Star Wars Part 2

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Friday was for me one of the biggest movie-going events of my lifetime, second only to seeing Star Wars in 1977 for my tenth birthday. Skipping school to see a movie was special enough (I NEVER missed school), and seeing any movie at a theater was a pretty big deal for a family who typically ran out of money at the end of the month. But this movie was special. I remember sitting in the domed theater watching those opening words move over our heads, my breath surely taken away for the first few moments.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens held a similar excitement for me. It was the first time my family would see a Star Wars movie together in the theater, since Episode 3 came out when my kids were too small. We’re all huge fans. Maddie even has a pink and black Mandalorian costume created for her Comicon visit last year, which of course she planned to wear for the big event. She also planned to wear it to school.

A problem arose the night before, however. In anticipation of the big event, Maddie stayed up late (the night before her last finals) repairing one of her lightsabers (hello again, duct tape!). I didn’t realize what she was doing until she had finished, and at that point I had just been reminded of the new rules of cinema-going: No masks, no face paint, and certainly nothing weapon-like, no matter how cartoonish or unreal. So, her cool helmut was out, as were her lightsabers and blasters. She was so sad–depressed really. I managed to snuggle the sadness away enough for her to get to sleep, though, and the next morning she was up and ready to go in record time. A big day such as Star Wars day gets her blood pumping, thankfully!

As I had promised earlier in the week, we had cancelled the cab in favor of a mom-drive to school. It’s a bit of a hike to go roundtrip during rush hour, but I enjoy the time with Maddie and getting even a glimpse of her school life makes me happy. Just seeing the other kids arriving at school gives me a small sense of what her days might be like. I’m not saying I want to drive her every day, but I make the most of the times when I do.

As we were getting into the car, in a mad rush as always, I noticed her blasters (i.e., storm trooper guns) nestled into her belt. “Maddie,” I said, “you won’t be able to take those to school. Schools have rules prohibiting anything looking like a weapon, even if it looks totally fake,” I explained. I even went into why that rule is now in effect.

“How do you KNOW?” she countered.

“Well, I just know that generally speaking schools no longer allow anything like that. You could get in REALLY BIG TROUBLE. Like you could get expelled.”

“Everybody knows me and knows I wouldn’t shoot anybody,” Maddie insisted.

“Unfortunately they can’t apply rules like that. The same rules apply to everybody.” I even told her about a couple of cases in which kids with toy guns were shot by police. I was really going for it.

“What if I just try?” She was not giving up. She had a whole costume to wear, and dammit, she was going to wear it at SOME point.

“The trying is what can get you into trouble. ‘Trying’ is showing up with the toy guns, and that’s what you can’t do. Plus,” I continued, “if you go to school with those and get into trouble, you will also get in trouble at home.”

“What exactly would happen?” She always likes to weigh her options.

“No computer time (i.e., Minecraft) for a month.”

She continued to ponder the consequences, questioning exactly how I know all this. She still wasn’t convinced anything would happen should she keep those blasters in her belt. Finally I suggested she look on the school’s website for a student handbook that might spell out the rules. She grabbed my phone and perused the website. Nothing jumped out. And then I had the best idea of the day: “Just call the office and ask. Say ‘I’m dressed up in a pink and black Star Wars costume that has pink and black blasters. Is it OK if I wear them?'”

So she dialed the number and explained her predicament to whomever answered the phone. She was transferred to somebody else, and she repeated her problem. “Okay,” she said right away. “Okay.” And then she hung up. Oh, thank goodness. She got the answer, and I could let it go. The blasters and her helmut stayed in the car when she hopped out to go to her last two finals. She was still happy and in the Star Wars spirit. In the end, she didn’t let the lightsaber/blaster/helmut exclusions get her down.

Crisis averted. Well, one crisis averted. When I asked her about the science and history finals she was about to take, she remarked, “There’s one problem. There is a study guide for history I was supposed to finish before Mr. L. will give me the test. I remembered last night, but it was too late.” Oh no. I hadn’t bugged her about studying because (1) that’s up to her teachers, (2) she won’t do it anyway, and (3) she does well without ever studying, so what’s the point? But I hadn’t anticipated this.

My heart sank. What in the world was going to happen now? What if she didn’t even get to take the final? I was trying to breathe deeply. It would all be okay, I tried to convince myself.

“You have to figure out a way to remember this stuff.”

“I know.”

“If you can’t remember things, you have to write them down. That’s the case for everybody!”

“But I never remember to write it down.” That’s definitely a problem. We talked about strategies for stirring her memory.

“Well,” I finally decided, “this is your first experience with finals. So this will be a learning experience, and you’ll know what to do next time.” Maddie nodded in agreement. She didn’t seem particularly stressed out. “I guess you’ll see what happens in a minute!” I said.

“Yup.”

When I picked her up a few hours later,  just after she finished her science final, she was in great spirits. She thought her finals had gone well. Apparently had completed enough of the study guide that Mr. L. had mercy on her and let her take the final. Oh, phew! Thank goodness for compassionate, understanding teachers!

She was happy for vacation to start, and more immediately, to head off to the theater.

“Did anybody else dress up for Star Wars?” I asked.

“Nope!” She could not have cared less. She was rocking her own style and loving every minute of it.

I was talking to a friend the other day about Maddie and how I recognize the ironic gift of having her for a daughter. There are struggles, and they are daily, but there are some things I will never have to worry about. She will not have drug problems, she is unlikely every to drink or be promiscuous because she doesn’t care enough about what other people think to alter her behavior. And she is happy with herself. While other families are dealing with teens so overwhelmed by stress that even attempts at suicide have crept into their lives, I know I don’t have to consider that. I have one of the most easy-going, good-natured 15-year-olds you could ever meet.

Whatever happens with Maddie, she will be okay. She will be content. She will love and accept herself. And she has the confidence to fully express who she is.

We all loved the movie. I might even see it again. I never do that. But the feelings of joy and gratitude I had yesterday were just too good pass up if there’s another chance.

Friday, Star Wars opening day, the last day of Maddie’s first finals, was good day all around. A very good day.

Stars Wars Part 1

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Sunday night I had a great idea. Or so I thought.

We had decided to see Star Wars as a family, along with my niece and her boyfriend, Friday afternoon. Opening day. That means picking Maddie up from school after her last final and grabbing her brother a couple hours early. And here was my brilliant idea: I told the kids they had to go to school every day this week in order for this to happen.

Maddie’s surprising response: “I have to go to school. I have finals.” She has to do something? Well, that’s new.

This baby’s in the bag, I thought. I bought tickets for us all. Everyone is going to school, and everyone is going to the movie. This is going to be a good week, I thought.

Right now, Maddie’s still in bed. The cab has come and gone. I will drive her to school now, if she’ll just get up.

My son keeps trying to convince her to go. “Just go for a little while,” he said. “Wouldn’t you rather go see Star Wars than stay home from school for one day?” “Oh, are you nervous about finals?” he is asking right now. “No? Just an old-fashioned stomachache, I guess,” he says. He’s really giving it his all. Despite years of what I would categorize as resentment towards her, he loves her. She is the biggest Star Wars fan in our family and now she might miss out. This could be tragic.

Last week I had a meeting with Maddie’s special ed teacher and the assistant principal. I had been trying to make things happen strictly via email with the teacher, Mr. L., but I haven’t been satisfied. Nothing beats face-to-face, so I called this meeting. I left there feeling very optimistic. Not necessarily optimistic about Maddie’s behavior changing, but optimistic about the school’s approach to handling her. Mr. S., the assistant principal, clearly understood the problem. He is going to be firm with her, but he also understands that many of the protocols applicable to truant kids aren’t appropriate for Maddie. This is part of her disability, and everybody at the table understood that.

Pause for a pointless drive to school

My son’s attempts to convince Maddie to go to school were effective. Sort of. Maddie had been crying at one point, a rare occurrence. When she cries, it means something. But somehow all of my son’s efforts had the desired effect.

“She’s up and even has her shoes on!” he announced proudly. There have been times in his thirteen years of life that he has driven me absolutely crazy, but there are times when he blows my mind with his insight, his thoughtfulness, his initiative, his kindness. This is one of those times. He really wants things to work out for everyone.

“Maybe you should bring Otter,” he suggested to Maddie once she had gotten up and dressed. Otter is a Beanie Baby who has been with us for the last 13 1/2 years. It has been a source of comfort since Maddie fell in love with it so many years ago on a trip to Carmel. I can’t believe we still have that thing. Maddie grabbed Otter, held it close, and walked upstairs. She was reluctant still, but she was moving in the right direction.

So I said goodbye to everyone, and Maddie and I set off for the 25-minute drive to school. We brought our puppy Banjo along for good measure. Puppy snuggles are always better than no puppy snuggles!

As we pulled into the drop-off zone, Maddie just sat there in her seat. Banjo was on her lap, and nobody was making a move. “I can’t do it,” she said sadly. Her stomach hurts too much, she had said. She did the best she could, she said. She had really tried. The tears welled up in her eyes again.

Well, now what do I do? I thought. I had tried to convince her to go to school for even a just part of the day. I would pick her up if she couldn’t do it. “Just go say hi to Mr. L.,” I had suggested. Her classroom was so close, but that didn’t matter. The distance from the car to the classroom was still too great for Maddie. This wasn’t happening.

And here I was again, having given a very clear reward offer for a very clear set of expectations, but still finding myself in the middle of a rather murky moment. Did this count as “going to school”? Have we already arrived at the no-Star Wars moment? That just didn’t feel right. She clearly wasn’t feeling well. She had done the best she could. But I didn’t know what to say, so I called my husband and explained the situation. I guess what I wanted was permission to give Maddie permission to go home. That was my inclination, but I am in a constant internal fight with myself about things like this. Another rational person sharing in decision was important. And my husband came through. “She did her best,” he said. Oh, thank goodness.

Thank goodness for two reasons: First, I really didn’t want to leave her out of the Star Wars viewing. When the first one came out in 1977, it was near my tenth birthday, and our parents took my sister and me out of school to go see it. I will never ever forget that day because of the movie itself and how special I felt getting to miss a little school to go see it. I had planned to take Maddie out early, too, but it turned out she was getting out early anyway. My son does get the special early pickup for the occasion–on pajama day, no less.

Secondly, it seems to me that when the carrot is no longer available so early in the game, there’s no point. If I say “you have to do this thing all week to get a reward,” and Maddie blows it on the first day, what in the world is going to motivate her the rest of the week? That’s a huge problem.

So my husband and I agreed to let her go home and still have a chance to see Star Wars Friday after school, and we turned around and came home. Nearly an hour trip for nothing. Well, I guess it was for something because Maddie got credit for going to school in a way.

Soon after I got home, I got an email from Mr. L., who wanted to know if Maddie was going to be at school. It turns out that the extra time she is allotted for test taking was front-loaded: she could start early in the week (i.e., today) and finish with the rest of the class. Well, now that’s out the window. He thought perhaps she had anxiety. My son had asked her about that as well, and she had denied any such thing, but I had to wonder. One of the defining aspects of autism is an inability–or diminished ability–to identify emotions. Maddie has always had difficulty with that although she’s made significant progress over the years. Still, it’s not uncommon for stress to result in stomach issues. And even I sometimes experience physical manifestations of stress before I can identify what’s going on in my mind. So the likelihood of that being the case with Maddie seemed high. After all, this is the first time she’s really had final exams. She’s most certainly feeling some pressure.

In fact yesterday she was given her history exam, and instead of making progress, she made a paper airplane. Yes, this is my child. I have the child who makes paper airplanes instead of taking a test. When I asked her about it, she said he had been bored. Bored. Hmm. I wonder if bored was really stressed.

So I asked her again this afternoon if she was nervous. “Maybe,” she admitted, probably just accepting the idea herself. I assured her that all she had to do was give it a good try, to do whatever her best work is, and that just doing it was more important than her grades. I also explained that she couldn’t make airplanes instead of doing her work. Even if she got an F on a final exam, I explained, maybe she’d get 50 points out of 100, which is so much better than a big fat zero. I think that made sense to her.

Maddie spent the day wearing her parka and hanging out in bed watching TV.  Mostly she looked sad and pitiful when I checked on her or brought her food. The only thing I required of her was a shower. She didn’t argue, fortunately, although there was bargaining, as usual. I shampooed her hair, the promise of which seems to be a big relief to her . We blasted music (“Fergilicious,” “Another One Bites the Dust,” etc.) and danced, she in the shower, I on the other side of the shower door. We danced and laughed and made funny faces. That put us both in a good mood, after a stressful day for, apparently, both of us.

“I have to go to school tomorrow,” she says now. I nod in agreement. Today I think she had talked herself out of that idea. Today wasn’t an official final exam day. But tomorrow is. I am optimistic at the moment. We shall see. We shall see.

 

The Problem with Geometry

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

When I had geometry in high school, I loved it. Math came easily to me. Geometry was intuitive and satisfying, especially proofs. If this, then that, and then this, and then finally that. I think what I enjoyed about math was coming up with a solution that is objectively right. You know when you are done, too. It’s probably the only field of study that is so concrete. Science is as well, but even as we answer questions using science, there is always the possibility that those answers are wrong or just incomplete. Math is so much better in that way.

Unfortunately, I am finding my battle with geometry a bit less satisfying this time around. As I like to say, “School was so much easier the first time I did it!” I was in charge of myself, for one thing, and nobody else. I did my work and that was that. Now I’m coaxing and helping and struggling and sucking at it.

My husband and I were both excited for Maddie to have geometry this year. She’s very visual and spacial, so we thought it would be a good fit. Also proofs were alway satisfying to both of us, so we anticipated Maddie would find the same interest we had. Uh, nope.

What I hadn’t thought through was her difficultly anticipating the future and how it might affect her ability to do a proof. You have to have a vision of how to get from the beginning to the end, and all the steps in between. She is having trouble. They’ve just started on this particular section, so I’m certainly not throwing in the towel, but I can see already that proofs aren’t coming as easily to Maddie as the rest of geometry has.  That mental follow-through just isn’t happening.

Furthermore, as you probably know, math has changed so much over the years. While premises and conclusions might be the same as they once were, the methods for getting to the end have changed dramatically. This has been a problem in our house for years. Do I remember algebra? Sure, but I’ve never seen it done that way. Proofs, it turns out, look different too. I could learn the new method–once I seriously reviewed the theorems involved–and then I could help Maddie. But for now I’m stuck.

Because math has historically come easily to Maddie, having trouble with a concept doesn’t sit well with her. She has little patience for going to battle with her homework. If she can’t do something right away, and do it easily, she gives up. She gets discouraged. She certainly has grit in other facets of her life (she has had to develop that), but homework isn’t one of them.

So over the weekend, when she had numerous missed days to make up for, geometry just didn’t go too well. We looked up a tutorial on the internet. That was potentially very helpful, but without the theorem knowledge in my head already, and without Maddie’s commitment to really trying, watching the video was pointless. I gave up. I got her through the homework she could do without much trouble, and hopefully she’ll seek out the help she needs at school.

The problem is, once again, she is not at school. She wanted more sleep, she said. She’d go later, she said. I knew she was tired. I also knew she wouldn’t go at all today. She has never once done that.

And so I accepted it. I knew she would never wake up, stretch and look outside, and think, “All right! I’m going to school! I’m ready for action!” She promises she will go the rest of the week. And for now, she means it. But she can’t really anticipate tomorrow, or what will happen if she doesn’t go yet another day. Just like the proofs, she can’t get from point A to point B to point C in her head. She’s living in point A. Always.

And unlike geometry, there is never a right answer with raising Maddie, or really any kid. You never know if you’re right or when you’re done. You can never write down that number and drop your pencil in a dramatic fashion as if announcing victory over your homework or your test. Problems aren’t solved. They morph into new ones. Or the answer you thought was right appears to be wrong now. This stuff is hard.

So we begin the week with Maddie behind severals days in her school work, and getting behind yet another day. Apparently the school’s current solution is to continue lunch detentions (Who cares? she says), and then bring in a truant officer. When? I want to know. And to do what exactly?

I don’t know what the solution to Maddie’s attendance issue is, but I’m pretty sure we are miles away. I guess the key is accepting that. Maybe even accepting the a solution or answer isn’t possible at all.

I have a friend on Facebook whom I knew in high school. He is a kindhearted, lovable and well-loved man who was in the special education class. He’s in his early 50s and still lives at home with his parents, who obviously adore him and fully participate in his life. His posts are typically upbeat and fun as he gets to do so many fun things with all of the people who love him. I don’t think he works. He’s very much like a kid in an adult body, and he gets to live out his childlike existence in such a lovely way. Nobody is forcing him to grow up, and nobody is pressuring him to be any different.

I was suddenly very struck by that yesterday. What if I discarded the idea of finding a solution? What if I went all the way, one hundred percent, to acceptance? What if I just focused solely on Maddie’s happiness and let her be the kid she seems to want to be?

The problem (if you want to call it that) is I know Maddie’s intellectual development is not an issue here, and she is quite capable in many ways, so I’m not sure at all when to give up the idea of her moving forward in life, living on her own, maybe going to college, maybe having some kind of job, maybe even having a family.

I think for now I’ll keep pushing forward, with the knowledge that at some point I’ll have to shift my expectations. And accepting that possibility.

For now I just have to get us through this day, and this week, and the next. At least at that point she’ll be on winter break, so I can relax a little. And maybe re-learn some geometry.

The Days are Long…and the Weeks Are Longer

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Happy Friday, everyone! Especially Happy Friday to me. This has been an extra challenging week, and it’s finally over. A much needed break is upon me. I am so thankful.

As you know, Monday and Tuesday Maddie refused to get up and go to school. Without access to screens, she still managed to relax the days away while I fretted about her attendance problems. Last time I wrote it was Tuesday, the day of the play.

Mid-morning on Tuesday I managed to contact Maddie’s drama teacher about the attendance requirement for participating in after-school activities. He confirmed there is such a policy but that (1) the attendance officer would never know and (2) he really needed her at the play. Such good news!

With most kids, parents would probably want the opposite news. If you don’t do what’s required of you, we would want them to understand, then you can’t do the fun stuff. There are consequences. Truant students don’t get to be in a play after school, Maddie. I admit I was ambivalent about this at first. I do like the idea of attempting, at least, to reinforce this idea with her. But I also wanted her to have the experience of the play, to reinforce the positive experiences associated with school, and to help her feel more connected to it.

Miraculously I managed to get her to shower in the afternoon. I’m not sure how that occurred to be honest. She seemed resigned to it, which is unusual.

And then, as departure time became imminent, she said the most surprising thing: “I’m tired, but I must go.” I don’t know if she’d ever strung the words “I” and “must” together un-ironically in her entire life. I was full of hope and gratitude in that moment, but those feelings were tinged with a healthy dose of realism. Oh, sure, she says that now. That doesn’t mean she will ever say that again.

We were just ready to leave when I asked, “Do you need to bring anything?” I had a feeling she did.

“Yes, a sword,” she replied. Of course.

She headed downstairs to retrieve the desired duct-tape masterpiece and returned upstairs. Then she had another thought. So she exchanged her sword for sword-making supplies: two long sticks of bamboo and two rolls of duct tape.

“What’s up with that?” I inquired.

“Well, in the play I’m supposed to be making a sword,” she said. “Plus I have to make one for Nick anyway. I can just work on it during the play.”

“How long does that scene last?” I asked.

“Just a couple of minutes.”

“I think it would better to just bring a completed sword and some matching duct tape and you just add a couple of pieces. You  need to focus on performing, not making a sword.” I imagined in her on stage, fumbling with her props, making all kinds of noise with the tape.

“But I need to make one anyway,” she insisted. She has a way of doing that: insisting.

I soon accepted that this line of reasoning wasn’t going to get us anywhere, so I ran to her room and grabbed the sword she’d chosen originally. “Just bring both, and then you can ask your teacher what he wants you to do.” There! No longer my problem. Man, that felt good.

One thing at a time, I thought to myself. Little hurdles all day long. Some big ones, too, but it seems like everything with Maddie is a hurdle. And unfortunately I’m not very tall nor athletic, plus the hurdles keep moving, so the race is particularly challenging, even if I’m not trying to win. I’m just trying to finish. With minimal injury to us both.

The play was great. Her teacher had written it especially for this class, which consists of five special ed students and seven kids from the general population. It began with a boy named Nathan, whom I hadn’t met before. Such an adorable boy, most certainly a freshman, but he looked about ten due to Downs Syndrome. His primary role was to start the show with a solo dance to “Thriller.” My heart was suddenly full. Full of adoration for this kid and for the teacher who so lovingly allowed him to shine doing what was very likely Nathan’s idea.

The teacher had decided some years ago that he wanted his classes not to only act, but also to learn something else in the process. He wanted his plays to have meaning. The play was about kindness and inclusion, an especially appropriate theme for this bunch of kids.

Maddie had the largest role of the special ed students, by far, mostly because she can remember all her dialogue. It was so interesting to see her up there, not only acting without fear (as usual) but also really as a leader of her peers. Towards the end of the play, Maddie showed up on stage with her completed sword and a roll of duct tape, as I had suggested. When she was getting out of the car, I said to her, “Let your director decide, and don’t argue.” She agreed and apparently stuck to her commitment. Apparently teachers have more influence. Thank goodness for that!

It’s a small theater, and it was mostly full. Of course everybody’s parents were there, but also a number of students there to support their friends. All the actors were kind and generous with each other, too. What a good night!

There was another play immediately following, but Maddie chose to skip it and go home and to bed. A wise choice, I thought.

The dreaded Tuesday was not only behind us now, but it ended on a high note, and the next day was Fun Wednesday (every Wednesday is fun), so I knew she would get up the next day and the rest of the week would be a success.

Wednesday came and I wasn’t particularly anxious when I got up. My husband has been suffering from insomnia the last few days so I’ve taken over wake-up duty again, and I dragged myself out of bed (also sleep-deprived) and woke Maddie up cheerfully.

You’d think after all these years I would know better than to count on Maddie doing anything in particular. But I was still surprised Wednesday when she did not get up. She did not go to school. I was infuriated. I got my husband up to help. He too was infuriated.

But I can see in times like this that such a response not only doesn’t work, it often backfires. I don’t think there was anything we could have done to change the outcome of that morning, and our boiling blood only makes her dig in deeper. Not wanting to go to school becomes Oh, yeah? You think that’s going to do anything? Watch me as I sit here forever. 

And so it went. Another day of truancy. After all that.

That day, however, I had decided that no matter what Maddie did, I was going to go about my business. I could not put one more ounce of energy into that particular problem. And so I didn’t.

First I had to take my son to an early-morning dentist appointment, which dragged on and on. He was too loopy on laughing gas to return to school, so I brought him home.

And then, it was time for me. I met a friend for a pedicure and lunch, a much needed mini-vacation from my frustrating home life.

When I got home, Maddie wanted to glue herself to me. But I wasn’t interested. I needed distance. She wanted solace and I didn’t have any to give. I was still angry.

My son, however, had something to say to Maddie, apparently. I learned later that he had given her a bit of a pep talk. Maddie’s little brother told her how important it was that she go to school, and asked her to do her best to at least go the rest of the week. Two days, he suggested. Just start small.

And so she did. It’s Friday morning and the second day in a row that Maddie is where she is supposed to be. Last night I reminded her that she absolutely had to go to school today. “Oh, I will!” she promised. “I need to give Nick his sword.” I know a sword delivery isn’t going to be a motivator every single day, but I’ll take what I can get.

This morning was a mad rush with lots of frustration, a cab driver who knocked at the door and sent the dogs into a barking frenzy, and surely some heart palpitations on my part.

“Maddie, you have to get up and eat some breakfast!” I had finally spit about seven minutes before the cab was to arrive.

“Aren’t you happy that I at least got up?!” Maddie scolded. I shouldn’t get mad at her if she’s up, she thought, even if she’s just sitting there in her underwear staring at the wall or petting the dog instead of eating.

I guess she has a point, but getting up is only part of the equation. Pants are required, for example. As are shoes. As is walking upstairs to the cab. You can’t just sit up in bed and call it good.

When I started this entry I was going to savor the quietude of the upcoming weekend. I was looking forward to sleeping and relaxing and not having to push Maddie for a couple of days. And then I remembered she has three days of schoolwork and homework (well, four really) to get done. It’s all on me, as usual. There is much to do.

The long, agonizing week is over, but the struggle continues. At least we can all get some sleep. I hope.

How to Move the Unmovable

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

How do you move a concrete wall?

If only this were a riddle or there was some trick to it. The answer, I’m afraid, is you don’t. You can push and coax and cry and kick and scream, but the wall doesn’t care. The wall is stuck. The wall’s purpose is to be there, to stay there, to be firm and strong, no matter what forces oppose it.

And so it is with my child with autism.

The difference is with a wall, you would think, “Oh, well. It’s a wall, for Pete’s sake! Of course I can’t move it! What a good wall!”

With a kid, you think, “There has got to be a way.” There has got to be a way, even though there has never been a way. There has go to be a way because it’s not acceptable for there not to be a way. There has got to be a way because she’s a person, not a wall.

Unfortunately, when this particular person is short on sleep, the foundation digs even deeper into the soil. She is prepared for an earthquake after all, and no amount of earthshaking is going to rattle her even a little bit. She is bulletproof, earthquake proof, everything-proof. She is reward-proof, punishment-proof, logic-proof, emotion-proof.

That is how determined she is. I guess you have to admire her a little bit.

Unfortunately, Maddie stayed home all day yesterday and slept or just hung out in bed. I was kind of expecting it because she had been out of school for five whole days, and even a three-day weekend can make for a rough first morning back. So she was tired yesterday and behaved accordingly, which has a spiraling effect: If you lie around and sleep all day, you probably won’t sleep at night, which makes you sleepy the next day. And here we are. She needs to get up and suffer a little bit, but she won’t.

Yesterday she said she needed to sleep and would go to school later. But of course “later” never came. I asked her repeatedly about going to school, and finally asked her for a definitive answer to save myself some trouble. Did she intend to go? No. Yeah, I thought so.

She is saying the same thing now. She wants to sleep a little more and then I can drive her to school. But I have plans today. As happens many days, those plans may have to wait. I have a kid to deal with. I might have to spend the morning coaxing her up and driving her to school at the exact moment I hoped to be walking in the woods with a friend. I could really use some fresh air, some friend time, some nature. How therapeutic that would be!

Instead my chest is tight. My head is pounding. (Thank goodness for the funny Donald Trump post on Facebook today. It’s helping a little.)

I’m especially stressed out because Maddie’s drama class has a performance tonight. If she misses school today, can she participate? I’m not sure. Maybe she’ll go to school. Maybe she won’t.

Last year she completely bailed out on her drama class performance because once she got home after school, she decided she was too tired. I tried everything. Even her teacher talked to her on the phone. No movement. People were pretty mad at her the next day, but eventually it blew over. Then her report card came. Mostly A’s and then a D in drama. We agreed she had it coming. It didn’t feel good, but even if I remind her about that today, we all know she won’t care enough to change her behavior. She’s just not built that way.

Yesterday the only thing I had required of her was a shower. She has that performance tonight and she should at least be clean.

Guess what? No shower. Her scheme instead: her last period today is called Advisory. It’s a 90-minute block where the whole school is sort of on pause. Students are able to visit whatever teacher they choose for help, or just do homework, or whatever. Today, though, she planned to go to the gym and take a shower. What kid would ever opt for a school gym shower instead of one at home? Maddie, that’s who. We discussed this idea for awhile last night. I told her I wasn’t confident about her follow-through.

“Well, how can you know if I can do this if you don’t give me a chance?” she argued. Oh, she’s good. And to some degree she’s right. This particular plan hasn’t come into play before, so I can’t know if she’ll actually do it. But what she doesn’t understand is that her failure to get up in the morning, or take a shower at night, or do all the other things she’s supposed to do, is directly related to my faith in her follow-through on the gym/shower plan. I could tell my arguments weren’t going to get her in the shower last night, so I reluctantly conceded. She had to pack her shower stuff last night in preparation, and she dutifully did as I asked.

Here’s the thing: I have no doubt that in moments like that, Maddie fully intends to do what she plans. She can’t imagine that she won’t. She can’t imagine why she wouldn’t. So in her mind, it’s absurd of me to doubt her. Unfortunately, past behavior is the best predictor of future behavior. I need to throw those words out at her. Pointless, I’m sure, but maybe I’ll feel better.

It’s 8:07 a.m. I’m already burnt out for the day but I have so much more parenting to do, including–I hope–getting her to her performance tonight and enjoying the fruits of all our labor. I love to watch her perform. She’s a committed actor, fearless and funny. I could use some of that tonight, some of the fun parts of parenting. But I have a long way to go. Almost eleven hours.

I’m hopeful. Maybe stupidly, but still I’m hopeful. I am hopeful the play will be enough motivation to get her up and going. Just for today. And, for better or worse, tomorrow will be another day. But at least it won’t be a Tuesday.

So how do you move the unmovable? Beats me.

 

 

 

 

Trip to Party City

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

Today I drove Maddie across the county to her current favorite store, Party City. I hate that store. I hate the Target/Costco shopping center in which it’s located. It’s a madhouse, particularly around the holidays. I don’t like driving up there–ever. I prefer to live my life as locally as possible, within a town or two. I never go to Trader Joe’s because it’s twelve minutes away. Target is 20. So forget it.

But I had promised Maddie I would take her there. It was part of the campaign to get her to join us for Thanksgiving. The following two days I didn’t feel well; plus it was Black Friday and whatever Saturday was, so there was no way I’d go anywhere near that massive retail development. That left today, Sunday. I promised her no matter how bad I was feeling I would take her. So I did.

We agreed we would leave around 1:00 p.m. She had some RPing (role playing) to do online in Minecraft before we went anywhere, and that was fine with me. Just a few minutes after 1:00, she appeared in my room, fully clothed with a hat on.

“Uh, you have to put regular pants on,” I said, referring to her baggy sweats. “And a bra. And you have to brush your hair.” She wasn’t thrilled.

“This is fine,” she insisted.

“Well, I want you to put pants on and a bra. You also smell a little bit.”

“That’s just my deodorant,” she said. “Trust me.”

So just as we all did with our babies’ diapered butts, I shoved my nose into her armpit to check the smell. “No, that’s straight up BO. You need to wash up and change your shirt.”

She informed me it didn’t matter, but for once I had the upper hand. “Well, that’s what you have to do if I’m taking you,” I said.

And, for once, she accepted her fate and turned around to take care of business.

Once she was dressed and ready to go (this time in shorts even though it was about 50 degrees today, what I call “California cold”), we hopped in the car. It was an easy drive, thankfully. And to my surprise, the shopping center parking lot wasn’t especially crowded, considering the day. At first I had planned to do other things while she shopped (Sephora is nearby, and I’d much rather try on lip gloss and eye shadow in that nice store than hang out in Party City), but I walked in with her and decided to stay for a bit. The store was nearly empty, as opposed to the day before Halloween, which was the last time we went, when the line inside went across the front and down an aisle all the way to the back of the store.

“What are you looking for?” I decided to ask. I came to wish I had asked her long before we left because although she had spent some time preparing, her “list” consisted of images of characters of which she wants to create costumes for herself. So each item she wanted still required a bit of consideration. Oh boy.

After about 30 minutes in the store, it occurred to me to ask, “So how many characters are you working on?”

She didn’t have an immediate answer for that question, but after thinking about it she answered, “Seven. Well really more. I have pictures of seven but I know there are a couple more. I just can’t remember what they are.”

Ugh. Not only did she want to shop for parts of costumes for SEVEN different characters, the items she needed were mostly not going to be readily available at Party City. If it had been before Halloween, we might have had a more of a chance to find whatever she wanted, but all the Halloween stuff was all put in boxes and the Christmas and New Year’s stuff was going up. The boxes crowded the back of the store where we were spending almost all of our time.

I tried to help her get through her sort-of list.

“What else do you need?”

“A yellow belt. And yellow boots…Hey maybe I could get this furry skirt and make it into a belt.”

I could see where this was going. One of Maddie’s greatest gifts is her resourcefulness. Another is her determination. But sometimes those combine to result in some ridiculous and unworkable solutions to problems. For example, making that furry skirt into a belt. It was $20, for one thing. And it would be a lot of unnecessary work for probably a pretty unsatisfactory if not absurd outcome. I talked her out of it. I assured her we could find something better. Furry leg warmers also seemed like a good idea for yellow boots. I shot her down gently. Sometimes I have to save her from herself.

This kind of thing went on for awhile. I helped her find a few things. I talked her out of a few. I also mentioned several times that their supply of of costume-related items would be limited right now, but that Amazon would probably have much more because its merchandise isn’t so seasonal. She understood that but really wanted to maximize her Party City experience. I preferred the idea of sitting comfortably at home, with more pleasant lighting, searching the internet. That just sounded so nice.

After an hour or so, I felt the bad florescent lighting doing its dark magic on my migraine-susceptible brain. Plus I was just tired of being in that store, looking at crap. I asked Maddie to please try to wrap it up, but she had a bit more shopping to do. Since she had brought her own money, I excused myself and said I’d be waiting outside.

After another 20 minutes of waiting outside, I had run out of patience. I needed to get out of there. So after looking around the entire store, I finally found her hunched over a box gleefully looking through whatever merchandise was in there.

Shortly before I had gone outside, she has spotted a couple swords in one of the dozens of boxes that were packed up and ready to leave the store in exchange for the seasonal stuff moving in. Apparently her discovery led her down a slippery slope. One box led to another box and another and another. The entire time I’d been outside, she was opening boxes and searching through them for who-knows-what. She sure was enjoying herself!

But I was just done. So I told her to wrap it up. It was time to go.

“No!” she exclaimed happily. “I need to look through more boxes!”

“Maddie, it’s time to go.” No response.

“Maddie.”

“Maddie!”

“Madeline!!!” I finally shouted. “We need to go NOW!” I found myself getting a little loud at this point. I didn’t want to, but she wasn’t hearing me and I was getting increasingly desperate to end this little excursion.

Fortunately Maddie got the message. I grabbed the Cart o’ Crap and pushed it quickly to the checkout counter at the front of the store. Maddie stood there and looked at the clerk. Finally she put one item on the counter, at which point she felt she needed to explain that item to the cashier. And then she just stood there, staring blankly.

A migraine was becoming almost inevitable. I had to get out of there. I grabbed all her stuff and shoved it onto the counter and told Maddie to get out her money. Thankfully the cashier was efficient and soon the transaction was over and we could leave.

I did it! I took Maddie to Party City and I lived to tell the tale! I didn’t even cry once! I didn’t end up with a migraine (close call!) and Maddie was happy with her various wigs, streamers, a yellow cape, and some other random crap (as Maddie would say).

 

I’m pretty sure my Mother of the Year award will arrive soon. I hope it’s made of chocolate. Or jewelry.

P.S. On our way home, traffic came to a stop. I was distressed. I knew it would be a bad day to travel, but I still didn’t expect that. As it turned out, though, holiday traffic wasn’t to blame. The delay was due to a terrible crash. As we passed the scene, I saw the cars that had been involved. One clearly had rolled once or twice. The other was demolished in the front. I had a bad feeling. There was a good chance at least somebody didn’t survive. I just learned I was right. One driver lost control, spun and became airborne. And she died. The other driver isn’t in good shape either.

So now, thinking about what I considered a difficult, stressful couple of hours seems but a trifle. So I had to go to a store I hate and stay longer than I wanted. So what? I have a cool, interesting kid who fully embraces her nerdiness. And she is happy and healthy and safe. All is well.

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Detour

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Thanksgiving almost didn’t include Maddie this year. Thankfully our family knows how to be flexible or she would have stayed home while the rest of us–including the dog–would have enjoyed a nice family day out of town.

The week started with two days of school. Well, one school day in the end since Maddie skipped school Monday but somehow managed to get herself there even though the next day was a Tuesday. Wednesday was a day off, and Maddie devoted herself to Minecraft. She didn’t want to do anything else, and I was happy to let her chill out. I did want her to take a shower, though, in preparation for Thursday. “I’ll do it in the morning,” she said. Yeah, sure.

I got up Thursday morning before anybody else because I had some cooking to finish. Also, with five people living here now, all in need of a morning shower, I knew that getting mine out of the way early was the way to go.

Because I was working in the kitchen, I asked Jake (my husband) to make sure Maddie got up and took a shower. I knew it would be a challenge because it always is. I had woken her up but she hadn’t moved. And after Jake had tried to stir her, I went to check on her as well. There she was, flopped down awkwardly on her bed as if she had just collapsed there. Perhaps she had.

Oh, no. Here we go. 

Not only was a shower off the table, as far as Maddie was concerned, so was going anywhere.  She was going to skip the whole thing.

Oh, hell no, I thought. I am flexible to a fault, but I wasn’t going to let her skip this one. She would be missing cousins she rarely sees, and I am trying to impress upon her the importance of spending time with her grandparents. Nobody’s getting any younger, and her grandparents–on both sides–happen to be among her biggest fans. This was not going to go her way. I felt my body tense and my mind focus on getting Maddie out the door. I wasn’t going to let this go any other way.

Much before I was willing to give in, Jake let her off the hook for the shower. “Just put on a hat,” he told her. I thought she was pretty gross, and I really wanted her to clean up, but he was right. Priorities!

Still, however, she wasn’t budging.

“I want to go to Party City,” she declared. Party City is a party supply store that happens to be located somewhat on the way to my in-laws’ house, where we were headed.

“I’ll tell you what. If you go with us today, I’ll take you there this weekend. I promise.”

“I want to go TODAY.”

“They’re not open today,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“They’re just not. Pretty much every store is closed today.”

I pulled up the number for the store and called in order to prove it. No answer, of course, but that wasn’t enough to convince Maddie. Then a lightbulb moment. “Well, we can drive there and see,” I offered. “If it’s open, you can go in for ten minutes.” Ha! Then we would be in the car and on our way and she would be stuck!

So she got dressed and got in the car and the whole family plus the dog were on our way to Thanksgiving dinner at with my in-laws. Victory!

Party City is a few minutes out of the way, but we drove there anyway, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be open. For a moment my husband tried to convince Maddie that the detour was pointless, ensuring her the store would be closed, but Maddie still wouldn’t concede. And I quickly ended that conversation. I knew we had to go. It was just part of being Maddie’s family that day. A drive out of the way to a store we knew would be closed sounds so useless, but it was the magic that needed to happen.

As predicted, we pulled into an empty parking lot. Maddie still wasn’t convinced. When she could see the lights were off, she finally gave in. Okay, it’s closed. Fortunately, although she was disappointed, she accepted the situation gracefully, especially after I promised her I would take her in the next day or two.

We had a nice long visit with our family. Maddie enjoyed her cousins and the superb homemade macaroni and cheese and brownies that supplemented the usual Thanksgiving menu. She was happy.

That night, as I tucked her into bed, I asked, “Did you have a good time today?”

“Yes!”

I knew the answer to that question before I asked. I wish that next time she doesn’t want to go somewhere I could remind her of her hesitation today and the positive outcome and it would make an impact. But it won’t. I’ll probably have to take a detour to Party City or coax her into the car some other way.

That’s just how it is. In times like this, I’m just grateful that SOMETHING worked. Something, anything.

Thanks for a Bunch of Stuff

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

It’s the day before Thanksgiving. I’m busy cooking away. The first thing I’m thankful for, though, is that I’m not hosting. Several years ago I made my first and last Thanksgiving turkey. That sucker was vile, in my opinion. I have decided that any meat I eat needs to look as little as possible like the animal from which it came. I should probably be a vegetarian, but a little meat here and there is just so darned delicious. Especially bacon. And not so much turkey, anyway.

I’m also making spaghetti with meat sauce for tonight’s dinner. I discovered I like cooking so much more when (1) it feels totally optional, (2) lots of people are going to eat it and hopefully rave about my cooking, (3) I don’t have to clean up (that remains to be seen), and (4) I have music to listen to. Jamming to my Amazon Prime streaming music on the Amazon Echo (product plug!), so tonight it’s all good.

I have hosted Thanksgiving since what I will call the Turkey Incident (only because a turkey happened here), but I had vowed that any turkey served at my house must arrive here already cooked. Or at least not seen or handled raw by me. And, as it turned out, everybody was up for something different anyway, so I made filet mignon one year and meatballs in a creamy tomato sauce last year. Both were delicious and I don’t think anybody missed the usual fare. Also most people probably had it elsewhere on another day, so I didn’t feel bad at all.

We will be having the whole turkey business tomorrow, but today I’m just making about 172 pounds of  Brussels sprouts (with bacon!), chocolate chip cookies, and some guacamole. And then we get to drive about 45 minutes to mess up somebody else’s house. I’m stoked.

The second thing I’m thankful for is my weird and wonderful family. I often despair that my kids are such polar opposites that doing anything together as a family is a real challenge. Tempers flare on those occasions, too. It can be stressful and depressing for me as the mom. But one thing we all do together so well is laugh. We love to crack jokes, make sarcastic comments, dance funny dances and play slightly inappropriate card games (now that we have teens in the house, that is). We laugh so much. Humor has always been central to my life experience. I would rather laugh or make you laugh or laugh at myself than just about anything. And we do that. A lot.

This applies to my extended family as well. Whenever we get together, my niece Maggie makes sure we play some games. A year or two ago we started playing a game (it’s really just more of an activity because nobody wins or loses). Everybody has a paper and pen and for two minutes everybody writes the beginning of a story. When the time is up, everybody passes their paper to the left and the next person continues where the previous person left off. Everyone writes furiously for two minutes. And in the end we inevitably have a collection of stories that range from funny to tear-inducingly hilarious. It turns out everybody in my family is not only hilarious but also creative. You can usually tell what Maddie wrote because she often gets stuck on a phrase (for a long time it was “flaring butt cheeks”). And I always thought I was the funny one. 😦

(An extra little shout=out of gratitude for my niece, Rachel, who is gracing my life with her wonderful self right now.)

I’m also thankful for the family I married into. I am one of those lucky women who adores her mother-in-law. It’s mutual, it’s safe to say. She’s kind and fun and honest and open and a true friend. She and my father-in-law have always treated me with such kindness, love and respect. I’m proud to be part of that family.

I’m also thankful for all my friends. My life is full of the best women. My oldest friendship is with Melinda–34 years of friendship and counting. She and her husband Jonathan successfully played matchmaker about 19 years ago, and the result is my marriage of 17 years (so far) and two crazy kids. Another result is a four-way friendship among us that is one of the greatest joys of my life. Jonathan is my husband’s childhood friend, so the history between us is unusual and deep. Our families are intertwined and our friendships are the best combination of friendship and family. We spent the evening together last weekend, and, as always, I laughed and laughed. I also didn’t want to stop hugging them.

I have so many wonderful friendships, and that term is really meaningful to me. Friendship means a close connection, being there in spirit if not in body. It means holding the other person wherever they may be. It means doing what you can to help, whether it’s picking up their kids, hanging out having an afternoon glass of wine while we try to solve each other’s problems, or sending a message of support in difficult times even if there are 3,000 miles between us. From the friends I made in high school and college and grad school across the country, to all the awesome women I’ve met through my children, I love and cherish them all.

I have so many other things to be thankful for. This beautiful place I live in, the community I’ve become so much a part of, the resources to help our special needs kid (we are SO lucky), a roof over my head, food on the table. I have everything I need and so much more. Despite the stress I write about so much (and it is real), the truth is I’m very happy. I have so much to be grateful for. And every day, not just today, I am grateful.

Last week I was snuggling up with my seventh-grader at bedtime. “We talked about gratitude in class today,” he told me. “Studies show that people who are grateful are happier.” He clarified: “It’s not that happy people are more grateful. It’s being grateful that makes you happy.”

I think he can move onto eighth grade now. Or maybe straight into adulthood. He has learned the biggest lesson of all. Focus on gratitude, and you will be happier.

So Happy Thanksgiving, all. May the gratitude you feel tomorrow and throughout the season stay with you forever. And may you laugh tomorrow at least half as much as I will.

Step One

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I decided some time ago that I wouldn’t chronicle in my blog the minute details of when Maddie does and does not go to school. Too much of the same thing day after day. She went to school, yay! She wouldn’t budge, boo.

Today, however, the travails of school attendance leaped onto the forefront of my parenting life as my husband Jake and I met with the educational consultant to discuss the possibilities for Maddie. Or really to discuss how to determine what the possibilities are. At this point, we don’t have a clue.

There are many challenges in choosing a path. As with every fork in the road, where the paths lead is uncertain. What if we…? Who knows? Who knows whether each decision we make is the right one or the wrong one? Nobody. So we do the best we can we the information we have (and whatever information we are still to get), and hope for the best.

When the topic of boarding school comes up, people are generally sympathetic. Often they see how this challenge takes a toll on me. Well, they are right: the effort I expend parenting Maddie as a teenager and the general feeling of futility put an awful lot of stress on me.

But if we do in fact send her away, it will be for one reason and one reason only: it’s the best thing for Maddie. It will not be to save me any stress. In fact, the thought of not being there for Maddie when she comes home from school with a problem, or when she wakes up sick, is heartbreaking. But what we want for her is to live up to at least some modicum of her potential. She is a clever, creative, lovable, warm, interesting person. She is passionate about the things that interest her. She is resourceful and enthusiastic. She’s also hilarious. For her, a meaningful life should include friendships and some way of contributing to society, whether paid or not. She is fully capable of accomplishing things, whether she’s gardening or teaching or working with animals or writing or making things with duct tape. Plus, people love her. She’s so fun to be around. She should feel the rewards of friendships and feel appreciated for her gifts.

At the moment, those things seem so far away. At least once a week she decides she’s not going to school. We don’t know why, exactly, but we’re pretty sure the problem lies not in the school Maddie attends, and not in Maddie’s performance when she’s there. A day at school is typically pretty successful across the board. She’s productive, happy, and well-liked.

The problem is getting her there consistently. And getting her to do her homework when she’d rather not. It’s a daily struggle. The point, though, isn’t necessarily her academic success. For right now, it’s learning to do it anyway. Learning to get up when she’s tired, to do the things that are boring or laborious or challenging anyway. I don’t care if she gets straight A’s or straight C’s as much as I care about her finding something inside of herself to motivate her. I realize she’s only 15 and anyone that age has a lot of growing up to do, but her future is so uncertain, I’m afraid to just wait around for her to figure this out on her own.

Today the question arose: What if she can never find motivation? What if that never happens?

My response: I can’t go there. I have to have hope. I have to believe in Maddie. I have to believe that she will be able to be a contributing member of society, to have friends, to get out in the world and share her tremendous gifts. At the moment it seems that, if given the choice, Maddie would spend her days in her cave of a room playing Minecraft. Uh, no. She’s too awesome for that.

And because she’s so awesome, it remains my job to try and try and try to help her live her best life. We just want her to be happy, and to be happy, I think she needs to feel valuable, important, appreciated and loved. And so I continue to fight for her, to ponder the possibilities, to investigate possible avenues to bring that to fruition, to make the most of the resources we have, and to find new resources, whatever they may be, to push her as much as I can without pushing her too far, to encourage her without berating her, to love her and cherish her and figure out how much, exactly, to expect and demand from her.

The result of the meeting today was this: I am going to get additional evaluations of Maddie so that we can be better informed about her strengths and challenges (not academic–it’s called a personality screening), for ourselves and for any potential educators. The consultant will go to the high school and observe Maddie to help round out the picture. Then we will consider the options. It may be leaving her at her current school with additional help; it may be moving her to another local school that’s more compelling to her; it may be sending her to a mildly therapeutic boarding school. That’s the order of my preference, with the first being WAY out in front. We don’t even know if there’s a boarding school that would be a good fit. We don’t know if there are resources here that can help us. It’s all very much up in the air.

So there we have it. We are nowhere closer, really, to knowing what the plan is than we were yesterday. But we have, at least, begun the process of making a plan. And we know that plan could change, or we could take a path and it might fail and we might have to redirect. Such is the nature of parenting. Such is the nature of life.

At best, we make informed choices and hope for the best. And then we remain open to making a different choice. When a change of course is necessary, it’s just information. So we take that information and try again.

And hope for the best.

Voices

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

As I was tucking Maddie into bed tonight, after a rather frustrating and exhausting couple of days with her, she shared this little nugget:

“At school I read a bunch of symptoms of disease in my Smeagol voice.”

“What?” I asked. Seriously, what?

She repeated it.

“When?” I asked. I still had no idea what she was talking about. I also didn’t know what a Smeagol voice was (I had to Google this to get the spelling, by the way).

Her P.E. class is currently doing Red Cross First Aid and CPR certification, which I love. I also love her P.E. teacher. And now I love her even more.

Maddie was to read aloud from their textbook, and began reading in her Marvin the Martian voice (remember that little guy in the Bugs Bunny cartoons?).

Ms. B asked if Maddie could do any other voices.

“Yes, Smeagol.”

“How about reading some in that voice?”

And so Maddie did. (Smeagol, I now understand, is Gollum from The Lord of the Rings, that weird little guy with an unhealthy obsession with the titular ring.) And when she was finished, everybody in the class clapped.

That was last Friday, five days ago. And in typical fashion, it took Maddie that long to tell me. And I am so happy she did. What a nice way to end the day–with a smile and some hope.

Today I spoke to the educational consultant. My husband I are meeting with her next week to discuss potential boarding schools. I still do not intend to send Maddie away. I want her to stay home and continue at this wonderful public school where the teachers and kids like her swords and appreciate her ridiculous voices. I’ve wanted so badly for her to find it in herself to make this work. And now I want that even more. But ultimately it’s up to her.

I hope she makes it work. I really really do.