’s safety measures failed, so does, perhaps, the Asperger’s. I have no control over this situation. I want to have at least some feeling of control. But today I don’t. I don’t even seem to have any influence.

Then again, Maddie does have straight A’s (at least for the moment). Maybe an occasional day off isn’t the worst thing in the world. This is so confusing.

Today I’d like to stick to the carousel. It’s relaxing. It’s predictable. Pretty much anybody can enjoy it. Usually there are music and pretty colors, too! That sounds so pleasant. The ups and downs are really small, barely perceptible. Everybody’s smiling! It gradually slows down–no starts and stops, no jerks or squeaky breaks–and then everyone has plenty of time to get off. Or if you want, you can just stay put and ride it again.

I’m starting to relax. I’m heading toward acceptance. This is what today is. It just is. Whatever comes my way–and I realize nobody ever knows what’s coming–I will nod my head and think, bring it on. I can do this.

I can take the slow ride up and the fast ride down, the loops and twists and the hang-upside-downs. Eventually it will slow down. Eventually I will get off. And then I will get on another ride. And that’s okay. I might not enjoy an awful lot of it, but I will be alright.

Years ago, on that girls-only trip to Disneyland, we went (finally!) on California Screaming in California Adventure Park. That is an AWESOME roller coaster. Just the perfect blend of excitement and fun. Maddie screamed the entire time. I couldn’t see her face, so I became unsure of the intent behind her screams.

Finally I asked, “Are you OK?”

“I’M GREAT!” she yelled. She was taking in every curve and drop of that ride and living it to its fullest.

Maybe, like Maddie, I should scream just for the fun of it. I can’t get off this ride, but I can make the most of it! Or at least I can try.

Life Lesson #26

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I don’t really have a list, but I’m sure I’ve learned at least 26 things about life, so I’m going with that.

As a child I was painfully shy. I was terribly afraid of being called on in class, so I would sit there with my face burning in fear when the teacher asked a question, despite usually knowing the answer. For some reason, even though I was an excellent student, I was petrified I would be wrong and then be embarrassed to death. I really must have thought embarrassment was deadly based on the terror the possibility induced.

In fourth grade, my worst fears came true. Well, I obviously I didn’t die, but I was called on to answer a math question, and despite always have been a math superstar (at that point anyway…then eventually there was calculus), the answer I provided was WRONG. After that public humiliation, I was further embarrassed when my teacher called me to his desk at the end of class to give me ADDITIONAL problems to do so I could learn the subject matter. Well, I did know the subject matter. I had just made a mistake. And now I was paying for it. I was mortified.

I never really like that teacher, Mr. L. I thought he was weird. And then I thought he was lame because of that incident. Obviously it was traumatic, since 39 years later I still feel the burning sense of humiliation it brought on.

That humiliating incident was only matched that year by the time I barfed in front of all the first, second and third graders who were lining up at the end of recess. I had hit my funny bone SO hard that the blood rushed out of my head. My elbow hurt and my face went white, so the teacher had a classmate accompany me to the nurse’s office. I didn’t quite make it there before my now infamous vaso-vegal (fight or flight) reflex kicked in, and I lost my lunch for all to see. I bent over and hurled in perfect view of them all.

It was embarrassing, but I guess at least I didn’t think I looked stupid.

Over time I lost my shyness. I don’t think there was a magic moment when that happened. I was still pretty shy as a college student, quietly doing my work and occasionally setting the curve on a test. The teachers might not have known my face, but they knew my name. I did my work anonymously. It was easier that way. I guess it was preferable to be stupid in private than smart in public, so I chose to be quiet.

Especially in a class like Econ 101, where the professor was notoriously out for blood. He gleefully called on random students in his class of 700 or more: “You, in the Cuervo tee shirt!” he would bellow and point. We all learned to wear clothes that were as nondescript as possible, hoping that our shirts would defy description and thus make us more challenging marks for him. I sat low in my chair, fearful of the words, “You, Blondie, slouching back there!” But this time it was because I didn’t know the answers. I hated economics from the first day of class, when the professor announced, “Economic theory is based on the premise that humans act rationally. But people are not rational,” and then he proceeded to explain to us basic economics theories, expecting us to accept their validity. Plus he was kind of a pompous jerk. So I didn’t especially enjoy or engage in the subject matter. I also didn’t necessarily (gasp!) do the reading before class. So a “Hey, Blondie” would have been like fourth grade all over again.

Something about having kids is so humbling, though, that the whole idea of being embarrassed has mostly disappeared.

Have you ever heard of a book called something like, “I Was an Awesome Parent…Until I Had Kids”? I can’t remember the exact name of the book, but I have said the same thing so many times. I can remember seeing a tantrum-throwing kid and thinking, Well, clearly it’s the parents’ fault.

Then I had a kid who screamed instead of talking, and another kid who threw tantrums. Never in my life have I felt so humbled. Well, actually, I have lots of times over my parenting career. You try your best and then…well, whatever.

Several years ago I began a 6-year stint as co-chair of the annual book fair for our elementary school. The first year I was definitely in learning mode, doing an awful lot of observation and grunt work. I had never even been to a book fair before, I so figured I’d just watch the action and be a worker bee.

The next year we changed vendors, and although our new vendor was better in almost every way, they did not provide any marketing materials. I had made a number of flyers over the years, so I volunteered to make banners and flyers to send home. I do not know how to use any special layout programs. I can’t create a logo. My skills are limited for sure. I know what looks good, though, so I thought I could do an acceptable job.

Then the banners for the big fundraising auction went up, about a month before mine were to appear. The woman who made those for years is a professional graphic artist, and it showed. Mine would look amateurish by comparison. I was stressed out, worried about the potential for judgment.

And then, I thought, what on earth am I worried about? This is a school fundraiser! Nobody cares. In the old days, or at other schools nowadays, people probably still paint words on a long piece of paper. What am I worried about?

Sure enough, my banners went up, and they were fine. I did a pretty good job. Good enough, anyway. People came to the book fair and we sold books. Imagine that! Even though I am not a graphic designer, we sold books!

I am 48 years old, and although I’m not fully over it, for the most part I don’t get embarrassed and I mostly don’t care what people think. Part of that is aging. Part of that is parenting.

When you have a child, suddenly you become acutely aware of how much you don’t know. Most of the time, parenting is a giant experiment. You try stuff, and you see if it works or if it doesn’t. If you’re afraid of being wrong, you will have a very big problem because most of the time, you’re not going to feel right, that’s for sure. And that is humbling.

It’s also good practice. You get used to being wrong, or feeling stupid, or whatever, and you then you realize everything is okay. Or, as my selfless friend will say after reluctantly buying herself a pair of shoes, nothing bad happened. It’s all okay!

But a big part of overcoming the fear of embarrassment has been the experience of being the mother of Maddie. She teaches me by example. She is so fully herself and wouldn’t know how to be anybody else. She will raise her hand and say what she has to say, outcome be damned. She will bring her swords to school. She will wear that fingerless glove on one hand if she’s the only person on earth to think it’s cool.

She has also taught me by being my daughter. Having a special needs child just flips all your ideas on their heads. All your ideas about what’s cool and what’s acceptable and what’s embarrassing and what’s awesome.  All your ideas, mostly, about what’s important.

Is it important to be smarter and righter and cooler than somebody else? Uh, nope. If you’re wrong in public, does it matter? Nope. Will anybody think less of you if you are? Probably not, but if so, who cares? Do you need to be thinner and prettier? Have the smartest kids? Not stick your foot in your mouth? Nope nope nope.

I think one of the greatest skills I have developed over the years is the ability to laugh at myself. That’s especially helpful if you’re the kind of person who seems to be serially injured because of your own foibles. Do you run into the back of the car and give yourself a concussion? Drop a table on your foot and rip off your toenail? Break a finger shutting the door? Break a toe, twice, by stubbing it too hard? If so, do you feel kind of stupid? I have done all those things, and I just roll with it. Am I clumsy? Yup. Does anybody care? Nope. As long as I don’t mortally wound myself or somebody else, everything will be okay.

I’m clumsy, I’m wrong sometimes, I forget things, I goof up regularly, my house is messy.

Oh, well! I’m happy. I’m happy with life and I’m happy with myself.

Progress Report

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach4 Comments

I find myself often out of the loop on things. Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that it’s my own doing. I must not pay attention to some of the information coming my way.

For example, on the last day of school when Maddie was in first grade, I was sitting at home while my son napped, watching the clock and waiting for the right moment to wake him up so we could pick Maddie up for the last time that year.

At 1:00 p.m. the phone rang. It was Maddie’s teacher.

“Did you know that school got out at 12:30?” she asked.

And my reaction was one of utter and complete surprise. I didn’t think “Oh, right! I forgot!” I thought, “Well, that’s news to me!” Apparently it was not news to a single other parent at that school. I imagine that little tidbit of information had been delivered to me via emails and handouts, but somehow or other I never received it. Or my brain never processed it.

It’s now two months into the school year, and I was thinking the other night about how, apparently, there is some way to log on to the school website and view your student’s grades. I wasn’t sure how that was done, at all. I’m not sure that I have ever seen any information about this account, but I had heard rumors.

Luckily, it turned out I had set up the account when I registered Maddie for school, so I was able to log on pretty quickly once I decided to do it. Phew! That was easy.

And then, to my amazement, I saw it. A list of her classes on the left, and a column of A’s to the right. Not even an A minus. A, A, A, A, A, A, A, A, A. Or however many there were. A couple of comments, too: “A pleasure to have in class.” “Does excellent work.”

Okay, I knew she was probably a pleasure to have in class, but the rest of it just blew my mind. So much so that I literally couldn’t believe it.

So I texted my friend Laura, who knows things. She is one of the people I call to get the straight story. Or advice.

“Do you know if the grade defaults to an A if the teacher hasn’t entered it yet?” was my question. She was embarrassed to say she didn’t know. Of course she didn’t know. Why would anybody even think that? What parent would look at this fabulous report card, and think, This must be a mistake?

Well, I would think that because in all of Maddie’s 10 1/2 years of school, she has never gotten straight A’s. As you must know by now, she has the intellectual capability to do that, she just has other challenges (like ADD and a general lack of motivation) that have gotten in her way. I’ve never even made a big deal about grades because that’s always been a secondary (or even tertiary) issue with her. My first order of business is to get her to school, and if she goes, well, let the chips fall where they may, I guess.

My son’s progress report came in the mail the next day. So I knew it was time for mid-term grades. I called another friend. “Did you get your daughter’s progress report grades?” I asked. “Well, it IS time for them,” she answered.

I thought about it some more. Obviously there had been direct input into the system, or there wouldn’t have been comments.

So here we are. So far, in Maddie’s first year at a public high school, where she is taking geometry and science in the regular classes, she is acing it.

“Maddie, I just looked up your grades online. It looks like you have all A’s. Is that possible?” I asked.

“Yep,” she shrugged. No big deal, apparently.

The day before I had looked up Maddie’s grades, there was a shortened school day to accommodate the special PSAT that was being offered to sophomores. Maddie was not signed up. Once again, I didn’t even know about it. I’m not sure if that was my oversight, or if we were not included because of Maddie’s special ed status. I couldn’t say whether or not I would have signed her up–I was thinking probably not–but I wished I’d had the choice.

I feel so un-anchored when it comes to Maddie’s future. While everybody else is talking about college, my picture of Maddie after high school is so murky. She has the brains to go to college, but does she have the motivation and self-discipline? Can she get enough help in that regard? Before the progress report, I was so skeptical about the likelihood of her going to college.

Now I don’t know what to think! She spends very little time at home doing school work, but she is clearly making the most of her time at school, and she hasn’t actually studied anything in her life but manages to ace tests anyway.

Next year I will have her take the PSAT. She usually does well on standardized tests. So she might as well try.

Because with this kid, there are plenty of surprises. I don’t know (or particularly care) what she’s going to do with herself, but I want her to have every opportunity to make choices. I don’t want to underestimate her. I also don’t want to expect so much that I set her up for failure. So I guess my challenge is to put expectations aside, and just support Maddie in her endeavors. Give her opportunities, and see what happens.

For who knows what tomorrow will bring?

The Comparison Trap

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Recently I learned of another blog by the mother of not one, but two autistic children. I believe they are both in the Asperger’s realm. The particular entry I came upon addressed the problem of comparing our children with others.

My first reaction was, “Oh, no! This blog is better than mine!”

Ironic, no?

Once I got over the ideas that (1) it’s not surprising that I’m not the best blogger in the universe, (2) I might learn something from this woman, and (3) she is right, I began to percolate on the original premise: Comparing our kids is counterproductive.

And this doesn’t apply only to those of us with special needs kids. Nor does it apply only to our kids or our parenting. Comparing is a bumpy road fraught with dangerous pitfalls, but it sure is an easy path to embark upon for some reason. Human nature, I guess. And, I suppose, American culture, which puts the utmost emphasis on working and achieving.

“What do you do?” Isn’t that the question everybody asks when shaking the hand of a new acquaintance? I dumped that question a long time ago, preferring to get to that topic down the road a bit. But I have to admit, it IS still the first thing that crosses my mind. I just made a conscious choice to stifle it. But I practically have to stuff a sock in my mouth to suppress the urge.

I don’t know about you, but where I live (and, since many of you are my friends, where you live too), kids are always doing, doing, doing. They’re playing competitive soccer, taking voice lessons, learning Spanish on the side, going to a math tutor not to stay caught up, but to get ahead. It’s a constant state of go. Who you are is largely defined by what you do.

So when you have a kid who’s behind everyone else in many ways, who’d rather sit around and play Minecraft with her online friends, whose only sport developed in middle school in the form of lunchtime basketball (defense only! no shooting!), who is bright but doesn’t especially care about school, who isn’t likely headed to Cal or Stanford and maybe not college at all, how do you define your child? How do you rank your parenting?

It’s really quite simple. You don’t define or rank or compare. You appreciate your children for their unique attributes. You guide your children toward kindness and compassion above all else. You allow your kids to flourish in whatever way they wish, whether it’s on the field, in the classroom, or in a sea of specialty duct tape.

If I were to define Maddie, it would be by her kindhearted nature, her ability to approach anybody with full confidence and no fear, her intense interests, her compassion. What is Maddie? She’s not an athlete, a scholar, an artist. She’s a wonderful human being, that’s what she is. What she chooses to do in her spare time now, and whatever she chooses to do with herself in the future, she will still be a wonderful human being. She will be a wonderful human being who happens to garden, or teach, or write, or do research. She is a person who is, and happens to do.

I can say that now because even thought it’s simple to make this choice, simple doesn’t always mean easy.

It was especially challenging not to compare Maddie to the other kids when she was young. My mothers’ group got together weekly, beginning when Maddie was about six weeks old, and within a few months it became clear that other kids were following the anticipated milestone schedule and she just wasn’t. I wasn’t alarmed at all, but it wasn’t super fun to participate in the conversations about all the cute things the other babies were saying while Maddie was only screaming. The others were sitting up or crawling, and Maddie was toppling over, blank-faced. I would joke about it, as is my way, but it didn’t feel very good to be left out of that conversation in a meaningful way.

I still suffer from that feeling of isolation in a way, often because of the comparison trap. I’ve written about this before: When everybody is talking about what’s going on at our local high school, or the dating thing, or the sports teams their kids are on, and (soon, I’m sure) where everybody will be applying to college, I can’t help but think to myself, Maddie is different, and feel a little sad about it. Sad for myself, I guess, because I’m missing out on certain aspects of life with her, and sad about how disconnected I feel in that moment. When the conversation begins to veer into that territory, and all the women begin contributing enthusiastically, I envision myself shrinking away from them all. That’s how it feels. And it’s all because in my head, I’m comparing our experiences, comparing our children. My child is different. My experience is different. And for a moment that difference is painful.

But that’s my own problem.

And I know it’s my problem because I have another kid with whom my parenting experience is quite the opposite. He was exceedingly verbal at a young age, and he walked before he was 11 months old. He has played on a few sports teams and done fine, although he is not a committed athlete. He’d rather bike around with his friends and play pick-up games of soccer and basketball. He’s very organized, self-motivated, and bright. He once got a perfect math score on the annual achievement test, something I ended up being kind of bummed about because from then on he would always expect himself to live up to that achievement, and be disappointed in his performance even if he only missed a single question. And that has been his experience. He also was the last third-grader standing in the annual school spelling bee, just short of making the next round.

So even though he doesn’t play competitive sports and he only took drum lessons for a year, he’s an achiever. And sometimes I get caught up in that. When he quit playing soccer the first time around and gave up on drum lessons, I was disappointed and maybe even a little worried. Would he ever stick with anything? Why didn’t he want to play soccer and play an instrument, when all his friends are athletes and/or musicians? When he signed up for Little League for the first time at the age of 10, it felt like a lost cause because all the other boys had been playing since t-ball days. He was so far behind! How could he compete?

That first season had a rough beginning to be sure, but it reminded me of something very important, that who he is, is more important than what he does. He didn’t get a single hit until the last game of the season (mainly because he wasn’t swinging), but he kept on trying. He was a good sport. He made friends. He had grit. He had a good time and was willing to learn. The coaches liked his attitude. It wasn’t about his achievement–or lack thereof–but the kind of person he was and is becoming through all of these experiences.

And the same goes for me as a parent. There are so many occasions when I feel like a failure. I have met other parents along the way who chart like there’s no tomorrow, who work for hours each day with their young children doing the prescribed OT exercises that I was too tired to do, who religiously work new foods into their choosy kid’s repertoire, and whose kids are organized, well-behaved, and well-dressed because of those efforts. Do I do what they do? And do my kids measure up, and if not, is it my fault?

In the immortal words of Maddie, who cares?

My adult life, my parenting experience, is also a journey during which I am still becoming. I’m changing and evolving and learning and growing. I am figuring out what’s important to me. I’m discovering my own gifts, and dismissing, over time, an ideal that isn’t worth pursuing.

I, too, was an achiever as a child. What I accomplished was important to me.

But having any child, and most especially a special needs child, turns that idea upside down because you suddenly have so little control over anything quantifiable. How do you judge your achievement as a parent? How do you know if you’ve done well when you aren’t so focused on the doing, but rather on the being?

I guess that’s the good news: You really can’t measure that. So I stop. I stop worrying about what the other kids are doing, what the other parents are doing and how they’re doing it. Or at least I try. I am striving to be a better person, to focus on what matters, to be an example to my kids. I hope I am teaching them kindness and compassion, both for themselves and others. I hope I am showing them how to be a devoted and generous friend. I hope they are learning that who they are matters more than what they do. Actually, I think I’ve been learning that from Maddie all along.

Why I Love Weekends

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This seems like kind of a stupid topic. I mean, everybody loves the weekend. Don’t some of us live for it? No school, no work. Time to sleep in, get some rest, maybe catch a ball game or a movie, spend time with your kids, go on a date with your spouse, clean out the garage, whatever! All the things you want to do during the week but don’t have time for.

I love all that stuff, but the best part for me is not having to get mad at or frustrated with Maddie. I’m sure I’ve said this before, but she’s a really lovely person. She’s happy, fun, optimistic, engaging, and sweet. There is none of the typical teenage angst so many of my friends talk about these days. No drama for the sake of drama, no slamming doors, no “I hate you, Mom!”

The hard part with Maddie is getting her to do something she doesn’t want to do. That’s really the most pressing problem with her. What I dislike most about weekdays is the proportion of time I spend in conflict with her. I don’t want arguing over what she’s supposed to be doing–and her refusing to do it–to be the primary way in which we relate to each other.

So on the weekends, I just let her be for the most part. There might be homework and most certainly a shower, and I might have to fight her over those, but at least the sense of urgency isn’t there as long as we don’t wait until Sunday night to address them. Then she’s happy as can be, and so am I. It is so relaxing to wake up in the morning without dread about the day to come.

A few years ago, my son had been talking for some time about making a trip to Washington, DC. I don’t know why an eight-year-old boy would choose a historical, educational sight-seeing trip for a vacation spot, but he did. And this wasn’t a trip that Maddie would have found remotely interesting. A whole lot of walking around museums and historical sights, forget it! She likes Disneyland.

So we decided to split up for spring break. The guys went to DC and Maddie and I went to Disneyland for what ended up being some of the best five days of my life.

We had five days with no agenda except for whatever Maddie wanted to do. I didn’t care what time we got up, how long we spent in the park, what time we came back, which rides we went on and how many times. And with no other kid involved, there really was no negotiation of any kind required. It was all about Maddie. And it was GREAT. I got to enjoy all the wonderful aspects of my child without a single issue. Not one.

And one of the wonderful aspects of Maddie is she knows how to have a good time. It’s kind of hard not to have a good time at Disneyland, but there she is in her element.

We went to Disneyland a number of times when the kids were little. The last time we all went as a family, the kids were six and eight and it was kind of a disaster. It was February, and it was cold and pouring down rain, for one thing. It’s never cold and rainy in Southern California, is it? Well, it was. Just for that week.

And our son had the flu.

And, it turns out, he really doesn’t like rides. When he was really young and only able to go on the kiddie rides, it was great. But then he got to the age where the kiddie rides are lame and anything else is too scary. So amusement parks are out.

Back then we would stay in the Grand Californian, a bit of a splurge but the perfect place to stay when nap times are required because it’s actually connected to California Adventure Park. But this time, with just two of us, when I went to make the reservation, the cost seemed unjustified, so I settled on a nearby hotel called the Candy Cane Inn. It’s charming but very plain. Clean and uncluttered. No frills but perfectly comfortable.

And naturally, they have bowls of candy canes sitting around for their patrons. Those tiny ones that come in a long strip, all held together by the packaging. Maddie decided she ought to share them with the other kids at Disneyland, so the first morning she loaded up her pockets with tiny candy canes, and we headed to the park.

People are funny. There was Maddie, an 11-year-old girl in goofy clothes and glasses, offering candy canes to random kids she saw. She would bend down to their level, reach into her pocket, and sweetly offer the candy. The kids were mostly excited, and some parents were grateful if not a bit confused, but others looked suspicious and walked away. Maddie’s spirit was undeterred. She found so much joy in handing out the candy canes she’d swiped from the hotel lobby. And in the spirit of the trip, I just let her do it. I just stood back and watched my wonderful kid being her wonderful self without restriction.

We also enjoyed a lot of churros. Disneyland has the best churros.

And so, this weekend, a three-day one this time, I am content to let my kid be her awesome kid self. She can make duct tape swords, or work on her Halloween costume, or watch anime, or play Minecraft, or whatever. It would probably serve her well if I made her do some chores or something. I might ask her to unload the dishwasher later. She doesn’t mind that too much. But for now I am going to enjoy the days when I don’t have to freak out in the morning over a late rise, or a refusal to get up, or, if I’m really lucky, the mad dash to meet the cab.

I hug her a lot and tell her how awesome she is. I throw that word awesome around pretty loosely, having grown up in the 80s and gone to college among a lot of surfers, but “awesome” really fits here. She does inspire awe with her optimistic and generous spirit and her good nature. Everyone should be so lucky to know, and be in awe of, somebody like Maddie.

She Remembers

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

One of Maddie’s gifts is her nearly infallible memory. It was evident when she was a toddler and would wipe the floor with me playing that game where you turn over cards to find matches. I never beat her, not once. Occasionally I would come close to a tie, but mostly the scores would be so lopsided it was ridiculous. Thirty-two pairs to four, perhaps. And I was trying! I really was!

And then there was the USA map puzzle, which she mastered before she could really talk.

When we were in the car, she would recognize the neighborhood we were in. “Lily’s house!” she would shout, even though were a couple streets away. She was only two.

This weekend I decided to bite the bullet and drive her to my sister’s house. I love being there, and I’m so happy to get the cousins/best friends together, but traffic can be a bear. A 45-minute drive might be twice that. Each way. You never know. Sure enough, about half way there, traffic came to a dead stop.

“I know Grammy takes a different way sometimes, but I don’t know the way,” I thought aloud.

“Take San Antonio Road,” said Maddie. “It’s by the dump. You’ll be on a road parallel to the freeway for a few miles and then get back on.”

“That’s what Grammy does?” I asked.

“Well, she did it once.”

“How do you remember that, Maddie?” I asked in amazement. “Most people wouldn’t even notice.”

“Well, other people aren’t as curious as I am,” she said.

So true. She’s remarkably observant, and those observations permanently reside in that brain of hers. It’s astonishing.

She continued giving me back-street directions. If only she could drive, she would know her way around two counties. Maybe someday.

Recently she had a science test. Her teacher had sent out an email to all the parents, letting us know that he had provided a 3X5 card to each student on which they could take notes for the upcoming test. I asked Maddie if she needed help preparing her notes.

“I’m not doing that,” she replied. “I don’t need to.”

“Well, Maddie, as you get further along in school, there will be more and more information and it’ll become increasingly complicated. I think you should do it.”

“I’ll remember. I’m not doing it.”

The conversation fizzled out, and in my usual way, I forgot about it. A few days later, I remembered, but it was too late for the test.

“How did your science test go?” I asked.

“Fine,” she answered. She hadn’t gotten the results yet.

A couple weeks later, I inquired about the results.

Calmly Maddie reported, “Well there were 40 points. I got 38.”

“Okay,” I laughed. “I guess you were right.”

So what could I say then? She has never studied for a test. Ever. She gets A’s on math and science tests. Always. She might not get an A in the class, but that’s because she isn’t consistent with her homework. She just doesn’t necessarily do it. I don’t know if she’s doing her homework from one night to the next. Maybe her grades will be good. Maybe they won’t.

But I know for sure she’s learning. I remember memorizing facts for tests and then two days later I couldn’t remember much, and today I can’t remember any of it. She doesn’t study and she remembers everything! She knows all kinds of plants and trees and related facts. She knows about the weather and space. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of the complicated anime show she watches.

She’s incredible.

As challenging as she can be at times, she is so much more than her diagnosis. She has some wonderful gifts. Her memory is one of them. And thank goodness for that!

One Step Forward, One Step Back, Then Maybe Sideways

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This Tuesday I wanted to give up.

Every weekday morning, when my alarm goes off, my initial reaction is dread. I never know how it’s going to go. How many times will I have to try to get Maddie out of bed? Will she finally get up? Will yelling be required? What if she decides she’s not going? How much patience and creativity will I have to conjure up? Will anything I say or do make a difference? Will this be the day when I finally crack?

And Tuesday my dread was fully justified. What a terrible morning we had. Sure, I finally got her off to school, but not until I’d just run out of gas. The rest of the day I felt deflated. Picture that literally: a flat tire, a deflated ball, a shriveled up balloon. I had nothing left. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I couldn’t do housework. I didn’t even want to see Maddie when she got home from school. I guess I was depressed. It’s a challenging way to be, getting out of bed each day, knowing your efforts will likely be unsuccessful, but not knowing what to do differently to change the outcome.

It’s a frustrating experience. And it’s not as linear as parenting a neuro-typical child might be. There is no real direction. One day Maddie will step up, and then she may not the next day or the next week or the next month. Then she might be agreeable and motivated for a week. One day I might say something magical that seems to penetrate her often impregnable system. And that magical something may never have an impact again. It’s a constant struggle to be creative and patient, to maintain hope when I’ve run out of ideas and Maddie seems stuck.

So tomorrow is Friday. I’m pretty sure she’ll go to school because Fridays are her favorite days. All her favorite classes occur on Fridays. And, I just learned, she has chess club. I had no idea she was into chess until she mentioned it last week, explaining why she skipped a lunch time rally. I will try to start the day with optimism because Fridays tend to be more successful days overall.

But even on a successful day, there is a period of panic. Maddie just cannot get herself out of bed. So as I’m juggling breakfasts and lunches and helping my son with whatever he needs, I’m making multiple trips to her room. Often I think she has gotten up only to discover five minutes before the cab is to arrive that she is still in bed. Then, in a panic, I raise my voice a little say things like, “Pretend there’s a fire!” or even “Act like you’re in a hurry.”

Then she’ll say, “Don’t rush me.” That absolutely kills me. “Well, then give yourself more time in the morning,” I’ll reply. She doesn’t seem to get the connection. She can’t help that she moves slowly, she’ll say. And I’ll tell her that’s fine, but then she needs to give herself more time. She either needs to be faster or have more time. That’s just logic, isn’t it? But all she can think of is “Don’t rush me.” How I would love to not rush anybody! It makes for a stressful morning for both of us, and sometimes I have a hard time shaking that morning experience.

Today I haven’t felt well. I’m sleep-deprived and exhausted, probably a bit depressed. I’m definitely at the end of my rope. This evening I asked her about homework. She says she doesn’t have any. I don’t know if that’s true. Oh, well. I don’t even care right now.

Then I tell her she does need to shower. That’s the one single think I ask her to do. She says she’s busy but she’ll definitely do it. Later, I remind her, and it’s getting close to bed time so time is of the essence.

“Oh,” she says, “I’m not going to do that.” She has decided.

She smelled my defeat earlier, I think. She knew I didn’t have the fight in me. She has that ability, I’ve noticed. Whatever. I can’t even do this. I ask her to please brush her teeth and wash up before bed. I’m pretty sure she’s completed those things. I don’t know why she decided they mattered when nothing else I’ve said today has had much of an impact.

I also noticed this morning when I was absurdly applying deodorant to the appropriate place on Maddie’s body that she had shaved her underarms. That was a shocker. She never does anything like that unless I make her. And she had actually thought of it herself and then done it.

And yet, by contrast, there I was spraying deodorant on my 15-year-old daughter’s armpits.

She is full of surprises!

So before I go to bed, I am taking some deep breaths. I will try to be optimistic for tomorrow because it’ll be Friday. I’m so happy it’s Friday, even if I have about 28 loads of laundry to do. The next morning I get to sleep in! I don’t have to dread the day ahead. It’s like a vacation from frustration, aggravation, depression and sadness all wrapped up into two days!

Well, not really. There will be things to accomplish. We shall see how it goes. That’s just how it is every day over here: We shall see how it goes. We shall see.