anxiety

The Experiment Continues

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

In August 2015 I had what turned out to be a knee-slapper of an idea: The school year that was about to begin would somehow be The Big Experiment. Maddie was about to to start public high school as a sophomore after three years at a private special education school, and after a year of battling with her over attendance on a daily basis, and years of thinking and thinking and wondering and planning and getting disappointed and crushed and then reviving myself for the next round, we had decided This Was It: It was either This (the public high school)—or boarding school. The idea behind boarding school was since the kids sleep and wake up AT school, they can’t not GO to school. They’re already there! And that’s what I so desperately wanted for my bright, talented, interesting, lovable kid: to GO to school.  Well, and to not have to freak out every single morning over her refusal. I had felt the years of my life slipping away from me as the stress built up in my body and mind. It really was taking a toll, so something had to be done.

Nearly three years—and another new school—later, I realize how naive and narrow-minded my thinking was. The idea that somehow it would all sort itself out in that defined period of time is absurd to me now. What was I thinking? I don’t know exactly, but let me tell you, it got a whole lot worse before it got better.

I’m not sure how many times my therapist had to tell me that just because going to school was what I would have wanted, just because I thought the social part was important, or just because I really thought going to a dance was an important part of the high school experience, those things would necessarily have any meaning for Maddie. It wasn’t until Maddie basically quit going to school in October of her junior year (2016), and I fully gave in to the concept of her not going to school, that I also fully comprehended not only how differently we are made but also how perfectly fine those differences are.

We worked with the school to complete her junior year’s coursework basically in a home-schooling capacity.  But at the end of the year we had to make a decision. The public school is not in the business of home-schooling, we were told. The teachers and administration had been so accommodating! They had bent over backwards to make things work for us, but they could not continue merely sending home work for Maddie to complete without having her attend at least part of the time. They had revised schedules, reduced schedules, minimized the amount of time she would need to be there, but ultimately it just wasn’t happening, so we absolutely had to take another route.

If you are the parent of a child with special needs, you can imagine my mental state at this point. Every new attempt to make things work is fraught with anxiety because you know it may or may not work and then you’ll have to go through the process all over again. You’ll have to rethink and rework and research and try, yet again, to make the best choice for your child, knowing full well this may be just another attempt in a long line of failed attempts to get it right.

With the help of two consultants, we landed on public online high school for senior year. Online because Maddie could literally do school in bed. Public for several reasons: she would have an IEP and they would have to make accommodations; it follows the state curriculum so she would have a diploma from an accredited school in case she wants to go to college at some point; and it’s free. We still pay a lot of money to the educational consultant who works with Maddie twice a week and manages her workload, so free is a welcome bonus.

And guess what? It’s working! There have been ups and downs, particularly for me. Last summer during a meeting with our consultants, one of them mentioned she thought my motivation was to manage all of Maddie’s schooling for this year. “Um, nooooo!” I clarified. “If I had my choice, I would have literally nothing to do with it.” And I meant that. I’ve had it “up to here” with the stress of it all and would gladly have gone on my merry way and let those two ladies work it all out with Maddie and I could just make her food, badger her into taking showers, and then have fun with her. That sounded perfect! “You all just work this out, and call me when she graduates!”

As it turns out, I have participated quite a bit, but our educational therapist is the Overseer of Things, and for that I am grateful. The stress of the school battle was quite literally killing me and I needed to hand over part of the responsibility to somebody else at least for awhile.

I’ll write more about the experience of online school later, but for now I’ll just say this: What I thought was going to be an experiment with an end date and some sort of answer was indeed an experiment, but one without an end. This whole parenting thing is an experiment. I’m still working on it. We are still working on it. There is a lot of talk about what’s next (that’s another blog entry), and I don’t know what that is yet, but it will be something and then something after that and then something after that. And we will forge on, trying to have fun along the way and not losing sight of the end goal: a content, fulfilled, secure human being. In that part of the experiment, I’m pretty confident we’re succeeding.

And Maddie will graduate on June 14th – her 18th birthday.

P.S. Special shout-out to those who encouraged me to start blogging again. Thank you!

Finding My Voice

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Recently I wrote about what’s been keeping me from writing. A few personal distractions have factored in to be sure.

Now I have realized there has been another big distraction from my Asperger’s parenting blog. And that is the current election.

I won’t go into my opinions here. Suffice it to say they are strong. They are burning. They are becoming increasingly consuming of my mental energy. I have always had opinions about these things. I have some very firm beliefs, which have developed over the years as I have grown and matured and become more open-minded and more worldly. I would say they are mostly fully formed.

But like many of us, I have refrained from engaging in discourse about those taboo subjects: religion and politics. I think money is one too. I still don’t really want to discuss religion. That’s personal. Another person’s religious beliefs are their own. I respect them and value our differences. I am certainly curious to learn about various religions, but I don’t feel the need to convince anybody one way or the other or to be converted, either. And money is just not that interesting to discuss.

But politics has become something else for me all of a sudden. I am so fired up I feel like I might explode. And guess what? Sometime over the last year, I have found my voice. Partly it’s probably due to my age. I turned 49 last month. I still feel 25. I’m still goofy and silly and jokey and dancey and sing-y and face-makey and all that good stuff. One of my purposes in life is to have fun with my people. I want us all to enjoy ourselves. I put a lot of myself into that mission on a daily basis, particularly with my family. We dance with the dogs, and say “That’s what she said” as often as possible. I crack myself up, to be honest. Seriously, I am HI.LAR.I.OUS.

But this 49 thing has given me something very powerful. Maybe it’s courage. Maybe it’s kind of the old-lady-who-doesn’t-care-what-anybody-thinks attitude, even though I don’t exactly feel old. Maybe those are one in the same.

Or maybe writing 100 blog posts about my life, letting down my guard to expose my fears and failures and weaknesses and hopes, has given me the courage to speak my mind about other things.

Or maybe it’s because things are falling into place with my kids, which have been the consuming force in my life.  I’m learning to accept the challenges of my 16-year-old daughter, and my nearly 14-year-old son is becoming more independent. So I have this freed up energy, energy that is searching for a purpose. And I’m finding that purpose.

Whatever precipitated this development, here it is. I have found my voice. And I really do mean found. I have had this voice my whole life, but I’ve kept it quiet. I’ve been polite and diplomatic and quiet. I have sat around a table full of people who shared a singular viewpoint while I most vehemently but also silently disagreed. I didn’t want to stir up trouble. Oh, the fire burned in me, but my desire to be polite and maybe, I hate to admit, to be liked, has suppressed my voice.

I wish I had found it sooner. It seems like I wasted so much time being afraid to speak up. I was a painfully shy child, fearful of adults in general, even the lady at the Taco Bell window waiting to take my order. Or my neighbor’s grandma, who insisted she pull that sort-of loose tooth out of my five-year-old mouth. I was too timid and shy to stop her. Or my teachers, who just might call on me to speak. Even though I knew the answer or had something important or meaningful or even brilliant to say, the fear of having to open my mouth and expose myself was overwhelming. So first, I had to overcome my shyness, and that has been a lifelong journey.

But there is a lot of room between not being shy and being bold. I think I just figured that out.

So now, finally, as 50 looms, I have decided it’s time to be bold and use my voice for good. Do I still want people to like me? Well, sure, I suppose everybody does. But I want to be liked for what’s truly inside, and that’s coming out, people! It’s coming out! 

I want my kids to see me this way. I want them to see a fearless woman who speaks her mind, who stands by what she believes in. A person with a passion and a voice and the courage of her convictions. A person whose words can make a difference. Because words are my medium.

This particular blog will continue to focus mostly on parenting. No politics here, unless they involve autism or special needs or kids. I have decided, after 100 entries, that this blog is really about my journey as a mother more than Maddie’s journey as a teen, and this newfound courage is part of that journey. It’s my coming out, as they say. My declaration of strength and power and intention. My declaration of purpose. And it feels good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back on the Horse

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

It’s been several months since I’ve written. I’m not completely certain why I’ve had such a dry spell. Certainly life has continued to provide challenges, failures, successes, more questions–with or without answers–and even some adventure.

I have my suspicions, though.

This blog has been primarily about raising Maddie. And in the last several months, although she has provided many an interesting moment, there have been some other serious issues on my mind, and I didn’t want to necessarily write about them.

One is my health. I’m one of those people who always has an issue. Or two. Or three. It’s my back. And migraines. And terrible allergies. And unexplained and ongoing gut issues. And my ankles are messed up. And I have an allergy-related sleep apnea that makes me so tired all the time. I might sleep for ten hours and still feel exhausted all day. It sucks. I’m slowly trying to address all of those things, but I’ve found it hard to say, stick to a Pilates schedule when my stomach hurts so bad all the time. I’m finally figuring that one out, so maybe it’s time for those Pilates classes again. And yes, I have to do something like Pilates where I’m less likely to aggravate my ankle or back or hip or whatever. I have one of those bodies.

Second is my marriage. It’s a struggle sometimes. Statistics show a greater risk of divorce among couples with special needs children. Boy, ain’t that the truth. As if being parents isn’t hard enough, you throw in some extra challenges that nobody’s really equipped to deal with, and you’re rolling the dice.

Third is the other kid. Our son. He’s almost 14. He’s such a cool human being. I’ve been challenged with two completely opposite children, so parenting each one is an adventure, to put it nicely. H is intelligent, thoughtful, philosophical, and deep. Sounds awesome, right? Well, those qualities are admirable and desirable and all that good stuff, but parenting a kid like that is hard. He can argue you into a corner, for one thing. And he never ever gives up. While I admire his persistence, sometimes it’s just exhausting. More on him later, though.

Also my parents. I love my mom and dad. They live about 45 minutes from us. I wish they were closer. So I could help them. On the other hand, they’re not super great at accepting help (like mother, like daughter, I’m afraid). My dad has suffered from debilitating depression and anxiety for many years. My therapist thinks he’s agoraphobic, among other things. The word “bipolar” has reared its ugly head of late. I suspect he has some PTSD from a few episodes from his younger life. Whatever the diagnosis, and whatever the cause, he is severely disabled. He rarely leaves the house. It’s too stressful. Just riding in the car is often more than he can bear. He hasn’t driven for years even though he is only just turning 70. So I worry about my dad. But even more so, I worry for my mom. She is a doer. A worker. A creator. She likes to make things, so for several years she has been sewing items to sell at a local consignment store. Or two. Or three. She also refinishes furniture and makes things like framed chalkboards for kids’ rooms. She cooks up a storm, too. She recently completely re-landscaped their front yard so it’s more drought-friendly. She likes to be industrious. She has also spent her life without a lot of extra money, so when something needs doing, she does it, for the most part, rather than paying somebody else to do it. Every once in awhile, there is something beyond her scope (particularly since becoming permanently partially disabled some years ago because of chronic wrist pain in both arms) and she’ll have to hire somebody. But her go-to is “just do it.” How do a person who can’t do anything and a person who only wants to do things live together? Guess what? The doer, my mom, adjusts her life to suit the other. There is a lot of going nowhere. Particularly because Mom worries about what might happen when she’s gone. Dad’s just not reliably level-headed anymore. I want to help them so desperately, but it seems to be out of my hands. I want my dad to be well and, even if he can’t be well, I want my mom to have a life.

So I’ve been distracted, I guess. And I haven’t felt compelled, or maybe just comfortable, putting all this in writing. I don’t want to “expose” anyone. I also don’t want to make this blog a tribute to all my problems, and most of all I think some of this stuff is kind of private. At least the other parties involved might think so.

And then there’s Maddie. She’s still exactly Maddie. She’s at camp right now, the camp she absolutely lives for the rest of the year. When we were anticipating a New York-London trip we took last month, I asked her if she was excited. “Meh,” she said. “CAMP!” That pretty much sums up her experience of our trip (another blog or two will cover that). She just wanted to get it over with and go to camp. So right now I can rest easy knowing she’s in her happy place. She’s probably filthy and she probably has terrible B.O., but it’s out of my hands, and isn’t that a beautiful thing!

And before that, of course, the infamous school year (the actual “Year of Living Hopefully”) came to a close. More on that in another entry, too.

So today I’m back. I remember now that I can write and I like to write and I have something to say. A lot of somethings to say.

The story continues.

Swimming Upstream

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I love to shop. I know it’s stereotypical and not necessarily admirable, but it’s the truth. I love clothes, I love shoes, I love jewelry, I love purses. I also love to decorate my house. I love to buy gifts. If you mention you’re looking for a particular dress, I will take it upon myself to search to the end of Google to find it.

It’s satisfying. It’s a way that I express myself. And even if I’m not buying, it gives me pleasure to look at and feel pretty things. I can visit the Prada department at Neiman Marcus (just because my friend works in the department next door), and enjoy the beautiful fabrics and stunning details and superb craftsmanship without feeling sad for one second that Prada clothes are out of reach. That’s OK! It’s like art to me. Do I got to a museum and lament the lack of a Monet or Rodin in my house? Of course not!

I remember when I got pregnant that I wished so much for a girl. Having grown up with two sisters and no brothers, girls were what I knew and understood. And then at that 20-week sonogram, my wish came true. There was a little tiny girl growing inside me. Boy, we were going to have a good time, mother and daughter, doing all that fun girly stuff together.

And then I had Maddie. Sure she’s a girl, but she’s not especially girly. Which is perfectly fine. I absolutely love her the way she is and wouldn’t dream of changing her, but there has been a little bit of mourning over the loss of some dreams. She’s a lot of fun, but we don’t share many interests. She loves to craft. To me crafting is like getting whacked in the head with a hammer: I’m just glad when it’s over. She loves comic books. I actually do like superhero movies, but that’s about the extent of it. She doesn’t care about her hair or her clothes or her shoes or getting her nails done. At least she likes to color her hair. That’s kind of fun.

The real problem with her disdain for shopping, though, really comes into play when she actually needs something. Like bras. Or shoes. Or swimsuits. Or a graduation dress. I do all the legwork, trying to find something that will fit her rather short but curvy body and meet all her sensory requirements as well. It’s not easy. But I do it. I scour online shops and Target and Old Navy and whatever else I can think of for jeggings with a short rise, swimsuits that cover her up in all the right places, shoes that fit her terrible feet, and most challenging of all, bras that meet her many particular needs. It’s a chore. It could be fun, actually. And today it kind of was.

Saturday we leave for our spring break trip, this year to Mexico. Our week will be spent swimming and reading and playing games together. It’s a week of relaxation and quality family time (I hope). And suddenly, a couple days ago, it occurred to me that the kids have probably grown since last year and might not be properly outfitted for a tropical vacation. So yesterday I somehow got Maddie to try on the few things we could find that would be suitable for warm weather. And I was glad I did. We found two swimsuits that were way too small and a few dresses, only two of which fit. And one pair of shorts.

So here I was, six days before we leave, with a bit of a problem. A hard-to-fit teenager who refuses to shop in need of, all things, a swimsuit. Or two. Or three. Plus some clothes. So my wonderful niece, Rachel, who’s living with us right now, helped me pick out eleven swimsuits on Amazon for Maddie to try on when they arrive in the next couple of days. I have no idea what size she is, so it’s a bit of a gamble. But with a girl who won’t shop and few places nearby that offer full-coverage suits, Amazon was the answer for sure. That’s what I did last year.

And then we spent some time in Target looking for sundresses. I found some great stuff, including a Batman night shirt and a tee shirt with a Dia de los Muertos-style Darth Vader and the words “Yo soy tu padre” on it. Genius. Perfect. Also some comfortable tee-shirt dresses. I was so happy. I felt like we nailed it. I even declared our outing a success on our way home.

And then I presented the dresses and shorts to Maddie. She was not impressed. She was not interested. In fact, she was pretty rude about it.

“I don’t need any dresses,” she said flatly, not looking up from her computer screen.

“Well, you do need a couple things for Mexico,” I said. “Plus I got you a couple other things I think you’ll really enjoy.” I showed her the Batman and Star Wars items. Those got quiet approval. But she refused to even acknowledge the other stuff. Or the effort I had put into it. No gratitude, no sensitivity to my feelings, no real acknowledgement that I had done anything for her.

“I’m not trying anything on,” she announced.

I grabbed her stuff. “Well, then I’ll take it all back,” I said.

“No!” she spat, and grabbed the whole pile of clothes.

“Well, you don’t have to try everything on, but anything you are interested in keeping you have to try on. That’s just the way it is.”

No response. So I left. I don’t know why this particular exchange affected me so much, but in that moment I felt the wind just leave my body. I went from feeling so pleased to feeling utterly deflated in the matter of moments.

I also don’t know why I expected that to go any other way. She doesn’t care about clothes, unless it’s a really cool tee shirt. So not only does she not get particularly excited when I buy clothes or shoes for her, she sometimes actually gets angry. Yes, angry. As if I have wasted whatever time and money on picking out that rather than something she’d really enjoy. Okay, I get that. But this time she actually needed some clothes. (Fingers crossed at least one of those swimsuits works out!) And I took it upon myself to get her what she needs and she couldn’t have cared less.

I realize that’s probably not unusual for a teenager, the lack of gratitude and grace. But perhaps it’s the relentless feeling of swimming upstream that I experience on a daily basis that has left me feeling so deflated after this particular exchange. Deflated. Demoralized. Depressed.

The truth is, she may never develop the gratitude and grace I wished for in that moment. That would require a level of perspective taking that is not necessarily natural for people with autism. She will probably never think to herself, “Gee, Mom is so nice to me I ought to reciprocate, and go to school/try on clothes/clean my room.”

Why do I try so hard? I wonder sometimes. It’s the same old battle inside me: how do I both accept my child and refuse to give up? If you wanted to learn how to ride a bike, but knew the chances were slim that you would ever succeed, how long would you keep trying? Eventually, I suspect, a person would accept their fate and give up. And, frankly, that would be the logical thing to do. How much effort do you put into something that’s unlikely ever to come to fruition? There has to be a limit, right?

But when it’s your kid, there is no limit. How can there be? You just keep going, even if you are swimming upstream. You have to come up for air once in awhile, but you dive back in and swim harder. You accept that it’s going to be a struggle, you accept that you may never ever reach your destination, but you have to believe, at least some of the time, that the swim is worth it.

But sometimes you just get tired. Today is one of those days. My fins need a rest. I need to breathe freely. And I’ll be back in the stream tomorrow. After all, we will have swimsuits to try on.

The Day I Lost My Mind

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I say this all the time. I mean, who doesn’t? “I’m going to lose my mind!” I say. “I’m going to go crazy!”

Well, today it feels like losing my mind is a distinct possibility. And that is because it wouldn’t be the first time. In 2007 I had what we all refer to as my nervous breakdown. I don’t know if there’s a single definition of “nervous breakdown,” but something happened that was serious and undeniable and that changed me.

At the end of summer and in early fall that year, a lot was going on. In addition to parenting my challenging seven-year-old yet-undiagnosed daughter and a five-year-old son, we were about to embark on a whole house remodel. Our house was about to be taken down the studs, which meant we needed to move out. I was charged with finding somewhere to live for the next six to nine months (ten, in the end). It was a difficult task to be sure: not only was the rental market terrible, we had two cats, which nobody would accept; we didn’t want to sign a year lease; we wanted something close to the school; and to top it all off, it was urgent in a way, but I couldn’t actually do anything because we didn’t have our construction permit yet. We didn’t want to pay rent until we really needed to. “Hurry up and find a place but we can’t actually sign a contract, so do this but don’t do this!” I was under so much pressure but completely powerless.

And then our house became infested with fleas. I didn’t realize we had such an infestation until Maddie showed me what had started as a flea bite but was then scratched into a big mess. Such a mess that it turned into a staph infection, and a dangerous strain of one. She had to miss several days of school to soak in a tub all day long to drain the infection and take antibiotics. The doctor called every day to check on her. It was serious.

And then I couldn’t get rid of the fleas. Nothing was working. I tried everything, and the fleas were still there. I combed and combed and combed our cats, and I still found fleas. Eventually we moved out after flea-bombing our furniture and rugs, and then left the cats there for another week. I would go over every day for a week and a half and comb then and comb then until I the fleas were gone. We couldn’t move our fleas to the new place!

I was also packing up our entire house by myself, for the most part, because I was at home and my husband worked long days in between a long commute. Apparently it was all too much.

It was sometime in August when the sensation started. I felt a little tingle in the middle of my chest. It was strictly a physical sensation. I couldn’t link it to an emotion at the time. I took note and wondered, Hmmm, what is that?

As the weeks went by, the tingling became stronger. I still didn’t connect it to anything in particular, but it was harder to ignore. It was pretty uncomfortable, and really I knew it was stress but that was as much as I could deduce.

And then it happened. A panic attack. I was at the grocery store. I walked in and the whole place began to swirl. I felt the panic rise in my chest. And the tears came. I could not cope with grocery shopping and I wouldn’t be able to for months after that.

I cried when I ran out of butter. I cried when I couldn’t find a knife to cut a grilled cheese sandwich in half. I cried and cried. I was unable to make meals. I was unable to be social. I skipped Thanksgiving and sat alone at home by the heater and cried.  I was debilitated by anxiety and panic. I didn’t know why this was happening, but my body was trying to tell me something.

And that something was that I needed to take care of myself. I still struggle with that concept. I don’t think I know how. I grew up with a over-self-sacrificing mom, and although I’m not nearly as selfless as she is, I have had difficulty thinking about the importance of self-care as a way to be a better person for everybody myself and everybody else. I know that’s true. I would tell anybody else that’s true. But I don’t know how to do it very well.

Panic and anxiety disorder are hard things to describe to someone else. It doesn’t sound nearly as terrible as it is. Some people feel like they’re going to die from a heart attack. I didn’t feel that way at all. I just felt incapacitated and scared. And when you feel that much anxiety, depression is inevitable. How can you feel so incapacitated and helpless without getting kind of depressed about it?

I remember not wanting to go to sleep because I knew I would wake up feeling terrible yet again. Feeling unable to face anything. Feeling overwhelmed, afraid, and then guilty because I wasn’t able to take care of my family, which was really my primary responsibility.

Of course, at that point I could see I had a big problem. I couldn’t go on feeling that way, so I immediately got the help I needed. There’s no magic involved, although some medication sure came in handy. But I also had to embark on a journey to figure out why I went down this road, and how I could change myself so that wouldn’t happen again.

One of my big challenges was to learn how to set boundaries. You hear that a lot in the world of psycho-therapy. Here’s what it meant for me: First, stop taking on other people’s problems as if they are actually your own. I have enough of my own problems to do that! Second, stand up for yourself. Third, don’t take things so personally. That means recognizing that somebody else’s treatment of you isn’t necessarily about YOU at all. I began to learn to think “Jeez, that person has big a problem” rather than “This is crushing my soul.”

I have known for a long time that improving your life isn’t necessarily about changing the external. I once had a friend who lived all over the world and no matter where he was, that place was making him miserable. Finally I realized, it’s HIM. It’s up to him to figure out what’s going on inside and then make himself happy wherever he is.

So here I am with some pretty complicated and challenging external circumstances. I wish I could fix them. I wish Maddie would get up and go to school. I wish she wasn’t so stubborn. I wish I could know what her future will hold. I wish my mornings were relaxing and fun instead of a recurring nightmare of frustration and anxiety and the feeling of futility.  I am doing what I can do make my mornings better, but I also realize that’s out of my control.

What IS in my control–theoretically anyway–is how I manage it all. Right now, to be honest, I’m struggling.

Today I planned to visit my parents for the afternoon. They live about an hour away. Last week my dad had a minor stroke. He’s fine, but when things like this start happening, the reality of your parents’ mortality rears its ugly head. I was away for the weekend, and now I’m back and I’m dying to spend some time with them.

This morning, however, Maddie announced, “Screw Tuesdays.” Yes, today is Tuesday. And yes, she is still at home. I still planned to drive up north for a couple hours, but I just can’t. I’m feeling so anxious and afraid of that tingly feeling of pre-panic rising up. The tears are there, mostly behind my eyes, burning as their way to tell me, “Let us out!” A couple fell, but I don’t give in easily in times like this. I’ll cry if I see a little kid singing really well, or a cute dog commercial, or somebody else crying, but I don’t like to cry for myself. I don’t like to cry over my life. I just don’t.

Maybe I should cry more. Maybe the panic attacks started as a way of forcing my body to express my emotions. They just came flooding out. I was holding it all in until I just couldn’t anymore. Perhaps I should watch a sad movie today and just cry and cry.

At the moment, I’m hiding in our “man cave,” which is separate from our house. Maddie thinks I left, I think. She was relentlessly begging me for her computer, and I had said no enough times, I thought. She followed me around the house, asking me again and again. The blood was rushing to my head. I don’t have one of those bulging forehead veins, but I might develop one if this keeps happening.

I’m trying to breathe and stay calm. Maybe I should scream instead. But I won’t. I’ll breathe and breathe, and at some point I’ll get up the courage to go back in the house. All the while, trying to find peace in my head and in my body, and the strength to do this again tomorrow.

I Hate This Morning

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Remember that roller coaster ride I described in great detail last week? Well, I’m back on it. Big time. And not the fun part.

Last night as I was getting all philosophical about Maddie and parenting and life in general, I felt a great sense of peace. And a tiny sense of accomplishment. That feeling is hard to come by as a parent. How did I do today? Am I doing a decent job of raising a human? Beats me! I guess I’ll find out eventually.

Still, last night I felt so good about what I would oddly call a successful day. Normally I would say a successful day involves everybody going to school. At 7:45 in the morning, when both kids have departed, I feel both triumphant and completely relieved. It’s time for a huge exhale.

Yesterday, though, I redefined success, I suppose. I remained calm. I kept my cool. I retained my perspective. Yes, yesterday was all about perspective.

And then there was the clock thing. Even though Maddie didn’t finish most of what I’d asked her to do, I delighted in her sudden awareness of the clock. Small victories.

Today? Forget it. Maddie said no again. For no reason. I’m not going to school, she decided. And there you have it.

I could feel the tension rising in my chest. Both tears of frustration and a sense of rage started boiling up inside me. Deep breaths have been required this morning. Lots of them. It is so hard not to feel defeated in the most literal sense of the word. Defeated and deflated: those are the words that come to mind in moments like this.

I brought up the boarding school thing again. It’s definitely not on Maddie’s mind on a morning like this. She hugged her cat and pretended not to hear me. But I know she did. Her message was basically “talk to the hand.” I guess her idea is that if she doesn’t make eye contact, I must assume the message isn’t getting through. But I know she heard me.

It was all I could do to refrain from yelling. I’m that mad. Again with the deep breaths.

But then I had a little epiphany. I keep bringing up boarding school as if I’ll be making the choice for her. I will be making that choice in a way. But really it’s her choices that are leading the way.

“Maddie, every time you cut school, you are getting one step closer to boarding school,” I said. “If you can’t get up and go to school, you will have to live at school. And each time you stay home without permission, you are making a choice.”

I want her to know she’s in control of this situation. She has the power to stay here and continue at what is really a lovely school. Or she can send the message that she’s willing to give that up and move away.

I reluctantly admit I’m somewhat ambivalent about this prospect. I feel a knife in my heart when I think of Maddie not living here. Who will take care of her when she’s sick? Who will hug her every night and every morning and throughout the day and tell her how wonderful she is? That’s my job, and I’m good at it!

But the truth is, it would be such a relief. My mornings wouldn’t begin with a deep feeling of anxiety and dread. I could spend more of my energy on things I enjoy. Parenting Maddie is exhausting and stressful. What if I handed that off to somebody who’s both more qualified for this and less emotionally invested? The deep breathing might involve more inhaling joy than exhaling pain.

There is hope, though, at least for the immediate future.

“I want Dad to wake me up,” Maddie suggested.

“Every morning?”

“Yes.”

That would be the gift of a lifetime: handing off this relentlessly stressful task to somebody else. Maddie’s dynamic with Jake is so different. She loves to take on a character, and he magically knows how to interact with her that way. I’m baffled by this scenario, and she knows it.

Also, he doesn’t get up each morning with 15 years of frustration with her on his shoulders and in his brain, waiting to spring forth at the first hint that she might refuse to cooperate. For me, each moment is fraught with the pain of all those years of experience. She has been, after all, my 24/7 job since the day she was born.

At my request, he has made an attempt to get her moving. Better late than not at all. She wasn’t responsive. We have passed the point of decision, and it’s nearly impossible to redirect now. Even for Jake. I’m not optimistic.

So what do I do? I haven’t cried today. You know I don’t cry much at all. There aren’t any tears, but my eyes have that burning, heavy feeling you get when you cry. My head hurts. I feel the heaviness in my face, too, my mouth turned down in a sad frown. Maybe I really am crying–on the inside. It feels like that.

I am working on letting this go, as I so graciously and effortlessly (well, not really) did yesterday. The idea that Maddie is making the choice, and removing the burden from myself, sounds so smart and wise and evolved. I want to hold onto that. I’m not sure how to do it, though.

Because the truth is, at some point I have to decide that she has made her choice. I will have to find the school for her. I will have to make that happen. It’s not quite as easy as it sounds, this letting go. Because I’m still the mom. And she’s still the child.

I’m breathing deeply. I’m waiting. I’m hoping, but I’m not really that hopeful in the moment. This is going to be a long day.

Why I Love Weekends

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And our son had the flu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesdays and Thursdays

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach2 Comments

And here we are again. The cab driver has come and gone and Maddie’s still in bed. She went to sleep on time. I even thought she had an incentive: She wants to stay up to watch The Flash tonight, and I said she could as long as she did a great job today. Her very first opportunity to prove herself has passed. And she failed.

I woke her up in the usual manner, stayed there and chatted for a few minutes, put everything she needed to get dressed on her bed, and went upstairs to make her breakfast and lunch. On my second visit to her room, I told her it was my last warning for her to get up. She would need to get going or the deal was off. She nodded and said, “Don’t close the door.” I assumed that meant she was heading to the bathroom shortly.

Just before pickup time, I returned to her room after packing her lunch and water bottle into her backpack. She was still cocoon-wrapped in her blanket.

And then it happened. I lost it. I couldn’t be nice and patient anymore. I’m done. I’m out. I grabbed her blanket, yanked it off her, and yelled, “Maddie! What are you doing?!”

“Lying in bed,” she answered dryly. Duh.

I don’t remember what I said after that, but I know I was yelling. My patience and kindness aren’t readily available today. For some reason I haven’t been sleeping well for a few weeks, and I’m feeling it. Last night I took melatonin, which usually works, and slept on the couch where nobody would disturb me, but somehow our puppy ended up in my space and, although he’s normally a good sleeper, last night he woke me up a couple times. I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep. It’s like the days of having an infant.

Especially today. Except that my child is almost as big as I am. And she can talk back.

When Maddie was a baby, I thought, “How could I ever be mad at her?” It was unfathomable. She was so sweet and innocent and helpless. Then when she was about two, I realized I could get plenty angry at this kid. It takes me awhile to build up to that, but the frustration your child can cause is probably equal to the love you feel.

And that’s where I am this morning. I am at my wit’s end. I don’t have a solution. Just when everything seems to be going great, there’s a major stumble. A roadblock. An insurmountable problem that comes seemingly out of nowhere. Like Mount Shasta. Except Mount Shasta’s pretty to look at.

She was doing something on her phone, so I tried to take it away from her, but it was turning into a wrestling match, something I can’t win anyway. Maddie is a lot stronger than she looks. Plus, it’s not really healthy to have a physical altercation with your kid, so I gave up. Maddie would never give up, and I realized that, too.  She would be good under interrogation. Oh, yeah? You think that’s going to work? Think again, mister!

The boarding school idea popped into my head. How many times can I bring that up without actually doing anything about it? It’s meaningless at this point, I think. She doesn’t believe we will send her away. And I don’t want to send her away. It’s not a punishment. It’s a white flag. I give up. I give in. I am not capable to fighting this battle anymore. And today it feels like a battle.

“Why are you doing this?” I plead.

“I don’t like Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she declares.

“Well, you can’t just skip them. That’s forty percent of school!”

Huh, good point, apparently. But it doesn’t matter how good of a point I make; Maddie has decided. 

Is there such a thing as a stress aneurism? Because I’m about to have one. I tell her again about the boarding school thing. “I’m serious,” I say. “I wouldn’t be giving up on you. I’d be giving up on me. Apparently I can’t teach you what you need.”

“Well, if I go to boarding school,” she counters, “I won’t get up and go to school there either, and they’ll just send me back.”

“Maddie, there are schools where people specialize in this kind of thing.”

“Huh,” she says. She is digging in her heels at this point. “They haven’t dealt with me before.”

This apparently has turned into a battle, and she is going to win no matter what.

“Really, Maddie? What are you going for here?” I ask. “You want everyone to just pass you off to somebody else? Really?”

This probably isn’t a good road to take, this particular line of questioning. But I’m just out of ideas. It seems to me she doesn’t take skipping school seriously, so I feel obligated to change her attitude. Somehow or other I need her to see that school isn’t optional, and that there will be consequences for her choices.

My body is tense and my brain is shorting out. I can’t do this for one more minute. I get my husband up to help me. I’m out of ideas. I’m out of patience. I feel powerless. I am powerless.

——————-

Fast forward 30 minutes.

My son has a broken finger and has a cast. He usually rides his bike to school but for now I’m driving him. Just as we are about to depart, I hear my husband shout, “She’s almost ready!” A miracle has occurred. The one thing that sometimes works in times like this is role playing, using characters from whatever Maddie is into at the moment. Right now it’s that anime show she loves so much. I suck at role playing. My husband doesn’t love it, but he’s better at it. And sometimes it works. It’s absolutely absurd that we should have to take on other characters to motivate Maddie, but we do the absurd all the time if that’s what’s required.

So now we run out the door, up two flights of stairs to the car, and high-tail it to the middle school. Henry leaps out at his first opportunity, and to my relief, we are on our way to high school. Maddie will be a bit late, but that’s okay.

About three minutes later Maddie announces, “Just so we’re clear, I’m not getting of the car when we get there.” You have got to be kidding me.

It’s 8:15 and I want to go back to bed until today is over. I can’t do this for one more minute. I consider just turning around and going home. What’s the point? I wonder. Seems like a waste of time to drive halfway across the county for a disappointing and frustrating outcome. But I’m not quite ready to give up. Oh hell no. She’s going to school.

So I tell her we are going, and if necessary I will go to the office and get someone to help me. I’m serious. I will wait there and talk to whomever I can until this matter is sorted out. I am not leaving until Maddie is out of the car and checked in at the office.

It’s her phone that finally saves the day. I have left my own cell phone at home. So a number of times Maddie has called home to talk to her dad. As we are arriving at school, I ask for her phone so I can talk to him. I thank him and hang up. Then I take her phone and slide it into my purse as I’m getting out of the car.

“My phone!” she panics. “Can I have it? I need to write my story for school!”

“Is it due today?” I ask. I am wondering now if late homework is factoring into today’s events.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you can finish it at school. It’s better to turn in homework late and be at school.”

“Can I have my phone back?”

“Once you have checked in at the office and are leaving for class, I’ll give it to you.”

And that’s how it goes. I walk her to the office, and she checks in, having to admit she is late because she “slept in,” although that’s not really the truth.

Can I quit now? On days like this, I feel like I’ve done a full day’s work by 9:00 in the morning. I’ve been up for 2 1/2 hours. A very long 2 1/2 hours. And I’m tired.

Now, as I’m writing this, one thing becomes clear. Words aren’t going to solve this problem. I could talk about this for a week straight and it’s not going to change her mind. She needs concrete information, and that is going to come in real-life consequences. So for now, I need to see what I can accomplish with the administration at her school. Somebody over there needs to make a point. Maybe it’ll work, and maybe it won’t. But I can’t do this alone.

Today will be about communicating with the school and doing a lot of deep breathing. Maybe a nap. I need to figure out how to relax now. My head hurts. I feel like crying, but I can’t. It would be such a relief, but the tears aren’t there. I just feel heavy and tired. Stressed out and defeated. I’m not sure what the appropriate way is to express all that.

Tomorrow should be easier. It’s a shorter day, and on this particular Wednesday, there is a series of entertaining events scheduled. I hope she sees that as a reason to go to school, not another reason to stay home. I hope I get some sleep. I hope I am better equipped to handle whatever comes my way.

A Little Time Off

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

You may have noticed I haven’t blogged for several days. It’s kind of a good news/bad news thing.

The good news is I had the company of my sister and her adult niece for the past few days, and nothing fills me up like spending time with those ladies. It was just days of the kind of girly fun I don’t get to have with Maddie, who would rather do just about anything than shop and get her nails done. Plus, I’m very close to my sister and her kids, so I was in heaven. I even went out for the evening with them once, having some true time off while my husband was home getting everyone to bed.

The bad news is I was just too tired to write. Tired of parenting. Tired as in “I-can’t-do-it-one-more-day-so-I-give-up-for-now” tired.

And that is because Maddie hasn’t been going to school this week. Well, okay, she missed two days, went one day, and is now in bed again. She’s not one hundred percent healthy, that’s for sure. Maybe she has a mild cold, maybe allergies, but something is going on in the sinus area. Nothing dramatic, but she is not completely well.

Nor has she appeared especially sick.

But this week I just didn’t have the fight in me. I tried some gentle encouragement and even, today, a reminder about the purpose of this year. But that was it. Once I was convinced she had made her up mind, I quit. I just can’t do it. I can’t fight with her, or wrestle her pants on her, or even make that big of a deal about it. I am depleted and temporarily defeated.

So I guess we’re both taking some time off this week. For me, it’s time off from the emotional and mental struggle, and even some time off from thinking about it all. So everything took a back seat, including my writing. As much as I love writing this blog, and as gratifying as it is, it does force me to spend some serious time pontificating about my situation and focusing a bit on my daily struggles, and this week I just needed to forget about it. Yesterday, when my moment of victory arrived after getting both my kids to school (the other one just broke his finger, so both of them were home the day before yesterday), I was happy. I was triumphant. When both my kids have gone to school, I figure everything else I accomplish that day is a bonus. Laundry? Bonus! Dinner? Bonus! Making my bed? Bonus! I deserve a brownie!

So today, there is no bonus in play. I will take my son to the orthopedist for his fractured finger, and then take him to school. Then I have my weekly therapy, which has been on hiaitus for a few weeks. Seems like a good time for that. Apparently I have some things to discuss. And then I do get a bonus – a movie with a new friend. The trick will be enjoying myself, not because of the company (which will be excellent!), and not because of the movie choice (rave reviews!), but because I’ll be sitting there feeling like I failed today. Okay, maybe not failed, but didn’t accomplish the single most important thing I needed to today. My number one job: getting my kids to school. Okay, maybe it’s number three after keeping them alive and loving them. But those are easy. The whole school thing is hard, and I never know how it’s going to go.

I also blew it by forgetting about this morning’s agenda and waking up my son at the normal time instead of letting him sleep in. We’re going to his doctor appointment first, so we had a good 45 minutes extra this morning. So I got up at 6:30 for nothing. That stinks too. I really could have used a bit more sleep.

So in the absence of school attendance success, I have now decided on my goal for today: to be happy. To be grateful. To be proud of all that we do accomplish around here. To recognize Maddie’s strengths and not focus on her challenges. To be positive about the future. To accept the different circumstances we have as a family and embrace the good that comes of them.

And honestly, that gratitude is not hard to come by for me. I am a lucky, lucky person. I know it every day. I have a loving family, both in the one I have created and in the one I come from. I live in a beautiful place. We have everything we need, and then some. We have the resources to get all the help we can think of for Maddie. I even get a weekly therapy session to help me cope. Talk about a luxury!

As for my gratitude for Maddie, that’s easy too. Most of the time I’m in awe of her.

Yesterday a friend stopped by to borrow something, and she’d had a challenging day. I don’t know if Maddie sensed my friend’s emotional state, but she offered my friend a hug. And Maddie is a world-champion hugger. Big, tight, meaningful, long hugs. Often just at the right moment. My friend’s face and body relaxed. “I needed that,” she said. And she really had needed that.

So even though Maddie isn’t going to school today, I am still grateful for her. She’s a remarkable human being, full of compassion and love, empathy and intuition.

I will give her the day off and I will take one too. A day of from worrying, a day off from guilt, a day off from fear. I will enjoy my day, knowing I have raised a kid who may not be a devoted student, but who is a wonderful human being. I will give her a big, tight, meaningful, long hug and tell her that I love her.