school attendance

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.

Ninety Percent Happy – A Camp Debrief

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

Today was camp pick-up day. After 24 days without Maddie, it was time for the family to reunite. Or at least three of us. My teenage son thought those three and a half weeks went by a little too quickly. “Does she get back next weekend?” he had asked. “No, tomorrow,” I clarified, and disappointment washed over his face.

Part of me didn’t want to do the pick-up simply because of the drive. I had recruited my husband to make the trek because of my hate-affair with long car trips, but since we could at least share the driving, I decided I couldn’t miss out. An excellent choice on my behalf as it turned out.

Pick-up day at this particular camp is also performance day. After having lunch together with the campers, parents can see what their kids have been working on for the last ten days. I always go to performances or games or whatever my kids are up to (and sometimes just to see their friends). I LIVE for this stuff. But the last few times Maddie went to camp she participated in workshops that didn’t end in a performance, so I wasn’t expecting to see her do anything this time. Typically we would have lunch and then listen to a brief talk by the camp director, then grab her luggage and split. So really the only reason to go would be to to give her a giant hug and dip my toe in the camp experience before summer was over and see her happy face.

I knew for sure she’d be happy. For one thing, camp is the highlight of her year. ALWAYS. Second, I was actually able to speak to her half way through. Campers can’t have phones, but Maddie stayed for a four-day between-session mini-sorta-camp thing and during that time was able to use a counselor’s phone.

I received this text:

“Hey, it’s Maddie, your daughter. Could you call me on this phone? Anytime.”

And then, before I could respond:

“Can you send me some stuff? My Bose speaker and the power cord. And my SIM card. And can you go on Amazon and order some Liquid Ass and send it here?”

I called her shortly thereafter. She was in good spirits, partly because she was in a bowling alley at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk at the time. She sounded happy and relaxed.

“Can you also send me a banana suit?” she asked.

“Did you say ‘banana suit’?”

“Yup.”

“Sure.”

After a brief conversation about camp, I handed the phone to my husband so he could chat with her, and brought up Amazon.com on my computer to order Liquid Ass and a banana suit.

I wrote a note to my husband, who was still on the phone with Maddie: “Ask her if it’s the fart spray.” Eventually he nodded and gave me a thumbs up. I placed the order as if it were for toilet paper and toothpaste. It did occur to me that perhaps a “for what?” might have been in order, but it hadn’t crossed my mind to ask until it was too late. Maddie gets ideas and she makes plans and sometimes they involved fart spray and a banana suit. Business as usual at our house!

So two weeks later, there we were to retrieve our happy camper. We hugged a giant, long bear hug. I noticed her hair was clean and brushed and I was so happy about that. Even if that was the only shower she had taken (although I was sure it wasn’t), at least she had the foresight to be clean for the parents. We had some surprisingly delicious barbecued chicken and grilled vegetables for lunch. Maddie had already eaten a turkey sandwich. A TURKEY SANDWICH. Mind. Blown. She likes turkey and she likes cheese and she likes bread, but she has never ever eaten a sandwich. Whenever meals weren’t to her liking, she asked the kitchen staff for a sandwich. A SANDWICH.

After the campers and staff gave an enthusiastic performance of this year’s theme song,* it was time for performances.

“Are you in anything?” I asked, expecting the answer to be, “No. Let’s go home. I’m tired.” But instead the answer was, “Yes, rock band and film.”

Alrighty then, we would be staying longer. We converged in the dining hall/performance room and first watched dance and  musical theater. But the big star of the camp is rock band. Probably half the camp participated in that workshop. The first act got on stage and Maddie was nowhere to be seen. It was a full rock band (maybe five instruments) and two singers. Maybe she comes in during the middle, I thought, and shakes a tambourine or something. But nope, the song was over and another group took the stage. Different kids, different song, but pretty much the same setup. Still no Maddie. By the third song, I was starting to wonder, and then she stepped up with a microphone in hand. The band got set up and Maddie belted out “The Way You Make Me Feel” by Michael Jackson. All alone up there, with occasional backup from the rock band coach. She looked pretty natural on stage, moving her body and holding the mic with confidence. She sang from her belly and her heart. She wasn’t the best vocalist, but she was certainly among the most convicted. I was in awe. She just blows my mind sometimes. I was so proud of her and happy for her.

And then, unfortunately, I started to think. Maddie was the only solo act, and I knew it wasn’t because she was the best. I also noticed that half the band was camp staff, unlike the other groups. Ugh. The sadness started to mingle with the joy. Did nobody want to sing with her? Did the staff step in where campers wouldn’t? Is this the “special ed” performance?  Even at this magical camp, is she on the fringe (a word her kindergarten teacher once used to describe her)?

She sure looked happy up there, though. This is a kid who loves to belt it out, and she got it do it with a band. If any of my worries were rooted in truth, she didn’t seem to notice. I was mostly happy, and a little bit sad, and then a little more sad because I wasn’t 100% happy as I thought I should have been.

A couple more groups performed, and then the entire “mega band” took the stage for a rousing rendition of “Burning Down the House,” a suitable song for the band and for the moment. Each singer had a few solo lines, and Maddie pulled hers off as well as anybody. Or at least I thought so.

Finally, it was time for film. Maddie’s film was a camp-ified version of Harry Potter with a few jabs at the Spiderman movie franchises. She had come prepared, somewhat unknowingly, with her sorceress costume, and ended up with a relatively big role. It was clever, funny, and well-edited. Whent the film ended, Maddie said her goodbyes, and I signed her up for next winter and summer.

And then it was time to pack up and go home, my heart full of gratitude for the camp, joy for the experience my kid gets to have, and yet a little conflicted inside.

But before we could actually embark on our two-hour return trek, there was a stop to be made, for in the tiny mountain town near the camp, there is, of all things, a costume store. There are maybe 15 businesses in that little strip of downtown, so the presence of a costume shop was more than surprising. Maddie directed us where to park, and we walked a half a block to the store. She had her eye on something from a visit during the in-between-camps excursions, but she hadn’t had enough money to buy it. It was a gold lame, pleated, wing-style cape of sorts. Of course her plan is to modify it somehow (that’s how she rolls) and give it some kind of flame effect at the bottom. And then she saw some lights for costumes and a plan was born.

Aggie, the proprietor, remembered Maddie from her prior visit. She could see how important costuming is to Maddie and searched high and low for a red dress she had that might complement Maddie’s fiery vision.

“She can come work for me anytime she wants,” Aggie offered. I could tell she had Maddie pretty well figured out. She said she has other girls who work there about two hours per week.

My first thought was, of course, I wish the store was closer to our home. My second thought was, “Hmm. Maybe I could drive her down here once a week for a couple hours.” Part of me thinks that’s crazy. The other, more correct part, thinks it would be totally worth it.

We purchased Maddie’s carefully chosen items and, although Maddie wasn’t sure she was finished, I talked her into concluding her visit by promising to bring her back.

So now w’ere back at home and everything is back to normal. Or whatever normal is to us. I am bugging her to take a shower. I have a fussy eater to cook for again. I’m fretting about embarking on the new online school program, which is still rather nebulous in my mind. I’m suddenly back to my usual stressors. And I’m pretty bummed about that.

All my emotions are back. The pride, the fear, the joy, the worry, the amusement, the frustration. It’s all back in the swirling vortex of motherhood. I feel like my brain is literally spinning in my head.

Camp was good for all of us. Back to reality.

Yet Another Exercise in Frustration

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I don’t know why I haven’t been blogging. It really does help me process my experiences. And I enjoy it. Also it reminds me I have abilities outside of my parenting duties. I can type, for one thing, and the words come easily most of the time. It feels good.

So why have I been neglecting my blog? Maybe I thought it was easier to pretend it all wasn’t happening. To write is to think, and to think is to not ignore. Not that I was ignoring anything exactly, but part of the past year has involved distancing myself from the day-to-day in order to preserve my own sanity and physical health. This is not hyperbole. Here’s what happened:

Once we established last fall that going to school was not a viable option for Maddie (remember the conversation: “So it seems to me you don’t intend to go to school anymore.” “Nope.”), the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders. My two-month-long migraine magically vaporized. I exhaled the longest breath of my life. And I just let it go.

But you can’t REALLY just let it go. A child under 18 who has not graduated or passed an equivalency exam is required by law to go to school. Her IEP mitigates some of that obligation, but eventually I was going to have to do SOMETHING. The school wasn’t initiating any efforts to solve the problem, so I took matters into my own hands and hired Kim, the educational therapist, to work with Maddie. Kim has been a magical force for Maddie, an incredibly calm presence who truly seems to understand her student. There would be no (or very little) actually going to school, but we managed to eek out a little school work, enough to get us all through the year.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was an incredibly frustrating process to negotiate with the school and the district to make this situation workable.

After a year and a half of attendance problems, which followed an initial meeting in which we cited ATTENDANCE PROBLEMS as our single biggest concern, we were still met with a serious failure to understand the core issue. Not once, despite indications to the contrary, did she see a counselor or a psychologist to help get to the bottom of the issue. It seems rather obvious that when there is a behavior issue, discovering the reason why is crucial coming up with a possible solution.

Finally, finally, fi-nal-ly, when I made it very clear that I didn’t expect any more schedule changes to affect Maddie’s ability to get up and go, the district offered something called wrap-around services. In theory, it’s great, and in many cases I’m sure it’s effective. The district contracts with a service provider who sends social workers out to your home to become acquainted with the child in the comfort of their own home (or on a nature walk or whatever works) and to learn more about the family situation, in order to address the behavior problem at its root. Very often the child has serious issues involving drugs or alcohol, so the service providers were thrilled to come to a home with a functioning family unit and supportive, loving parents.

However, I hesitated to approve this course of action. I wasn’t confident this would work. Something was holding me back, but our advisor suggested I consent because a significant part of negotiating with the school is playing the game, i.e. “pretending to go along with their recommendations so you have some legal standing and eventually they have to come up with the RIGHT solution.” Apparently this is a necessary step in negotiations, which I absolutely loathe. Why can’t we all put our cards on the table and make the best choice? Why this aggravating game in which nobody wins (except, I suppose, often the district’s budget)?

So after weeks of deliberating, I consented, and the team of ladies arrived at our house a week later to meet. It was a cadre of three women, one fresh out of college, one with decades of experience, and the other somewhere in between. These were three terrific women, easy to talk to, eager to help. I was optimistic. It really was worth a try, I thought.

Well, except for the part about playing along with the school district, it turns out it wasn’t worth a try at all. Courtney, the young woman whose job it was to connect with Maddie, didn’t have the experience necessary for a kid like Maddie. She was warm and friendly, but after the first visit, Maddie wouldn’t even get out of bed or show her face while Courtney sat there for an hour trying to get her to respond. That happened twice.

Heidi, whose responsibility was to meet with the parents and make a behavior plan, was enthusiastic and fun. Maddie’s interest was piqued when she learned Heidi knew what LARPing was. (LARPing is live action role playing, for those not in the know.) But she too missed the boat.

After repeated conversations in which I explained the history of my child, Heidi showed up one day ecstatic with her new idea: Maddie’s reward could be a weekend LARPing excursion.

Well, slap my head. I never thought of that! Just kidding! I should have slapped Heidi’s head instead.

Had she not listened when I explained repeatedly that neither rewards nor punishments have ever been reliably successful with my daughter? Had she not heard me when I told her you could tell Maddie she could go to Disneyland on Saturday if she went to school all week, and then Monday morning she would refuse to get out of bed, and then Saturday she would get up and say, “So are we going to Disneyland?” It just doesn’t work and it never has.

Did she not listen when I told her how many people have suggested we “find her currency” and that was the answer? We don’t know her f**ing currency because she doesn’t have any!

I was beginning to get discouraged, to say the least.

Then we had one more IEP meeting. Maddie still wasn’t going to school and we had to figure out how the school would accommodate her. Heidi and Courtney joined us. Heidi presented her magnificent LARPing plan and Courtney said nothing. Finally I asked Courtney to give her report.

“Oh, Maddie’s so great!” she offered, smiling wide.

I can only imagine the expression on my face. What? That’s your report? “Can you please describe your last two meetings with Maddie?” I requested, trying to hide my aggravation.

“Well she wouldn’t get out of bed or talk to me,” Courtney admitted.

I was calm on the outside (I think) but I wanted to scream. I was so angry.

Not only had these meetings been pointless, I was now frustrated beyond belief. Worse, Maddie was so tired of meeting with people and talking that she eventually didn’t want to see ANYBODY, including Kim, which whom she had developed a meaningful, productive and successful relationship.

There were countless frustrating email exchanges in the course of this failed experiment, some prompting me to cry ‘HELP ME AND PLEASE FIX THIS!” to our advisor and friend. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

At the start of that IEP meeting, my husband declared, “If don’t walk out of here with a new plan, I’m going to be very frustrated.” Amen to that. I had to say very clearly that we all had to accept Maddie wouldn’t be returning to school. A reduced schedule, the cafeteria job she loves, anything else they could come up with was not going to effect a change.

There is something going on with this kid that defies material changes in her school day other than not having a school day AT school. The district head of special education declared, “We are not a home school program. We cannot continue this course of action.” Somebody suggested the district’s alternative independent study high school. Sort of a good idea, except that there are weekly meetings with teachers and attendance is absolutely mandatory. Anytime I imagine absolutely positively getting Maddie to go somewhere, my heart sinks. Currently that’s simply not going to work. Luckily, the school counselor shook her head. At least somebody got it. She recognized the absurdity of a solution that included mandatory attendance.

Somehow or other, because the school year was winding up, we managed to come to an agreement. Maddie’s schedule would remain reduced. Eventually we decided she would go to school on Mondays, when she would attend every class and obtain her work, which she would do at home. Nobody was to make a big deal of her return: a quiet nod as she slid into her seat would be enough. She wouldn’t be seated next to two particular girls who cause her anxiety. She could work in the cafeteria. She would lie low (which, it turns out, meant doing whatever she wanted quietly in her seat, so when other kids were doing school projects, she might be writing a story on her phone, intending to do the work at home with Kim). It sort of seems ridiculous now, to force her to go to school in order to achieve absolutely nothing. But she did it. She completed her coursework. She went to school on Mondays, without a single fight.

We cheered for this little bit, but not too much because she doesn’t like it. I think she finds it condescending. We set what seem like small goals, but what are are shooting for is something challenging enough and, we hope, achievable.

I haven’t checked her grades yet. Honestly I don’t care what they are. I do hope she passed so she can have the credits as we launch into the next phase (online school!) but mostly I’m just thrilled we all made it until June 8th intact–my fiftieth birthday and the last day of school–intact.

Plan A

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Yesterday my husband and I met with a quintet of professionals at Maddie’s school to discuss her attendance, or lack thereof. I’m pretty sure she’s missed at least 50% of the school days so far this year. Most of the time it was a result of my failed attempt to get her going (or alternatively, her successful attempts to resist). But for the last couple weeks I had just given up. I have talked about acceptance so much in the past, and tried to distinguish between that and giving up. There is definitely a difference. And this time, I was really just giving the hell up. I couldn’t take it one more day. After weeks and weeks of a migraine, I had started to think maybe I would just always and forever have a migraine, and that’s not acceptable. I had to give myself a break for once.

I didn’t have a particular outcome in mind when I anticipated this meeting. I just wanted a plan, any plan, whether it involved home schooling or online schooling or a high school proficiency exam in lieu of continuing school. Maybe she would in fact be done with high school and we could just move on to something else. What, exactly, I couldn’t fathom because the struggle is simply to get her to get out of bed and go somewhere on a somewhat regular basis. So would there be another somewhere she’d be more motivated to get to? Maybe–hopefully–someday, but certainly not now. So am I just trading in one headache (quite literally) for another, unknown, new and equally bad one? Who knows.

We showed up on this beautiful fall day and in the conference were the usual IEP team: Maddie’s teacher/case manager, the school psychologist, the assistant principal, her counselor and a teacher (in this case, her PE teacher, who mistakenly showed up our meeting instead of another IEP but gave his two cents anyway: “She’s great when she’s here!” The usual refrain.)

The meeting went like this:

Chris, what does her day look like when she’s not at school? Does she have access to electronics?

Well, normally I take stuff away, but the last couple weeks I had just given up. I let her do whatever she wanted. But I did hide her computer a few months ago and I just finally found it yesterday. (I failed to mention she’s just been using my laptop instead.)

Usually we advise making staying at home as boring as possible.

Madz doesn’t get bored. If she can’t use electronics she’ll craft, or work on a costume, or make a sword, or put stickers on her wall, or go pick flowers, or lie around with the cat.

(Looks of skepticism from the team. I know it’s the truth but I feel guilty anyway.)

Okay, what is the minimum she can go to school and still make it work? I asked.

Hmmm…that’s a very good question, they all agreed.

And it was a good question, because I do believe it led to the best possible solution that still involves going to school.

Thanks to this dedicated staff, who are always flexible and motivated to make things work, we decided to propose to Maddie a 2 1/2-day week, basically, beginning after Thanksgiving break. A shortened Monday, and then full days Wednesday and Friday. No two school days in a row. Hopefully having a recovery day in between school days will help. Hopefully a late start on Mondays will help. Hopefully, hopefully, hopefully.

Some months ago we installed a hot tub in the back yard. In addition to the usual benefits of a hot tub–muscle therapy and general relaxation–I have found an even more beneficial outcome, and that is the time I spend with Maddie. She loves the hot tub and nearly every night she invites me to join her for a soak. I always say yes. Always. It’s quiet and peaceful and we’re alone out there, so there is literally nothing to do but talk. And when you have a kid who’s not much of a chatterbox, or who finds expressing herself either challenging or unappealing, it’s a gift to have a half-hour chat each night.

Sometimes we talk about astronomy (she teaches me things, for I know nothing). Sometimes she utters a phrase to be funny, and I find it appalling, and then I have to tell her what it means so she can make better choices about saying that phrase again. Sometimes we talk about boys. And sometimes we talk about school or living skills or what she might like to do with herself in the future.

Tonight, after proposing the new and updated schedule, I mentioned, when I thought of it, that if she’s enrolled in her high school, she could go to prom. “Huh,” she responded, clearly interested. I told her about how when I was in school, students could only attend prom as part of a couple. Now, I said, you can go with friends.

“How does a date work?”

“Do you mean to prom? Are you thinking of Aaron?” I asked.

She nodded. Apparently there is a mutual crush thing going on between these two. I have not met him, but I do know they both love art and work together in the cafeteria (that’s another story). The have gotten to know each other well. I think they’re both a bit on the outside, but they found each other last year when they both spent lunchtime in their science teacher’s classroom.

“Does the boy ask the girl, or the girl ask the boy?” she asked. Such a different conversation from those I have with my 14-year-old son, who’s savvy enough to realize that an eighth-grade “relationship” isn’t really much of one, so he’d rather wait until high school, at least, when he can actually date.

I assured her that either way is perfectly acceptable, and I even suggested how she might ask very casually, so she wouldn’t feel too nervous. “Well, I told Colton I liked him,” she reminded me. Colton is a boy she knows from camp, and she somehow conjured up the nerve to say those words to him. I’m pretty sure his response was “thank you.” I don’t think he has any more experience dating than she does, so overall I think that went pretty well. However it had gone, I would be proud of her. Such courage to put yourself out there like that, not having any idea what the response would be!

Anyway, back to school. I’m hoping that with the modified schedule and the temptation of going to prom with Aaron, perhaps she can manage to get up and go enough to make it work. I’m feeling a teeny bit optimistic, uncharacteristically, but I think that’s perhaps more wishful thinking than anything. I just want this to work out so much, mostly because I think it’s the best thing for Maddie, but also because the idea of figuring out something else to do and then embarking on a whole new scenario is daunting. I’m not sure if that’s even the right word. Or maybe it is. Maybe daunting and depressing and just a giant bummer, just a new battle to fight, a new source of stress, a new source for migraines.

But for now, we have a plan. We’ll look into Plan B, which–for now, at least–does not include boarding school. I don’t even want to think about alternatives, but I have to be prepared for disappointment and frustration, and perhaps if I have a Plan B in my pocket, saying goodbye to Plan A won’t be so painful.

Fingers crossed, though. Fingers crossed.

Finding My Voice

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back on the Horse

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

I have my suspicions, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story continues.

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.

The Problem with Geometry

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

When I had geometry in high school, I loved it. Math came easily to me. Geometry was intuitive and satisfying, especially proofs. If this, then that, and then this, and then finally that. I think what I enjoyed about math was coming up with a solution that is objectively right. You know when you are done, too. It’s probably the only field of study that is so concrete. Science is as well, but even as we answer questions using science, there is always the possibility that those answers are wrong or just incomplete. Math is so much better in that way.

Unfortunately, I am finding my battle with geometry a bit less satisfying this time around. As I like to say, “School was so much easier the first time I did it!” I was in charge of myself, for one thing, and nobody else. I did my work and that was that. Now I’m coaxing and helping and struggling and sucking at it.

My husband and I were both excited for Maddie to have geometry this year. She’s very visual and spacial, so we thought it would be a good fit. Also proofs were alway satisfying to both of us, so we anticipated Maddie would find the same interest we had. Uh, nope.

What I hadn’t thought through was her difficultly anticipating the future and how it might affect her ability to do a proof. You have to have a vision of how to get from the beginning to the end, and all the steps in between. She is having trouble. They’ve just started on this particular section, so I’m certainly not throwing in the towel, but I can see already that proofs aren’t coming as easily to Maddie as the rest of geometry has.  That mental follow-through just isn’t happening.

Furthermore, as you probably know, math has changed so much over the years. While premises and conclusions might be the same as they once were, the methods for getting to the end have changed dramatically. This has been a problem in our house for years. Do I remember algebra? Sure, but I’ve never seen it done that way. Proofs, it turns out, look different too. I could learn the new method–once I seriously reviewed the theorems involved–and then I could help Maddie. But for now I’m stuck.

Because math has historically come easily to Maddie, having trouble with a concept doesn’t sit well with her. She has little patience for going to battle with her homework. If she can’t do something right away, and do it easily, she gives up. She gets discouraged. She certainly has grit in other facets of her life (she has had to develop that), but homework isn’t one of them.

So over the weekend, when she had numerous missed days to make up for, geometry just didn’t go too well. We looked up a tutorial on the internet. That was potentially very helpful, but without the theorem knowledge in my head already, and without Maddie’s commitment to really trying, watching the video was pointless. I gave up. I got her through the homework she could do without much trouble, and hopefully she’ll seek out the help she needs at school.

The problem is, once again, she is not at school. She wanted more sleep, she said. She’d go later, she said. I knew she was tired. I also knew she wouldn’t go at all today. She has never once done that.

And so I accepted it. I knew she would never wake up, stretch and look outside, and think, “All right! I’m going to school! I’m ready for action!” She promises she will go the rest of the week. And for now, she means it. But she can’t really anticipate tomorrow, or what will happen if she doesn’t go yet another day. Just like the proofs, she can’t get from point A to point B to point C in her head. She’s living in point A. Always.

And unlike geometry, there is never a right answer with raising Maddie, or really any kid. You never know if you’re right or when you’re done. You can never write down that number and drop your pencil in a dramatic fashion as if announcing victory over your homework or your test. Problems aren’t solved. They morph into new ones. Or the answer you thought was right appears to be wrong now. This stuff is hard.

So we begin the week with Maddie behind severals days in her school work, and getting behind yet another day. Apparently the school’s current solution is to continue lunch detentions (Who cares? she says), and then bring in a truant officer. When? I want to know. And to do what exactly?

I don’t know what the solution to Maddie’s attendance issue is, but I’m pretty sure we are miles away. I guess the key is accepting that. Maybe even accepting the a solution or answer isn’t possible at all.

I have a friend on Facebook whom I knew in high school. He is a kindhearted, lovable and well-loved man who was in the special education class. He’s in his early 50s and still lives at home with his parents, who obviously adore him and fully participate in his life. His posts are typically upbeat and fun as he gets to do so many fun things with all of the people who love him. I don’t think he works. He’s very much like a kid in an adult body, and he gets to live out his childlike existence in such a lovely way. Nobody is forcing him to grow up, and nobody is pressuring him to be any different.

I was suddenly very struck by that yesterday. What if I discarded the idea of finding a solution? What if I went all the way, one hundred percent, to acceptance? What if I just focused solely on Maddie’s happiness and let her be the kid she seems to want to be?

The problem (if you want to call it that) is I know Maddie’s intellectual development is not an issue here, and she is quite capable in many ways, so I’m not sure at all when to give up the idea of her moving forward in life, living on her own, maybe going to college, maybe having some kind of job, maybe even having a family.

I think for now I’ll keep pushing forward, with the knowledge that at some point I’ll have to shift my expectations. And accepting that possibility.

For now I just have to get us through this day, and this week, and the next. At least at that point she’ll be on winter break, so I can relax a little. And maybe re-learn some geometry.

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.