teen

The Experiment Continues

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

In August 2015 I had what turned out to be a knee-slapper of an idea: The school year that was about to begin would somehow be The Big Experiment. Maddie was about to to start public high school as a sophomore after three years at a private special education school, and after a year of battling with her over attendance on a daily basis, and years of thinking and thinking and wondering and planning and getting disappointed and crushed and then reviving myself for the next round, we had decided This Was It: It was either This (the public high school)—or boarding school. The idea behind boarding school was since the kids sleep and wake up AT school, they can’t not GO to school. They’re already there! And that’s what I so desperately wanted for my bright, talented, interesting, lovable kid: to GO to school.  Well, and to not have to freak out every single morning over her refusal. I had felt the years of my life slipping away from me as the stress built up in my body and mind. It really was taking a toll, so something had to be done.

Nearly three years—and another new school—later, I realize how naive and narrow-minded my thinking was. The idea that somehow it would all sort itself out in that defined period of time is absurd to me now. What was I thinking? I don’t know exactly, but let me tell you, it got a whole lot worse before it got better.

I’m not sure how many times my therapist had to tell me that just because going to school was what I would have wanted, just because I thought the social part was important, or just because I really thought going to a dance was an important part of the high school experience, those things would necessarily have any meaning for Maddie. It wasn’t until Maddie basically quit going to school in October of her junior year (2016), and I fully gave in to the concept of her not going to school, that I also fully comprehended not only how differently we are made but also how perfectly fine those differences are.

We worked with the school to complete her junior year’s coursework basically in a home-schooling capacity.  But at the end of the year we had to make a decision. The public school is not in the business of home-schooling, we were told. The teachers and administration had been so accommodating! They had bent over backwards to make things work for us, but they could not continue merely sending home work for Maddie to complete without having her attend at least part of the time. They had revised schedules, reduced schedules, minimized the amount of time she would need to be there, but ultimately it just wasn’t happening, so we absolutely had to take another route.

If you are the parent of a child with special needs, you can imagine my mental state at this point. Every new attempt to make things work is fraught with anxiety because you know it may or may not work and then you’ll have to go through the process all over again. You’ll have to rethink and rework and research and try, yet again, to make the best choice for your child, knowing full well this may be just another attempt in a long line of failed attempts to get it right.

With the help of two consultants, we landed on public online high school for senior year. Online because Maddie could literally do school in bed. Public for several reasons: she would have an IEP and they would have to make accommodations; it follows the state curriculum so she would have a diploma from an accredited school in case she wants to go to college at some point; and it’s free. We still pay a lot of money to the educational consultant who works with Maddie twice a week and manages her workload, so free is a welcome bonus.

And guess what? It’s working! There have been ups and downs, particularly for me. Last summer during a meeting with our consultants, one of them mentioned she thought my motivation was to manage all of Maddie’s schooling for this year. “Um, nooooo!” I clarified. “If I had my choice, I would have literally nothing to do with it.” And I meant that. I’ve had it “up to here” with the stress of it all and would gladly have gone on my merry way and let those two ladies work it all out with Maddie and I could just make her food, badger her into taking showers, and then have fun with her. That sounded perfect! “You all just work this out, and call me when she graduates!”

As it turns out, I have participated quite a bit, but our educational therapist is the Overseer of Things, and for that I am grateful. The stress of the school battle was quite literally killing me and I needed to hand over part of the responsibility to somebody else at least for awhile.

I’ll write more about the experience of online school later, but for now I’ll just say this: What I thought was going to be an experiment with an end date and some sort of answer was indeed an experiment, but one without an end. This whole parenting thing is an experiment. I’m still working on it. We are still working on it. There is a lot of talk about what’s next (that’s another blog entry), and I don’t know what that is yet, but it will be something and then something after that and then something after that. And we will forge on, trying to have fun along the way and not losing sight of the end goal: a content, fulfilled, secure human being. In that part of the experiment, I’m pretty confident we’re succeeding.

And Maddie will graduate on June 14th – her 18th birthday.

P.S. Special shout-out to those who encouraged me to start blogging again. Thank you!

Separated at Birth

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

When Maddie was a toddler, and just becoming able to express all those thoughts she was having thanks to those finally-developing fine motor skills in her face (yes, speaking is all about fine motor skills!), she began to ask me every single day, “Is there a party today?”

She had decided birthday parties were her passion. A truly good day would involve a party. She wasn’t able to say a whole lot, really, so I couldn’t be sure what exactly what it was about parties that so fully floated her boat, but clearly she enjoyed being in a social atmosphere. Many kids on the autism spectrum are paralyzed by anxiety in groups, while some just scoot off to the side in quiet avoidance, but not Maddie. She may not have been playing on the same level as the other kids, but apparently she liked them anyway. A lot. Or maybe it was the cake.

Maddie has never been a particular garrulous person, either, but when she has something to say, it’s usually either interesting or insightful or funny (except when she continues to repeat that funny thing long after it lost its humor). As an elementary student, she would have usually one or two friends, typically kids who had some social challenge or other. I remember her kindergarten teacher, whom I liked very much otherwise, saying, “I don’t really see her as (and I paraphrase here) a popular kid.” Wow, I thought, OK. Not everyone can be that kid. I have a feeling the teacher was that kid, and perhaps her four children were too, so maybe a child who’s at the center of things is what she expects or sees as necessary for her definition of success. Maddie would be on the fringes, I suppose she meant. At the time all I knew was her milestones had been delayed, but she was a cute smart kid who was drawn to kids who struggled, and who was having a challenging time adapting to kindergarten as evidenced by a few episodes of sitting under a table screaming (in response, I believe, to her best friend’s difficulties) and an occasion or two in which she hid at school and nobody could find her for awhile. Would she ever be in the center socially? I doubted it, but it seemed like a ridiculous thing expect or even think about.

She has never had much of a social life, though. She had limited numbers of friends as a younger kid, for one thing, and those friends weren’t particularly social themselves. But even now, since she has grown in confidence as well as social skills, and is better able to socialize, she shows little interest in nurturing friendships outside of school. There is the exception of her cousin, however, the only person she longs to spend time with.

For years I would ask her daily who she ate lunch with. “Do you want to invite them over on Saturday?” I would ask. Or “I could pick them up and take you both to a movie if you want.” Or “Why don’t you text him and see if he wants to play that video game you both like?” A shrug of disinterest inevitably followed. It seemed like she ought to want to hang out with her peers, but apparently she didn’t. She still doesn’t despite being isolated at home since she quit high school.

And then something happened. I have an old friend whom I hadn’t seen for probably 13 years. We were never close as we were connected via our husbands, who also weren’t especially close, and many years ago she had divorced and moved away with her young daughter. “Suzi” moved back to the area a few years ago, and although I hadn’t seen her, we had been connected on Facebook and she had been reading my blog. After reading about Maddie’s LARPing (live action role play) success at winter camp, Suzi was moved to action. It turns out her 14-year-old daughter Caitlin has similar interests, not to mention a few shared personality traits. Suzi asked if perhaps Maddie would be interested in meeting Caitlin.

Maddie has historically befriended boys far more than girls, although girls like her very much. She literally could not be less interested in things like makeup and clothes and hair and nails, as evidenced by her avoidance of such basics as showering and wearing clean pants, and she’s not interested in talking about boys even though she’s had her share of crushes. And forget small talk. She wants to talk about Minecraft and LARPing and the Assassin’s Creed video games and Star Wars and anime. Otherwise, BOR-ING!

She has also announced, with conviction, her opposition to what she calls “forced friendships.” Because of that she shunned this wonderful program at her high school called PALS in which select volunteers from the mainstream student body are paired with special ed students for social activities including a weekly lunch and a monthly party. It’s an awesome program. They have to turn away volunteers! But Maddie rejected it outright because, she said, of her total disinterest in those “forced friendships.”

So when I mentioned this new potential friend to Maddie, I wasn’t sure what she would say. Luckily I said the magic word (LARPing!) and a match was made. Suzi and I agreed on a time for them to meet and Maddie was absolutely giddy for a week, making all sorts of plans and repeatedly asking me about this mysterious Caitlin.

And then the moment arrived. Suzi and Caitlin knocked on the door and I opened it to welcome them. They walked down our entry hall and then Maddie and Caitlin met eyes. They stood there for a moment taking each other in. I looked at Caitlin, similar to Maddie in height, also wearing glasses, and remarked on her soft and interesting sweatshirt.

“Is it a dragon?” I asked.

“It’s Night Fury. From ‘How to Train Your Dragon,'” Suzi said. “She found it on Etsy.”

“Oh, I am very familiar with Night Fury,” I said. I nodded sideways towards Maddie, who happens to have a rather large stuffed Night Fury herself from many years ago when the movie first came out. She was obsessed. She still kind of is.

As the girls stood there looking at each other, I was just astounded. Here, practically under our noses all this time, was Maddie’s potential soul mate.

“Separated at birth?” I laughed to Suzi in amazement.

I was recovering from the flu, so Suzi graciously took the girls out to dinner after she and I caught up on the many years since we’d seen each other as Maddie and Caitlin huddled in Maddie’s messy room and, apparently, talked and talked and planned and planned. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Maddie like that before!

I do believe a friendship has been born. And that’s really all you need: one good friend. My son has a nice group of long-time friends, and Maddie has struggled to have friendships outside of school. So seeing the potential friendship forming before my eyes is a beautiful thing. It’s been a long time coming! Separated at birth, perhaps, but reunited at long last.

Let the LARPing begin.

The Art of Acceptance

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

One of the many concepts I have struggled with and contemplated over the years of parenting my autistic child has been the difference between giving up and acceptance. I have come to the conclusion that it’s simply a matter of mindset because the outcome of giving up and acceptance is the same: you recognize there is a reality you probably can’t change, so you put your energies elsewhere.

So many times I have felt like I was giving up. Or perhaps just giving up too soon. I was hard on myself, too. Remember my failure to chart? I felt so guilty when every single professional we worked with, including psychologists, psychiatrists, and occupational therapists, insisted that making reward charts was the answer. THE answer. It never was the answer for us, and I knew it. But I would often try for a week, and then just bail out. Was I giving up? I didn’t know. I just knew it wasn’t working. It seemed futile. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe I wasn’t organized enough or disciplined enough. Maybe it felt too difficult for me (it is true it’s not in my nature).

I realized at some point, however, that it wasn’t my failure. Charts were meaningless to Maddie. So I could release myself from guilt because really what I was doing was recognizing what was true (acceptance!) and acting accordingly. Maddie didn’t give a shit about a reward chart and she never would, so why keep trying? I could release myself. And guess what? That is not the same as giving up!

I also remember deciding there would be no more fights about homework. And in our house, that meant no homework at all. It wasn’t going to happen without a lot of pushing on my part, and often my energy was wasted. I really should have made that decision when Maddie was in first grade, when homework first came into our lives. What should have taken ten minutes (an appropriate length of time for a six-year-old, if they absolutely must have homework at all) took a full hour because of the Asperger’s (and with it, ADHD) I didn’t know she had. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell the teacher, “Look, this is killing us.” I now realize years later that she would have most likely said “No problem.” But I was fighting it, swimming upstream in a deluge, losing my mind over something that was at the time both impossible and unnecessary. If only I’d had the wisdom of acceptance back then. Or the next year, or the next year, or the year after that. And on and on.

Finally, after more than eleven years of this struggle, two weeks ago we began the new phase of Maddie’s education. She hasn’t set foot on a campus for months, and in fact she took a couple months off to do whatever the heck she wanted. Which, by the way, was awesome for me, too. I realize parenting involves occasional conflicts with your kids. You will inevitably be at odds at least once in awhile. But the daily grind of morning-long battles, fraught with anxiety on both our parts, was just too much. For both of us. I got to say at least a temporary goodbye to migraines. And, it turns out, Maddie was able to to go off the Prozac she’s been taking since she was nine.

I noticed a few days ago that her prescription bottle was still in the Ziploc bag she had taken to camp last month. She had been a bit less reliable with her nightly medication since she quit school. I was no longer managing my teenager’s bedtime, which involved watching the clock, telling her five times to brush her teeth, cleaning off her bed, filling her water bottle, reminding her to take her medication, and hanging out for a bit (I do miss our nighttime conversations) before turning off her light and saying good night. So I wasn’t aware she had simply stopped. Fortunately, unlike many similar medications, you can apparently just stop cold turkey without withdrawal symptoms.

After I spotted the neglected bottle, I casually asked Maddie if she had been taking her medication. “No,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“I thought so. Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

“Yup!” Clearly she was feeling better than OK.

“If you start feeling any anxiety or if you feel a little depressed, you need to tell me, okay?”

“Yup!” And I know she will. I’m so grateful for that.

And so here we are. Her decision to quit school relieved me of that two-month migraine and apparently freed Maddie from the anxiety, in particular, that had been plaguing her since the fourth grade. Seven years later (SEVEN YEARS!), we figured out together that “giving up” on school was really just accepting that it wasn’t working, and then making the choice to do something else, and rather magically, we are both okay. After all these years of struggle, all these years of meetings and IEPs, and then no IEPs, and then IEPs again, after traumatizing experiments with ADHD meds, after all those fights and struggles and tears and digging in on her part and frustration and yelling on my part, and frustration and even the occasional physical outburst on her part, and my trying and trying and feeling like a failure, and wondering what I should do, and then trying something and finding that doesn’t work, and trying something else and then something else, and feeling defeated and exhausted and afraid and discouraged, Maddie and I found acceptance.

And so, for now, we are free!

The difference between giving up and acceptance, it turns out, is in your feeling of power. When you give up, you are admitting defeat. The thing, whatever it is, has won. And so you shrug and say, well forget it. With acceptance, you are making a choice. You are not a victim. You are in charge. YOU say, I have decided this thing, whatever it is, is happening, and you find a way to embrace it, and hopefully, to make the best of it and find a new path to peace.

Plan A

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

The meeting went like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How does a date work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fingers crossed, though. Fingers crossed.

Finding My Voice

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back on the Horse

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

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

I have my suspicions, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story continues.

Swimming Upstream

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I love to shop. I know it’s stereotypical and not necessarily admirable, but it’s the truth. I love clothes, I love shoes, I love jewelry, I love purses. I also love to decorate my house. I love to buy gifts. If you mention you’re looking for a particular dress, I will take it upon myself to search to the end of Google to find it.

It’s satisfying. It’s a way that I express myself. And even if I’m not buying, it gives me pleasure to look at and feel pretty things. I can visit the Prada department at Neiman Marcus (just because my friend works in the department next door), and enjoy the beautiful fabrics and stunning details and superb craftsmanship without feeling sad for one second that Prada clothes are out of reach. That’s OK! It’s like art to me. Do I got to a museum and lament the lack of a Monet or Rodin in my house? Of course not!

I remember when I got pregnant that I wished so much for a girl. Having grown up with two sisters and no brothers, girls were what I knew and understood. And then at that 20-week sonogram, my wish came true. There was a little tiny girl growing inside me. Boy, we were going to have a good time, mother and daughter, doing all that fun girly stuff together.

And then I had Maddie. Sure she’s a girl, but she’s not especially girly. Which is perfectly fine. I absolutely love her the way she is and wouldn’t dream of changing her, but there has been a little bit of mourning over the loss of some dreams. She’s a lot of fun, but we don’t share many interests. She loves to craft. To me crafting is like getting whacked in the head with a hammer: I’m just glad when it’s over. She loves comic books. I actually do like superhero movies, but that’s about the extent of it. She doesn’t care about her hair or her clothes or her shoes or getting her nails done. At least she likes to color her hair. That’s kind of fun.

The real problem with her disdain for shopping, though, really comes into play when she actually needs something. Like bras. Or shoes. Or swimsuits. Or a graduation dress. I do all the legwork, trying to find something that will fit her rather short but curvy body and meet all her sensory requirements as well. It’s not easy. But I do it. I scour online shops and Target and Old Navy and whatever else I can think of for jeggings with a short rise, swimsuits that cover her up in all the right places, shoes that fit her terrible feet, and most challenging of all, bras that meet her many particular needs. It’s a chore. It could be fun, actually. And today it kind of was.

Saturday we leave for our spring break trip, this year to Mexico. Our week will be spent swimming and reading and playing games together. It’s a week of relaxation and quality family time (I hope). And suddenly, a couple days ago, it occurred to me that the kids have probably grown since last year and might not be properly outfitted for a tropical vacation. So yesterday I somehow got Maddie to try on the few things we could find that would be suitable for warm weather. And I was glad I did. We found two swimsuits that were way too small and a few dresses, only two of which fit. And one pair of shorts.

So here I was, six days before we leave, with a bit of a problem. A hard-to-fit teenager who refuses to shop in need of, all things, a swimsuit. Or two. Or three. Plus some clothes. So my wonderful niece, Rachel, who’s living with us right now, helped me pick out eleven swimsuits on Amazon for Maddie to try on when they arrive in the next couple of days. I have no idea what size she is, so it’s a bit of a gamble. But with a girl who won’t shop and few places nearby that offer full-coverage suits, Amazon was the answer for sure. That’s what I did last year.

And then we spent some time in Target looking for sundresses. I found some great stuff, including a Batman night shirt and a tee shirt with a Dia de los Muertos-style Darth Vader and the words “Yo soy tu padre” on it. Genius. Perfect. Also some comfortable tee-shirt dresses. I was so happy. I felt like we nailed it. I even declared our outing a success on our way home.

And then I presented the dresses and shorts to Maddie. She was not impressed. She was not interested. In fact, she was pretty rude about it.

“I don’t need any dresses,” she said flatly, not looking up from her computer screen.

“Well, you do need a couple things for Mexico,” I said. “Plus I got you a couple other things I think you’ll really enjoy.” I showed her the Batman and Star Wars items. Those got quiet approval. But she refused to even acknowledge the other stuff. Or the effort I had put into it. No gratitude, no sensitivity to my feelings, no real acknowledgement that I had done anything for her.

“I’m not trying anything on,” she announced.

I grabbed her stuff. “Well, then I’ll take it all back,” I said.

“No!” she spat, and grabbed the whole pile of clothes.

“Well, you don’t have to try everything on, but anything you are interested in keeping you have to try on. That’s just the way it is.”

No response. So I left. I don’t know why this particular exchange affected me so much, but in that moment I felt the wind just leave my body. I went from feeling so pleased to feeling utterly deflated in the matter of moments.

I also don’t know why I expected that to go any other way. She doesn’t care about clothes, unless it’s a really cool tee shirt. So not only does she not get particularly excited when I buy clothes or shoes for her, she sometimes actually gets angry. Yes, angry. As if I have wasted whatever time and money on picking out that rather than something she’d really enjoy. Okay, I get that. But this time she actually needed some clothes. (Fingers crossed at least one of those swimsuits works out!) And I took it upon myself to get her what she needs and she couldn’t have cared less.

I realize that’s probably not unusual for a teenager, the lack of gratitude and grace. But perhaps it’s the relentless feeling of swimming upstream that I experience on a daily basis that has left me feeling so deflated after this particular exchange. Deflated. Demoralized. Depressed.

The truth is, she may never develop the gratitude and grace I wished for in that moment. That would require a level of perspective taking that is not necessarily natural for people with autism. She will probably never think to herself, “Gee, Mom is so nice to me I ought to reciprocate, and go to school/try on clothes/clean my room.”

Why do I try so hard? I wonder sometimes. It’s the same old battle inside me: how do I both accept my child and refuse to give up? If you wanted to learn how to ride a bike, but knew the chances were slim that you would ever succeed, how long would you keep trying? Eventually, I suspect, a person would accept their fate and give up. And, frankly, that would be the logical thing to do. How much effort do you put into something that’s unlikely ever to come to fruition? There has to be a limit, right?

But when it’s your kid, there is no limit. How can there be? You just keep going, even if you are swimming upstream. You have to come up for air once in awhile, but you dive back in and swim harder. You accept that it’s going to be a struggle, you accept that you may never ever reach your destination, but you have to believe, at least some of the time, that the swim is worth it.

But sometimes you just get tired. Today is one of those days. My fins need a rest. I need to breathe freely. And I’ll be back in the stream tomorrow. After all, we will have swimsuits to try on.

Another Spectrum

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Spectrum:

1. A band of colors, as seen in a rainbow, produced by separation of the components of light by their different degrees of refraction according to wavelength.

2. Used to classify something, or suggest that it can be classified, in terms of its position on a scale between two extreme or opposite points.

How I felt the true meaning of that word this last week!

One moment I was holding Maddie’s hand while she struggled to tolerate the miserable sensation of “buzzing” in her face, begging me to somehow help her. In another moment I engaged in conversation with Maddie and her cousin about how one of them wished she knew herself better and the other had learned in the last couple of years how to feel more comfortable presenting her true self. From helpless young child to self-aware, philosophical teenager all in the matter of a weekend. A spectrum, indeed!

Yesterday I drove about an hour to have Easter with my parents. Maddie had spent the night with my sister who lives near my parents, so we all met for a casual afternoon celebration including lunch and multiple eggs hunts. And, as is always the case when my niece is involved, board games. We struggled through a few rounds of Apples to Apples (if you don’t have it, get it!) because we just couldn’t stay on topic for some reason. Suddenly, Maddie announced, holding her belly, “Ugh. My stomach hurts.”

“Do you need to lie down?” I asked.

Much to my surprise, she nodded quietly and started heading toward the nearest bedroom.

“Do you need anything?” I called.

She nodded. And pointed. At me. Of course. Just like last week, when she wasn’t feeling well, she just wanted her mom.

Hey, I get it. I’m 48 years old and it wasn’t so long ago that I felt like the one person who could take care of me was my own mom.

When Maddie was born my mom came to live with us for the first week. When I was eight months pregnant with my son, and Maddie had just turned two, I had complications that made it very difficult for me to get around, so Mom stayed with us for the entire last month of my pregnancy. She did everything. She cooked and cleaned and dug up stumps in our backyard and cleaned the tops of our kitchen cabinets. She did laundry and took care of Maddie. I was so grateful to have her there.

And then, after both visits, she unceremoniously began to pack up to go home. She had certainly done so much more than I ever could have imagined. But I wasn’t quite ready to be without her, even though I was 33 and 35, and so I cried. The first time, when suddenly there I was with a newborn baby and a lot of raging hormones, I was scared. How would Jake and I manage this new life? The second time, when my son was born, I was certainly more ready, but after a number of complications (including a systemic rash and a rib cracked during my c-section) I was still pretty miserable. Maybe I was scared. Now I had TWO babies. If I thought one was challenging, how on earth would I manage two? And post-c-section with my still-cracked rib and a rash that was getting worse before it got better.

And so I cried. With Maddie I cried for two days. With my son, it was brief, but I still cried. I still wanted my mom.

And here was Maddie feeling sick to her stomach, wanting her mom. But now she wanted me for something I really couldn’t help. I finally talked her into going into the bathroom, where I thought her problems might eventually be solved. She sat there, suffering with cramping intestines, reaching out for my hand. Again. “Help me,” she begged.

“Well, I can’t really help you with this.” She’s nearly 16. I really can’t help her in the bathroom. Nor do I necessarily want to.

“Uh, I’ll sit out here and you can leave the door open,” I offered. We were in my parents’ room, so I could just close the bedroom door and we could have privacy. I sat on the couch, looking at the spines of my mom’s books for something to read. I didn’t have my reading glasses nor was there anything I was particularly interested in. (I eventually picked up a book and handed it to Maddie. Painted Crafts. The operative word: crafts. Maddie loves them. I’m allergic to them.) So I just sat and sat and waited. And tried not to listen or breathe through my nose.

“OOOOOH, help me, Mom!” she cried again. She must have had food poisoning. She was in pain and sweating and uncertain of how long this feeling was going to last.

I sighed, “Maddie!” I’m sure I was exasperated by this point. “There’s really nothing I can do for you.” Deep breaths. Of course my heart went out to my suffering child, but I was also feeling exhausted from the demands upon me over the last several days.

Eventually she was alright and we were able to make the hour drive home.

But I couldn’t help but notice how sometimes Maddie is very fifteen, and sometimes she’s very four. Teenager-y and toddler-y. And there is not a lot of in between.

And this morning there was a lot of teenager-iness.

Mondays are always hard for Maddie. Mondays are hard for most people, I suspect, and I tell her that all the time. Everybody is tired! Even your teachers! But they get up anyway!

Despite her promise that a sleepover on Saturday wouldn’t negatively impact her school week, she was unmoved this morning. I tried all the usual tricks, and eventually I managed to get her up. I wasn’t sure how I did that although some threats were involved, as was a little bit of yelling and even some counting (toddler-iness!). I had taken her electronics out of her room and promised to return them once she got up. I even let her wear the shirt and pants she slept in (just add some deodorant, please), so all she had to do was put on her socks and sneakers, grab and hat and glove, throw her backpack over her shoulder and head up the stairs.

I took the dogs and her French toast wrapped in a napkin and headed to the door. Maddie asked, “Where’s my phone?”

“In my purse. You can have it in the car.”

Shortly after getting the dogs into the backseat and settling in myself, Maddie appeared with her backpack. I looked at the clock. 7:35. We might be on time today! I thought cheerfully. It was a stressful morning but not only we were on our way to school, for once she might not be late.

Maddie opened the door, threw her backpack in, sat down, and reached for my purse. I buckled my seatbelt. And then…

She grabbed her phone and got back out of the car.

Are. You. Kidding. Me.

She did all of that in order to get her phone without having any intention of going to school. It was all a big ruse. Or at least it became a ruse. I suspect the more insistent I had gotten about school, and the fact that I had removed her phone, had somehow inspired her to dig in her heels. She was going to win this. 

I hopped out of the car but there was clearly no way for me to win this, if winning meant getting her phone back. Even if I had tried, I’m not strong enough (or willful enough) to physically extract the phone from that grip of hers. I could stand in front of her all day, keeping her in the driveway, I guess, but that’s just ridiculous.

“If you don’t get back in the car or give me your phone,” I said sternly, “when I do get my hands on that phone, you’re losing it for a month.”

“You don’t mean that,” she challenged.

“Oh I certainly do.”

Unfortunately that month includes a trip to Mexico. Oh crap. What have I done?

Seriously. What. Have. I. Done.

I fell into the trap again. She was so determined to keep her phone that even if I had promised to destroy it during the night, she wouldn’t have done anything differently. I could take away her allowance for a year. I could even take away sleepovers for a year, and she absolutely lives for sleepovers with her cousin. I could have done any and all of those things and she would have stuck to her guns because in a moment like that, her “guns” are the only things that matter.

Actually, now that I think about it, this morning’s behavior seem both toddler-y and teenager-y. Rebellious like a teenager. Unable to anticipate the future like a toddler. Stubborn like Maddie.

I guess ultimately that’s who I’m dealing with. Not an age or a phase, but just a Maddie. She’s complicated and confusing and maddening and surprising. She is a whole spectrum unto herself! And it’s very challenging.

Some people might be grateful for the challenge. Or at least they might think they would be. I’m not grateful–at least not today. It’s damn hard. Today I feel like I’m losing my mind.

But I do accept it. That’s a gift, I suppose, of having a special needs child. You learn a whole lot of acceptance. You learn to see a person for her whole self, and you love and accept all those parts. You embrace every color of the rainbow and learn to see all the colors in between.

And somehow you just keep going. You get up every day hoping for a pretty indigo or gold but knowing today might be kind of a muddy brown or a swamp green. And today the spectrum wasn’t pretty. But maybe tomorrow will be that soothing, beautiful blue or something even better.

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.