autistic

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.

Another Spectrum

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Spectrum:

1. A band of colors, as seen in a rainbow, produced by separation of the components of light by their different degrees of refraction according to wavelength.

2. Used to classify something, or suggest that it can be classified, in terms of its position on a scale between two extreme or opposite points.

How I felt the true meaning of that word this last week!

One moment I was holding Maddie’s hand while she struggled to tolerate the miserable sensation of “buzzing” in her face, begging me to somehow help her. In another moment I engaged in conversation with Maddie and her cousin about how one of them wished she knew herself better and the other had learned in the last couple of years how to feel more comfortable presenting her true self. From helpless young child to self-aware, philosophical teenager all in the matter of a weekend. A spectrum, indeed!

Yesterday I drove about an hour to have Easter with my parents. Maddie had spent the night with my sister who lives near my parents, so we all met for a casual afternoon celebration including lunch and multiple eggs hunts. And, as is always the case when my niece is involved, board games. We struggled through a few rounds of Apples to Apples (if you don’t have it, get it!) because we just couldn’t stay on topic for some reason. Suddenly, Maddie announced, holding her belly, “Ugh. My stomach hurts.”

“Do you need to lie down?” I asked.

Much to my surprise, she nodded quietly and started heading toward the nearest bedroom.

“Do you need anything?” I called.

She nodded. And pointed. At me. Of course. Just like last week, when she wasn’t feeling well, she just wanted her mom.

Hey, I get it. I’m 48 years old and it wasn’t so long ago that I felt like the one person who could take care of me was my own mom.

When Maddie was born my mom came to live with us for the first week. When I was eight months pregnant with my son, and Maddie had just turned two, I had complications that made it very difficult for me to get around, so Mom stayed with us for the entire last month of my pregnancy. She did everything. She cooked and cleaned and dug up stumps in our backyard and cleaned the tops of our kitchen cabinets. She did laundry and took care of Maddie. I was so grateful to have her there.

And then, after both visits, she unceremoniously began to pack up to go home. She had certainly done so much more than I ever could have imagined. But I wasn’t quite ready to be without her, even though I was 33 and 35, and so I cried. The first time, when suddenly there I was with a newborn baby and a lot of raging hormones, I was scared. How would Jake and I manage this new life? The second time, when my son was born, I was certainly more ready, but after a number of complications (including a systemic rash and a rib cracked during my c-section) I was still pretty miserable. Maybe I was scared. Now I had TWO babies. If I thought one was challenging, how on earth would I manage two? And post-c-section with my still-cracked rib and a rash that was getting worse before it got better.

And so I cried. With Maddie I cried for two days. With my son, it was brief, but I still cried. I still wanted my mom.

And here was Maddie feeling sick to her stomach, wanting her mom. But now she wanted me for something I really couldn’t help. I finally talked her into going into the bathroom, where I thought her problems might eventually be solved. She sat there, suffering with cramping intestines, reaching out for my hand. Again. “Help me,” she begged.

“Well, I can’t really help you with this.” She’s nearly 16. I really can’t help her in the bathroom. Nor do I necessarily want to.

“Uh, I’ll sit out here and you can leave the door open,” I offered. We were in my parents’ room, so I could just close the bedroom door and we could have privacy. I sat on the couch, looking at the spines of my mom’s books for something to read. I didn’t have my reading glasses nor was there anything I was particularly interested in. (I eventually picked up a book and handed it to Maddie. Painted Crafts. The operative word: crafts. Maddie loves them. I’m allergic to them.) So I just sat and sat and waited. And tried not to listen or breathe through my nose.

“OOOOOH, help me, Mom!” she cried again. She must have had food poisoning. She was in pain and sweating and uncertain of how long this feeling was going to last.

I sighed, “Maddie!” I’m sure I was exasperated by this point. “There’s really nothing I can do for you.” Deep breaths. Of course my heart went out to my suffering child, but I was also feeling exhausted from the demands upon me over the last several days.

Eventually she was alright and we were able to make the hour drive home.

But I couldn’t help but notice how sometimes Maddie is very fifteen, and sometimes she’s very four. Teenager-y and toddler-y. And there is not a lot of in between.

And this morning there was a lot of teenager-iness.

Mondays are always hard for Maddie. Mondays are hard for most people, I suspect, and I tell her that all the time. Everybody is tired! Even your teachers! But they get up anyway!

Despite her promise that a sleepover on Saturday wouldn’t negatively impact her school week, she was unmoved this morning. I tried all the usual tricks, and eventually I managed to get her up. I wasn’t sure how I did that although some threats were involved, as was a little bit of yelling and even some counting (toddler-iness!). I had taken her electronics out of her room and promised to return them once she got up. I even let her wear the shirt and pants she slept in (just add some deodorant, please), so all she had to do was put on her socks and sneakers, grab and hat and glove, throw her backpack over her shoulder and head up the stairs.

I took the dogs and her French toast wrapped in a napkin and headed to the door. Maddie asked, “Where’s my phone?”

“In my purse. You can have it in the car.”

Shortly after getting the dogs into the backseat and settling in myself, Maddie appeared with her backpack. I looked at the clock. 7:35. We might be on time today! I thought cheerfully. It was a stressful morning but not only we were on our way to school, for once she might not be late.

Maddie opened the door, threw her backpack in, sat down, and reached for my purse. I buckled my seatbelt. And then…

She grabbed her phone and got back out of the car.

Are. You. Kidding. Me.

She did all of that in order to get her phone without having any intention of going to school. It was all a big ruse. Or at least it became a ruse. I suspect the more insistent I had gotten about school, and the fact that I had removed her phone, had somehow inspired her to dig in her heels. She was going to win this. 

I hopped out of the car but there was clearly no way for me to win this, if winning meant getting her phone back. Even if I had tried, I’m not strong enough (or willful enough) to physically extract the phone from that grip of hers. I could stand in front of her all day, keeping her in the driveway, I guess, but that’s just ridiculous.

“If you don’t get back in the car or give me your phone,” I said sternly, “when I do get my hands on that phone, you’re losing it for a month.”

“You don’t mean that,” she challenged.

“Oh I certainly do.”

Unfortunately that month includes a trip to Mexico. Oh crap. What have I done?

Seriously. What. Have. I. Done.

I fell into the trap again. She was so determined to keep her phone that even if I had promised to destroy it during the night, she wouldn’t have done anything differently. I could take away her allowance for a year. I could even take away sleepovers for a year, and she absolutely lives for sleepovers with her cousin. I could have done any and all of those things and she would have stuck to her guns because in a moment like that, her “guns” are the only things that matter.

Actually, now that I think about it, this morning’s behavior seem both toddler-y and teenager-y. Rebellious like a teenager. Unable to anticipate the future like a toddler. Stubborn like Maddie.

I guess ultimately that’s who I’m dealing with. Not an age or a phase, but just a Maddie. She’s complicated and confusing and maddening and surprising. She is a whole spectrum unto herself! And it’s very challenging.

Some people might be grateful for the challenge. Or at least they might think they would be. I’m not grateful–at least not today. It’s damn hard. Today I feel like I’m losing my mind.

But I do accept it. That’s a gift, I suppose, of having a special needs child. You learn a whole lot of acceptance. You learn to see a person for her whole self, and you love and accept all those parts. You embrace every color of the rainbow and learn to see all the colors in between.

And somehow you just keep going. You get up every day hoping for a pretty indigo or gold but knowing today might be kind of a muddy brown or a swamp green. And today the spectrum wasn’t pretty. But maybe tomorrow will be that soothing, beautiful blue or something even better.

Finding Peace in Acceptance

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Dear readers, you may have noticed I haven’t blogged in a few weeks. I have had occasional dry spells when I’ve started a bunch of posts but couldn’t seem to develop them properly. Or maybe I’ve been busy. Or tired. Or maybe I just couldn’t write one more “I couldn’t get Maddie to school” story. How boring it would be if my blog were a daily account of Maddie’s attendance, which is predictably unpredictable if that makes any sense.

A few days ago I started thinking about my blog, and I realized what my “roadblock” has been. The reason I put quotes around “roadblock” is because that word tends to indicate something negative, something in the way of a goal. In this case, though, I think the “roadblock” has been my attitude of acceptance. I have spent so much less energy swimming upstream. I just hopped on board the raft for the ride, I guess. The ride might be tranquil and relaxing, predictably smooth. Or I might hit some Class 3 rapids, which require a bit of attention if you want to stay on the raft. Or maybe a Class 5 comes into focus, and I have to hold on for dear life despite the fear and lack of control over the outcome.

I went whitewater rafting some years ago, and, not being an especially strong swimmer, my approach was to spend the ride leaning slightly toward the middle of the raft. That way, if I lost my balance, I would (I hoped) fall into the safety of the raft, not the wildness of the river. It worked that time. Maybe that’s what I’m doing now. I didn’t fight the waters; I just tried to manage what was coming my way in the best way possible, accepting that the unknown might be around the corner.

Having a thirteen-year-old and a fifteen-year-old, I see an awful lot of orthodontic work among their peers. Braces have come and gone over the years. Many kids are on their second round. Some have even completed that.

Maddie could use braces. Her jaw is slightly off center, and although her teeth are generally straight, her canines have come in slightly above of the rest of her teeth. Braces would straighten her jaw and give her adorable face a dynamite smile. But something has been holding me back.

A couple of years ago we visited a holistic dentist for this purpose. Instead of traditional braces, the protocol involves a series of appliances that you wear on your teeth that slowly move your teeth into place. The appeal is in the outcome, which would theoretically help breathing by moving the teeth outward for a wider smile rather than inward as has been somewhat more traditional (or so I am told). I absolutely loved the idea, but I was skeptical about Maddie’s ability to manage something that was, realistically, optional. And I was right. Two years later the first appliance still sits in her nightstand, barely used. I guess I gave up. She just couldn’t manage it, and neither could I. A long and uncomfortable process that involved compliance, for an outcome Maddie didn’t even care about, was ill-advised, but I had paid the $4,000 anyway. A poor choice in every aspect.

And yet I’ve felt guilty about my failure to take care of Maddie’s smile, as if I have failed her in a measurable way. Everybody else is out there getting their perfect smiles, and every time I thought of even meeting with an orthodontist, something stopped me. After Maddie’s most recent trip to the dentist, I was determined to move ahead, but this time with braces because once they’re installed, they’re not going anywhere until the job is done. But the “call orthodontist” item on my to-do list remained untouched as the days went by. I couldn’t even make the phone call.

And then my niece Rachel, who is living with us, said something magical. She described how painful and miserable having braces was for her. I never had any orthodontics, so what did I know? I see other kids struggling on days when their braces are adjusted, but I didn’t realize how painful it could be. Nor did I realize how much tedious care was required, like frequent tooth-brushing and flossing above the braces. As I pondered the unlikelihood of braces being a successful endeavor anytime soon, Rachel said, “Maybe she’s not ready.”

YES! Maybe she isn’t ready. Maybe not now. Suddenly a weight was lifted that I hadn’t fully realized was there. She’s not ready. She’s not ready and that’s okay. She doesn’t have to be ready now. At all. Even if she’s not ever ready, so what?

And so I let it go. Perhaps in a few years we can make it happen, but the truth is it might never be worth the suffering. Maddie certainly doesn’t care if she has a perfect smile. I hope she doesn’t end up with jaw problems, but if she does, we can help her then.

Those words have sunk in and settled in my brain. Maddie isn’t ready. Maybe she’s not ready for full-time school. Maybe she’s not ready to handle homework. Maybe she’s not ready for a lot of things. And what’s wrong with that? What is the hurry, after all?

I have long realized the interesting dichotomy that resides in my daughter. She is at once 15 (“He’s hot!”) and four (“I need help shampooing!”). Right now she’s in her onesie cat pajamas, lounging in her cave-like room, playing Minecraft. I’m not sure which parts of that are four and which parts are 15, but it doesn’t matter. She’s just Maddie.

And–at least for the moment–I’m okay with that. I am trying to meet Maddie where she is. And for now it’s working. Of course it’s day eight of a nine-day vacation, during which I have required virtually nothing from Maddie, so perhaps I’m in denial. Come Monday morning, who knows how I feel?

I just take it as it comes, and there is certainly some peace in that.

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.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Detour

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

Oh, no. Here we go. 

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

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

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

Still, however, she wasn’t budging.

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

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

“I want to go TODAY.”

“They’re not open today,” I said.

“How do you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!”

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

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

Thanks for a Bunch of Stuff

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Step One

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And hope for the best.

Voices

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

“What?” I asked. Seriously, what?

She repeated it.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Smeagol.”

“How about reading some in that voice?”

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

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

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

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

A Hard Lesson Probably Not Learned

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

You know how if you miss a week of work, it’s not really like taking time off? It’s just moving it from one week to the next, when you’ll just have twice as much. As adults, we all know it’s coming, so missing work is a calculated decision on our part, whether it’s for physical health or mental health reasons. That work isn’t going to vanish just because you’re not there.

This morning, after skipping school yesterday, Maddie got up with a fair amount of verve and intention. It was the usual morning of increasing tension, as she was doing what she needed, but at a snail’s pace, and then, just as the clock struck 7:15 and it was time for her to be meeting the cab outside, she thought of two more things to do. Stressful, but normal for us. Off to a relatively good start.

Today Maddie had a dentist appointment, and her dentist happens to be near her school, so I picked her up after school instead of having her catch the cab. I can always tell immediately what kind of day she had, regardless of the words that come out of her mouth. She almost always says her day was great, and today was no exception, but her voice was flat and her eyes were down, so I knew she wasn’t being honest.

After some coaxing, I finally got a confession: she had NOT had a great day, and the reasons boiled down to (1) lunchtime detention for cutting school the day before, which she forgot to go to (or avoided) and (2) a giant pile of homework for tonight. She doesn’t tend to have too much homework because of her IEP and because she has lots of time to do work at school. I am so grateful for that.

But yesterday she missed a whole day of both classwork and homework, so tonight she faced five pages of math and a page each of English and history. For her that’s overwhelming.

And THEN she was going to the dentist, which, like most people, she hates. We drove to the dentist’s office, and since we had some time to kill, I suggested she make good use of it. She’s reading Of Mice and Men* with her English class, so I suggested we read some of it on my phone (thank you, Kindle!). She resisted, but somehow or other I got her to go along, mostly reading it aloud to me.

Then it was time to go in the building. “I’m not getting out of the car,” Maddie declared. And I knew she wouldn’t. She had already shown resistance, from the moment she got in the car, and I had tried both a promise of a reward and a logical explanation of the consequences (who knows if the rescheduled appointment will come on a better day?), but, nope, it was not happening.

Fortunately the dentist and her staff are both kind and compassionate. The receptionist was understanding and offered to reschedule. I cancel appointments at that place constantly, and in fact canceled my son’s last appointment because of trouble with Maddie. I’m probably the flakiest mom they have at that practice as I probably only get my kids to a third of their appointments, always canceling at the last minute and then maybe getting them there several months later. It’s a miracle that my 15-year-old has never had a cavity and my 13-year-old just has his first one–a tiny one–given the lack of effort we have put into dental care over the years.

After making a new appointment, I returned to the car, and we headed home. Maddie finished reading me the chapter in her book on the way. Every once in awhile, she was start to shut down. She wanted to cry. She wanted to pout. She even said that out loud. And then when we pulled in the driveway, she didn’t really want to get out of the car. After all, the next thing to face was that huge mountain of work.

We made an agreement. She would do one hour of hard work and then she could take a break and watch a show. She was amenable to that and was able to sit down and sort of focus for awhile, although I was intimately involved in her homework, writing her math so she could just think and talk, encouraging her when she felt stumped, refocusing her when she got distracted, and giving her lots of positive reinforcement. She didn’t finish all her homework, but she gave it a good try.

So now she is done. She is watching her show. And I am ambivalent about our evening together. I really coached her through a hard time, and she was able to get through it. That’s a good thing. I also pointed out more than once that her problems were directly related to the choices she had made yesterday. I knows she understands that intellectually. I made sure she does. The problem is, will she be able to apply what she knows right now next time she wants to stay home from school? I’m not so sure. Mostly that’s because of Maddie’s challenges, but I wonder right now if I haven’t just undermined my own lesson. I wanted her to get her homework done so badly that I sat with her and gently but firmly guided her through it. And I let her quit after a good 90-minute session in which she nearly quit several times. Perhaps I should have let her suffer the consequences a bit more. Perhaps giving her my company and gentle encouragement weren’t the best course of action. Perhaps the lesson she needed was how much two days of work sucks more than one day’s worth, rather than whatever she was learning in math and English.

It’s too late now. Today’s lessons are done. For both of us. Maddie will go to sleep tonight, tired and glad today is over. Tomorrow she will wake up and probably have no immediate recollection of today’s suffering. I’ll remember it, though! Let’s hope I remember, the next time Maddie skips school, the lessons that matter most and hold Maddie accountable and maybe let her suffer the natural consequences a bit more.

As all parents know, the hardest part of parenting is the not knowing how well we’re doing until it’s too late. When our kids have become adults, we can look at them and think, Well, I guess I did okay! Or, Gee, I should have done this other thing. But until then, the results are still in process. So who knows what effect today’s events and my parenting in the midst of them will have on Maddie. Maybe none. Probably none. We shall see.