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The Plumber Returns

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I had a few small jobs for a plumber today, and he showed up around noon. I jokingly commented on Facebook about Maddie’s prior exchange with a plumber in which she recommended he pull up his pants. “I hope she just stays in her room this time,” I quipped.

How prophetic!

Also: my bad! I failed to mention he was coming. So when Brian the plumber went to the appropriate bathroom for repairs, he pointed at the door and said, “This one? It’s occupied.”

And out walked Maddie. In a semi-long tee shirt. And presumably some underwear. And that is all.

She stopped in the hall. “Who’s that dude?” she asked. We were about three feet from the dude in question.

“The plumber,” I answered, placing my hand on her back with a little pressure to encourage her to return to her room. “Uh, can you go in there? You don’t have any pants on.”

“Well, he doesn’t know that.”

“I’m pretty sure he can tell.”

The ironic twist of the plumber returning: His pants were up and belted and his shirt tucked securely into his pants.

And she wasn’t wearing any pants at all.

Ninety Percent Happy – A Camp Debrief

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

Today was camp pick-up day. After 24 days without Maddie, it was time for the family to reunite. Or at least three of us. My teenage son thought those three and a half weeks went by a little too quickly. “Does she get back next weekend?” he had asked. “No, tomorrow,” I clarified, and disappointment washed over his face.

Part of me didn’t want to do the pick-up simply because of the drive. I had recruited my husband to make the trek because of my hate-affair with long car trips, but since we could at least share the driving, I decided I couldn’t miss out. An excellent choice on my behalf as it turned out.

Pick-up day at this particular camp is also performance day. After having lunch together with the campers, parents can see what their kids have been working on for the last ten days. I always go to performances or games or whatever my kids are up to (and sometimes just to see their friends). I LIVE for this stuff. But the last few times Maddie went to camp she participated in workshops that didn’t end in a performance, so I wasn’t expecting to see her do anything this time. Typically we would have lunch and then listen to a brief talk by the camp director, then grab her luggage and split. So really the only reason to go would be to to give her a giant hug and dip my toe in the camp experience before summer was over and see her happy face.

I knew for sure she’d be happy. For one thing, camp is the highlight of her year. ALWAYS. Second, I was actually able to speak to her half way through. Campers can’t have phones, but Maddie stayed for a four-day between-session mini-sorta-camp thing and during that time was able to use a counselor’s phone.

I received this text:

“Hey, it’s Maddie, your daughter. Could you call me on this phone? Anytime.”

And then, before I could respond:

“Can you send me some stuff? My Bose speaker and the power cord. And my SIM card. And can you go on Amazon and order some Liquid Ass and send it here?”

I called her shortly thereafter. She was in good spirits, partly because she was in a bowling alley at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk at the time. She sounded happy and relaxed.

“Can you also send me a banana suit?” she asked.

“Did you say ‘banana suit’?”

“Yup.”

“Sure.”

After a brief conversation about camp, I handed the phone to my husband so he could chat with her, and brought up Amazon.com on my computer to order Liquid Ass and a banana suit.

I wrote a note to my husband, who was still on the phone with Maddie: “Ask her if it’s the fart spray.” Eventually he nodded and gave me a thumbs up. I placed the order as if it were for toilet paper and toothpaste. It did occur to me that perhaps a “for what?” might have been in order, but it hadn’t crossed my mind to ask until it was too late. Maddie gets ideas and she makes plans and sometimes they involved fart spray and a banana suit. Business as usual at our house!

So two weeks later, there we were to retrieve our happy camper. We hugged a giant, long bear hug. I noticed her hair was clean and brushed and I was so happy about that. Even if that was the only shower she had taken (although I was sure it wasn’t), at least she had the foresight to be clean for the parents. We had some surprisingly delicious barbecued chicken and grilled vegetables for lunch. Maddie had already eaten a turkey sandwich. A TURKEY SANDWICH. Mind. Blown. She likes turkey and she likes cheese and she likes bread, but she has never ever eaten a sandwich. Whenever meals weren’t to her liking, she asked the kitchen staff for a sandwich. A SANDWICH.

After the campers and staff gave an enthusiastic performance of this year’s theme song,* it was time for performances.

“Are you in anything?” I asked, expecting the answer to be, “No. Let’s go home. I’m tired.” But instead the answer was, “Yes, rock band and film.”

Alrighty then, we would be staying longer. We converged in the dining hall/performance room and first watched dance and  musical theater. But the big star of the camp is rock band. Probably half the camp participated in that workshop. The first act got on stage and Maddie was nowhere to be seen. It was a full rock band (maybe five instruments) and two singers. Maybe she comes in during the middle, I thought, and shakes a tambourine or something. But nope, the song was over and another group took the stage. Different kids, different song, but pretty much the same setup. Still no Maddie. By the third song, I was starting to wonder, and then she stepped up with a microphone in hand. The band got set up and Maddie belted out “The Way You Make Me Feel” by Michael Jackson. All alone up there, with occasional backup from the rock band coach. She looked pretty natural on stage, moving her body and holding the mic with confidence. She sang from her belly and her heart. She wasn’t the best vocalist, but she was certainly among the most convicted. I was in awe. She just blows my mind sometimes. I was so proud of her and happy for her.

And then, unfortunately, I started to think. Maddie was the only solo act, and I knew it wasn’t because she was the best. I also noticed that half the band was camp staff, unlike the other groups. Ugh. The sadness started to mingle with the joy. Did nobody want to sing with her? Did the staff step in where campers wouldn’t? Is this the “special ed” performance?  Even at this magical camp, is she on the fringe (a word her kindergarten teacher once used to describe her)?

She sure looked happy up there, though. This is a kid who loves to belt it out, and she got it do it with a band. If any of my worries were rooted in truth, she didn’t seem to notice. I was mostly happy, and a little bit sad, and then a little more sad because I wasn’t 100% happy as I thought I should have been.

A couple more groups performed, and then the entire “mega band” took the stage for a rousing rendition of “Burning Down the House,” a suitable song for the band and for the moment. Each singer had a few solo lines, and Maddie pulled hers off as well as anybody. Or at least I thought so.

Finally, it was time for film. Maddie’s film was a camp-ified version of Harry Potter with a few jabs at the Spiderman movie franchises. She had come prepared, somewhat unknowingly, with her sorceress costume, and ended up with a relatively big role. It was clever, funny, and well-edited. Whent the film ended, Maddie said her goodbyes, and I signed her up for next winter and summer.

And then it was time to pack up and go home, my heart full of gratitude for the camp, joy for the experience my kid gets to have, and yet a little conflicted inside.

But before we could actually embark on our two-hour return trek, there was a stop to be made, for in the tiny mountain town near the camp, there is, of all things, a costume store. There are maybe 15 businesses in that little strip of downtown, so the presence of a costume shop was more than surprising. Maddie directed us where to park, and we walked a half a block to the store. She had her eye on something from a visit during the in-between-camps excursions, but she hadn’t had enough money to buy it. It was a gold lame, pleated, wing-style cape of sorts. Of course her plan is to modify it somehow (that’s how she rolls) and give it some kind of flame effect at the bottom. And then she saw some lights for costumes and a plan was born.

Aggie, the proprietor, remembered Maddie from her prior visit. She could see how important costuming is to Maddie and searched high and low for a red dress she had that might complement Maddie’s fiery vision.

“She can come work for me anytime she wants,” Aggie offered. I could tell she had Maddie pretty well figured out. She said she has other girls who work there about two hours per week.

My first thought was, of course, I wish the store was closer to our home. My second thought was, “Hmm. Maybe I could drive her down here once a week for a couple hours.” Part of me thinks that’s crazy. The other, more correct part, thinks it would be totally worth it.

We purchased Maddie’s carefully chosen items and, although Maddie wasn’t sure she was finished, I talked her into concluding her visit by promising to bring her back.

So now w’ere back at home and everything is back to normal. Or whatever normal is to us. I am bugging her to take a shower. I have a fussy eater to cook for again. I’m fretting about embarking on the new online school program, which is still rather nebulous in my mind. I’m suddenly back to my usual stressors. And I’m pretty bummed about that.

All my emotions are back. The pride, the fear, the joy, the worry, the amusement, the frustration. It’s all back in the swirling vortex of motherhood. I feel like my brain is literally spinning in my head.

Camp was good for all of us. Back to reality.

Camp Prep

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

“I used to do that, too!” said the new camp director, Tiny. “I’d stay up all night downloading music for film the night before camp.”

That’s the response I got when I announced, at camp drop off, that I thought Maddie probably spent more time preparing for camp than any camper in the history of camp.

An all nighter? I thought. Haha! Amateur!

Maddie had been preparing for months. Two trips to Party City, an order or two from Amazon, a couple trips to the local hardware store were just the beginning.

Then there was an assembly line. She was adding more tee shirts to her LARPing supplies, first printing out images of the icons for each team, covering them with red duct tape, and then cutting them out, adding velcro and attaching them to the shirts. I think there were fifteen total in this round of shirt making. It was a surprisingly efficient enterprise, and that’s coming from someone who considers herself a master of efficiency. Maddie even, to my surprise, gathered up the extra paper to toss the in trash when she was done.

She had also bought additional costumes—all with her own money—for leaders of the LARPing teams. Last camp session the LARPing became “Crusades,” and it was a huge hit. Maddie has basked in the glory of her success since winter session all the while thinking about how to make the experience even better.

She had asked if I would drive her to camp, rather than take the bus, because she was worried about the amount of luggage she would be bringing. And it was indeed a lot—a large suitcase full of clothes and an extra large suitcase full of crusading gear and other costumes (including the Star Wars costume, now appropriate because she had emailed the director and requested a Star Wars theme day). Plus a messenger bag full of duct tape. Always duct tape because you never know when that will come in handy!

I would have loved to drive her the two hours (each way) to camp. We always enjoy car rides together (lots of singing!). But I recently came to the conclusion that long car trips and I are not friends. Usually by the end of a multi-hour drive, I’m left with a migraine. And when I get one of those, it’s usually here to stay for days if not weeks or even months. So I asked the camp director if an extra, enormous piece of luggage would be OK on the bus. “We’ll find room,” he said.

The morning of camp, she was ready on time (yay!) and we packed up the car for the 30-minute drive to the pick-up location. It’s always a special time, when old friends from camp, counselors, and new campers mingle. Everyone is excited. Camp truly begins at that moment, which is also partly when I preferred she take the bus.

And then, as we unloaded all her gear from the trunk: “Shiiiiiiiit.”

“What?”

“I forgot the flags.” Her body slumped.

The flags are probably six feet in length, carefully and thoughtfully made with duct tape last winter for the inaugural camp Crusades. She had also spent several hours the day before perfecting the contraption she made to hold those flags by adding a body-strap to keep the whole from falling over on her back. She was so proud of that thing. And there was no way I was going to leave that stuff at home.

“Don’t worry,” I said immediately. “I will get them to you tomorrow. I promise.”

So much for not driving to camp!

Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to make the round trip in a day. There was already a plan in place for my sister to pick me up and take me to her house (200-plus miles south) for a birthday weekend in her area. That four-hour trip is of the migraine-inducing variety, so she had planned to do all the driving. Camp was sort of on the way. But her car is tiny and those flags are long, so I would have to put them in my car and take them to camp anyway. I could avoid the round trip and make my sister’s drive easier, though, in one fell swoop. I would drive to camp, deliver the flags, and my sister would meet me there and take me the rest of the way. I arranged to leave my car at the camp for a few days and retrieve it after my getaway.

After some discussion with my sister, we agreed that waiting until the next day wouldn’t work, so I drove home, threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed the flag, and off I went to camp. Spontaneous road trip!

After days of fun with my sister (Wine-tasting! Whale watching!) I returned to camp to retrieve my car. It was a hot afternoon and everyone seemed to be inside somewhere. I wanted to say hello to Maddie (which I was unable to do when I dropped off her flags), but I also know there’s a reason why campers and parents can only communicate by mail during camp. Any emotions bubbling up can suddenly become unbearable when a homesick or stressed out kids sees her parents. So, relieved, I hopped in the car and began to drive. But before I got out of the parking lot, though, I noticed a piece of paper under my windshield wiper.

Oh no, I thought. Somebody didn’t like my car parked there for days.

I stopped and grabbed the paper.  It was dated that morning.

“Hi Mom,

It’s your daughter, Maddie. Can you please come find me and talk? It might just be hormones, but I need to talk to you.

Love,

Maddie”

Oh crap. Now what do I do?

I was so torn. What if she was now just fine and seeing my face takes her right back to wherever she was when she wrote the note? Or what if she was indeed struggling? I’m really not supposed to be visiting camp, but there I was with that note.

So I got out of the car and begin cruising camp looking for somebody. Anybody. Much to my relief, after maybe five minutes of looking, I hadn’t spotted a single soul. I had tried—although not particularly hard—and failed. I had made the effort, and I could honestly say I had. And I returned to my car and drove home, feeling equally guilty and relieved.

When I got home, I emailed the camp director. I wanted Maddie to know I had found her note and looked for her (Mom points!). I wanted her to know I figured she was having a great time (no worries, Madz!).

He emailed later that night. He would have somebody check in with her, tell her I had found her note, and make sure she was OK. But by all accounts, she was having a great time.

She’s at camp for a total of twenty-four days this summer. In a row. There is a four-day break between the ten-days sessions, but a few kids stay for sort of camp “lite” and she elected to do that rather than come home for a few days. She would miss out on resting, but she also recognized it’s harder for her to reboot and get going again once she’s home.

It has now been eight days since she boarded the bus. I know in my heart she is having the time of her life. When I tell people about it, they often say, “So she really loves that camp!”

“Uh, I don’t think there is a word to describe how she feels about it,” I answer. “Love” doesn’t seem to fully encompass what she experiences there. It’s fun, for one thing. But more than that, this is a place where she is fully and completely expressing herself and everybody freakin’ loves it. She brings her costumes and they incorporate her characters into whatever campfire skits they’re doing or whatever story they’re telling in film workshop. She leads the crusades. She decorates the crap out of her cabin. She creates theme days. She yells and sings during campfire. She camps to the max.

So now that the flags are in place, and I haven’t heard anything else from camp, I can relax and know, and I mean know, that Maddie is in her element. She’s truly living at that camp.

And next time we’ll remember the flags.

“Vacation”

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

I once saw a Facebook post that said that for a mom a vacation is just doing the same stuff, but with a better view. I often choose the word “trip” rather than vacation, especially when the kids were small, because it was actually more difficult to do all that same stuff away from home, regardless of the view over the sink.

Now, though, with two teenagers, traveling is much easier than it used to be. Mostly. We don’t have to lug all the accoutrements that go along with babies and toddlers, like car seats, and diaper bags, and special food for my formerly allergic kid. Now they lug their own suitcases, at least.

Before I get into this story too far, I have to declare my hesitation to make any complaints about a trip to the Caribbean with my family. I mean, I get to GO TO THE CARIBBEAN WITH MY FAMILY. That’s pretty awesome! My in-laws bought a house there many years ago and we have been the lucky beneficiaries of this purchase. The first time we went the kids were two and four years old. That was my favorite trip because we just put on pirate music and danced with the kids, and my sweet and wonderful mother-in-law made treasure hunts at the end of which would be a treasure chest filled with toys and plastic jewelry. (As the kids got older, and my mother-in-law started tiring of the treasure hunt task, the treasure would just be cold, hard cash.) We also put together a Playmobil pirate ship and the kids dressed up like pirates and did sword fights. And we boated everywhere and my toddler son fell asleep on my lap and the kids splashed in the water and they slept at night and it was wonderful. Except for the bugs. Have I mentioned mosquitoes love Maddie? Well, they really really do. She had bites all over her face and as much as she tried to just ignore the discomfort, she eventually broke down crying. I could hardly blame her. Just looking at her made me feel like crying myself.

We returned very early this morning from our seventh and likely final trip to that part of the world. My in-laws are selling the house because it’s just become too difficult to both get there and be there. This property is on an island with no services whatsoever. There are houses. And a little road. And some other houses. And a small marina. And that’s it. You want cookies? Get on a boat. Ran out of olive oil? Get on a boat. Need a doctor? Boat. Having a heart attack? Well, a few years ago a doctor moved onto the island and had a debrillator installed near the marina. So there’s that. Otherwise, get on a boat and meet the ambulance across the channel.

Let me also say that for a Hoelter family vacation, I give this a 10/10. Yes, there were bugs. Many hungry, biting bugs. I even found a dead scorpion. I had to make dinner every single night because takeout isn’t really a thing down there, especially on the island that’s a boat ride away from everything. There aren’t really any good restaurants anyway, so boating back in the dark after dinner wasn’t worth a trip out. But we had great boat outings, the weather was wonderful, and our son brought a friend along which made everything more fun.

And still, even on this 10/10 vacation, I had it UP TO HERE a few times with being the mom of an autistic kid. I had a few moments that made me want to quit this un-quittable job.

It started the day we left. The day before we departed, I encouraged my kids to finish packing. We had a red-eye the following day, but I really wanted to be ready to go early so I wouldn’t have a crazed, stressful start to our “vacation.” Maddie had her suitcase out. We had made some last-minute purchases (thanks, Amazon!) of swimsuits and shorts, and much to my surprise I only had to ask Maddie once to try them on. She HATES trying on clothes. She always has. I used to pay her ($1 per item!) to try on clothes I had brought home so at least I could know what to return. Now I don’t have to bribe her, but it’s usually a bit of a struggle. So I was pleasantly surprised at the ease with which this activity took place. I tossed her new items in the suitcase and suggested she continue packing a few things.

“Don’t forget underwear,” I reminded her.

“I know what to pack,” she replied, all indignant and teenager-y. I imagine she rolled her eyes, but I wasn’t looking at her so I can’t say for sure. It was kind of snotty but it made me so happy. First of all, she was telling me she could do something herself. Second, being indignant and teenager-y is wonderfully age-appropriate, so I always secretly celebrate these moments.

Right on, I thought. A good sign for things to come.

The next morning, though, departure day, nothing else was in her suitcase. I asked her several times to finish up so we wouldn’t be freaking out at six o’clock that evening. Finally, after she had failed to make any progress, she asked me to stay with her. “I can’t do it without you,” she said. “I’ll get distracted.”

Isn’t that just how it goes? One day it seems we’ve moved forward, and then I’m slapped right back to square one. Or whatever square I was just on.

So I did what she asked. I hung out on her bed and directed every little thing. Over and over. “Get four or five tee shirts,” I would say. And then repeat. And repeat again. I didn’t even care at all which shirts. This was a beach/boat trip, and one of the things I love most about these trips is what I call the “grunge factor.” You get up in the morning and put on a swimsuit or shorts and whatever shirt, you brush your teeth and probably just throw your hair in a pony-tail because it’s going to get all sticky and messy on the boat anyway, so why bother putting in any effort? Showers are at night before bed. I didn’t even unpack my hair dryer or makeup once. I showered, brushed my teeth and hair, and slathered on bug spray and sunscreen. So for this grunge vacation, she could literally pick up whatever tee shirts were on top of her pile and pack them. But she was struggling to stay focused. I eventually grabbed that stack of shirts and put them in her suitcase. She added underwear. I had ordered a pair of new Crocs (the only shoes she’ll wear besides running shoes and Uggs) simply because the pair she already had was buried so far under crap in her room that it was easier to get new ones than count on finding them in time. She was going to wear those, so we put those aside and packed her sneakers.

I really had wanted her to pack her stuff herself. What I like to do is simply give her a list and let her manage it herself, but she never does. My son packs everything himself but then likes me to just take a peek and make sure he didn’t forget anything. That seems like a reasonable transition from dependent to independent. But this is a different kid, so once Maddie’s clothes were packed, I suggested she be in charge of whatever entertainment she wanted to bring. The trip from California to the British Virgin Islands involves three flights. It’s unavoidable. It’s long. It’s boring. Not only that, but we had recently learned that there would be no internet at the house. So if she wanted to watch a movie or something, she would have to download it ahead of time. I had begun suggesting that days before, reminding both kids over and over, but about an hour before our departure, she still hadn’t even tried. And then, of course, at the last minute, she decided downloading a few things was a great idea whose time had suddenly come. Also of course, there were problems. Her laptop was full and she had to uninstall a few things to make room. I just had to walk away. I had tried so hard to plan ahead in order to avoid last minute stresses, and there we were, the minutes ticking away until our ride arrived, and my husband was now troubleshooting a phone and a computer and who knows what. If only I had spent the last two days in her room, constantly nagging her to take care of her business, or just doing it for her instead, we wouldn’t be in this situation, but I am trying to figure out how to encourage Maddie’s initiative and self-reliance in areas in which I think she will be successful. Isn’t that how we build self-confidence in our children? Seriously, I’m asking.

I tried to remain calm for this last-minute efforts that I had intended to prevent, and finally we just had to unplug everything and go. Whew! Crisis averted. You never know when she’s going to cocoon herself in her bed or simply refuse to move.

Which is exactly what happened two days later on our first full day of vacationing. We had decided the night before that we would boat over to a nearby island where we have gone many times before. When Maddie was six, there was an incident and ever since then she has been both paralyzed with fear and also determined to overcome this fear. This incident was merely a trip and a skinned knee on a short walk from the lunch spot to a delightful feature called the Bubbling Pool. You walk about a half mile on a dirt path, with a couple rocks to climb, and end up where rocks have formed a pool where the waves crash on one side and the water bubbles up on the other. It’s small, basically big enough for one family at a time. I would say about 30 minutes is a maximum visit and then it’s time to return to the boat. So on our first hike out there nine years ago, Maddie stepped into a smattering of red ants and then promptly panicked, fell, and skinned her knee enough so that scars remain today. She was truly traumatized, and as I recall we had no first aid supplies with us, so she had to suffer her way back to the boat. Not an unusual event for a kid, but for some reason the emotions and feeling of helplessness really stuck with her. For years she refused to return, but she had announced to us prior to the trip that she was determined to overcome her fears, get back on the proverbial horse, and take that daunting walk back to the Bubblng Pool, which really was our primary motivation for this particular outing. She had chosen the destination of the day and we were happy to go along with it.

The family was dressed and ready to go, we had snacks and towels and water bottles in bags, and after repeated reminders to Maddie, I finally ascended the stairs to what we thought would be the most bug-free (or really least bug-full) room to check on her progress. Cocoon. No face, no feet, no body, just a lumpy sheet. And silence.

I could feel the blood in my veins. Here we go again, I thought. I tried to remain calm on the outside, but as I’ve become more inclined to do as time goes on, my insides were on fire. Here we effing go again.

It turns out she was having anxiety about the Bubbling Pool walk, enough to keep her from going anywhere. She was wearing the sweatpants and tee shirt she’d been wearing the last two days. I encouraged her to put her swimsuit on, and assured her she absolutely did not have to do the Bubbling Pool and could decide at the last moment. She finally agreed to allow me to pack her swimsuit and just come as she was dressed, despite the sweatpants-unfriendly temperature outside. Most of the time I take what I can get. She came downstairs and we threw all our stuff in the golf cart. She flopped down on the couch in a clear signal: I’m not going. I had just calmly talked her into going and then we were back at square one.

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m going.” By this point I was mad. And frustrated. Or madsrated. Maybe that’s a word. So I walked outside and plopped down in the golf cart that takes us down the hill to the marina and back (my son did all the driving this time). I just didn’t walk to talk about it AGAIN. Hadn’t we already worked this out? So I sent my husband in. Several minutes went by and Maddie was up and ready to go. Again. I asked my husband what had happened, and he basically repeated the same conversation we’d already had, except he had the good sense to suggest we didn’t even have to go to that island at all. She was in charge.

The rest of the day went great. She walked to the Bubbling Pool in those black sweatpants and nearly fainted from heat exhaustion, but eventually did a secret behind-the-towel change into her swimsuit at the next stop so we could all swim up to the beach. We returned to the boat for our long ride back to the house, and as we made the last turn toward our home island, the sky opened up and the rain pelted us in typical tropical fashion. Maddie was thrilled, laughing and yelling and squeezing the joy out of every drop. In the end I think Maddie enjoyed herself more than anybody. Plus she felt accomplished for doing something relatively minor that had great significant to herself. A win!

And then, two days later, we had the very same problem in the morning. She wouldn’t move. I had to have a conversation in which I cajoled and pleaded and bargained and soothed and reassured, and then my husband had to do it all over again until she finally agreed to change into her swimsuit and join us.

“Welcome to vacations with our family,” I said to my son’s friend. He’s known us for years, so it’s no surprise, I suppose, but seeing it all this close and day after day had to be a bit more eye-opening.

And at that moment I just felt done. I would love to be able to say, “Hey let’s all be ready at 11:00” and then everyone does what they need to do and everybody is ready at or near 11:00. I wouldn’t even begrudge a reminder or two but having to have those lengthy, frustrating, soul-sucking conversations day after day, even to get her to participate in something easy and fun, just suddenly became too much. I don’t want to do that anymore. Like, ever. And here I was on vacation, with this stunning view across the entire north side of the house, doing the same stuff I do at home. Cooking, cleaning, and trying to to keep the family running as smoothly as I can by using everything in my psychological and parental arsenal, and sometimes coming up short.

Packing up for our return home was just as exhausting. I shoved her clothes in her suitcase just before it was time to leave and asked her once again to take care of her gadgets. Eventually my husband just shoved them in her suitcase, too, the end of a charger dangling out the side. She put on shoes, decided her stinky shirt was fine, and that was that. At least I had somehow gotten her to shower (okay I did the shampooing) and brush her hair (okay, I brushed out the week’s worth of tamgles) the night before, so at least she was somewhat presentable for the airport.

Still, despite the usual frustrations, this vacation kicked last year’s vacation’s butt. That attempt at a sight-seeing vacation was a big fail, and at least we learned something from that. Coming back to a place we’ve been many times, where personal hygiene and schedules don’t really factor in, where lying around in your bedroom and getting room service (from me) under your mosquito net is actually a good idea, is apparently a recipe for success for Maddie, and therefore, for our family.

My sister occasionally repeats a quote she once heard about being a mom: “You’re only as happy as your least happy child.”

Or as I like to say to my kids, “If you’re happy, I’m happy. Or at least, you won’t ruin my vacation.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dirty Shirt

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Today is June 19th. My son graduated eighth grade last Friday, so it feels like the official first day of vacation. I slept in! I put on a pretty dress! I can run errands whenever I want because I’m not tied down by school pick up time! I didn’t pack anybody’s lunch! It’s a gorgeous day and I’m loving it.

But somebody hasn’t changed her shirt for five days. This is the sixth day. I know this because the day the shirt was first donned was Maddie’s birthday, June 14th, after she opened a small gift in the morning and then decided to wear her new Flash shirt to the Giants game.

She comes into my room late this morning. I see that shirt and my disgust rises to the surface. The dirty shirt also means she hasn’t taken a shower for at least six days because I know she didn’t take one that morning. You hope your kids stop grossing you at some point, right?

“Maddie, the is the sixth day you’ve been wearing that shirt. You need to shower and put on a clean shirt.” One doesn’t gently toss hints to Maddie. You have to (and really get to, I suppose) be completely honest and blunt. I can’t imagine how many times I’ve said, “You’re gross,” or “You stink,” or “Get out of my room because I can smell you from five feet away. Seriously, don’t stink up my room.”

“Later,” she says, dryly. Later often ends up meaning “no” in the end. I know how this works.

“Why not right now?” I ask.

She just looks at me.

“If you don’t do it later today, I’ll take your computer away.” I can’t actually take her whole computer away but I can certainly swipe her keyboard or something so she can’t use it.

“Oh, will you?” she says defiantly.

I’m now wondering why I even went down that road. Either we’ll get in a huge battle or I’ll decide against it, knowing it’s futile at best, or first step on the wrong road, at worst.

She grabs the allergy medication she came for and leaves. I move on. I can’t deal with this right now. I have other things to do and I want to enjoy this first day of summer.

Yesterday was Father’s Day and the plan was to go to my in-laws’ house for the afternoon. The whole family (minus a couple of young adult cousins) would be there to celebrate Grandpa Jim for both Father’s Day and his upcoming 78th birthday. My kids love their grandparents, and they love their dad. Grandpa Jim is also in declining health. We all want to spend time with these wonderful people while we can.

I informed Maddie of the plans the day before. “I don’t want to go,” she said.

“Well, it’s Father’s Day, and the is what Dad wants to do.”

“But I don’t want to,” she repeated.

“It’s not about what you want to do. This is about doing what your dad wants to do even if you don’t want to.”

“Well, I don’t WANT to,” she said yet again.

I’m not sure if she said anything else, but regardless of the words, her expression said it all. She had no intention of going.

Sometimes Maddie is incredibly empathic. Other times she is swallowed up by her autism (the key here being “auto” or “self”), and she can’t see beyond herself.

That night I talked to my husband and informed of the situation. We agreed we would give it a try in the morning, but not engage in a fight over it. I guess we’ve finally learned it doesn’t pay. The typical scenario when we push hard is everybody ends up upset (including our son), and she doesn’t come anyway. So we’ve ruined everybody’s day for nothing.

It’s sad, time after time, to visit the grandparents with only one of our kids (and often both, because when one is down, often the other goes down with her).  They know Maddie (the explanation yesterday was H is sick—true—and Maddie is being Maddie), but it’s still sad. It’s hard for us to do anything as a family, really, often because of Maddie’s inability to motivate herself. She did rally for both Mother’s Day and my birthday, and honestly that all I could have asked of her. It meant so much for me that she got out of bed on a Sunday morning for brunch, and then got dressed (no shower, no clean shirt, a hat to cover up her awful hair) for my birthday dinner at a restaurant she didn’t want to go to, just to make me happy.

So today there she is in that stinky, filthy shirt and I’m kind of angry and rather disgusted. She’s in her smelly pigsty of a room (I’m pretty sure a cat peed in there) playing Minecraft with her online friends. She’s happy.

Maybe this will be one of those “best days of my life” when she rises from her chair, grabs a towel, and takes care of business without another word on my part. I know this is possible. But really I have to be prepared to keep pushing, gently but firmly, without losing my patience or my mind.

Fingers crossed that stinky shirt is in the washing machine by bedtime.

_____

Update: I just finished writing this and that stinky shirt walked in (with the person inside of it) and the shower is ON!!

I grabbed Maddie’s dirty clothes from the bathroom floor, ripped her sheets and comforter off her bed, and threw them in the wash, hoping to de-stink this place a little.

It’s the greatest day of my life!

Yet Another Exercise in Frustration

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I don’t know why I haven’t been blogging. It really does help me process my experiences. And I enjoy it. Also it reminds me I have abilities outside of my parenting duties. I can type, for one thing, and the words come easily most of the time. It feels good.

So why have I been neglecting my blog? Maybe I thought it was easier to pretend it all wasn’t happening. To write is to think, and to think is to not ignore. Not that I was ignoring anything exactly, but part of the past year has involved distancing myself from the day-to-day in order to preserve my own sanity and physical health. This is not hyperbole. Here’s what happened:

Once we established last fall that going to school was not a viable option for Maddie (remember the conversation: “So it seems to me you don’t intend to go to school anymore.” “Nope.”), the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders. My two-month-long migraine magically vaporized. I exhaled the longest breath of my life. And I just let it go.

But you can’t REALLY just let it go. A child under 18 who has not graduated or passed an equivalency exam is required by law to go to school. Her IEP mitigates some of that obligation, but eventually I was going to have to do SOMETHING. The school wasn’t initiating any efforts to solve the problem, so I took matters into my own hands and hired Kim, the educational therapist, to work with Maddie. Kim has been a magical force for Maddie, an incredibly calm presence who truly seems to understand her student. There would be no (or very little) actually going to school, but we managed to eek out a little school work, enough to get us all through the year.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was an incredibly frustrating process to negotiate with the school and the district to make this situation workable.

After a year and a half of attendance problems, which followed an initial meeting in which we cited ATTENDANCE PROBLEMS as our single biggest concern, we were still met with a serious failure to understand the core issue. Not once, despite indications to the contrary, did she see a counselor or a psychologist to help get to the bottom of the issue. It seems rather obvious that when there is a behavior issue, discovering the reason why is crucial coming up with a possible solution.

Finally, finally, fi-nal-ly, when I made it very clear that I didn’t expect any more schedule changes to affect Maddie’s ability to get up and go, the district offered something called wrap-around services. In theory, it’s great, and in many cases I’m sure it’s effective. The district contracts with a service provider who sends social workers out to your home to become acquainted with the child in the comfort of their own home (or on a nature walk or whatever works) and to learn more about the family situation, in order to address the behavior problem at its root. Very often the child has serious issues involving drugs or alcohol, so the service providers were thrilled to come to a home with a functioning family unit and supportive, loving parents.

However, I hesitated to approve this course of action. I wasn’t confident this would work. Something was holding me back, but our advisor suggested I consent because a significant part of negotiating with the school is playing the game, i.e. “pretending to go along with their recommendations so you have some legal standing and eventually they have to come up with the RIGHT solution.” Apparently this is a necessary step in negotiations, which I absolutely loathe. Why can’t we all put our cards on the table and make the best choice? Why this aggravating game in which nobody wins (except, I suppose, often the district’s budget)?

So after weeks of deliberating, I consented, and the team of ladies arrived at our house a week later to meet. It was a cadre of three women, one fresh out of college, one with decades of experience, and the other somewhere in between. These were three terrific women, easy to talk to, eager to help. I was optimistic. It really was worth a try, I thought.

Well, except for the part about playing along with the school district, it turns out it wasn’t worth a try at all. Courtney, the young woman whose job it was to connect with Maddie, didn’t have the experience necessary for a kid like Maddie. She was warm and friendly, but after the first visit, Maddie wouldn’t even get out of bed or show her face while Courtney sat there for an hour trying to get her to respond. That happened twice.

Heidi, whose responsibility was to meet with the parents and make a behavior plan, was enthusiastic and fun. Maddie’s interest was piqued when she learned Heidi knew what LARPing was. (LARPing is live action role playing, for those not in the know.) But she too missed the boat.

After repeated conversations in which I explained the history of my child, Heidi showed up one day ecstatic with her new idea: Maddie’s reward could be a weekend LARPing excursion.

Well, slap my head. I never thought of that! Just kidding! I should have slapped Heidi’s head instead.

Had she not listened when I explained repeatedly that neither rewards nor punishments have ever been reliably successful with my daughter? Had she not heard me when I told her you could tell Maddie she could go to Disneyland on Saturday if she went to school all week, and then Monday morning she would refuse to get out of bed, and then Saturday she would get up and say, “So are we going to Disneyland?” It just doesn’t work and it never has.

Did she not listen when I told her how many people have suggested we “find her currency” and that was the answer? We don’t know her f**ing currency because she doesn’t have any!

I was beginning to get discouraged, to say the least.

Then we had one more IEP meeting. Maddie still wasn’t going to school and we had to figure out how the school would accommodate her. Heidi and Courtney joined us. Heidi presented her magnificent LARPing plan and Courtney said nothing. Finally I asked Courtney to give her report.

“Oh, Maddie’s so great!” she offered, smiling wide.

I can only imagine the expression on my face. What? That’s your report? “Can you please describe your last two meetings with Maddie?” I requested, trying to hide my aggravation.

“Well she wouldn’t get out of bed or talk to me,” Courtney admitted.

I was calm on the outside (I think) but I wanted to scream. I was so angry.

Not only had these meetings been pointless, I was now frustrated beyond belief. Worse, Maddie was so tired of meeting with people and talking that she eventually didn’t want to see ANYBODY, including Kim, which whom she had developed a meaningful, productive and successful relationship.

There were countless frustrating email exchanges in the course of this failed experiment, some prompting me to cry ‘HELP ME AND PLEASE FIX THIS!” to our advisor and friend. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

At the start of that IEP meeting, my husband declared, “If don’t walk out of here with a new plan, I’m going to be very frustrated.” Amen to that. I had to say very clearly that we all had to accept Maddie wouldn’t be returning to school. A reduced schedule, the cafeteria job she loves, anything else they could come up with was not going to effect a change.

There is something going on with this kid that defies material changes in her school day other than not having a school day AT school. The district head of special education declared, “We are not a home school program. We cannot continue this course of action.” Somebody suggested the district’s alternative independent study high school. Sort of a good idea, except that there are weekly meetings with teachers and attendance is absolutely mandatory. Anytime I imagine absolutely positively getting Maddie to go somewhere, my heart sinks. Currently that’s simply not going to work. Luckily, the school counselor shook her head. At least somebody got it. She recognized the absurdity of a solution that included mandatory attendance.

Somehow or other, because the school year was winding up, we managed to come to an agreement. Maddie’s schedule would remain reduced. Eventually we decided she would go to school on Mondays, when she would attend every class and obtain her work, which she would do at home. Nobody was to make a big deal of her return: a quiet nod as she slid into her seat would be enough. She wouldn’t be seated next to two particular girls who cause her anxiety. She could work in the cafeteria. She would lie low (which, it turns out, meant doing whatever she wanted quietly in her seat, so when other kids were doing school projects, she might be writing a story on her phone, intending to do the work at home with Kim). It sort of seems ridiculous now, to force her to go to school in order to achieve absolutely nothing. But she did it. She completed her coursework. She went to school on Mondays, without a single fight.

We cheered for this little bit, but not too much because she doesn’t like it. I think she finds it condescending. We set what seem like small goals, but what are are shooting for is something challenging enough and, we hope, achievable.

I haven’t checked her grades yet. Honestly I don’t care what they are. I do hope she passed so she can have the credits as we launch into the next phase (online school!) but mostly I’m just thrilled we all made it until June 8th intact–my fiftieth birthday and the last day of school–intact.

Small Victories: A Birthday Story

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach2 Comments

Wednesday Maddie turned 17. Sounds so grown up. Most of our friends with kids the same age spent the last two school breaks touring the east coast and Southern California colleges. They’ve spent money and time on SAT prep, college counseling,  and just getting through the eternally stressful junior year. Some are launching their kids in the fall, anxiously counting the days until their babies fly the coop.

Yesterday, on the 17th anniversary of her birth, Maddie showed me the insecure young person inside and the socially savvy young lady that also resides within her. I never know what side I’m going to see.

A few weeks ago Maddie’s wonderful tutor Kim suggested they see a Giants game together to celebrate the end of the school year. A look at the Giants’ schedule pointed them to a day game which happened to fall on Maddie’s birthday. I wanted Maddie to do whatever made her happy and at the time it seemed like a great idea. Looking back I think I was in denial at best, and just straight up stupid at worst. This was in fact a mistake whose full terribleness would  not rear its ugly head until that morning.

First of all, this plan involved me having to wake Maddie up. It has been established that this is to be avoided whenever possible. Waking her up to go somewhere or do something, even something ostensibly appealing, is fraught with emotion and fear for me. I think I fake it rather well, but even a failed first attempt sends tensions throughout my body and I feel my heart clench. I breathe deeply to remain calm, but I’m immediately almost ready to give up. The problem that morning was that I had bought ferry tickets, so the arrival time mattered. The Giants game ferry really does complete the experience, but it adds significant time and eliminates flexibility. Anyway, I feel like this alone doomed this notion to failure.

Second, Maddie was sleep deprived. For some reason sleeping didn’t go well the night before. Maybe, as it turns out, she was anxious. I also know she was up at 3:00 a.m. because I, too, was up at that time searching for a cough drop when I felt a light tap on my back (DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN! I said). She was mid-allergy-attack and looking for a Zyrtec.

So at the start, we had two strikes against us.

And then, the tears. She was tired, she said. She was trying so hard to power through, but, tragically, on her birthday, she wasn’t able to cope. Her tutor, Kim, used her magical skills to try to turn it around. And in fact there was magic because although Kim ended up leaving our house, alone, in her Giants gear, there was a breakthrough. Maddie realized she just didn’t feel comfortable doing this new, out-of-the-norm thing with her tutor. She would go to the game, but only with me. The tears were from fatigue, to be sure, but also from insecurity about this new situation. This girl whom I think of as fearless isn’t in fact fearless. She’s often so brave, but the sense of being able to be in the world without her safety net (me!) is sometimes fragile.

So in her usual way, she inhabited a young child and a mature person in the same moment. Her anxiety came from insecurity, fear of the unknown, fear of feeling untethered, her inability to imagine herself through the what-ifs into a mental picture of success. And yet (and this is even more significant me) she was able to access her feelings and the reasons behind them, and then ask for what she wanted. Such a huge achievement for this kid!

And so, as it should have been all along, I took my daughter to a Giants game for her birthday. Once we arrived at this conclusion, I let go of my stress and just went with it. I ditched my long list of errands, cancelled a salon appointment, packed up my sunscreen and a hat, and off we went. It was too late for the ferry (the ship had in fact sailed by that point), so we hopped in the car and headed across the bridge. The fretting was over. Time to jump into this surprise of a day.

The Giants were terrible. But the day was beautiful and due to a lack of forethought on my part, we had tickets behind the opponents’ dugout, which put us in a sea of Kansas City fans. And that, my friends, turned out to be great! As the numbers on the scoreboard became more and more lopsided, the crowd around us erupted in cheers. They were having fun, and so were we. The couple next to Maddie was visiting California from their home state of Missouri, following their beloved baseball team around the state. They were so friendly, offering to buy Maddie treats for her birthday and engaging in conversation. We talked about all of the wonderful things you can do here in San Francisco, and Maddie asked, “Have you been to Muir Woods?”

Well, that might not seem like a big deal to you, but it sure was to me. Such an appropriate and normal thing to say! She was engaged and conversational! And she asked a relevant and meaningful question, given that we live not far from there. And when the husband repeatedly and enthusiastically offered to buy her a frozen lemonade in honor of her birthday, she politely and gratefully declined several times before finally admitting “Lemonade isn’t my thing.” I felt like a million bucks. My daughter who struggled in the morning, who seemed like a child afraid to be too far from her mother, was out in the world acting her age. Only a parent of a special needs kid would feel like jumping up and down because their kid said something appropriate.

Much to my surprise, we stayed for the entire game (well, almost). It was hot out there in the sun, and she hadn’t really been paying much attention to what was happening on the field (really, who does at a baseball game?), but although I repeatedly informed her that everything was up to her, she was happy to stay. We bought at Pence jersey (“I don’t know who any of these guys are,” she said when shopping for jerseys. “Then just pick a number you like,” I said.) and a big orange foam finger and garlic fries.

In the end, I would call this day a success. But it wasn’t easy. Sometimes I’m reminded in no uncertain terms of the challenges my daughter faces. Sometimes I’m not reminded but instead learn something entirely new. My brave, strong kid can still be a frightened young child inside. She can still struggle to know what she’s feeling, and when she is able to not only identify it but also verbalize it, it’s a small victory. I can’t even think about college, or next year, and sometimes not even tomorrow. It’s enough, quite often, to be surprised minute by minute.

Recently my sister recounted a moment with her teenage daughter. They are both musicians, and my sister has been playing more regular gigs. After a recent performance, “You inspire me,” her daughter began, and my sister’s heart swelled with pride. “To eat ice cream,” the sentence concluded.

“That was a rollercoaster of a comment,” I replied.

And that is precisely how I feel. A single moment with Maddie, a single utterance, can encapsulate a high and a low, both a pleasant surprise and a slap-in-the-face reminder of the challenges we face.

But still, as of yesterday, my daughter is 17. That is 17 years of her becoming this complicated young lady, and 17 years of my own growth into the mother, and person, I am today.

Separated at Birth

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

When Maddie was a toddler, and just becoming able to express all those thoughts she was having thanks to those finally-developing fine motor skills in her face (yes, speaking is all about fine motor skills!), she began to ask me every single day, “Is there a party today?”

She had decided birthday parties were her passion. A truly good day would involve a party. She wasn’t able to say a whole lot, really, so I couldn’t be sure what exactly what it was about parties that so fully floated her boat, but clearly she enjoyed being in a social atmosphere. Many kids on the autism spectrum are paralyzed by anxiety in groups, while some just scoot off to the side in quiet avoidance, but not Maddie. She may not have been playing on the same level as the other kids, but apparently she liked them anyway. A lot. Or maybe it was the cake.

Maddie has never been a particular garrulous person, either, but when she has something to say, it’s usually either interesting or insightful or funny (except when she continues to repeat that funny thing long after it lost its humor). As an elementary student, she would have usually one or two friends, typically kids who had some social challenge or other. I remember her kindergarten teacher, whom I liked very much otherwise, saying, “I don’t really see her as (and I paraphrase here) a popular kid.” Wow, I thought, OK. Not everyone can be that kid. I have a feeling the teacher was that kid, and perhaps her four children were too, so maybe a child who’s at the center of things is what she expects or sees as necessary for her definition of success. Maddie would be on the fringes, I suppose she meant. At the time all I knew was her milestones had been delayed, but she was a cute smart kid who was drawn to kids who struggled, and who was having a challenging time adapting to kindergarten as evidenced by a few episodes of sitting under a table screaming (in response, I believe, to her best friend’s difficulties) and an occasion or two in which she hid at school and nobody could find her for awhile. Would she ever be in the center socially? I doubted it, but it seemed like a ridiculous thing expect or even think about.

She has never had much of a social life, though. She had limited numbers of friends as a younger kid, for one thing, and those friends weren’t particularly social themselves. But even now, since she has grown in confidence as well as social skills, and is better able to socialize, she shows little interest in nurturing friendships outside of school. There is the exception of her cousin, however, the only person she longs to spend time with.

For years I would ask her daily who she ate lunch with. “Do you want to invite them over on Saturday?” I would ask. Or “I could pick them up and take you both to a movie if you want.” Or “Why don’t you text him and see if he wants to play that video game you both like?” A shrug of disinterest inevitably followed. It seemed like she ought to want to hang out with her peers, but apparently she didn’t. She still doesn’t despite being isolated at home since she quit high school.

And then something happened. I have an old friend whom I hadn’t seen for probably 13 years. We were never close as we were connected via our husbands, who also weren’t especially close, and many years ago she had divorced and moved away with her young daughter. “Suzi” moved back to the area a few years ago, and although I hadn’t seen her, we had been connected on Facebook and she had been reading my blog. After reading about Maddie’s LARPing (live action role play) success at winter camp, Suzi was moved to action. It turns out her 14-year-old daughter Caitlin has similar interests, not to mention a few shared personality traits. Suzi asked if perhaps Maddie would be interested in meeting Caitlin.

Maddie has historically befriended boys far more than girls, although girls like her very much. She literally could not be less interested in things like makeup and clothes and hair and nails, as evidenced by her avoidance of such basics as showering and wearing clean pants, and she’s not interested in talking about boys even though she’s had her share of crushes. And forget small talk. She wants to talk about Minecraft and LARPing and the Assassin’s Creed video games and Star Wars and anime. Otherwise, BOR-ING!

She has also announced, with conviction, her opposition to what she calls “forced friendships.” Because of that she shunned this wonderful program at her high school called PALS in which select volunteers from the mainstream student body are paired with special ed students for social activities including a weekly lunch and a monthly party. It’s an awesome program. They have to turn away volunteers! But Maddie rejected it outright because, she said, of her total disinterest in those “forced friendships.”

So when I mentioned this new potential friend to Maddie, I wasn’t sure what she would say. Luckily I said the magic word (LARPing!) and a match was made. Suzi and I agreed on a time for them to meet and Maddie was absolutely giddy for a week, making all sorts of plans and repeatedly asking me about this mysterious Caitlin.

And then the moment arrived. Suzi and Caitlin knocked on the door and I opened it to welcome them. They walked down our entry hall and then Maddie and Caitlin met eyes. They stood there for a moment taking each other in. I looked at Caitlin, similar to Maddie in height, also wearing glasses, and remarked on her soft and interesting sweatshirt.

“Is it a dragon?” I asked.

“It’s Night Fury. From ‘How to Train Your Dragon,'” Suzi said. “She found it on Etsy.”

“Oh, I am very familiar with Night Fury,” I said. I nodded sideways towards Maddie, who happens to have a rather large stuffed Night Fury herself from many years ago when the movie first came out. She was obsessed. She still kind of is.

As the girls stood there looking at each other, I was just astounded. Here, practically under our noses all this time, was Maddie’s potential soul mate.

“Separated at birth?” I laughed to Suzi in amazement.

I was recovering from the flu, so Suzi graciously took the girls out to dinner after she and I caught up on the many years since we’d seen each other as Maddie and Caitlin huddled in Maddie’s messy room and, apparently, talked and talked and planned and planned. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Maddie like that before!

I do believe a friendship has been born. And that’s really all you need: one good friend. My son has a nice group of long-time friends, and Maddie has struggled to have friendships outside of school. So seeing the potential friendship forming before my eyes is a beautiful thing. It’s been a long time coming! Separated at birth, perhaps, but reunited at long last.

Let the LARPing begin.

The Art of Acceptance

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

One of the many concepts I have struggled with and contemplated over the years of parenting my autistic child has been the difference between giving up and acceptance. I have come to the conclusion that it’s simply a matter of mindset because the outcome of giving up and acceptance is the same: you recognize there is a reality you probably can’t change, so you put your energies elsewhere.

So many times I have felt like I was giving up. Or perhaps just giving up too soon. I was hard on myself, too. Remember my failure to chart? I felt so guilty when every single professional we worked with, including psychologists, psychiatrists, and occupational therapists, insisted that making reward charts was the answer. THE answer. It never was the answer for us, and I knew it. But I would often try for a week, and then just bail out. Was I giving up? I didn’t know. I just knew it wasn’t working. It seemed futile. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe I wasn’t organized enough or disciplined enough. Maybe it felt too difficult for me (it is true it’s not in my nature).

I realized at some point, however, that it wasn’t my failure. Charts were meaningless to Maddie. So I could release myself from guilt because really what I was doing was recognizing what was true (acceptance!) and acting accordingly. Maddie didn’t give a shit about a reward chart and she never would, so why keep trying? I could release myself. And guess what? That is not the same as giving up!

I also remember deciding there would be no more fights about homework. And in our house, that meant no homework at all. It wasn’t going to happen without a lot of pushing on my part, and often my energy was wasted. I really should have made that decision when Maddie was in first grade, when homework first came into our lives. What should have taken ten minutes (an appropriate length of time for a six-year-old, if they absolutely must have homework at all) took a full hour because of the Asperger’s (and with it, ADHD) I didn’t know she had. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell the teacher, “Look, this is killing us.” I now realize years later that she would have most likely said “No problem.” But I was fighting it, swimming upstream in a deluge, losing my mind over something that was at the time both impossible and unnecessary. If only I’d had the wisdom of acceptance back then. Or the next year, or the next year, or the year after that. And on and on.

Finally, after more than eleven years of this struggle, two weeks ago we began the new phase of Maddie’s education. She hasn’t set foot on a campus for months, and in fact she took a couple months off to do whatever the heck she wanted. Which, by the way, was awesome for me, too. I realize parenting involves occasional conflicts with your kids. You will inevitably be at odds at least once in awhile. But the daily grind of morning-long battles, fraught with anxiety on both our parts, was just too much. For both of us. I got to say at least a temporary goodbye to migraines. And, it turns out, Maddie was able to to go off the Prozac she’s been taking since she was nine.

I noticed a few days ago that her prescription bottle was still in the Ziploc bag she had taken to camp last month. She had been a bit less reliable with her nightly medication since she quit school. I was no longer managing my teenager’s bedtime, which involved watching the clock, telling her five times to brush her teeth, cleaning off her bed, filling her water bottle, reminding her to take her medication, and hanging out for a bit (I do miss our nighttime conversations) before turning off her light and saying good night. So I wasn’t aware she had simply stopped. Fortunately, unlike many similar medications, you can apparently just stop cold turkey without withdrawal symptoms.

After I spotted the neglected bottle, I casually asked Maddie if she had been taking her medication. “No,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“I thought so. Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

“Yup!” Clearly she was feeling better than OK.

“If you start feeling any anxiety or if you feel a little depressed, you need to tell me, okay?”

“Yup!” And I know she will. I’m so grateful for that.

And so here we are. Her decision to quit school relieved me of that two-month migraine and apparently freed Maddie from the anxiety, in particular, that had been plaguing her since the fourth grade. Seven years later (SEVEN YEARS!), we figured out together that “giving up” on school was really just accepting that it wasn’t working, and then making the choice to do something else, and rather magically, we are both okay. After all these years of struggle, all these years of meetings and IEPs, and then no IEPs, and then IEPs again, after traumatizing experiments with ADHD meds, after all those fights and struggles and tears and digging in on her part and frustration and yelling on my part, and frustration and even the occasional physical outburst on her part, and my trying and trying and feeling like a failure, and wondering what I should do, and then trying something and finding that doesn’t work, and trying something else and then something else, and feeling defeated and exhausted and afraid and discouraged, Maddie and I found acceptance.

And so, for now, we are free!

The difference between giving up and acceptance, it turns out, is in your feeling of power. When you give up, you are admitting defeat. The thing, whatever it is, has won. And so you shrug and say, well forget it. With acceptance, you are making a choice. You are not a victim. You are in charge. YOU say, I have decided this thing, whatever it is, is happening, and you find a way to embrace it, and hopefully, to make the best of it and find a new path to peace.

Still Looking for My Inner Bad-Ass

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach3 Comments

It’s the beginning of a new year. And the beginning of a new era. A school-free era for my kid. Which is great. But it’s also an era of exploration of sorts. Hmmm…now that I see those words I realize the exploration era isn’t new at all. It’s about 16 1/2 years old right now. And it’s not really getting any easier.

One of the areas I have had to explore is within myself. And that is my ability to ask for help. Oh man, do I suck at that. It is not a point of pride that I’m like that. In fact, I think it’s a deficiency. I mean, isn’t it a bit superior to think that I’m to be the helper only? That perhaps I’m beyond needing help?

I have explored this in therapy. For years, when the stress of the mornings (and the afternoons and evenings and nighttimes) was about to break me, my therapist, in her infinite wisdom, advised me to hire help. If a had a person in my home to do the mundane stuff, it would free up my energy to do the hard stuff. And perhaps I might not actually GO CRAZY. We had that conversation so many times, and I would nod my head in agreement. “That is such a great idea!” I would say. “Yes! I’ll for sure look into that!” But apparently I didn’t mean it because by the the time I was closing to door to her office and heading home, I was thinking, “Nope.”

I know where I get this from, Mom. My mom is one of those bake-a-lasagne-while-pouring-concrete kind of moms who also sewed our clothes and mowed the lawn and painted the outside of the house and made dinner out of nothing and gave us every last dime she ever had to make us happy. But would she ever ask for help? Uh, nope. The reigning philosophy at our house long preceded Tim Gunn: Make it work. Do with what you have. You can do it because you just have to. That’s what a strong person does.

So here I am. I’m a grown woman. I not only don’t mow a lawn, I don’t even have a lawn. We have a gardener who comes twice a month for some basic yard clean up. I knew by the time I was seven that sewing machines and I were destined to be enemies. (In fact, at some point my mom put my sister and I to work simply cutting out the patterns pinned to the fabric, and I was so bad at that, she told me to forget it). We have a weekly house cleaner who does all the really big stuff (although I certainly spend a ridiculous amount of time doing laundry and cleaning the kitchen and generally trying to keep my house from being a pig-sty, emphasis on the word “trying”). For years, though, I felt so weird about it that I would help our house cleaner when she was here. I still do a little bit, telling her to forget this room or that, or don’t worry about the floors she didn’t get to today, or here let me play with your kid while you’re working.

In comparison to my mom, my workload is pathetically easy. And yet still I am overwhelmed to the point of occasionally falling apart in a big way. And I still won’t get help. There is just something inside me that expects that I can do all the parenting because that is how it’s done. I should be able to handle everything with my kid. That’s my job! And if I can’t, perhaps that means I’m not good enough. I would never think that about anybody else. In fact, I’ll be your biggest cheerleader if you say to me, “Ya know, this is too hard for me. I’m getting help.”

“Good for you!” I would say. “We all need help!” And I would mean it.

Perhaps even more of a roadblock in getting help for Maddie has simply been a lack of knowledge of what in the hell to ask for. I add those words quite intentionally because it’s the most humbling, frustrating, regrettable thing to find out, after years of struggling, there was help available that I could have asked for if only I had known about it. And that happened to me recently.

In preparing to move Maddie from her public high school to a home school environment, I sought out the professional experience of my friend “Carol.” She is an experienced behavioral therapist and business owner who works closely with schools to provide support and interventions for kids like Maddie. She is a not only a terrific person but also a great resource that I should have hired the minute I met her. (Quick advice for parents of special needs kids: Get yourself a professional advocate!)

Shortly before winter break, I received an email from Maddie’s teacher/case manager suggesting that I immediately un-enroll her from school so that she would receive Incompletes rather than F’s on her report card. Okay, I thought, I’d better do that because that’s what I was told to do. A week went by and I hadn’t made the official declaration because I hadn’t yet put an alternative education plan in place. I wasn’t sure what to do or how to do it yet, but after another reminder email from that teacher, I set about writing a long letter explaining why we were taking her out of school. I wanted the teachers and staff to know I appreciated everything they had done, but that, due to Maddie’s difficulties getting to school and because of the recommendation from the teacher that we officially un-enroll her, we were going to educate her at home.

Still somewhat apprehensive about making it official, I forwarded the draft of my letter to my professional friend Carol. I wanted her feedback on the letter, particularly since we had discussed hiring her to create a home school program (even though I kept thinking I could do it myself because I ought to be able to do it myself).

“Whoa!” she said. “Because of her IEP she should absolutely not be getting Fs.” She was a little bit angry, I sensed, because she believed Maddie’s case wasn’t being handled properly. She also wanted to know why more interventions hadn’t been attempted at the source; why hadn’t they sent somebody to our home to motivate Maddie to get to school? Why hadn’t she met with a counselor or psychologist to get at the core reason for her attendance problems? Why hadn’t there been a plan in place to address these issues?

Crap. I could have asked for all that? Those are things they can do? 

I know there are other parents out there who raise their voices and demand what their kid needs. I honestly don’t know how to do that. So feeling ineffectual in that way, I asked Carol to add to my letter wording that would properly and very specifically address what she thought I should ask for now: a specific plan to address the core issue of attendance and a clearly delineated academic program that would allow Maddie to graduate. I tried to write it myself, but the words just didn’t seem right and I felt as though I wasn’t even sure I knew what I was requesting.

So Carol, my friend and fierce advocate, using the voice she knows how to use working with schools and insurance companies to get what her clients need, was clear and unapologetic in her requests. I edited it all a little bit, softening the edges to better suit my own style, and sent it off with my fingers crossed.

And shortly after that I received a response. I had clearly offended her teacher, who seemed to take a rather defensive tone. And I immediately regretted my letter. I really hate offending people, for one thing (which is part of my problem, I guess). And I felt shitty because it seems that somebody else can acceptably use a more powerful voice because it belongs to them, but when I adopted this more demanding demeanor, it somehow came across as ungrateful and perhaps inauthentic. I fear I set this whole thing up by always being so undemanding and flexible, and then when I suddenly get all fierce, people don’t know what to make of it.

So I turned around with a sort-of apology, saying I hadn’t meant to be confrontational but instead I was trying to figure out what to do with Maddie and that I have always found it hard to know what to ask for and how to ask for it. (As of now, she is not un-enrolled and we are supposed to meet in January. Also I now have a clearer idea of what we’re working toward.)

And that made me feel better in a way (I nipped the conflict in the bud! Phew!) but worse in another. Here I was simply asking for something very specific for my child and pointing out that despite repeated requests for help I still hadn’t gotten her what she needs, and it was as if I was trying to pick a fight. And the last thing I wanted to do was start a fight. On the other hand, maybe that’s what I ought to do sometimes. Sometimes, it turns out, you really do have to be the squeaky wheel. Or the bitch. Or whatever.

So here it is, 2017, the year I will turn 50 (!), and I still struggle with asking for what I need. I even found the courage to ask for it and I ended up apologizing. One thing has become clearer as I write this: the ability to ask for what you want and to demand what you deserve is a strength, not a weakness.

Perhaps I think I need to write this on a some post-it note and stick it on my bathroom mirror:

“Use your voice and don’t apologize for it.”

And, perhaps:

“Be kind to yourself.”