parenting teenagers

Don’t Look at the Whole Staircase

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I like to think I have some natural gifts that lend themselves to good parenting. I believe I am empathetic, creative, logical and kind, which helps me connect to people in general and my kids in particular. That’s not to say these qualities are always activated when I’m parenting. Perhaps I’m using one or another, or perhaps they’ve all flown out the window in a moment of frustration or exhaustion.

I also happen to have two of the least fickle kids on the planet. Once they decide, They Have Decided. On whatever it is. Maddie’s way of expressing her decisiveness is the simple act of refusing to bend. She has decided not go to to Thanksgiving at Grandma’s, for example, so there is nothing you can say or do, no threat of punishment or offer of reward, that will alter her decision. The answer is no, and that’s that. We can make our whole family insane trying to change her mind, and the likely outcome involves not even a glimmer of hope. There are exceptions, of course. Like when I was trying to potty train a nearly four-year old kid who just wasn’t interested in the process, so I started challenging her to race me to the bathroom. I think it worked twice, and then that was the end of that. Still, I was thrilled with my double victory.

My son’s way is different. He can argue you into a rabid, frenzied froth of frustration. You will never win that argument. You might not lose it either, but as a parent not winning is pretty much the same as losing. I had an early indication of his logic skills when he was a five-year old preschooler. He had shut the door to his room, which was unusual, so I thought I’d better investigate. I soon discovered he was in his closet, door closed. He had to be up to something. “What do you have in there?” I queried. Out stretched a hand holding a box of goldfish crackers. “Why are you hiding those?” I asked. “If you had asked me I would have said yes.” And then something dawned on me. “What else do you have in there?” Out stretched his hand with what turned out to be decoy number two: a box of Teddy Grahams. I repeated my response. I was detecting a pattern. “What ELSE do you have in there?” And there it was, a bag of chocolate chips. And that was NOT okay with me. That evil genius had rolled out his decoys in hopes of avoiding the final discovery. “We’re screwed,” I told my husband. Some years later – maybe he was eight – he effectively asked me a series questions, knowing how I would answer, so that I would actually lead myself to his desired conclusion. I don’t remember the topic, but I do remember realizing what was happening just before he succeeded.

I am reminded of our friend’s mom who early on recognized our challenge with Maddie. “Her stubbornness will serve her well when she’s grown. The hard part is getting from here to there.” Amen, Joan, amen. Same for our son, I’m sure.

So anytime I can talk my kids into anything, I’m surprised and delighted and pretty darn proud of myself.

A couple weeks ago my niece M turned 18. Maddie and M are only nine months apart and truly the best of friends. Our families live about 45 minutes away from each other. M is incredibly busy, so the girls don’t see each other as much as they’d like. So you would think, wouldn’t you, that the upcoming party and sleepover would be unmissable.

As I try to do with Maddie, I had reminded her each day for a few days to prepare her for the event. Late morning the day of the party I sat down on Maddie’s bed and said, “We should leave around three o’clock today.”

And to my surprise she responded, “I have been trying to motivate myself all week, and I just haven’t been able to do it.”

All the months since she graduated high school, I have been avoiding, as much as possible, any situation that involved making Maddie go somewhere. After all those years of morning turmoil, I realized not only did I no longer have the energy to take on that fight, but that the fight was futile anyway. So much wasted effort, so much heart-attack inducing frustration that ultimately had no positive effect—I just couldn’t go back to that. And yet here I was.  I could feel the tightness in my chest forming almost immediately. We couldn’t let our sweet M down on her big day. And I really wanted Maddie to enjoy what I was certain would be a good night. What was I going to do?

I pulled myself together enough to say, “I think it’s been about two weeks since you went anywhere. That happens to me too, like when I’m sick for a week and I’ve been at home, it’s just easier to stay home than go anywhere. Eventually I just make myself go somewhere and then it gets easier. It happens to everyone,” I assured her.

She was still unmoved.

“OK,” I said. “Forget about going all the way up to M’s house. Let’s just think of something small to do first. Like maybe we could go to the coffee shop for lunch.” Originally I had required she take a shower, but I realized that was a serious obstacle, so I let that go.

“Is How to Train Your Dragon playing anywhere?“ she asked. A glimmer of hope!

“I’m sure it is!”

So we picked a movie time that allowed us a quick lunch out and would also get us to the party in time. I said, “Just throw your toothbrush and toothpaste in your bag in case we get up to M’s.”

Don’t look at the whole staircase. Just look at the first step.

I’m sure I’d heard that before but it wasn’t until a week or two later that a motivational speaker I was watching used that phrase. I had put it into practice without naming it, and to my amazement and delight, it worked. Just like all the times I folded Maddie’s writing assignment page in half so it didn’t look so scary. “Just do a Maddie-sized essay,” I’d say. Just one small step at a time.

We had our quick lunch (delicious and fun!), drove north to the movie (love those Dragon movies!) and it was an easy and welcome third step to drive further north to see her cousin. She was happy to be there and, as expected, she had a wonderful time.

I patted myself on the back or a job well done. But not because I won a battle. It was because I used one or two of my gifts at the right time to look at my daughter and see what she needed. Just a peek at the first step!

Nailed it.

Coming Soon: A Whole Lot o’ Nothing

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

The weekend before finals week, families in our community held a party that’s been a tradition for some years: The kids who went to elementary school together and who are now graduating from high school, along with their parents, gather to celebrate with a reunion/graduation/college kick-off party. I had heard that usually the kids leave after twenty minutes, so the party ended up being more of a reunion for the parents. Some of these parents have become close friends since we met in 2005 when our kids were in kindergarten. Others I know as acquaintances only, but our shared history binds us together anyway. So I was excited for this event. And I wasn’t disappointed!

I knew Maddie wouldn’t want to attend. I invited her, of course, and I assured her that so many people–parents in particular–would be thrilled to see her. That’s absolutely true. But her increasing self-awareness, although welcome in many ways, makes social situations like this one difficult. So her dad and I went alone.

To my delight, the kids stayed and stayed. They embraced old friends and even a few threw their arms around me–and not necessarily the ones I would have expected. It was wonderful to see these kids who at five years old struggled to cut out a circle or spell a word well enough to somehow be decoded, turn (very suddenly in my eyes) into young adults, most of whom were about to leave home–many heading across the country. “What’s next?” we all asked the kids. “I’m going to Brown.” “I’m going to Emerson.” “I’m going to Cal Poly.” “I’m studying in London before I start at USC.” “I’ll be playing basketball at Foothill College.” “I’m taking a gap year when I’ll be studying drumming in Africa.” I suspect some with less glamorous-sounding plans might have skipped the party. I really don’t know. But the level of achievement among this group was impressive if not particularly surprising.

And then there WE were. The inevitable question in our daughter’s absence: “What’s Maddie going to do now?”

A year ago I began to anticipate the difficulty of the year ahead. My friends, most likely, would be focused primarily on the college application process. This would be yet another time in my parenting life when I would feel a bit on the fringe, even among my closest friends. They’d all be talking about the counselor they hired to help their daughter apply to college, or the SAT prep classes, or the college tours that had begun the year before, when they explored the East Coast, Southern California and maybe the Northwest in search of the perfect fit for their exceptional children. They would lament the impossibility of getting into a University of California campus, the unfairness of the admissions process, the importance of the ultimate decision, and then finally the dread and anxiety they began to feel when the reality of their kid leaving home began to truly set in. And I would have absolutely nothing to contribute besides a whole lot of questions and perhaps some encouraging words.

I was partly right in my expectations. All of that was a big topic of conversation all year. But I wasn’t quite as discouraged about my inability to participate because, quite frankly, it all seemed pretty stressful to me. I had my own particular source of stress, as usual, but I was actually a bit relieved not to be a part of that. Plus I know it’s all coming in a couple more years when our son heads down that predictable path.

By the end of April most all of Maddie’s former classmates had a plan in place. I had heard updates through friends and was nothing but happy for each kid and excited for their future. So I knew the “what’s next” question would feature prominently at this soiree.

“So, what’s Maddie doing now?” they’d ask.

“We have no idea and we don’t care!” I would answer gleefully. It was an honest answer in every way.

Sometimes a follow-up question came. I suspect my original answer was just too surprising to be enough. “Is she going to go to school?” Maybe, I’d say. “Well, is she going to work?” Oh, I don’t know, I’d say. And I really don’t care! I’d say again. We need a break!

My whole focus for several years was simply getting Maddie to finish high school and get that frickin’ diploma! For most of these kids, graduation was more of a stepping stone to what comes next, as it was for me when I was a teenager. For Maddie and me it was The Goal. It was about to be completed, and I could truly bask in the glory of that achievement, likely an achievement that required more tenacity and courage from both of us than the truly impressive academic careers of most of the other kids there. So much to my surprise, the glaring difference between my answer and theirs didn’t bother me one little bit.

Perhaps I have grown. Perhaps my impending relief simply spoke louder than anything else that might have bubbled up in that moment. Perhaps I was genuinely so happy for everyone else that noting else really mattered. Whatever the reason, and I suspect there were many, I was at home among the parents and kids whose paths had been so different from our own.

So, what is next? Probably a whole lot of nothing–for awhile anyway. Maddie and I do indeed need a break. And we’re taking it.

Bag Math

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

In this final stretch of mandatory school for The Kid Who Refused to Go to School, I’m doing my best to make it fun. This is really my life’s mission: If something isn’t fun, I try to make it fun. Why not?

Some years ago I was having a terrible day – I’m pretty sure everyone I lived with was conspiring to make me go insane, and they seemed to be closing in on success – so I decided to leave for a bit and head into San Francisco. It was a weekend afternoon so traffic was a nightmare and I’m pretty sure there was some huge event going on, so I couldn’t even park. Instead I just drove into the city, around it for a bit, and then headed home. My emotions were boiling over and I was struggling to enjoy anything at that moment. Then I spied two guys in a Mini Cooper driving over the Golden Gate Bridge with that convertible top down. I thought to myself, “If I had a convertible, I would be happy right now.” Of course that’s absurd. Exterior input like the fresh air blowing your hair to smithereens can’t compensate for the internal struggle we all face sometimes, but it certainly looked appealing.

So what I try to do is turn the mundane or the sad or the frustrating into something entertaining. I started making up songs when I was changing diapers 17 1/2 years ago. They were terrible songs sung terribly, but one of those poop-related songs inspired Maddie’s very first laugh, so I put that sucker on repeat. I goof around so much that at one point my kids told me I needed new material. Too many fart jokes, I believe. Once when I was driving the kids somewhere, I noticed the thermometer on the car indicated it was 80 degrees outside. “Eighty-degrees!” I declared. “That’s my favorite temperature!”

“No it’s not,” insisted both the kids. They thought I was joking. I insisted I was serious, but they wouldn’t believe me. And you know why? Because about 80% of what comes out of my mouth is a joke, or at least an attempt at one.

If I’m not cracking a joke, I’m doing the “waffle dance”—you know, because waffles—or the “I hate doing the dishes” dance or doing the worst fake-going-down-the-stairs thing of all time.

So last week when Maddie set her mind to finishing some year-end assessments in reading and math, I put on my silly hat (it’s always available) and we got started. Eventually we got to a problem that required some scratch paper. We were in my sort-of cleaned up room, so I as I scanned the scene for a handy piece of scratch paper, I could only find one thing: a small shopping bag from a local boutique. I grabbed it and said, “We’ll have to use this. It’s bag math.”

And so for the rest of the session, we did “bag math.” Was it funny? Eh, not really, But it lightened the mood and gave us something silly to say as we trudged our way through stuff I don’t remember, stuff she never learned, and a fair amount of straight up guessing. “Bag math” saved the day.

Sometimes when I’m cleaning the kitchen or folding yet another mountain of laundry, I jokingly announce how much fun it is. I hate the drudgery, but it helps to make light of it. Yesterday I accidentally cracked myself up when I noticed that, while absent-mindedly folding a pile of fresh clothes, I had grabbed the bottom of the SHIRT I WAS WEARING and begin to fold IT. Haha! I had a good laugh at myself and finished the job.

Last fall, years after my epiphany about the convertible and how it might have changed my outlook that day, I got one. “Life is more fun with the top down!” is my motto. And I was right: Life IS more fun with the top down, and math is more fun when you do it on a bag.

It’s All About the Pronoun

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

You know when your spouse says, “We should call the plumber” or “We should clean up the dog poop in the backyard” and you know what he really means is “YOU should call the plumber” and “YOU should clean up the dog poop”? The “we” is really “you,” and you both know it. A little pronoun sleight-of-hand to somehow both obscure and effectively communicate a message.

Last week I was having heart palpitations about the end of the school year, or more precisely, the end of school. Writing that sentence, I realize that might be a first for me. It’s always been the beginning of a new school year that sent my blood pressure through the roof as panic and fear of the unknown swirled in my head. The end of the school year meant a huge sigh of relief, and giant exhale, because for the next ten weeks I didn’t have to try to make Maddie do anything (well, except take the occasional shower). And yes, I still have that respite to look forward to. In fact, it might be the biggest exhale of my life when Maddie clicks “submit” on that last final exam. She never has to do school ever again if she doesn’t want to, and if she does want to, it’s all on her.  It’s completely optional! But in order to get to this particular ending, there is some work to do.

As an independent study student in her online school, she has no real deadlines except at the end of the semester. There are suggested deadlines for quizzes and assignments and tests, but the true deadline comes once. Luckily, with the help of Maddie’s tutor, we are usually somewhat on schedule (she’s always a good 10 or 12 assignments behind, which sounds worse than it is), but last week I looked and she had 23 overdue items (meaning the suggested deadline had passed), not to mention whatever had been or would become assigned but hadn’t yet become due. And then final exams.

Oh my god. How will Maddie ever get all this done? How will I get her to do all that work? I felt the wave of panic I’ve experienced so many times over the years. The insurmountable pile of responsibilities loomed dark in my psyche, the weight of it all sitting squarely on my shoulders.

Later that week, thankfully, I had therapy. I have been seeing a therapist for the last nine years, ever since I had a nervous breakdown from the sheer weight of, well, a lot of things. I am long past the part where you talk about your childhood or your traumas or whatever and figure out how to fix yourself. For years my therapist has been my coach and adviser, my cheerleader and guru. She brings me back to earth when I’m freaking out about, well, anything.

So this time we talked about Maddie and my anxiety over the mountain of work on Maddie’s plate. As I talked, I realized something. There was no way on Earth I was going to allow any outcome other than Maddie finishing and graduating. “She just has to pass,” I reminded myself out loud. “She doesn’t need A’s. She just needs to pass.” I continue to say that out loud to convince myself of the truth of it.

With equal parts realization and conviction, I said, “Oh, we’re gonna get this done.”

“I think you got your pronoun wrong,” she said wryly.

I thought for a moment. “Okay, I’M gonna get this done.” Not we. I.  “I don’t care if I do it all myself,” I said. And I meant it. At this point I would do just about anything to get that diploma in Maddie’s hands, to complete this mission on which we’ve both worked so hard.

What kind of mom announces she will actually do her kid’s last two weeks of school work? Who decides the easy route is the right route?

You know who? The kind of mom who for a solid year taught her child to speak by sounding out words using foam letters in the tub, that’s who. The kind of mom who heard only screaming for the first 25 months of her child’s life before finally hearing the word “mama,” the first recognizable speech ever uttered by her oldest child. The kind of mom who fought back tears through countless SST meetings and  IEP meetings, and changed her kid’s school three times, desperately trying to make the right choice for this puzzle of a kid. The kind of mom who braced herself for a fight–really a frustrating, defeating exercise in futility–every single morning for three years trying to get her kid to go to school. The kind of mom who for the last year has read the world history book out loud to her kid just to engage her in school, doing silly dances or making jokes to make it as much fun as I could–for both of us.

There is no way I would let all of the emotional roller coaster rides, all of the anxiety and worry and tears and confusion and countless hours of just plain old work end in a big fat nothing. So if she can’t make herself do this last little tidbit of work for herself, I’ll do it for her. I’ll do it for ME.

So this time the pronoun is clear: I WILL MAKE THIS HAPPEN. I hope Maddie will cooperate and do the work, but if not, I hope she’s at least along for the ride. In two weeks we can sign off from school forever. And I can pat myself on the back for a job well done.

(Avocado) Toast Is Life

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This blog entry is a call for help! Seriously, I need help.

Once I saw a story about an autistic boy who would eat ONLY donuts. Not one other food item passed through his lips. So his parents let him eat donuts all day long. My husband was horrified. I totally got it. I hope that kid didn’t develop diabetes or balloon to 600 pounds, but I had sympathy for everyone involved in that situation.

Truth #1: Although she’s not as limited as the donut kid, to say Maddie is a picky eater is an understatement.

Truth #2: You can’t really force anybody to do anything, at least not after you can no longer physically pick them up anymore. And you definitely can’t force anybody at any age to EAT anything.

I’m sure a percentage of you is thinking, “Uh, yes you can. You serve them food, and eventually they’ll get hungry enough and they’ll eat it.” If that is you, my friend, you haven’t met Maddie. You have also probably not met a person with autism.

Maddie does like donuts, but luckily she likes more than donuts. But only about three things more. She hasn’t really eaten fruit since she stopped eating baby food, which was kind of a long time ago. OK she eats one fruit, but it’s the least fruity of the fruits. It is the magical and delicious avocado. Her pediatrician at one point did say, “That’s the perfect food!” and I was delighted because that was about the only thing she would eat that actually just grows and then you just pick it and eat it. I mean, OK, we usually cut it up or smash it and add garlic salt, and nobody eats the skin, but you know what I mean.

Her other likes are in the category of “white.”  Pasta…with butter and cheese. Rice…with butter. Vanilla ice cream on a cake cone.. String cheese or white cheddar.

White, white, white.

“Toast is life” is her mantra.

Luckily she’ll eat eggs. So I have mastered the scrambled egg. On toast, of course.

She also likes honey roasted turkey and, very specifically, cold, dark-meat chicken with salt.

She will also eat cheese pizza without too much sauce, but only on occasion.

And then there’s the real crap, like Cheetos (not white, but also not really food) and the very occasional and appropriately maligned fries and chicken nuggets from McDonald’s. (Question: what is the voodoo they use to make you feel both stuffed and hungry at the same time? I don’t know but it scares me.)

And there you have it: her diet in a nutshell. There are probably a few other white foods I’m leaving out, but you get the idea. (Oh, yeah, pancakes and French toast and croissants).

Several months ago she announced she had decided she should eat an avocado every single day. I was surprised that she was thinking much about anything with the word “should” in it. But now I try very hard to maintain our supply of avocados, which at the moment I’m failing at because yesterday she discovered the most magical of food combinations—avocado toast—and that’s pretty much all she’s eaten for the last three meals. That’s good because it’s better than the old avocado with chips snack she favored, in which one molecule of avocado is consumed with each chip.

Also yesterday something incredible and exciting and terrifying happened: Maddie asked me how she could lose weight. Incredible because she that’s a sign of her own self-awareness that I rarely see. Exciting because her health would benefit from both weight loss and a better diet. And terrifying because she is so darned picky that I don’t know how or even if I can help her make this happen.

“Are you not happy with your body right now?” I asked her.

In response, she wiggled her hand to say “so-so.” She didn’t appear upset in any way, just informative and practical, which was a huge relief for me.

I said, “Well, what I do when I want to lose weight is I cut back on things like bread and pasta and try to eat more fruits and vegetables.”

Simple? Yes! Easy? God no, especially not for this kid. I like salads and certain fruits when they are perfect and in season. I like lots of green things. So I can adjust my diet pretty easily. But what do you do when you can’t force yourself to eat fruits and vegetables?

This is not simply a preference for Maddie. This is where her previously overwhelming sensory issues, which have otherwise mostly vaporized, still rule her life. Trying new foods isn’t just a matter of interest or lack thereof, it’s a matter of fear. Even if this new flavor might even be OK, there’s a good chance the texture might be a dealbreaker.

But for the moment she is curious and even a little bit open to expanding her repertoire. Part of me wishes she would have waited about a month to bring this up because I was reserving my mental energy for the final school push. And now this is consuming my thoughts.

How will I help her? CAN I help her? Who can help me help her? Who knows how to help a person with such serious food aversion change what and how they eat? What might she like? I would be happy if she added two new fresh foods to her diet. Just two! That sounds doable in a way, but an insurmountable problem in another way.

I will try to combat my fears and anxieties with doing things and learning things. We will try together. We will take teeny tiny baby steps. This, like everything else with parenting, is about the long game. And so, we shuffle one foot forward and look forward to moving the other one.