school refusal

My Weird Movie Choice

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Today while I was avoiding Maddie, I parked myself in the man cave. It’s part way up the stairs outside, with its own separate entrance. It’s not exactly far from the front door, but it’s far enough to allow for some real alone time.

A little entertainment would be good, I thought. So I turned on the television, but since I don’t spend much time out there, I wasn’t sure how to make it work. I remembered, though, that I could watch Netflix through the XBox. Once I signed in, I scrolled through dozens of movie titles. Nothing appealed to me. I just wasn’t inspired. There are so many movies I haven’t seen, but still I couldn’t find anything I was interested in watching. Eventually, though, I had to make a decision. There’s nothing else to do out there in the man cave, and I didn’t want to go back in the house, so I scrolled back to the only movie that had whispered my name.

And that movie was, of all things, Inglourious Basterds. I’m not really into violent movies, and I knew it would be violent because it’s Quentin Tarantino. That’s what he does. But for some reason, I settled on a movie about killing Nazis.

And weirdly the revenge fantasy involving Jews sticking it to some big bad Nazis did the trick. I closed my eyes a few times to avoid the goriest stuff. I’m good at that. And without the super gross parts, it was a great movie.

Perhaps in this time of frustration with my own life, and after the recent horrifying events in Paris, a little catharsis was healthy. It was pretty satisfying to watch (SPOILER ALERT) the massive fire, a rainfall of bullets, and an explosion, followed by the swastika branding of the movie’s main bad guy. Take that, you big BLEEP.

Eventually, though, I had to return to life. First of all, there’s no bathroom in the man cave. Plus I was getting hungry. So I sneaked in the kitchen door, and there was Maddie, signed into the desktop computer. Dang it! I had removed every other possibility of screen time, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that particular option. And, of course, Maddie probably didn’t take long to figure that out. Oh, well, I thought. I got nothing. No fight in me. Because I knew, if I had attempted to do anything about it, a fight would have ensued. What was I going to do, wrestle her for it? I suppose I could have tried, but not only is that not right, it would have been a losing battle. That kid is strong and determined.

So I just moved along. She asked for her computer. I didn’t actually know where it was, but I wouldn’t have given it to her anyway. And I wasn’t in the mood for chatting. I retreated to my bedroom, where I slid right back into my despair, I’m afraid.

Oh, well. I got to escape for a couple hours or so. I got to forget about my own problems. I got to watch the bad guys really get what they deserved in a most glorious fashion. And I loved it.

Life As I Know It

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Yesterday was such a long day. I think I might have aged a year in 14 hours. I’m certain a few gray hairs have appeared and my frown lines have become more pronounced since yesterday morning. It was just one of those days that needed to END. I needed a fresh start today. Fortunately every day is an opportunity for a fresh start, and every day I take it.

After I got Maddie off to school yesterday, after several hours of dealing with her opposition to that idea, I was exhausted in ever way. I was immobile for most of the afternoon, lacking the energy and desire to see anybody or do anything. For a moment I thought a little retail therapy sounded good, but I was too depressed to go anywhere. So I went home and did nothing. Well, I wrote a blog entry and watched an episode of The Voice. Good choice on my part for a number of reasons, including the fact that writing and watching On Demand didn’t cost anything.

Soon it was time to pick up my son, and not long after that Maddie arrived home in the cab. I was dreading the afternoon all day. I knew she would have quite a bit to accomplish because she hadn’t finished some of her work from the night before. And I was right. She had a pretty hefty math assignment and science to complete. Plus a shower.

Ever since homework became part of our lives when Maddie was in first grade, I have spent some of the day dreading it. And the moment I see her after school, it is on my mind. I always give her a warm welcome home and ask her about her day, but then I dive into the homework questions. And we make a plan. Or rather, I make a plan.

So we dove in around 4:00 and nearly three hours later I was still sitting with her while she did her math. She needed a little help with a couple problems, but mostly she needed help staying on track. She’s been better about that lately, but yesterday everything was a challenge for her, so I just gave in to the idea of sitting with her to ensure success.

I did not, however, anticipate how long it would take her. There were an awful lot of problems to do, She was also very unfocused. I spent a lot of energy helping her be productive. It was hard. I was patient. It was long. I got tired. When she finally finished her math, it was time for a little science work, but she also had a long overdue shower to take, and I sent her off to do that.

And then the shit hit the fan. She decided she wanted to watch the newest episode of The Flash. But it was too late to both take a shower and watch the show. By that time I had given up on the science; she could do it the following day during Academic Workshop (study hall). She would have to stay up late in order to watch the show.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Well, you skipped school yesterday and missed half the day today. You do not get special privileges unless you earn them. You don’t even have your usual privileges,” I explained calmly.

And then I saw it. Her body stiffened, and the expression on her face changed. Her eyes looked determined and her lips smirked. Everything about her said, “Oh YEAH?”

“I really want to watch The Flash,” she insisted.

“I’m sorry, but the answer is not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I already told you why not,” I said, and then repeated my explanation from a moment before.

Maddie was not giving up, but instead becoming increasingly determined. She would not budge. She looked me straight in the eye, challenging me to defy her wishes. How I wanted to just say, “Oh, forget it, go ahead.” That would have been so easy and relaxing. She could go do her thing and I could do mine, and everybody wins!

Except everybody doesn’t win. She has to understand that her choices have natural consequences. If you haven’t finished the things you are required to do, you will not have time for fun. That’s just the way it is. I have said that a thousand times. But as we’ve learned, her mind doesn’t work that way.

“But why?” she asked over and over. I explained that special privileges are earned, and staying up late is a special privilege that she had definitely not earned.

She was desperate. She wanted to watch The Flash so badly. “How about if I stay up late tonight and then get up in the morning? Then you’ll see I can do it.”

Stupidly I have fallen for this logic more than once. It sounds wonderful, but it’s a trap. It NEVER happens that way. Why do the work when the reward is already in your pocket? I got my reward, so see ya!

But last night I remained strong. I would not give in. But she’s a tough nut to crack. She wouldn’t give in either, and she is the most determined person you could ever meet in a moment like that. She followed me around the house, looking me in the eye, challenging me. She wouldn’t let me out of my room, blocking each door as I tried to exit. She announced she would do it all night if need be. And you know what? She is perfectly capable of that. I could feel panic start to set in (What am I supposed to do now?) but I worked to retain my calm exterior. I was not going to give up or give in or be upset. I would stay firm and strong and calm.

“I’m done with this conversation,” I announced. “I’m not going to answer you anymore if you talk to me about it.” I had to do my part to put this issue to rest.

But the conversation wouldn’t stop. I kept repeating that I was done, and she kept going. She was going to WIN.

Finally, Rachel (my niece) said, “I’m going to the store. Wanna come with me?”

Oh thank you, my dear Rachel! Something had to give here. Somehow this needed to stop. I was trying to extricate myself, but Maddie wouldn’t allow it until that moment.

We were only gone 15 minutes, but it was a very valuable 15 minutes. I had been trying to leave, but wasn’t able. It was a good instinct. When I got home, Maddie was calm and remorseful.

I looked at the clock. We had spent an hour and 15 minutes in this cycle of questions and explanations. I pointed that out. She could have accomplished so much during that time or even gotten some sleep. She announced she was now ready to shower, but then it was late, so I suggested she just get into bed.

“I just want to sit here and mope,” she said.

“What are you feeling right now?” I asked.

“Guilt. Regret. Sadness,” she answered. Well, that’s something. Emotions identified and communicated! Nicely done.

“Do you know what you do when you have feelings like that?”

“No.”

“Well, when you have guilt and regret, you think about what you did. You think I don’t want to feel like that again, so I won’t do that again.”

“Oh.” News to her, as usual.

“Let’s start fresh tomorrow,” I suggested. “We’ll just start over. If you’re awesome all day, starting right now, and you get up in the morning on time and do your homework and shower without any arguing, you can stay up a little late to watch The Flash.”

I have learned that if she has already lost any chance at a reward, there is no more leverage. I try to keep that in mind. There has got to be something fairly immediate at stake, and even then, as we know, the outcome is not guaranteed. Not even a little bit.

“Okay,” she said. I hugged her and we talked and I said goodnight.

It was a hell of a day. I am glad it’s was over. I wish I could be optimistic that tomorrow will be a better day, but reality and experience tell me it’s a crap shoot. It seems to me that a third morning in a row like this can’t possibly happen. I’m not sure I could take it. Maybe I would give up. I can’t do this forever. I can’t even do it the rest of the year. And I’m not sure even another day would be survivable. I might need to take my puppy and run away, as I sometimes think to myself.

But I won’t. I’ll be here. I will get up in the morning and give it a try. And hope for the best, or at least something better than the worst.

A Miracle Has Occurred, But I Still Feel Terrible

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

“Well, when can I get it back?”

“When you have gone to school.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Hate This Morning

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Remember that roller coaster ride I described in great detail last week? Well, I’m back on it. Big time. And not the fun part.

Last night as I was getting all philosophical about Maddie and parenting and life in general, I felt a great sense of peace. And a tiny sense of accomplishment. That feeling is hard to come by as a parent. How did I do today? Am I doing a decent job of raising a human? Beats me! I guess I’ll find out eventually.

Still, last night I felt so good about what I would oddly call a successful day. Normally I would say a successful day involves everybody going to school. At 7:45 in the morning, when both kids have departed, I feel both triumphant and completely relieved. It’s time for a huge exhale.

Yesterday, though, I redefined success, I suppose. I remained calm. I kept my cool. I retained my perspective. Yes, yesterday was all about perspective.

And then there was the clock thing. Even though Maddie didn’t finish most of what I’d asked her to do, I delighted in her sudden awareness of the clock. Small victories.

Today? Forget it. Maddie said no again. For no reason. I’m not going to school, she decided. And there you have it.

I could feel the tension rising in my chest. Both tears of frustration and a sense of rage started boiling up inside me. Deep breaths have been required this morning. Lots of them. It is so hard not to feel defeated in the most literal sense of the word. Defeated and deflated: those are the words that come to mind in moments like this.

I brought up the boarding school thing again. It’s definitely not on Maddie’s mind on a morning like this. She hugged her cat and pretended not to hear me. But I know she did. Her message was basically “talk to the hand.” I guess her idea is that if she doesn’t make eye contact, I must assume the message isn’t getting through. But I know she heard me.

It was all I could do to refrain from yelling. I’m that mad. Again with the deep breaths.

But then I had a little epiphany. I keep bringing up boarding school as if I’ll be making the choice for her. I will be making that choice in a way. But really it’s her choices that are leading the way.

“Maddie, every time you cut school, you are getting one step closer to boarding school,” I said. “If you can’t get up and go to school, you will have to live at school. And each time you stay home without permission, you are making a choice.”

I want her to know she’s in control of this situation. She has the power to stay here and continue at what is really a lovely school. Or she can send the message that she’s willing to give that up and move away.

I reluctantly admit I’m somewhat ambivalent about this prospect. I feel a knife in my heart when I think of Maddie not living here. Who will take care of her when she’s sick? Who will hug her every night and every morning and throughout the day and tell her how wonderful she is? That’s my job, and I’m good at it!

But the truth is, it would be such a relief. My mornings wouldn’t begin with a deep feeling of anxiety and dread. I could spend more of my energy on things I enjoy. Parenting Maddie is exhausting and stressful. What if I handed that off to somebody who’s both more qualified for this and less emotionally invested? The deep breathing might involve more inhaling joy than exhaling pain.

There is hope, though, at least for the immediate future.

“I want Dad to wake me up,” Maddie suggested.

“Every morning?”

“Yes.”

That would be the gift of a lifetime: handing off this relentlessly stressful task to somebody else. Maddie’s dynamic with Jake is so different. She loves to take on a character, and he magically knows how to interact with her that way. I’m baffled by this scenario, and she knows it.

Also, he doesn’t get up each morning with 15 years of frustration with her on his shoulders and in his brain, waiting to spring forth at the first hint that she might refuse to cooperate. For me, each moment is fraught with the pain of all those years of experience. She has been, after all, my 24/7 job since the day she was born.

At my request, he has made an attempt to get her moving. Better late than not at all. She wasn’t responsive. We have passed the point of decision, and it’s nearly impossible to redirect now. Even for Jake. I’m not optimistic.

So what do I do? I haven’t cried today. You know I don’t cry much at all. There aren’t any tears, but my eyes have that burning, heavy feeling you get when you cry. My head hurts. I feel the heaviness in my face, too, my mouth turned down in a sad frown. Maybe I really am crying–on the inside. It feels like that.

I am working on letting this go, as I so graciously and effortlessly (well, not really) did yesterday. The idea that Maddie is making the choice, and removing the burden from myself, sounds so smart and wise and evolved. I want to hold onto that. I’m not sure how to do it, though.

Because the truth is, at some point I have to decide that she has made her choice. I will have to find the school for her. I will have to make that happen. It’s not quite as easy as it sounds, this letting go. Because I’m still the mom. And she’s still the child.

I’m breathing deeply. I’m waiting. I’m hoping, but I’m not really that hopeful in the moment. This is going to be a long day.

Time Management and a Lack Thereof

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This evening we have a typical scenario.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

“I have no idea.”

“Well, what do you think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know. Seven o’clock?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m working on that.

Today I Chose to Be Happy

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was liberating.

Life Lesson #27, I guess.

My Life, The Roller Coaster Ride

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

Such is today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not enough sleep,” she says.

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

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

“No, not really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally I asked, “Are you OK?”

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

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

Progress Report

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Why I Love Weekends

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This seems like kind of a stupid topic. I mean, everybody loves the weekend. Don’t some of us live for it? No school, no work. Time to sleep in, get some rest, maybe catch a ball game or a movie, spend time with your kids, go on a date with your spouse, clean out the garage, whatever! All the things you want to do during the week but don’t have time for.

I love all that stuff, but the best part for me is not having to get mad at or frustrated with Maddie. I’m sure I’ve said this before, but she’s a really lovely person. She’s happy, fun, optimistic, engaging, and sweet. There is none of the typical teenage angst so many of my friends talk about these days. No drama for the sake of drama, no slamming doors, no “I hate you, Mom!”

The hard part with Maddie is getting her to do something she doesn’t want to do. That’s really the most pressing problem with her. What I dislike most about weekdays is the proportion of time I spend in conflict with her. I don’t want arguing over what she’s supposed to be doing–and her refusing to do it–to be the primary way in which we relate to each other.

So on the weekends, I just let her be for the most part. There might be homework and most certainly a shower, and I might have to fight her over those, but at least the sense of urgency isn’t there as long as we don’t wait until Sunday night to address them. Then she’s happy as can be, and so am I. It is so relaxing to wake up in the morning without dread about the day to come.

A few years ago, my son had been talking for some time about making a trip to Washington, DC. I don’t know why an eight-year-old boy would choose a historical, educational sight-seeing trip for a vacation spot, but he did. And this wasn’t a trip that Maddie would have found remotely interesting. A whole lot of walking around museums and historical sights, forget it! She likes Disneyland.

So we decided to split up for spring break. The guys went to DC and Maddie and I went to Disneyland for what ended up being some of the best five days of my life.

We had five days with no agenda except for whatever Maddie wanted to do. I didn’t care what time we got up, how long we spent in the park, what time we came back, which rides we went on and how many times. And with no other kid involved, there really was no negotiation of any kind required. It was all about Maddie. And it was GREAT. I got to enjoy all the wonderful aspects of my child without a single issue. Not one.

And one of the wonderful aspects of Maddie is she knows how to have a good time. It’s kind of hard not to have a good time at Disneyland, but there she is in her element.

We went to Disneyland a number of times when the kids were little. The last time we all went as a family, the kids were six and eight and it was kind of a disaster. It was February, and it was cold and pouring down rain, for one thing. It’s never cold and rainy in Southern California, is it? Well, it was. Just for that week.

And our son had the flu.

And, it turns out, he really doesn’t like rides. When he was really young and only able to go on the kiddie rides, it was great. But then he got to the age where the kiddie rides are lame and anything else is too scary. So amusement parks are out.

Back then we would stay in the Grand Californian, a bit of a splurge but the perfect place to stay when nap times are required because it’s actually connected to California Adventure Park. But this time, with just two of us, when I went to make the reservation, the cost seemed unjustified, so I settled on a nearby hotel called the Candy Cane Inn. It’s charming but very plain. Clean and uncluttered. No frills but perfectly comfortable.

And naturally, they have bowls of candy canes sitting around for their patrons. Those tiny ones that come in a long strip, all held together by the packaging. Maddie decided she ought to share them with the other kids at Disneyland, so the first morning she loaded up her pockets with tiny candy canes, and we headed to the park.

People are funny. There was Maddie, an 11-year-old girl in goofy clothes and glasses, offering candy canes to random kids she saw. She would bend down to their level, reach into her pocket, and sweetly offer the candy. The kids were mostly excited, and some parents were grateful if not a bit confused, but others looked suspicious and walked away. Maddie’s spirit was undeterred. She found so much joy in handing out the candy canes she’d swiped from the hotel lobby. And in the spirit of the trip, I just let her do it. I just stood back and watched my wonderful kid being her wonderful self without restriction.

We also enjoyed a lot of churros. Disneyland has the best churros.

And so, this weekend, a three-day one this time, I am content to let my kid be her awesome kid self. She can make duct tape swords, or work on her Halloween costume, or watch anime, or play Minecraft, or whatever. It would probably serve her well if I made her do some chores or something. I might ask her to unload the dishwasher later. She doesn’t mind that too much. But for now I am going to enjoy the days when I don’t have to freak out in the morning over a late rise, or a refusal to get up, or, if I’m really lucky, the mad dash to meet the cab.

I hug her a lot and tell her how awesome she is. I throw that word awesome around pretty loosely, having grown up in the 80s and gone to college among a lot of surfers, but “awesome” really fits here. She does inspire awe with her optimistic and generous spirit and her good nature. Everyone should be so lucky to know, and be in awe of, somebody like Maddie.

Tuesdays and Thursdays

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach2 Comments

And here we are again. The cab driver has come and gone and Maddie’s still in bed. She went to sleep on time. I even thought she had an incentive: She wants to stay up to watch The Flash tonight, and I said she could as long as she did a great job today. Her very first opportunity to prove herself has passed. And she failed.

I woke her up in the usual manner, stayed there and chatted for a few minutes, put everything she needed to get dressed on her bed, and went upstairs to make her breakfast and lunch. On my second visit to her room, I told her it was my last warning for her to get up. She would need to get going or the deal was off. She nodded and said, “Don’t close the door.” I assumed that meant she was heading to the bathroom shortly.

Just before pickup time, I returned to her room after packing her lunch and water bottle into her backpack. She was still cocoon-wrapped in her blanket.

And then it happened. I lost it. I couldn’t be nice and patient anymore. I’m done. I’m out. I grabbed her blanket, yanked it off her, and yelled, “Maddie! What are you doing?!”

“Lying in bed,” she answered dryly. Duh.

I don’t remember what I said after that, but I know I was yelling. My patience and kindness aren’t readily available today. For some reason I haven’t been sleeping well for a few weeks, and I’m feeling it. Last night I took melatonin, which usually works, and slept on the couch where nobody would disturb me, but somehow our puppy ended up in my space and, although he’s normally a good sleeper, last night he woke me up a couple times. I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep. It’s like the days of having an infant.

Especially today. Except that my child is almost as big as I am. And she can talk back.

When Maddie was a baby, I thought, “How could I ever be mad at her?” It was unfathomable. She was so sweet and innocent and helpless. Then when she was about two, I realized I could get plenty angry at this kid. It takes me awhile to build up to that, but the frustration your child can cause is probably equal to the love you feel.

And that’s where I am this morning. I am at my wit’s end. I don’t have a solution. Just when everything seems to be going great, there’s a major stumble. A roadblock. An insurmountable problem that comes seemingly out of nowhere. Like Mount Shasta. Except Mount Shasta’s pretty to look at.

She was doing something on her phone, so I tried to take it away from her, but it was turning into a wrestling match, something I can’t win anyway. Maddie is a lot stronger than she looks. Plus, it’s not really healthy to have a physical altercation with your kid, so I gave up. Maddie would never give up, and I realized that, too.  She would be good under interrogation. Oh, yeah? You think that’s going to work? Think again, mister!

The boarding school idea popped into my head. How many times can I bring that up without actually doing anything about it? It’s meaningless at this point, I think. She doesn’t believe we will send her away. And I don’t want to send her away. It’s not a punishment. It’s a white flag. I give up. I give in. I am not capable to fighting this battle anymore. And today it feels like a battle.

“Why are you doing this?” I plead.

“I don’t like Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she declares.

“Well, you can’t just skip them. That’s forty percent of school!”

Huh, good point, apparently. But it doesn’t matter how good of a point I make; Maddie has decided. 

Is there such a thing as a stress aneurism? Because I’m about to have one. I tell her again about the boarding school thing. “I’m serious,” I say. “I wouldn’t be giving up on you. I’d be giving up on me. Apparently I can’t teach you what you need.”

“Well, if I go to boarding school,” she counters, “I won’t get up and go to school there either, and they’ll just send me back.”

“Maddie, there are schools where people specialize in this kind of thing.”

“Huh,” she says. She is digging in her heels at this point. “They haven’t dealt with me before.”

This apparently has turned into a battle, and she is going to win no matter what.

“Really, Maddie? What are you going for here?” I ask. “You want everyone to just pass you off to somebody else? Really?”

This probably isn’t a good road to take, this particular line of questioning. But I’m just out of ideas. It seems to me she doesn’t take skipping school seriously, so I feel obligated to change her attitude. Somehow or other I need her to see that school isn’t optional, and that there will be consequences for her choices.

My body is tense and my brain is shorting out. I can’t do this for one more minute. I get my husband up to help me. I’m out of ideas. I’m out of patience. I feel powerless. I am powerless.

——————-

Fast forward 30 minutes.

My son has a broken finger and has a cast. He usually rides his bike to school but for now I’m driving him. Just as we are about to depart, I hear my husband shout, “She’s almost ready!” A miracle has occurred. The one thing that sometimes works in times like this is role playing, using characters from whatever Maddie is into at the moment. Right now it’s that anime show she loves so much. I suck at role playing. My husband doesn’t love it, but he’s better at it. And sometimes it works. It’s absolutely absurd that we should have to take on other characters to motivate Maddie, but we do the absurd all the time if that’s what’s required.

So now we run out the door, up two flights of stairs to the car, and high-tail it to the middle school. Henry leaps out at his first opportunity, and to my relief, we are on our way to high school. Maddie will be a bit late, but that’s okay.

About three minutes later Maddie announces, “Just so we’re clear, I’m not getting of the car when we get there.” You have got to be kidding me.

It’s 8:15 and I want to go back to bed until today is over. I can’t do this for one more minute. I consider just turning around and going home. What’s the point? I wonder. Seems like a waste of time to drive halfway across the county for a disappointing and frustrating outcome. But I’m not quite ready to give up. Oh hell no. She’s going to school.

So I tell her we are going, and if necessary I will go to the office and get someone to help me. I’m serious. I will wait there and talk to whomever I can until this matter is sorted out. I am not leaving until Maddie is out of the car and checked in at the office.

It’s her phone that finally saves the day. I have left my own cell phone at home. So a number of times Maddie has called home to talk to her dad. As we are arriving at school, I ask for her phone so I can talk to him. I thank him and hang up. Then I take her phone and slide it into my purse as I’m getting out of the car.

“My phone!” she panics. “Can I have it? I need to write my story for school!”

“Is it due today?” I ask. I am wondering now if late homework is factoring into today’s events.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you can finish it at school. It’s better to turn in homework late and be at school.”

“Can I have my phone back?”

“Once you have checked in at the office and are leaving for class, I’ll give it to you.”

And that’s how it goes. I walk her to the office, and she checks in, having to admit she is late because she “slept in,” although that’s not really the truth.

Can I quit now? On days like this, I feel like I’ve done a full day’s work by 9:00 in the morning. I’ve been up for 2 1/2 hours. A very long 2 1/2 hours. And I’m tired.

Now, as I’m writing this, one thing becomes clear. Words aren’t going to solve this problem. I could talk about this for a week straight and it’s not going to change her mind. She needs concrete information, and that is going to come in real-life consequences. So for now, I need to see what I can accomplish with the administration at her school. Somebody over there needs to make a point. Maybe it’ll work, and maybe it won’t. But I can’t do this alone.

Today will be about communicating with the school and doing a lot of deep breathing. Maybe a nap. I need to figure out how to relax now. My head hurts. I feel like crying, but I can’t. It would be such a relief, but the tears aren’t there. I just feel heavy and tired. Stressed out and defeated. I’m not sure what the appropriate way is to express all that.

Tomorrow should be easier. It’s a shorter day, and on this particular Wednesday, there is a series of entertaining events scheduled. I hope she sees that as a reason to go to school, not another reason to stay home. I hope I get some sleep. I hope I am better equipped to handle whatever comes my way.