autistic

The Day I Lost My Mind

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Tiny Place in the Universe

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Tonight my husband and I have the good fortune to be in Big Sur, California, for a weekend getaway. We don’t do this very often, so just getting away is wonderful enough on its own, but spending our days and nights on the beautiful and rugged California coast is a gift. We settled into our room and then, after the sun set, strolled up the path way to a soaking infinity tub that overlooks the ocean. We couldn’t see the ocean, of course. Not only is it night time, but the moon was new tonight, just barely an orange sliver that eventually slipped over the horizon. We were left gazing only at the stars (it is REALLY dark here), and there are so many of them visible here. We could even see the milky way. Coming from a small town that lay amid the vast metropolis that is the San Francisco Bay Area, we don’t usually see that many stars. Too many lights below showing people where to go on the ground to see the magnificence above.

Today is the day of the massive terror attacks in Paris. We were blissfully unaware of the events of the day as we spent the afternoon in Carmel near the end of an easy, leisurely drive down the coast.

My husband’s reaction to the news was sadness. Mine was surely sadness, but it manifested itself more as a kick in the stomach. I don’t want anybody suffer the pain and horror and fear and heartbreak that befell this country fourteen years ago, and that on a smaller scale continue to plague us. We read the news shortly after we checked in to our room. My husband was unprepared for bad news. He doesn’t always know how to process it. Who does, really? But I tend to do a little more diving in. I need to gather information and go headfirst into the sadness. I will feel it fully and that’s okay with me.

Out in the pool, sitting in the dark, breathing in the air and the stars and the darkness and the solitude, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. Here we are, thousands of miles away from such a harrowing tragedy, living our little lives and having our little thoughts. There are billions of stars in the sky. And here we are, two people doing nothing of particular importance in the world, which itself has little particular importance in the scheme of things.

We’re so far removed in every way from real life. Even our own real lives.

I think of Maddie. I think of all the anxiety and stress I feel over parenting her. I think of the weekly chats I have with my therapist, who helps me figure out how to process what I’m facing, how to be good to myself, and how to, in both emotional and practical terms, parent both Maddie and my son. You would think my life, my mom-hood, is momentous based on the mental energy that goes into it.

But in moments like these, I wonder. I am one of those in-the-moment, here-and-now, do-what-needs-to-be-done kind of people. I really don’t spend much time pondering the meaning of life, or what is my path to happiness, or much beyond just living my life. I don’t know if it’s my nature or a product of having a special needs kid, which certainly encourages, if not requires, that kind of outlook.

And today, whatever energy I do put into all that, might seem pointless in the grand view of space and time, particularly when the people in Paris, in Syria, and so many other parts of the world are suffering.

I will go home the day after tomorrow. I will struggle with Maddie to get her to do her homework. I suspect I will have to ask her 20 times to take a shower. I’ll cook dinner (maybe) and clean up the kitchen and throw on a load of laundry. The usual stuff. That’s not going away. And I’m not going to give up trying because of my tiny place in the universe.

I will keep trying because my tiny place is mine, and it’s the only one I’ve got. I’ll keep trying because Maddie deserves it. She deserves to use her tiny place to its maximum potential. She deserves a mom who will see it to the end, who will not let tragedy in the world color her view, who will continue to be optimistic and hopeful about the world. A mom who, despite a constant cycle of bad news, doesn’t have a cynical bone in her body. A mom who believes in Maddie, who believes Maddie’s life is destined for greatness, and by greatness I mean love and compassion.

That’s where it’s at. Love and compassion. I will teach her about the world, its beauty and its sadness, and encourage her to retain the immense gifts of love and compassion with which she was born. That tiny spot in the universe makes a ripple, after all. And even if the ripple is tiny, too, a good ripple is worth making.

To everyone affected by the terrorist attacks in France, my heart goes out to you. May you heal fully and find more love and compassion than ever before. We’re sending it to you from my corner of the world.

A Miracle Has Occurred, But I Still Feel Terrible

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Somehow or other Maddie changed her mind and went to school. I was about to say “I got her to go to school” but we all know ultimately Maddie is the one in charge. It was three hours into the school day by the time we left, but a half day is better than no day at all.

After a day of trying to be zen about this whole thing yesterday, today I just didn’t have it in me. So I played hardball with Maddie. After I sent the cab driver on his way, I took away access to all electronics. She didn’t like that. I wouldn’t engage in light conversation. “I’m not talking to you,” I said when she initiated small talk, trying to smooth things over. I even emailed the educational consultant to follow up on boarding schools, and she watched me do it. Today I’m feeling like I can’t do this anymore. Maybe somebody else can instead.

“Can I have my stuff back?” Maddie asked.

“No,” I laughed, incredulously. “You didn’t go to school.”

“Well, when can I get it back?”

“When you have gone to school.”

“What if I go to school today?” she queried.

“Well, then I’ll give you something back. I’m leaving in three minutes,” I said, “to go to the chiropractor. If you’re ready to go in three minutes, I’ll take you to school instead. I’ll put your lunch together and then I’m leaving.” I was very matter-of-fact. I meant it. I wanted her to go to school so much, but I was done lobbying. Plus, even though I was perfectly willing to skip my appointment, it had to be for something as big as driving her to school.

So when she said she was almost ready, I sent off a quick text to Dr. Marc, canceling my appointment.

I love my chiropractor. He’s not your usual “crack, crack, see ya” kind of guy. An appointment with Dr. Marc lasts a whole hour and involves only deep massage along the spine (or whatever you need) and a few pops with that triangular adjusty thing. If you have jaw problems, like I did a few years ago after taking a baseball to the temple, he’ll press some points inside your mouth that make you want to run through the door like in a quick cartoon escape, but it works. He’s gentle and kind and has so much sympathy. Seeing Dr. Marc is a form of therapy in a way. I could have really used a visit today. But I gave it up for Maddie.

A couple weeks ago I was in a bad way. My upper right side, including my neck and shoulder, was in so much pain. I thought maybe I had a pinched nerve from sleeping wrong. When I gave Dr. Marc my explanation, he looked at me uncertainly, as if waiting for more information. “I’ve been under a lot of stress, too,” I added.

“That would explain it,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “You carry the world up here,” he observed as he manipulated the area above my shoulder blades. Boy, is that the truth. There is everything I experience, right up there on my shoulders. I’m hunched forward at the shoulders all of the time. Apparently it’s from a fight or flight response to stressors. That makes so much sense to me.

Some years ago I had the sensation of a knife going from my chest straight through to my back. “Stress,” diagnosed my doctor. But his only suggestion was, “You’ve got to find a way to deal with this.”

I still haven’t figured that out. Wouldn’t that be magical if I could just “deal with it”? Every day I try to “deal with it.”

So this morning when I was pulling out of the high school parking lot after watching Maddie stroll toward the office to check in, I didn’t feel some huge sense of relief. I was glad she was at school for half the day, but the weight of it all is still with me.  I wish the chiropractor could remove that weight permanently, but all he can do is try to relieve the pain from the weight I can’t seem to shake. He is not the magic answer. I don’t know what is.

I also don’t know why Maddie changed her mind today. I’m glad she did. All the moms I know hate making lunches for their kids. I hate making lunches for my kids. I’m tired of it. But I would make 100 lunches a day rather than deal with this in the morning. I woke Maddie up at 6:30 and spent the next 3 1/2 hours trying to get her to school. This afternoon we’ll embark on homework and the shower that was supposed to happen yesterday. I hope she’s more cooperative, but I can’t count on that.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Life goes on. Deep breaths.

Time Management and a Lack Thereof

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This evening we have a typical scenario.

Maddie has two things to do tonight before she goes to bed. Tomorrow I’m going to pick her up from school and drive her north to spend the night with her cousin. For several years they have been going to a special Halloween event in my sister’s neck of the woods. It’s always the Friday before Halloween, which is a bummer because Friday night traffic is a true horror show. But I’ll do it anyway. I have no idea how much time I’ll be spending in the car, but it’s for the benefit of two pretty fabulous girls, so I’m going to suck it up and do it. I’m going to take some backroads I haven’t taken before in order to avoid the inevitable multi-hour backup that’s especially bad at this time of year.

So I give her two things to do before her early bedtime: take a shower and pack up her stuff for the Halloween event and the sleepover. I inform her that I would not be reminding her constantly. If she wants me to spend half the day in the car driving her out of town and returning home (oh, yes, and doing the same thing the next day), she was going to have to have some initiative.

“I’m gonna go finish watching Batman Begins,” she pronounces enthusiastically after finishing her dinner.

“Well, you have those two things to do,” I remind her.

“But it’s Batman,” she emphasizes, with bulging eyes and a wide grin. How could I not share her passion?

“Well, how much of the movie is left?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long do you think it’ll take you to shower and pack?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I have no idea!” she insists, with a smile on her face in anticipation of her movie time.

“You’ll need to keep track of time. You need to watch the clock.”

“Well, that’s not gonna happen.” She’s probably right, but I would sure appreciate a different attitude. At least an “I’ll do my best!” But I guess at least she’s realistic.

“Maddie, you have to get those things done tonight, before bedtime, or I’m not driving you tomorrow.”

And here we are again. Oh, boy. The waves of regret are already crashing over me. I’m remembering the Giants’ game fiasco, in which I withheld a privilege and then it all came back to bite me in the butt, and what should have been a fabulous day turned into one of the worst experiences in recent memory.

This time, though, it should be more in my control. I mean the sticking to the consequences part. In no way am I in control of Maddie.

The problem with these consequences, as is often the case, is that if I don’t drive her to her cousin’s house, there’s going to be a very disappointed girl on the other end. I hate that part.

At 1 hour and 15 minutes before she is supposed to go to bed, I’m 100% certain she has done nothing. The problem is she has absolutely no clue how to keep track of time.

I was reminded of that this morning. As usual I woke Maddie up at 6:30. It’s still dark at that time. After a gentle wake-up, which this morning included puppy kisses, I hung out for a few minutes, then left to start the food-related tasks of the morning. I returned several times over the next 30 minutes, and at 7:00 I started to panic.

“It’s seven o’clock, Maddie. You really have to get up now,” I said.

“I will,” she replied, holding onto the blanket I was trying to remove. I stayed for a moment to ensure she was actually out of bed and getting dressed, and then I returned to the kitchen to finish my work.

The cab arrives daily at 7:15. At 7:12 I realized she still wasn’t upstairs, so I shoved her lunch and her water bottle into her backpack and ran downstairs. She was in the bathroom.

“Maddie! You have to leave in two minutes!” I said, knocking on the door.

“What?! Really?!” She opened the door, still in her underwear, her clothes and shoes still lying neatly on her bed.

And that might be the source of our morning issues. She just has no sense of time passing. She never has. When she was little, that came in handy (as it does with most little ones). If we were at the park, I could give a five-minute warning and then 30 seconds later announce it was time to go. The kids didn’t know the difference and that was fine.

Now, it’s not so fine. What do I do? I have tried Time-Timers, with red triangles that shrink as time passes, a nice visual representation of time. I could say, “You have to be ready in three songs.” I can give her the time every two minutes for a half hour. But it doesn’t matter. Time awareness, and so time management, just isn’t part of her makeup. I’m not sure she has completely internalized how long a minute actually is. 

She has no idea how long her math assignment might take, or how long it takes to drive somewhere, or how long she’s been in the shower. How do you plan your daily life when you can’t conceive of any of that? Or if you don’t really care? I think that’s the other part of the problem. Not interesting!

I go into her room again this evening to check on her progress.

“What time do you think it is?” I ask her.

“I don’t know. Seven o’clock?”

“Look at your clock.” It was 7:20. She had less than 40 minutes to finish packing and take a shower before my deadline. That sounds like plenty of time, but for her that’s a mad rush.

“Maddie, stop what you’re doing. Finish packing the things you absolutely need first. If you have time, you can move onto other stuff.” Packing for a trip to her cousin’s house typically includes a pillow case full of stuffed animals, some costume stuff, and maybe a game or two, in addition to the usual overnight stuff. I want her to leave all the optional stuff for the end. For her, though, it’s all the fun stuff that seems most important, so she usually packs that first. I suspect I’ll finish her other packing tomorrow, despite the rules I set down tonight.

And then, I see a light bulb over her head. “I need to do something really important!” She holds up one of her new gray plastic swords, which is partially colored in with black Sharpie. I can see what she means: she needs to finish coloring. “It might take quite a bit of time, though.” Finally, a clue about time.

Just as I feared. I had laid down some pretty clear expectations, but Maddie’s poor time planning has gotten in the way. AGAIN. What am I going to do now?

“How about if I just brush my hair and wash my underarms instead of taking a shower?” That’s a common substitute for her, but she’d already done that the night before. That long 15-year-old-girl hair is going to start getting nasty.

I stick to my guns…for a minute. It’s all I can do to muster up a “No. I told you what you had to do and you made the choice to watch the movie.”

I am having an internal battle. I really don’t want to take her trip away from her. Also, her intentions are pretty good, but she forgot something. Do I punish her for that? Ugh. I don’t know.

Last night I was half-watching an old episode of The Big Bang Theory. I love that show. I was pretty sure I’d seen all the episodes at least once, but apparently not. This episode focused on Sheldon’s lack of a driver’s license. In case you haven’t seen the show, Sheldon is a brilliant scientist who probably has Asperger’s (even though nobody ever says that). He doesn’t read people very well, he has a tough time with sarcasm, and he’s very regimented in everything he does. Because he didn’t have a driver’s license, he was expecting his friends to deliver him wherever he needed to go. His demands were very matter-of-fact, and his friends were losing their patience. Usually I find this show hilarious, but last night I was kind of sad watching it. Sheldon wasn’t doing anything on purpose. He really couldn’t help it. In the middle of the episode, his friends insisted he get his license, but it turned out he was a horrific driver. Back to his friends driving him everywhere. The bad news is many of his irritating behaviors are beyond his control. The good news is he still has friends.

So tonight I think of Sheldon. He can’t help that he doesn’t roll with change. He can’t help that driving isn’t going to be part of his life. Maddie can’t help that she’s terrible managing time. (She’ll likely never drive, either). I would certainly like her to try and improve, but maybe she never will. And I don’t want to make her feel like a failure because of her challenges.

While Maddie is showering, I have a great idea. You’re not going to believe this, but it involves duct tape. Why color a sword when you can just apply a couple strips of duct tape and call it good? I share my idea with Maddie. She says, “You’re a GENIUS.” Whoever would have thought I would solve Maddie’s problem…with duct tape?!

I let her stay up a bit longer to finish her swords. Once again, I give in to the situation. I don’t think of it as wimping out or giving up. I think of it as coming to grips with reality.

When I say goodnight to Maddie, we review the evening’s events. I am hoping something will land. I point out that she had made choices that made things difficult. “I know. I’m so stupid.” Well, that’s not what I want her to think about herself. At all. I just want her to learn the things that don’t come so easily, like time management.

And in the end, I realize tonight is not the night that is going to happen. I’m not sure when it’s going to happen. Or if. But I do know these ultimatums aren’t having the intended results.

This is such a journey. Every day I learn something. Maybe about myself. Maybe about Maddie. Maybe about parenting. Maybe about life. The key is being open to the lessons, being willing to redirect, to change course, to admit I’m wrong, to try something else and hope it works. And not be discouraged if it doesn’t.

I’m working on that.

She Who Can, Crafts. She Who Can’t Craft…Really Really Can’t

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Halloween is coming up and Maddie is prepared. Or preparing, anyway. For a kid who loves superheroes and animated characters more than anything, and who makes duct tape swords in her spare time, a special day designated to the imagination and dressing up is maybe better than Christmas.

I have to confess, I’m not sure what her costume is this year. It’s some character from Bleach, the complex anime show she knows in extraordinary detail (which she is happy to share with you whether you like it or not).

Last week she wanted to go to the Halloween spirit store, to which I reluctantly drove her one evening. I sat in the car and she went in with her debit card and bought some stuff, including, you guessed it, a couple of plastic swords. As if she doesn’t have enough.

She has also created a mask of some sort and asked my mom for some sewing help. She doesn’t even ask me anymore. That’s probably because of the costume incident of sixth grade. Suffice it to say sewing hates me as least as much as I hate it. Sewing, in this case, apparently includes using scissors.

The public middle school used to hire a lively, gifted, inspiring woman to lead the kids in an entertaining and educational event called “A Trip Through the Ancient World” or something like that. Kids spent weeks learning all about ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome. Each kid was assigned a historical figure, and they were to memorize a brief biography of that character and, on the day of the big event, dress as that character.

I can’t tell you how much my heart just sinks whenever a craft-related assignment comes home that requires parental help. I didn’t want to spend a fortune buying a costume, either. So I had to come up with something. And fast.

Luckily for me, her character was a Hebrew slave, so her clothes didn’t have to look particularly good or at all fancy. Still, I called my very creative friend in a panic, asking what to do.

“Just buy a piece of fabric, fold it over, cut a whole for the head and sew up the sides.”

“I don’t have a sewing machine. Anyway, I can’t sew.”

“Maybe you could just buy some kind of rope and tie it around her waist.”

Now that’s a project I can get behind, except for the part about going to the fabric/craft store. Nothing like stepping into JoAnn Fabrics to give me a panic attack. I hate it that much. But as a mom, you gotta do what you gotta do.

So I mustered up my courage and drove to the store, ready to get that brown fabric and a rope tie. That was literally all I had to buy. So I found the fabric that looked kind of right, some kind of brown muslin (my mom sewed a lot when I was a kid, so I do know a little about fabric). And for some reason I picked up a smaller piece of muslin in a natural color. I have no idea why I did that, but it ended up becoming integral to the success of the costume. (I use the term “success” loosely, as you will see.)

All I had to do was cut a hole in the middle of the brown fabric so Maddie could stick her head through. Then I would tie the rope around her waist to hold the fabric against her body. Right on! Ancient slave clothes are so easy!

Being the crafty genius that I am, I folded the fabric into quarters so I didn’t have to cut a whole circle. I would just have to cut a quarter circle, open the fabric, and voila! Circle! After I did that, I opened the fabric up to admire my work, and there it was: a GIGANTIC hole that would fit completely over Maddie’s little shoulders, and the whole thing would fall right to the ground. You have got to be kidding me, I said to myself. You can’t even cut a circle right!

It was the night before the event, so there was no time to get more fabric. Luckily I still had an option. That’s where the second piece of muslin came into play. I carefully cut a more appropriately-sized hole, but that fabric on its own was too small for a whole costume, so now I had to actually sew the brown fabric over the lighter fabric so it would both stay on her body and be long enough to work. I was pretty irritated at myself, but I got out my needle and thread (I have had the same sewing kit my entire adult life) and began to sew those pieces together. They stayed okay, but I would say an untrained monkey would have done a nicer job. There were random stitches placed haphazardly on both shoulders. Thank goodness for brown thread on brown fabric, is all I can say.

Fortunately, Maddie didn’t care at all. I am so grateful for that kid sometimes. She could have been irritated or disappointed or embarrassed, but she was not only fine with the final outcome, she was grateful! I sent her off to school with her pathetic excuse for a costume, and she was happy.

I showed up at school along with a few parents to watch this play/game show. Among the beautifully adorned princesses was my shabbily dressed Hebrew slave. Perfect, really, although I have no doubt that anybody from that period would have taken more pride in their craftsmanship than I had. Oh, well. I guess I have other gifts.

Fortunately, the costume wasn’t that meaningful in the end, except that somebody without any costume at all would have stood out. My crappy creation seemed to go unnoticed. I told my friend Laura my story and we both had a good laugh. I may not be crafty, but I can recognize the humor in almost any situation. I really thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Years later, when Maddie is concocting her complicated costumes–for Halloween or Comi-con or just everyday dress up–I am NOT the person she consults. She knows better. If there’s sewing involved, she most certainly doesn’t ask me. At best, I’ll say no. At worst, well…

So this year’s costume, the anime character, is almost done. Maddie came up with the plan and did most of the work. My mom did a little problem-solving and sewing. There is one small task left to do, but I don’t even know what it is because my mom bypassed me and went directly to my husband for this little tidbit. Sometimes being left out is a good thing. For us all.

I’m pretty sure that final job, whatever it is, will complete the costume. What I’ve seen so far is amazing. Maddie really took her time to conceive of and execute this thing. Apparently that gene skipped me.

What I love about Maddie (among a gazillion other things) is not only how much she enjoys the process of making things, but the pride she has once she’s done. She would gladly don her costume for anybody who happens to stop by. She will pose with full dramatic effect. You can take as many pictures of her as you like.

Tomorrow, the day before Halloween, some of her friends are wearing costumes to school. She’s probably leading the effort. I’m pretty sure that even if nobody else was participating, Maddie would still pack up her costume (swords included) and wear it all day long. And she would feel awesome.

So here are today’s life lessons:

I can’t sew, and that’s OK.

Be grateful for your grateful, fearless, creative kid.

Be willing and able to laugh at yourself. Life is so much better that way. 

Today I Chose to Be Happy

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Today Maddie wouldn’t go to school. And this time I didn’t care. I really didn’t.

Well, at first I was kind of miffed, and then I decided to let it go. It’s amazing what letting things go can do for you!

I was in a good mood all day. I wasn’t mad at Maddie. She wasn’t mad at me. I wasn’t mad at myself.

Maddie even did all the things I asked of her with little prodding. She did her homework while I was out, made herself dinner, and took a shower on her own. She even remembered to brush her hair afterwards. That’s new!

I played a card game with my kids tonight. We hugged and laughed and were happy together. I enjoyed my children. Isn’t that nice?

Tomorrow is likely to be fine in the school department. It’ll be Wednesday, so Maddie has something to look forward to. I expect a relatively easy (for us, anyway) morning.

It’s one of those times that I feel good about my parenting. I definitely had a choice to make this morning. I could have pushed Maddie to go to school, an effort that most likely would have been futile. And I would have ended up frustrated and angry and exhausted and stressed out. But I chose the zen approach–go with the flow. And guess what! It turns out the flow is kind of pleasant.

And really that’s not a surprise. I’m generally a go-with-the-flow kind of person. I often say I’m flexible to a fault. But when it comes to parenting, there are times when you have to stick to your guns. It’s harder than giving in, but it must be done.

On the other hand, sometimes it’s okay to give in. Not just okay, but the right thing to do. I wasn’t giving in to Maddie, though. I was giving in to the situation. Giving over to my life as it is. Accepting things, really.

And it was liberating.

Life Lesson #27, I guess.

My Life, The Roller Coaster Ride

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Whenever I hear the phrase “roller coaster ride,” I typically think of the highs and lows it represents. True, a thrilling roller coaster has its ups and downs, usually fraught with some amount of excitement and unpredictability (or even harrowing predictability), but a good one also has some twists and turns. Parts are fun, parts are exciting, and some parts make you wish you could just get off that thing. Like, now.

Such is today.

Last week I was tickled pink by the discovery that Maddie apparently has straight A’s. Woohoo! A thrilling surprise!

And today we are back in the “my kid won’t get out of bed” portion of the ride. Oh, boy, my favorite! This, I suppose, feels more like that slow climb at the beginning of a roller coaster, which I’ve always found uncomfortable. Something else is coming, whether exciting or terrifying, but it’s something. This part is the drudgery.

Or maybe it’s like the entirety of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, which basically just makes my neck hurt. Too much jerking around. I have spent an awful lot of time at the chiropractor lately.

Today Maddie announced she doesn’t get enough sleep. Well, that is not at all true. She is 15 years old and we make her go to bed between 8:00 and 8:30. I wake her up at 6:30. So she’s getting in the neighborhood of 10 hours of sleep. Maybe nine and a half. But I get it. When my alarm goes off each day, it sends a wave of despair throughout my body. Ugh. Not only is it dark, but my first order of business is the most important and typically the most challenging. It’s not a great way to start the day. Dark in a couple ways, I guess.

This morning Maddie needed a few extra minutes for her morning routine. She didn’t shower last night, as scheduled, so in lieu of a shower she was supposed to spend a few minutes this morning doing some cleanup. You know, because of the smell. When I made this pronouncement last night, I wasn’t optimistic. She’s usually shoving a few bites of breakfast in her mouth when the cab pulls up in the morning, and I’m lifting her backpack onto her back and putting her sweatshirt in her hand while escorting her to the door. “Have fun! I love you!” I say, trying to be calm and encouraging. I really want to say, with my hands in fists and my jaw clenched, “Get your ass up there, Maddie!” but I don’t talk to her like that.

So this morning, she is lying in bed. Not moving. Not talking. Nothing. Finally, she says, “I need more sleep.” Finally. Words. 

I give in a little. I see the writing on the wall. Or some of it anyway. So I call the transportation guy and let him know the cab doesn’t need to make a stop here this morning, but Maddie will need a ride home. Oh, I am so hilarious! I am still thinking she’s going to school.

The problem is, I have things to do today. I have to be home by 9:30 to receive a furniture delivery. And then I have other plans. It is not workable for me to spend the 45-60 minutes driving her to school whenever she feels like it. Nor do I think that’s reasonable.

“You can sleep for an hour,” I tell her, “and then I have to drive you to school because I need to be home.”

“That’s not enough sleep,” she says.

“How much do you need? What time are you thinking?” I ask. Reality is beginning to sink in. She doesn’t answer.

“You’re not planning to go to school at all, are you?”

“No, not really.”

Well, at least I have an answer. I can stop the negotiating and finagling, but I’m very unhappy with the situation. It’s Tuesday. She doesn’t like Tuesdays, we have established. Well, now neither do I.

This makes me think of the very first time we took the kids to Disneyland. She was four, and my son was 2. It had been more than 20 years since my last visit. I was so happy! We entered the park, and in a fit of nostalgia, headed straight to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. It’s slow and easy, but it’s dark in there. I had forgotten, also, about two small drops in the beginning of the ride. It’s so dark that they come as a surprise. After the first one, little Maddie said, in her deadpan delivery, “Oh. This isn’t good.”

No, it’s not good, but there we are, stuck on the ride, whether it’s good or not.

I turn off her light and exit the room. I’m trying to take some deep breaths and let it go. I feel the tension in my neck and, I swear, in my brain. I’m stretching and breathing. Whatever part of the ride this is, I hate it. It’s that one upside-down twist too many.

Actually it reminds me of a ride called the Hammerhead Shark at Discovery Kingdom in Vallejo. You just swing up one way and hang there for what feels like an eternity. Then you swing down the other way, and up again for another seventeen hours. The one and only time I rode that thing, I actually feared for my life. I wasn’t entirely convinced the bars that were clamped in front of me would continue to hold me, and then I’d fall face first into the ground. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. Luckily, I never ever have to get on that thing again.

I wouldn’t say that Maddie’s refusal to go to school feels especially dangerous, but it’s symbolic of the struggle we face, and of the uncertainty that comes with it. Also the lack of control I feel over the circumstances. Just as gravity would have taken over had the ride’s safety measures failed, so does, perhaps, the Asperger’s. I have no control over this situation. I want to have at least some feeling of control. But today I don’t. I don’t even seem to have any influence.

Then again, Maddie does have straight A’s (at least for the moment). Maybe an occasional day off isn’t the worst thing in the world. This is so confusing.

Today I’d like to stick to the carousel. It’s relaxing. It’s predictable. Pretty much anybody can enjoy it. Usually there are music and pretty colors, too! That sounds so pleasant. The ups and downs are really small, barely perceptible. Everybody’s smiling! It gradually slows down–no starts and stops, no jerks or squeaky breaks–and then everyone has plenty of time to get off. Or if you want, you can just stay put and ride it again.

I’m starting to relax. I’m heading toward acceptance. This is what today is. It just is. Whatever comes my way–and I realize nobody ever knows what’s coming–I will nod my head and think, bring it on. I can do this.

I can take the slow ride up and the fast ride down, the loops and twists and the hang-upside-downs. Eventually it will slow down. Eventually I will get off. And then I will get on another ride. And that’s okay. I might not enjoy an awful lot of it, but I will be alright.

Years ago, on that girls-only trip to Disneyland, we went (finally!) on California Screaming in California Adventure Park. That is an AWESOME roller coaster. Just the perfect blend of excitement and fun. Maddie screamed the entire time. I couldn’t see her face, so I became unsure of the intent behind her screams.

Finally I asked, “Are you OK?”

“I’M GREAT!” she yelled. She was taking in every curve and drop of that ride and living it to its fullest.

Maybe, like Maddie, I should scream just for the fun of it. I can’t get off this ride, but I can make the most of it! Or at least I can try.

Progress Report

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach4 Comments

I find myself often out of the loop on things. Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that it’s my own doing. I must not pay attention to some of the information coming my way.

For example, on the last day of school when Maddie was in first grade, I was sitting at home while my son napped, watching the clock and waiting for the right moment to wake him up so we could pick Maddie up for the last time that year.

At 1:00 p.m. the phone rang. It was Maddie’s teacher.

“Did you know that school got out at 12:30?” she asked.

And my reaction was one of utter and complete surprise. I didn’t think “Oh, right! I forgot!” I thought, “Well, that’s news to me!” Apparently it was not news to a single other parent at that school. I imagine that little tidbit of information had been delivered to me via emails and handouts, but somehow or other I never received it. Or my brain never processed it.

It’s now two months into the school year, and I was thinking the other night about how, apparently, there is some way to log on to the school website and view your student’s grades. I wasn’t sure how that was done, at all. I’m not sure that I have ever seen any information about this account, but I had heard rumors.

Luckily, it turned out I had set up the account when I registered Maddie for school, so I was able to log on pretty quickly once I decided to do it. Phew! That was easy.

And then, to my amazement, I saw it. A list of her classes on the left, and a column of A’s to the right. Not even an A minus. A, A, A, A, A, A, A, A, A. Or however many there were. A couple of comments, too: “A pleasure to have in class.” “Does excellent work.”

Okay, I knew she was probably a pleasure to have in class, but the rest of it just blew my mind. So much so that I literally couldn’t believe it.

So I texted my friend Laura, who knows things. She is one of the people I call to get the straight story. Or advice.

“Do you know if the grade defaults to an A if the teacher hasn’t entered it yet?” was my question. She was embarrassed to say she didn’t know. Of course she didn’t know. Why would anybody even think that? What parent would look at this fabulous report card, and think, This must be a mistake?

Well, I would think that because in all of Maddie’s 10 1/2 years of school, she has never gotten straight A’s. As you must know by now, she has the intellectual capability to do that, she just has other challenges (like ADD and a general lack of motivation) that have gotten in her way. I’ve never even made a big deal about grades because that’s always been a secondary (or even tertiary) issue with her. My first order of business is to get her to school, and if she goes, well, let the chips fall where they may, I guess.

My son’s progress report came in the mail the next day. So I knew it was time for mid-term grades. I called another friend. “Did you get your daughter’s progress report grades?” I asked. “Well, it IS time for them,” she answered.

I thought about it some more. Obviously there had been direct input into the system, or there wouldn’t have been comments.

So here we are. So far, in Maddie’s first year at a public high school, where she is taking geometry and science in the regular classes, she is acing it.

“Maddie, I just looked up your grades online. It looks like you have all A’s. Is that possible?” I asked.

“Yep,” she shrugged. No big deal, apparently.

The day before I had looked up Maddie’s grades, there was a shortened school day to accommodate the special PSAT that was being offered to sophomores. Maddie was not signed up. Once again, I didn’t even know about it. I’m not sure if that was my oversight, or if we were not included because of Maddie’s special ed status. I couldn’t say whether or not I would have signed her up–I was thinking probably not–but I wished I’d had the choice.

I feel so un-anchored when it comes to Maddie’s future. While everybody else is talking about college, my picture of Maddie after high school is so murky. She has the brains to go to college, but does she have the motivation and self-discipline? Can she get enough help in that regard? Before the progress report, I was so skeptical about the likelihood of her going to college.

Now I don’t know what to think! She spends very little time at home doing school work, but she is clearly making the most of her time at school, and she hasn’t actually studied anything in her life but manages to ace tests anyway.

Next year I will have her take the PSAT. She usually does well on standardized tests. So she might as well try.

Because with this kid, there are plenty of surprises. I don’t know (or particularly care) what she’s going to do with herself, but I want her to have every opportunity to make choices. I don’t want to underestimate her. I also don’t want to expect so much that I set her up for failure. So I guess my challenge is to put expectations aside, and just support Maddie in her endeavors. Give her opportunities, and see what happens.

For who knows what tomorrow will bring?

The Comparison Trap

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Recently I learned of another blog by the mother of not one, but two autistic children. I believe they are both in the Asperger’s realm. The particular entry I came upon addressed the problem of comparing our children with others.

My first reaction was, “Oh, no! This blog is better than mine!”

Ironic, no?

Once I got over the ideas that (1) it’s not surprising that I’m not the best blogger in the universe, (2) I might learn something from this woman, and (3) she is right, I began to percolate on the original premise: Comparing our kids is counterproductive.

And this doesn’t apply only to those of us with special needs kids. Nor does it apply only to our kids or our parenting. Comparing is a bumpy road fraught with dangerous pitfalls, but it sure is an easy path to embark upon for some reason. Human nature, I guess. And, I suppose, American culture, which puts the utmost emphasis on working and achieving.

“What do you do?” Isn’t that the question everybody asks when shaking the hand of a new acquaintance? I dumped that question a long time ago, preferring to get to that topic down the road a bit. But I have to admit, it IS still the first thing that crosses my mind. I just made a conscious choice to stifle it. But I practically have to stuff a sock in my mouth to suppress the urge.

I don’t know about you, but where I live (and, since many of you are my friends, where you live too), kids are always doing, doing, doing. They’re playing competitive soccer, taking voice lessons, learning Spanish on the side, going to a math tutor not to stay caught up, but to get ahead. It’s a constant state of go. Who you are is largely defined by what you do.

So when you have a kid who’s behind everyone else in many ways, who’d rather sit around and play Minecraft with her online friends, whose only sport developed in middle school in the form of lunchtime basketball (defense only! no shooting!), who is bright but doesn’t especially care about school, who isn’t likely headed to Cal or Stanford and maybe not college at all, how do you define your child? How do you rank your parenting?

It’s really quite simple. You don’t define or rank or compare. You appreciate your children for their unique attributes. You guide your children toward kindness and compassion above all else. You allow your kids to flourish in whatever way they wish, whether it’s on the field, in the classroom, or in a sea of specialty duct tape.

If I were to define Maddie, it would be by her kindhearted nature, her ability to approach anybody with full confidence and no fear, her intense interests, her compassion. What is Maddie? She’s not an athlete, a scholar, an artist. She’s a wonderful human being, that’s what she is. What she chooses to do in her spare time now, and whatever she chooses to do with herself in the future, she will still be a wonderful human being. She will be a wonderful human being who happens to garden, or teach, or write, or do research. She is a person who is, and happens to do.

I can say that now because even thought it’s simple to make this choice, simple doesn’t always mean easy.

It was especially challenging not to compare Maddie to the other kids when she was young. My mothers’ group got together weekly, beginning when Maddie was about six weeks old, and within a few months it became clear that other kids were following the anticipated milestone schedule and she just wasn’t. I wasn’t alarmed at all, but it wasn’t super fun to participate in the conversations about all the cute things the other babies were saying while Maddie was only screaming. The others were sitting up or crawling, and Maddie was toppling over, blank-faced. I would joke about it, as is my way, but it didn’t feel very good to be left out of that conversation in a meaningful way.

I still suffer from that feeling of isolation in a way, often because of the comparison trap. I’ve written about this before: When everybody is talking about what’s going on at our local high school, or the dating thing, or the sports teams their kids are on, and (soon, I’m sure) where everybody will be applying to college, I can’t help but think to myself, Maddie is different, and feel a little sad about it. Sad for myself, I guess, because I’m missing out on certain aspects of life with her, and sad about how disconnected I feel in that moment. When the conversation begins to veer into that territory, and all the women begin contributing enthusiastically, I envision myself shrinking away from them all. That’s how it feels. And it’s all because in my head, I’m comparing our experiences, comparing our children. My child is different. My experience is different. And for a moment that difference is painful.

But that’s my own problem.

And I know it’s my problem because I have another kid with whom my parenting experience is quite the opposite. He was exceedingly verbal at a young age, and he walked before he was 11 months old. He has played on a few sports teams and done fine, although he is not a committed athlete. He’d rather bike around with his friends and play pick-up games of soccer and basketball. He’s very organized, self-motivated, and bright. He once got a perfect math score on the annual achievement test, something I ended up being kind of bummed about because from then on he would always expect himself to live up to that achievement, and be disappointed in his performance even if he only missed a single question. And that has been his experience. He also was the last third-grader standing in the annual school spelling bee, just short of making the next round.

So even though he doesn’t play competitive sports and he only took drum lessons for a year, he’s an achiever. And sometimes I get caught up in that. When he quit playing soccer the first time around and gave up on drum lessons, I was disappointed and maybe even a little worried. Would he ever stick with anything? Why didn’t he want to play soccer and play an instrument, when all his friends are athletes and/or musicians? When he signed up for Little League for the first time at the age of 10, it felt like a lost cause because all the other boys had been playing since t-ball days. He was so far behind! How could he compete?

That first season had a rough beginning to be sure, but it reminded me of something very important, that who he is, is more important than what he does. He didn’t get a single hit until the last game of the season (mainly because he wasn’t swinging), but he kept on trying. He was a good sport. He made friends. He had grit. He had a good time and was willing to learn. The coaches liked his attitude. It wasn’t about his achievement–or lack thereof–but the kind of person he was and is becoming through all of these experiences.

And the same goes for me as a parent. There are so many occasions when I feel like a failure. I have met other parents along the way who chart like there’s no tomorrow, who work for hours each day with their young children doing the prescribed OT exercises that I was too tired to do, who religiously work new foods into their choosy kid’s repertoire, and whose kids are organized, well-behaved, and well-dressed because of those efforts. Do I do what they do? And do my kids measure up, and if not, is it my fault?

In the immortal words of Maddie, who cares?

My adult life, my parenting experience, is also a journey during which I am still becoming. I’m changing and evolving and learning and growing. I am figuring out what’s important to me. I’m discovering my own gifts, and dismissing, over time, an ideal that isn’t worth pursuing.

I, too, was an achiever as a child. What I accomplished was important to me.

But having any child, and most especially a special needs child, turns that idea upside down because you suddenly have so little control over anything quantifiable. How do you judge your achievement as a parent? How do you know if you’ve done well when you aren’t so focused on the doing, but rather on the being?

I guess that’s the good news: You really can’t measure that. So I stop. I stop worrying about what the other kids are doing, what the other parents are doing and how they’re doing it. Or at least I try. I am striving to be a better person, to focus on what matters, to be an example to my kids. I hope I am teaching them kindness and compassion, both for themselves and others. I hope I am showing them how to be a devoted and generous friend. I hope they are learning that who they are matters more than what they do. Actually, I think I’ve been learning that from Maddie all along.

One Step Forward, One Step Back, Then Maybe Sideways

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This Tuesday I wanted to give up.

Every weekday morning, when my alarm goes off, my initial reaction is dread. I never know how it’s going to go. How many times will I have to try to get Maddie out of bed? Will she finally get up? Will yelling be required? What if she decides she’s not going? How much patience and creativity will I have to conjure up? Will anything I say or do make a difference? Will this be the day when I finally crack?

And Tuesday my dread was fully justified. What a terrible morning we had. Sure, I finally got her off to school, but not until I’d just run out of gas. The rest of the day I felt deflated. Picture that literally: a flat tire, a deflated ball, a shriveled up balloon. I had nothing left. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I couldn’t do housework. I didn’t even want to see Maddie when she got home from school. I guess I was depressed. It’s a challenging way to be, getting out of bed each day, knowing your efforts will likely be unsuccessful, but not knowing what to do differently to change the outcome.

It’s a frustrating experience. And it’s not as linear as parenting a neuro-typical child might be. There is no real direction. One day Maddie will step up, and then she may not the next day or the next week or the next month. Then she might be agreeable and motivated for a week. One day I might say something magical that seems to penetrate her often impregnable system. And that magical something may never have an impact again. It’s a constant struggle to be creative and patient, to maintain hope when I’ve run out of ideas and Maddie seems stuck.

So tomorrow is Friday. I’m pretty sure she’ll go to school because Fridays are her favorite days. All her favorite classes occur on Fridays. And, I just learned, she has chess club. I had no idea she was into chess until she mentioned it last week, explaining why she skipped a lunch time rally. I will try to start the day with optimism because Fridays tend to be more successful days overall.

But even on a successful day, there is a period of panic. Maddie just cannot get herself out of bed. So as I’m juggling breakfasts and lunches and helping my son with whatever he needs, I’m making multiple trips to her room. Often I think she has gotten up only to discover five minutes before the cab is to arrive that she is still in bed. Then, in a panic, I raise my voice a little say things like, “Pretend there’s a fire!” or even “Act like you’re in a hurry.”

Then she’ll say, “Don’t rush me.” That absolutely kills me. “Well, then give yourself more time in the morning,” I’ll reply. She doesn’t seem to get the connection. She can’t help that she moves slowly, she’ll say. And I’ll tell her that’s fine, but then she needs to give herself more time. She either needs to be faster or have more time. That’s just logic, isn’t it? But all she can think of is “Don’t rush me.” How I would love to not rush anybody! It makes for a stressful morning for both of us, and sometimes I have a hard time shaking that morning experience.

Today I haven’t felt well. I’m sleep-deprived and exhausted, probably a bit depressed. I’m definitely at the end of my rope. This evening I asked her about homework. She says she doesn’t have any. I don’t know if that’s true. Oh, well. I don’t even care right now.

Then I tell her she does need to shower. That’s the one single think I ask her to do. She says she’s busy but she’ll definitely do it. Later, I remind her, and it’s getting close to bed time so time is of the essence.

“Oh,” she says, “I’m not going to do that.” She has decided.

She smelled my defeat earlier, I think. She knew I didn’t have the fight in me. She has that ability, I’ve noticed. Whatever. I can’t even do this. I ask her to please brush her teeth and wash up before bed. I’m pretty sure she’s completed those things. I don’t know why she decided they mattered when nothing else I’ve said today has had much of an impact.

I also noticed this morning when I was absurdly applying deodorant to the appropriate place on Maddie’s body that she had shaved her underarms. That was a shocker. She never does anything like that unless I make her. And she had actually thought of it herself and then done it.

And yet, by contrast, there I was spraying deodorant on my 15-year-old daughter’s armpits.

She is full of surprises!

So before I go to bed, I am taking some deep breaths. I will try to be optimistic for tomorrow because it’ll be Friday. I’m so happy it’s Friday, even if I have about 28 loads of laundry to do. The next morning I get to sleep in! I don’t have to dread the day ahead. It’s like a vacation from frustration, aggravation, depression and sadness all wrapped up into two days!

Well, not really. There will be things to accomplish. We shall see how it goes. That’s just how it is every day over here: We shall see how it goes. We shall see.