asperger’s

The Basketball Game

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

“I told Mr. L I would be at a basketball game tonight at 7.”

That was the text I received from Maddie around 10 a.m. today. I had seen emails about a basketball team for the special ed (“Bridge”) class, but Maddie hadn’t indicated she was involved so I had ignored them. I get so many emails I have to pick and choose what I read, right?

“Cool,” I replied. “Sounds fun!”

“Will you take me?”

“Of course!”

That conversation led to some of the best ten minutes of my entire life. Ten minutes because that’s how long the game was.

Maddie is not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination. Much like her mom, she has lead in her feet, and worse than that, she has bad feet. They’re flat and supernate so badly that she can’t exactly break into a full run. It’s more of a lumbering fast walk. She never really mastered catching or throwing, either. She did, however, learn to love basketball at her previous school, where she usually played during lunch with two very tall teachers and a bunch of high school boys. She’s short and slow, but she is fierce and determined. She also prides herself on being able to “take a hit,” and she most certainly did during those games, more than once resulting in a very broken pair of glasses and a pretty nice lump on her head. I wouldn’t say she enjoyed the experience, exactly, but she felt like a bad-ass for having not only survived it, but actually picking herself up and carrying on as if nothing had happened.

Most of the kids in her class aren’t athletically gifted. Lots of kids probably had motor skills delays like Maddie did, some just can’t manage the whole game concept, and many of them have probably never played basketball at all. But Maddie has quite a bit of experience, even if it was only lunchtime play.

Still, apparently she was hesitant to join until today. Somebody at the district level organized a series of basketball games between the special ed classes at the different high schools. Tonight was the first game. And it was amazing.

About twenty kids from Maddie’s school had signed up, an awfully big team for a ten minute game. The rules indicate that a non-IEP student would be on the court with four teammates to help pass and set up plays and generally keep things moving.

Before the game started, the kids were lined up for shooting drills. Maddie was on the court talking to her teacher and then suddenly disappeared. My niece Rachel looked for her after securing a t-shirt for her (the student council brought free high school shirts for anyone who wanted one), but she had disappeared. Finally the girls found each other, and Rachel learned that Maddie had avoided the drill because she can’t shoot baskets. Moments later, there was Maddie at the front of the line anyway. She had somehow mustered the courage to face her perceived shortcomings. She stepped forward tentatively and threw the ball toward the backboard. It ricocheted right into the basket as if Maddie had done that a thousands times. Instead of jumping for joy or pumping her fist, she did a double thumb-and-forefinger point. “Yep. That just happened.” And I knew we were in for something special.

A young-looking sweet-faced boy named Nathan turned out to be a pretty good shooter. Each time he made a shot during the drill, his face lit up as the crowd cheered and he soaked up that moment with so much joy and pride. He stood there smiling, not quite knowing what to do besides enjoy his achievement.

Already I could feel the tears welling up. I came for a good time, not at all expecting the emotions that would come, too.

When Maddie’s teammate Nick dribbled down the court and made the first basket of the game, I was overwhelmed. I suddenly understood why this was happening. This was an opportunity for the kids to feel the joy of playing in front of a crowd, to be cheered when they made a basket, or just took a shot, or stole the ball. Not only that, each player was announced at the beginning of the night. Stars for an evening.

The opposing team’s “ringer” looked like a varsity player, a very tall young man with some real skills, who had to downplay his level of play and never ever take a shot. Several times he passed the ball to a very short, round girl, who ducked and flinched whenever the ball came her way. Another girl with a multi-colored braid took many shots, and missed every single one, but she just kept plugging away. I was dying for her to make a basket. She never did, but I hoped she’d felt the satisfaction of being so aggressive out there, and that she’d gained some confidence for next time. One kid one that team kept trying to steal the ball from his teammate. I guess they could use a little bit of coaching.

Primarily because of her poor shooting skills, Maddie focuses on defense. So when it was time for her to sub in, I eagerly awaited the other team’s possession of the ball so Maddie could do her thing. She was alert. She played what I would Maddie-to-Man defense, basically attempting to block any opposing team member who had the ball. I think she had the ball in her hands once, and I cheered for her to make a pass. She did, and that was the end of her ball-handling career this evening. I wondered how she would feel about her performance. She didn’t play as aggressively as I had expected. I hoped she’d feel proud of herself and want to play again, but I would have to wait until the car ride home to get her feedback.

The game was over far too soon. I guess it really only was a 10-minute game. I could have used anther 20 at least, but this was the first game for all those kids and apparently they needed to start slowly.

“I know that was only a 10-minute game,” remarked Maddie as we stood in the middle of the court, “but it was quite enough.” It turns out two or three trips up and down the court had been plenty for this evening. Clearly she needs to build some stamina. We’ll work on that.

But for tonight, it was indeed enough. Maddie’s teachers, lots of parents, the district coordinator, an assistant principal, student council representatives, varsity players and more all showed up for these kids. The gym was loud as the whole crowd cheered for both teams.

And I was elated.

For the last couple of weeks I have had trouble writing. I started and stopped several times. Parenting has mostly been a huge struggle. Maddie refused to go to school the first three days after the break ended, and then she was sick for a week, and then the struggle returned in full force. She made it to school for a half day, then most of a day, then a little more of a day, and then finally a full day.

That first successful half day only happened because I did something pretty dramatic. She had refused to go in the morning, but finally after Mr. L’s suggestion, she agreed to go to the two classes after lunch. I clinched the deal by offering to get her some fast food (a rare treat) on the way there. We had a pleasant ride. Our dogs sat in the backseat for the long round trip as well. When I parked near the office, she opened her door, and then she reconsidered.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

I went from calm and optimistic to steamed and panicked in a millisecond.

And then the shit really hit the fan. Our dog Ginger jumped out and began running around the parking lot, sniffing frantically in this new, formerly un-smelled location. My frustration doubled. Maddie rounded up Ginger and got her back into the car, and she and I resumed our conversation. Then somehow Ginger escaped again. I was simultaneously trying to manage my kid and my dog, and I thought my head would explode.

And then I realized I had an opportunity. Maddie was outside the car. So was her backpack. I coaxed Ginger into the car on the driver’s side, hopped in and shut the door. And then I hit “lock.” There I was with the dogs in the car, and Maddie was locked out. She put her hand on the window.

Boy, was she surprised. I waved at her and shook my head. “Go to class!” I yelled through the window. I wasn’t angry. I was just being loud so she could hear me.

She backed away from the car as I slowly began to pull away. I waved. She stood there.

And then I watched her in my rearview mirror. She pulled out her phone. I thought for sure she was trying to call me. But she didn’t.

I circled back through the parking lot and saw she was headed for the office, where she was to drop off a doctor’s note excusing her from the previous week. And then I went home.

I felt terrible. I had just locked my kid out of the car and driven away. Who does that? I wondered. Seriously. Who does that?

The answer, apparently, is a desperate parent who is trying to do the right thing without ever really knowing what the right thing is.

All day I felt exhausted and sad and guilty. Not for a moment did I feel especially victorious or even right about my decision.

And then Maddie got home from school. I heard the door open and close, the scramble of dogs on the wood floors and the high-pitched greetings from Maddie to Ginger and Banjo. A moment later she came to my room. I was nervous. I knew she’s be upset or mad or traumatized or questioning or something.

“How was school?” I asked.

“Good!” she answered. Not a word about the morning. Not even a “why?” I couldn’t believe it. I had felt nauseous for hours, and Maddie had turned from the car and accepted her fate. And then she had a pretty good day.

Each day has been a little more successful since then, culminating today in a on-time arrival. Mr. L assured me tonight that he doesn’t care about tardies at all. He just wants her to get there. Indeed. I don’t even really care about homework at this point. Some reasonable attempt at attendance sounds like a lofty enough goal.

Last week I was ready to give up. I began to question whether all this mental and physical effort was worth the stress if it wasn’t even helping. Why kill myself trying to get Maddie to school every day? My mornings feel almost heart-attack inducing. I’m on blood pressure medication for a reason, I guess.

After the game tonight, my niece Rachel and Maddie and I stopped for ice cream. It seemed like a good night for a special treat. “How do you feel about your performance?” I asked over ice cream.

“Good!”

“It seemed like you weren’t being as aggressive as you usually are,” I observed. I wanted to encourage her to really go for it.

“Well, I looked at the other players and thought I should go easy on them. I didn’t want to block them too hard.”

“Yeah, that’s probably the way to go,” I agreed. God, I love that kid.

At home tonight, Maddie donned a brand new costume that had arrived in the mail, to surprise her dad. She stood there holding her swords in a threatening manner, enjoying yet another special moment, and then we told him about the game.

“I feel happy,” she finally said. She loved playing basketball and was excited about her costume. It was a good day.

And there you have it. Maddie had a great day.

I had a great day, too.

And it was all because of basketball.

Happy ****ing New Year

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

Two thousand sixteen started out great! We went to a lively party at my BFF’s house just up the street for New Year’s Eve, and thanks to celebrating East Coast New Year’s in California, I was home before midnight. We celebrated the following night by dancing to a highly entertaining 80s cover band at a nearby music venue. I haven’t had such a fun-filled two hours in a very long time. I danced so hard I kind of injured my permanently fragile neck, but after about three days I was recovered. And it was totally worth it.

And then, on January 2nd, Maddie came home from camp. I am both sad and embarrassed to report that although I was certainly happy to see my sweetie-pie, life got more challenging in that instant. What followed was four unsuccessful days of badgering her to take a shower along with the anticipation of the impending school week. I was temporarily relieved when I learned she had Monday and Tuesday off, so we had a couple extra days of camp recovery time.

I was optimistic. I’m not sure why. There was no reason to believe that a new year would bring new behaviors. In fact, I have never put much importance on the change in years. So, one day it’s 2015 and the next day it’s 2016? One day it’s Thursday and the next day it’s Friday. So what? It’s just another day. Not very romantic or sentimental, I know. I have just never had that feeling that the first day of a new calendar year was particularly significant. So why for even a second did I think otherwise?

As it turns out, my first and usual instinct was right. We are right back where we started. In hell.

Tuesday Maddie was in a good mood. She woke up around 8:00, very early for a teenager on vacation. She had energy and was perky and when I asked her if she was ready for school the following day, she gave me an enthusiastic affirmative response. All right! I thought. Tomorrow is going to happen! 

Well, “tomorrow” did happen. Oh, yeah, it happened all right. It happened like all those other miserable days of 2015 when my tired kid just dug in her heels and said, “No.” How quickly my optimism turned into anxiety and a sense of defeat. Those feelings are so close to the surface for me all the time. Frankly it’s a wonder that I ever feel otherwise. But I guess it’s all that darn hope I try to grasp onto with my fingernails (or whatever substitutes for fingernails when your stressful life meets with a bad habit and you’re left with nails torn down to the nubs).

Maddie, too, was at least superficially optimistic about today. She chalked up her inability to (or refusal to) get up yesterday to a rough night with a cat who kept clawing at her face all night. She felt justified in the afternoon after sleeping an additional five hours. “See, M0m?” she pointed out. “It wasn’t really a choice to stay home. I needed to. I slept for five hours.”

“You could probably do that any day,” I replied. Seriously, what teenager couldn’t?

“Well, I’m better now. And I’ll put Daisy out tonight.”

“You promise you’ll go to school tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she insisted. And at the moment she really meant it. At least I think she did.

But promises don’t mean much to Maddie if breaking the promise behooves her in some way. Don’t get me wrong: if you tell her a secret, she’s a vault. If she promises you a sword, she’d rather skip her homework and/or sleep to make it. But if she’s promising to do something that’s going to be difficult, don’t count on much.

So as you guessed, this morning, day two, didn’t go so well. She did get up. She got dressed with a lot of coaxing and even some actual help from me. She even came upstairs and put on her backpack, but she stopped in her tracks when she stepped outside the front door.

Clearly she was stressed. She was so stressed, in fact, that she reverted to something she did long ago to soothe herself: she dampened a wash cloth to suck on. That’s a bad sign, I know, but I was hoping that a little self-soothing would help her cope with what was to come. And honestly I believe once she was on her way, everything would have been fine. But the anticipation of a challenging day was apparently too much.

And things went downhill from there.

I’m sick with a terrible cold, reminiscent of, but certainly not as terrible as, the case of pneumonia I had last year. My husband is sick, too.

“There’s some dog poop over there,” said my son. “It looks weird.” Our puppy hasn’t been 100% well the last few days, as evidenced by the varying levels of weirdness of what’s coming out of him. So I picked up what I could with some toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet, only to see water gurgle up and actually over flow. Luckily (or not so luckily) I have an inordinate amount of experience with clogged toilets, thanks mostly to Maddie’s historically dramatic overuse of toilet paper, so I went straight for the water supply and turned it off before too much water escaped.

Then it was time to take my son to school. We left just a few minutes later than normal, and then I forgot to make a particular left turn that helps us avoid traffic, so I got stuck in the usual frustrating line. I was thankful that he was willing to hop out of the car early so I could avoid the worst of it and turn around and go home. It’s the little things, you know.

I still have a little water to clean up. And I don’t think I have the right rug cleaner to do a great job on the dog poop. But those are little things too.

The big thing is Maddie. My son had a thousand ideas to share with me in the car on the way to school. He had tried several approaches to get Maddie motivated this morning, and while I marvel at his wisdom and thoughtfulness, he can’t really help me. I figured I’d let him try, though. Why not? After all, when one member of your family is acting out, the whole family suffers.

Maybe there’s an ALANON-type thing for families like ours. I recall hearing this somewhere: “When one member of the family has autism, the WHOLE family has autism.” No, that doesn’t make us all autistic, but we all suffer from it, or benefit from it, or are in some other ways immensely impacted by it.

And today the impact isn’t good. I’m exhausted from being sick and having a sick husband.

I’m pessimistic at the moment, although perhaps I shouldn’t be now that I think about it. For some people the start of a new year brings hope and a new outlook. For Maddie newness isn’t good. New starts aren’t good. She does better when she’s in the swing of things. We just need to get her there.

Forget the new year, then. Forget starting over. Forget change. Just keep going. Keep plugging away.

The January question of the month: “Did you make any resolutions?”

No, I did not. I never do. Maybe, in the end, that’s a good thing. My resolutions aren’t annual; they’re daily. My resolution is always to do the best I can and try to forgive myself. My resolution is to survive the day and then start over the next day. My resolution is to try to keep my cool the best that I can in the face of some extraordinarily challenging circumstances.

Happy New Year? Sure, I guess. Happy New Day? Maybe. Just New Day? Always.

 

Winter Camp

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

It’s December 30th and Maddie is at winter camp. She loves this camp so much that as soon as she gets home she starts the countdown until next time. Last year was her first time doing the winter session, and after two years of balmy weather, a cold snap that particular week took us both by surprise a little bit. The whole time she was gone I worried that she would be warm enough. She managed, apparently, by wearing everything she could pile on. But she was cold.

It’s cold again this year, and although that didn’t come as a surprise, I didn’t help her pack that much because I wasn’t feeling well that day, so I have no idea if she packed gloves or a scarf. I know she has a down jacket, hats, and Uggs, though, so I think she’ll be OK. Still, I couldn’t help hunting down a pair of gloves and enclosing them in a box with some Cheetos, M&Ms, and glow sticks for New Year’s Eve. I hope she’s happy! Last year’s care package was a big pile of new wool socks. Not very exciting apparently, but I was in a panic about her survival, I guess, so I overnighted some directly from Amazon. I now imagine her delight at receiving a package followed by bewilderment upon seeing what was inside. Apparently the other kids got cookies and stuff. Oh, well. I try.

So today I’m thinking a lot about Maddie in her absence. I know she’s having fun. I hope she’s staying warm and dry. I hope she got her care package today and was delighted instead of deflated by the contents. I hug her in my mind. I tuck her in and kiss her at night. She’s not here, but I feel her anyway.

It’s pretty quiet around here. Mellow. Easy. Frankly either kid without the other is easier than both together, so I try to enjoy the quiet. I asked my son if he missed Maddie. I was joking. He just laughed. Fair enough.

But when Maddie is away, I really do miss her. I miss her in the sense that it’s weird for her not to be here, but I also miss her liveliness, her spirit, and her sense of humor. I imagine she’s yelling “CAMPFIRE!  I LOVE CAMPFIRE!” as loudly as she yelled, “I GOT A CAT BAG!” when she opened the cat-tapestry duffel bag my mom made for her Christmas gift. Oprah-style yelling. Or “HOLY bleep!” when she opened the box of maybe 60 rolls of duct tape I gave her, which, incidentally, she packed in her CAT BAG! to take to camp. It was so heavy that I sneaked a few rolls out before she left. She had to carry that thing quite a distance to her cabin. She didn’t care when she packed the bag, but she might have cared halfway to her destination when a heavy bag, a rolling suitcase, a sleeping bag, and her backpack might have suddenly become too much. Hopefully, though, she didn’t look in the bag and think, “Hey! Who took out that fourth roll of blue I packed?” I wouldn’t put it past her.

Last summer on the last day of camp, I showed up for the usual end-of-week celebration. In the first 30 minutes, at least two people asked Maddie for duct tape. She had come prepared, and she had now become The Girl with the Duct Tape. It’s nice to have a recognized role in society, isn’t it? Especially when it’s a helpful or meaningful one. I’m so glad she discovered the importance of duct tape! I imagine her at camp now, rolls of duct tape around her arms as far up as she can comfortably wear them, always at the ready for a repair or prop construction, feeling like a queen because she really matters. I love that thought.

As this cold and wintry week continues, and the year 2015 is wrapping up, I anticipate Maddie’s return with somewhat mixed feelings. It feels right to have her home. The dogs will attest to that: when the pack is together, all is right in the world.

But two days after she gets back, school starts again and so does the stress that comes with it. I know it’s coming. I’m thinking about that knowing now. Knowing. Maybe I can find an ironic sense of comfort in the knowing, even though I’d prefer the truth to be otherwise. I know what’s coming, though. I do. Perhaps I can relax into the knowing, the predictability, and just let it go. At least for a day. And let 2016 start off in the best way possible, with a lot of love and appreciation for my kids, and a mixture of optimism and acceptance for whatever is to come.

And a lifetime supply of duct tape.

 

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.