acceptance

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.

Life Lesson #26

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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