school refusal

Finding Peace in Acceptance

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Basketball Game

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

“Cool,” I replied. “Sounds fun!”

“Will you take me?”

“Of course!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I was elated.

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

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

“I can’t do it,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How was school?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

“Good!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had a great day, too.

And it was all because of basketball.

Happy ****ing New Year

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And things went downhill from there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Problem with Geometry

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Days are Long…and the Weeks Are Longer

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Happy Friday, everyone! Especially Happy Friday to me. This has been an extra challenging week, and it’s finally over. A much needed break is upon me. I am so thankful.

As you know, Monday and Tuesday Maddie refused to get up and go to school. Without access to screens, she still managed to relax the days away while I fretted about her attendance problems. Last time I wrote it was Tuesday, the day of the play.

Mid-morning on Tuesday I managed to contact Maddie’s drama teacher about the attendance requirement for participating in after-school activities. He confirmed there is such a policy but that (1) the attendance officer would never know and (2) he really needed her at the play. Such good news!

With most kids, parents would probably want the opposite news. If you don’t do what’s required of you, we would want them to understand, then you can’t do the fun stuff. There are consequences. Truant students don’t get to be in a play after school, Maddie. I admit I was ambivalent about this at first. I do like the idea of attempting, at least, to reinforce this idea with her. But I also wanted her to have the experience of the play, to reinforce the positive experiences associated with school, and to help her feel more connected to it.

Miraculously I managed to get her to shower in the afternoon. I’m not sure how that occurred to be honest. She seemed resigned to it, which is unusual.

And then, as departure time became imminent, she said the most surprising thing: “I’m tired, but I must go.” I don’t know if she’d ever strung the words “I” and “must” together un-ironically in her entire life. I was full of hope and gratitude in that moment, but those feelings were tinged with a healthy dose of realism. Oh, sure, she says that now. That doesn’t mean she will ever say that again.

We were just ready to leave when I asked, “Do you need to bring anything?” I had a feeling she did.

“Yes, a sword,” she replied. Of course.

She headed downstairs to retrieve the desired duct-tape masterpiece and returned upstairs. Then she had another thought. So she exchanged her sword for sword-making supplies: two long sticks of bamboo and two rolls of duct tape.

“What’s up with that?” I inquired.

“Well, in the play I’m supposed to be making a sword,” she said. “Plus I have to make one for Nick anyway. I can just work on it during the play.”

“How long does that scene last?” I asked.

“Just a couple of minutes.”

“I think it would better to just bring a completed sword and some matching duct tape and you just add a couple of pieces. You  need to focus on performing, not making a sword.” I imagined in her on stage, fumbling with her props, making all kinds of noise with the tape.

“But I need to make one anyway,” she insisted. She has a way of doing that: insisting.

I soon accepted that this line of reasoning wasn’t going to get us anywhere, so I ran to her room and grabbed the sword she’d chosen originally. “Just bring both, and then you can ask your teacher what he wants you to do.” There! No longer my problem. Man, that felt good.

One thing at a time, I thought to myself. Little hurdles all day long. Some big ones, too, but it seems like everything with Maddie is a hurdle. And unfortunately I’m not very tall nor athletic, plus the hurdles keep moving, so the race is particularly challenging, even if I’m not trying to win. I’m just trying to finish. With minimal injury to us both.

The play was great. Her teacher had written it especially for this class, which consists of five special ed students and seven kids from the general population. It began with a boy named Nathan, whom I hadn’t met before. Such an adorable boy, most certainly a freshman, but he looked about ten due to Downs Syndrome. His primary role was to start the show with a solo dance to “Thriller.” My heart was suddenly full. Full of adoration for this kid and for the teacher who so lovingly allowed him to shine doing what was very likely Nathan’s idea.

The teacher had decided some years ago that he wanted his classes not to only act, but also to learn something else in the process. He wanted his plays to have meaning. The play was about kindness and inclusion, an especially appropriate theme for this bunch of kids.

Maddie had the largest role of the special ed students, by far, mostly because she can remember all her dialogue. It was so interesting to see her up there, not only acting without fear (as usual) but also really as a leader of her peers. Towards the end of the play, Maddie showed up on stage with her completed sword and a roll of duct tape, as I had suggested. When she was getting out of the car, I said to her, “Let your director decide, and don’t argue.” She agreed and apparently stuck to her commitment. Apparently teachers have more influence. Thank goodness for that!

It’s a small theater, and it was mostly full. Of course everybody’s parents were there, but also a number of students there to support their friends. All the actors were kind and generous with each other, too. What a good night!

There was another play immediately following, but Maddie chose to skip it and go home and to bed. A wise choice, I thought.

The dreaded Tuesday was not only behind us now, but it ended on a high note, and the next day was Fun Wednesday (every Wednesday is fun), so I knew she would get up the next day and the rest of the week would be a success.

Wednesday came and I wasn’t particularly anxious when I got up. My husband has been suffering from insomnia the last few days so I’ve taken over wake-up duty again, and I dragged myself out of bed (also sleep-deprived) and woke Maddie up cheerfully.

You’d think after all these years I would know better than to count on Maddie doing anything in particular. But I was still surprised Wednesday when she did not get up. She did not go to school. I was infuriated. I got my husband up to help. He too was infuriated.

But I can see in times like this that such a response not only doesn’t work, it often backfires. I don’t think there was anything we could have done to change the outcome of that morning, and our boiling blood only makes her dig in deeper. Not wanting to go to school becomes Oh, yeah? You think that’s going to do anything? Watch me as I sit here forever. 

And so it went. Another day of truancy. After all that.

That day, however, I had decided that no matter what Maddie did, I was going to go about my business. I could not put one more ounce of energy into that particular problem. And so I didn’t.

First I had to take my son to an early-morning dentist appointment, which dragged on and on. He was too loopy on laughing gas to return to school, so I brought him home.

And then, it was time for me. I met a friend for a pedicure and lunch, a much needed mini-vacation from my frustrating home life.

When I got home, Maddie wanted to glue herself to me. But I wasn’t interested. I needed distance. She wanted solace and I didn’t have any to give. I was still angry.

My son, however, had something to say to Maddie, apparently. I learned later that he had given her a bit of a pep talk. Maddie’s little brother told her how important it was that she go to school, and asked her to do her best to at least go the rest of the week. Two days, he suggested. Just start small.

And so she did. It’s Friday morning and the second day in a row that Maddie is where she is supposed to be. Last night I reminded her that she absolutely had to go to school today. “Oh, I will!” she promised. “I need to give Nick his sword.” I know a sword delivery isn’t going to be a motivator every single day, but I’ll take what I can get.

This morning was a mad rush with lots of frustration, a cab driver who knocked at the door and sent the dogs into a barking frenzy, and surely some heart palpitations on my part.

“Maddie, you have to get up and eat some breakfast!” I had finally spit about seven minutes before the cab was to arrive.

“Aren’t you happy that I at least got up?!” Maddie scolded. I shouldn’t get mad at her if she’s up, she thought, even if she’s just sitting there in her underwear staring at the wall or petting the dog instead of eating.

I guess she has a point, but getting up is only part of the equation. Pants are required, for example. As are shoes. As is walking upstairs to the cab. You can’t just sit up in bed and call it good.

When I started this entry I was going to savor the quietude of the upcoming weekend. I was looking forward to sleeping and relaxing and not having to push Maddie for a couple of days. And then I remembered she has three days of schoolwork and homework (well, four really) to get done. It’s all on me, as usual. There is much to do.

The long, agonizing week is over, but the struggle continues. At least we can all get some sleep. I hope.

How to Move the Unmovable

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

How do you move a concrete wall?

If only this were a riddle or there was some trick to it. The answer, I’m afraid, is you don’t. You can push and coax and cry and kick and scream, but the wall doesn’t care. The wall is stuck. The wall’s purpose is to be there, to stay there, to be firm and strong, no matter what forces oppose it.

And so it is with my child with autism.

The difference is with a wall, you would think, “Oh, well. It’s a wall, for Pete’s sake! Of course I can’t move it! What a good wall!”

With a kid, you think, “There has got to be a way.” There has got to be a way, even though there has never been a way. There has go to be a way because it’s not acceptable for there not to be a way. There has got to be a way because she’s a person, not a wall.

Unfortunately, when this particular person is short on sleep, the foundation digs even deeper into the soil. She is prepared for an earthquake after all, and no amount of earthshaking is going to rattle her even a little bit. She is bulletproof, earthquake proof, everything-proof. She is reward-proof, punishment-proof, logic-proof, emotion-proof.

That is how determined she is. I guess you have to admire her a little bit.

Unfortunately, Maddie stayed home all day yesterday and slept or just hung out in bed. I was kind of expecting it because she had been out of school for five whole days, and even a three-day weekend can make for a rough first morning back. So she was tired yesterday and behaved accordingly, which has a spiraling effect: If you lie around and sleep all day, you probably won’t sleep at night, which makes you sleepy the next day. And here we are. She needs to get up and suffer a little bit, but she won’t.

Yesterday she said she needed to sleep and would go to school later. But of course “later” never came. I asked her repeatedly about going to school, and finally asked her for a definitive answer to save myself some trouble. Did she intend to go? No. Yeah, I thought so.

She is saying the same thing now. She wants to sleep a little more and then I can drive her to school. But I have plans today. As happens many days, those plans may have to wait. I have a kid to deal with. I might have to spend the morning coaxing her up and driving her to school at the exact moment I hoped to be walking in the woods with a friend. I could really use some fresh air, some friend time, some nature. How therapeutic that would be!

Instead my chest is tight. My head is pounding. (Thank goodness for the funny Donald Trump post on Facebook today. It’s helping a little.)

I’m especially stressed out because Maddie’s drama class has a performance tonight. If she misses school today, can she participate? I’m not sure. Maybe she’ll go to school. Maybe she won’t.

Last year she completely bailed out on her drama class performance because once she got home after school, she decided she was too tired. I tried everything. Even her teacher talked to her on the phone. No movement. People were pretty mad at her the next day, but eventually it blew over. Then her report card came. Mostly A’s and then a D in drama. We agreed she had it coming. It didn’t feel good, but even if I remind her about that today, we all know she won’t care enough to change her behavior. She’s just not built that way.

Yesterday the only thing I had required of her was a shower. She has that performance tonight and she should at least be clean.

Guess what? No shower. Her scheme instead: her last period today is called Advisory. It’s a 90-minute block where the whole school is sort of on pause. Students are able to visit whatever teacher they choose for help, or just do homework, or whatever. Today, though, she planned to go to the gym and take a shower. What kid would ever opt for a school gym shower instead of one at home? Maddie, that’s who. We discussed this idea for awhile last night. I told her I wasn’t confident about her follow-through.

“Well, how can you know if I can do this if you don’t give me a chance?” she argued. Oh, she’s good. And to some degree she’s right. This particular plan hasn’t come into play before, so I can’t know if she’ll actually do it. But what she doesn’t understand is that her failure to get up in the morning, or take a shower at night, or do all the other things she’s supposed to do, is directly related to my faith in her follow-through on the gym/shower plan. I could tell my arguments weren’t going to get her in the shower last night, so I reluctantly conceded. She had to pack her shower stuff last night in preparation, and she dutifully did as I asked.

Here’s the thing: I have no doubt that in moments like that, Maddie fully intends to do what she plans. She can’t imagine that she won’t. She can’t imagine why she wouldn’t. So in her mind, it’s absurd of me to doubt her. Unfortunately, past behavior is the best predictor of future behavior. I need to throw those words out at her. Pointless, I’m sure, but maybe I’ll feel better.

It’s 8:07 a.m. I’m already burnt out for the day but I have so much more parenting to do, including–I hope–getting her to her performance tonight and enjoying the fruits of all our labor. I love to watch her perform. She’s a committed actor, fearless and funny. I could use some of that tonight, some of the fun parts of parenting. But I have a long way to go. Almost eleven hours.

I’m hopeful. Maybe stupidly, but still I’m hopeful. I am hopeful the play will be enough motivation to get her up and going. Just for today. And, for better or worse, tomorrow will be another day. But at least it won’t be a Tuesday.

So how do you move the unmovable? Beats me.

 

 

 

 

Thanks for a Bunch of Stuff

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Step One

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And hope for the best.

Voices

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

“What?” I asked. Seriously, what?

She repeated it.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Smeagol.”

“How about reading some in that voice?”

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

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

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

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

A Hard Lesson Probably Not Learned

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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