teenager

She Who Can, Crafts. She Who Can’t Craft…Really Really Can’t

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Halloween is coming up and Maddie is prepared. Or preparing, anyway. For a kid who loves superheroes and animated characters more than anything, and who makes duct tape swords in her spare time, a special day designated to the imagination and dressing up is maybe better than Christmas.

I have to confess, I’m not sure what her costume is this year. It’s some character from Bleach, the complex anime show she knows in extraordinary detail (which she is happy to share with you whether you like it or not).

Last week she wanted to go to the Halloween spirit store, to which I reluctantly drove her one evening. I sat in the car and she went in with her debit card and bought some stuff, including, you guessed it, a couple of plastic swords. As if she doesn’t have enough.

She has also created a mask of some sort and asked my mom for some sewing help. She doesn’t even ask me anymore. That’s probably because of the costume incident of sixth grade. Suffice it to say sewing hates me as least as much as I hate it. Sewing, in this case, apparently includes using scissors.

The public middle school used to hire a lively, gifted, inspiring woman to lead the kids in an entertaining and educational event called “A Trip Through the Ancient World” or something like that. Kids spent weeks learning all about ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome. Each kid was assigned a historical figure, and they were to memorize a brief biography of that character and, on the day of the big event, dress as that character.

I can’t tell you how much my heart just sinks whenever a craft-related assignment comes home that requires parental help. I didn’t want to spend a fortune buying a costume, either. So I had to come up with something. And fast.

Luckily for me, her character was a Hebrew slave, so her clothes didn’t have to look particularly good or at all fancy. Still, I called my very creative friend in a panic, asking what to do.

“Just buy a piece of fabric, fold it over, cut a whole for the head and sew up the sides.”

“I don’t have a sewing machine. Anyway, I can’t sew.”

“Maybe you could just buy some kind of rope and tie it around her waist.”

Now that’s a project I can get behind, except for the part about going to the fabric/craft store. Nothing like stepping into JoAnn Fabrics to give me a panic attack. I hate it that much. But as a mom, you gotta do what you gotta do.

So I mustered up my courage and drove to the store, ready to get that brown fabric and a rope tie. That was literally all I had to buy. So I found the fabric that looked kind of right, some kind of brown muslin (my mom sewed a lot when I was a kid, so I do know a little about fabric). And for some reason I picked up a smaller piece of muslin in a natural color. I have no idea why I did that, but it ended up becoming integral to the success of the costume. (I use the term “success” loosely, as you will see.)

All I had to do was cut a hole in the middle of the brown fabric so Maddie could stick her head through. Then I would tie the rope around her waist to hold the fabric against her body. Right on! Ancient slave clothes are so easy!

Being the crafty genius that I am, I folded the fabric into quarters so I didn’t have to cut a whole circle. I would just have to cut a quarter circle, open the fabric, and voila! Circle! After I did that, I opened the fabric up to admire my work, and there it was: a GIGANTIC hole that would fit completely over Maddie’s little shoulders, and the whole thing would fall right to the ground. You have got to be kidding me, I said to myself. You can’t even cut a circle right!

It was the night before the event, so there was no time to get more fabric. Luckily I still had an option. That’s where the second piece of muslin came into play. I carefully cut a more appropriately-sized hole, but that fabric on its own was too small for a whole costume, so now I had to actually sew the brown fabric over the lighter fabric so it would both stay on her body and be long enough to work. I was pretty irritated at myself, but I got out my needle and thread (I have had the same sewing kit my entire adult life) and began to sew those pieces together. They stayed okay, but I would say an untrained monkey would have done a nicer job. There were random stitches placed haphazardly on both shoulders. Thank goodness for brown thread on brown fabric, is all I can say.

Fortunately, Maddie didn’t care at all. I am so grateful for that kid sometimes. She could have been irritated or disappointed or embarrassed, but she was not only fine with the final outcome, she was grateful! I sent her off to school with her pathetic excuse for a costume, and she was happy.

I showed up at school along with a few parents to watch this play/game show. Among the beautifully adorned princesses was my shabbily dressed Hebrew slave. Perfect, really, although I have no doubt that anybody from that period would have taken more pride in their craftsmanship than I had. Oh, well. I guess I have other gifts.

Fortunately, the costume wasn’t that meaningful in the end, except that somebody without any costume at all would have stood out. My crappy creation seemed to go unnoticed. I told my friend Laura my story and we both had a good laugh. I may not be crafty, but I can recognize the humor in almost any situation. I really thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Years later, when Maddie is concocting her complicated costumes–for Halloween or Comi-con or just everyday dress up–I am NOT the person she consults. She knows better. If there’s sewing involved, she most certainly doesn’t ask me. At best, I’ll say no. At worst, well…

So this year’s costume, the anime character, is almost done. Maddie came up with the plan and did most of the work. My mom did a little problem-solving and sewing. There is one small task left to do, but I don’t even know what it is because my mom bypassed me and went directly to my husband for this little tidbit. Sometimes being left out is a good thing. For us all.

I’m pretty sure that final job, whatever it is, will complete the costume. What I’ve seen so far is amazing. Maddie really took her time to conceive of and execute this thing. Apparently that gene skipped me.

What I love about Maddie (among a gazillion other things) is not only how much she enjoys the process of making things, but the pride she has once she’s done. She would gladly don her costume for anybody who happens to stop by. She will pose with full dramatic effect. You can take as many pictures of her as you like.

Tomorrow, the day before Halloween, some of her friends are wearing costumes to school. She’s probably leading the effort. I’m pretty sure that even if nobody else was participating, Maddie would still pack up her costume (swords included) and wear it all day long. And she would feel awesome.

So here are today’s life lessons:

I can’t sew, and that’s OK.

Be grateful for your grateful, fearless, creative kid.

Be willing and able to laugh at yourself. Life is so much better that way. 

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.

She Remembers

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

One of Maddie’s gifts is her nearly infallible memory. It was evident when she was a toddler and would wipe the floor with me playing that game where you turn over cards to find matches. I never beat her, not once. Occasionally I would come close to a tie, but mostly the scores would be so lopsided it was ridiculous. Thirty-two pairs to four, perhaps. And I was trying! I really was!

And then there was the USA map puzzle, which she mastered before she could really talk.

When we were in the car, she would recognize the neighborhood we were in. “Lily’s house!” she would shout, even though were a couple streets away. She was only two.

This weekend I decided to bite the bullet and drive her to my sister’s house. I love being there, and I’m so happy to get the cousins/best friends together, but traffic can be a bear. A 45-minute drive might be twice that. Each way. You never know. Sure enough, about half way there, traffic came to a dead stop.

“I know Grammy takes a different way sometimes, but I don’t know the way,” I thought aloud.

“Take San Antonio Road,” said Maddie. “It’s by the dump. You’ll be on a road parallel to the freeway for a few miles and then get back on.”

“That’s what Grammy does?” I asked.

“Well, she did it once.”

“How do you remember that, Maddie?” I asked in amazement. “Most people wouldn’t even notice.”

“Well, other people aren’t as curious as I am,” she said.

So true. She’s remarkably observant, and those observations permanently reside in that brain of hers. It’s astonishing.

She continued giving me back-street directions. If only she could drive, she would know her way around two counties. Maybe someday.

Recently she had a science test. Her teacher had sent out an email to all the parents, letting us know that he had provided a 3X5 card to each student on which they could take notes for the upcoming test. I asked Maddie if she needed help preparing her notes.

“I’m not doing that,” she replied. “I don’t need to.”

“Well, Maddie, as you get further along in school, there will be more and more information and it’ll become increasingly complicated. I think you should do it.”

“I’ll remember. I’m not doing it.”

The conversation fizzled out, and in my usual way, I forgot about it. A few days later, I remembered, but it was too late for the test.

“How did your science test go?” I asked.

“Fine,” she answered. She hadn’t gotten the results yet.

A couple weeks later, I inquired about the results.

Calmly Maddie reported, “Well there were 40 points. I got 38.”

“Okay,” I laughed. “I guess you were right.”

So what could I say then? She has never studied for a test. Ever. She gets A’s on math and science tests. Always. She might not get an A in the class, but that’s because she isn’t consistent with her homework. She just doesn’t necessarily do it. I don’t know if she’s doing her homework from one night to the next. Maybe her grades will be good. Maybe they won’t.

But I know for sure she’s learning. I remember memorizing facts for tests and then two days later I couldn’t remember much, and today I can’t remember any of it. She doesn’t study and she remembers everything! She knows all kinds of plants and trees and related facts. She knows about the weather and space. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of the complicated anime show she watches.

She’s incredible.

As challenging as she can be at times, she is so much more than her diagnosis. She has some wonderful gifts. Her memory is one of them. And thank goodness for that!

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.

A Little Time Off

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

You may have noticed I haven’t blogged for several days. It’s kind of a good news/bad news thing.

The good news is I had the company of my sister and her adult niece for the past few days, and nothing fills me up like spending time with those ladies. It was just days of the kind of girly fun I don’t get to have with Maddie, who would rather do just about anything than shop and get her nails done. Plus, I’m very close to my sister and her kids, so I was in heaven. I even went out for the evening with them once, having some true time off while my husband was home getting everyone to bed.

The bad news is I was just too tired to write. Tired of parenting. Tired as in “I-can’t-do-it-one-more-day-so-I-give-up-for-now” tired.

And that is because Maddie hasn’t been going to school this week. Well, okay, she missed two days, went one day, and is now in bed again. She’s not one hundred percent healthy, that’s for sure. Maybe she has a mild cold, maybe allergies, but something is going on in the sinus area. Nothing dramatic, but she is not completely well.

Nor has she appeared especially sick.

But this week I just didn’t have the fight in me. I tried some gentle encouragement and even, today, a reminder about the purpose of this year. But that was it. Once I was convinced she had made her up mind, I quit. I just can’t do it. I can’t fight with her, or wrestle her pants on her, or even make that big of a deal about it. I am depleted and temporarily defeated.

So I guess we’re both taking some time off this week. For me, it’s time off from the emotional and mental struggle, and even some time off from thinking about it all. So everything took a back seat, including my writing. As much as I love writing this blog, and as gratifying as it is, it does force me to spend some serious time pontificating about my situation and focusing a bit on my daily struggles, and this week I just needed to forget about it. Yesterday, when my moment of victory arrived after getting both my kids to school (the other one just broke his finger, so both of them were home the day before yesterday), I was happy. I was triumphant. When both my kids have gone to school, I figure everything else I accomplish that day is a bonus. Laundry? Bonus! Dinner? Bonus! Making my bed? Bonus! I deserve a brownie!

So today, there is no bonus in play. I will take my son to the orthopedist for his fractured finger, and then take him to school. Then I have my weekly therapy, which has been on hiaitus for a few weeks. Seems like a good time for that. Apparently I have some things to discuss. And then I do get a bonus – a movie with a new friend. The trick will be enjoying myself, not because of the company (which will be excellent!), and not because of the movie choice (rave reviews!), but because I’ll be sitting there feeling like I failed today. Okay, maybe not failed, but didn’t accomplish the single most important thing I needed to today. My number one job: getting my kids to school. Okay, maybe it’s number three after keeping them alive and loving them. But those are easy. The whole school thing is hard, and I never know how it’s going to go.

I also blew it by forgetting about this morning’s agenda and waking up my son at the normal time instead of letting him sleep in. We’re going to his doctor appointment first, so we had a good 45 minutes extra this morning. So I got up at 6:30 for nothing. That stinks too. I really could have used a bit more sleep.

So in the absence of school attendance success, I have now decided on my goal for today: to be happy. To be grateful. To be proud of all that we do accomplish around here. To recognize Maddie’s strengths and not focus on her challenges. To be positive about the future. To accept the different circumstances we have as a family and embrace the good that comes of them.

And honestly, that gratitude is not hard to come by for me. I am a lucky, lucky person. I know it every day. I have a loving family, both in the one I have created and in the one I come from. I live in a beautiful place. We have everything we need, and then some. We have the resources to get all the help we can think of for Maddie. I even get a weekly therapy session to help me cope. Talk about a luxury!

As for my gratitude for Maddie, that’s easy too. Most of the time I’m in awe of her.

Yesterday a friend stopped by to borrow something, and she’d had a challenging day. I don’t know if Maddie sensed my friend’s emotional state, but she offered my friend a hug. And Maddie is a world-champion hugger. Big, tight, meaningful, long hugs. Often just at the right moment. My friend’s face and body relaxed. “I needed that,” she said. And she really had needed that.

So even though Maddie isn’t going to school today, I am still grateful for her. She’s a remarkable human being, full of compassion and love, empathy and intuition.

I will give her the day off and I will take one too. A day of from worrying, a day off from guilt, a day off from fear. I will enjoy my day, knowing I have raised a kid who may not be a devoted student, but who is a wonderful human being. I will give her a big, tight, meaningful, long hug and tell her that I love her.

That One Time I Really Screwed Up

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

I try not to have regrets. My philosophy is I am grateful for the life I have, and everything that has ever happened to me has led me here, so I shouldn’t regret any of it. All my successes and failures, all the joy and all the sadness, have led me here to this moment. So why would I change anything?

But here’s something I really wish I had done differently, very very differently. And that’s because my mistake cost us probably three years of services at school. I pass this on to any of you with a special needs child. Please learn from my mistake.

Each and every year, from kindergarten to through fifth grade, I would be called in for an SST meeting for Maddie. SST stands for Student Study Team. The child’s teacher is the one who calls for this meeting, and the participants are everyone who would be involved in an IEP or Individualized Education Plan meeting (that’s an official meeting to discuss the goals for the student for the year and what services will be provided and which accommodations will be made). The participants typically include the current teacher, the principal, the school psychologist, the school counselor, maybe the speech teacher and even the school’s occupational therapist. If there is an issue with academics or behavior that is not being properly addressed through other avenues, this is an opportunity for everyone at school who can help (and the parents) to brainstorm and make a plan.

Parents are invited, but if they don’t attend, the meeting will happen anyway. And each and every year I went. And each and every year we had the same discussion: why does Maddie have trouble getting work done and what are we going to do about it? Often everyone would look at me as if I had some magical answer. I looked at them an shrugged. As if! Aren’t they the experts? Had they not, in all their combined years of teaching children, ever encountered a kid like Maddie? Much to my frustration, it sure seemed as though they hadn’t.

And each and every year I left that meeting having done a heroic job of holding in the tears. I usually made it to my car before I let them flow. And they weren’t tears of joy. One particularly difficult meeting took place when Maddie was in second grade. The head of the special ed department, a very experienced and well-respected German woman who had actually started the program at this school decades before, used words like “odd” and “stubborn” to describe my child. It was terrible. Isn’t she supposed to have a special knowledge of and compassion for kids like mine? Didn’t she realize that this stubbornness, while undeniable, was a symptom of a larger problem and not just the behavior of a defiant child? I pointed that out every year, but nobody seemed to get it.

And this is at a school that’s known for its special services. It’s a public school, though, and even thought it’s exceptional in many ways, it has limited resources for kids like mine. The kids who receive services are typically either struggling terribly in math or reading, or have more severe cognitive delays. Maddie always tested very well and was clearly bright. But her varying performance day to day was actually a detriment to our cause: because on some days she was so capable, it seemed to everyone that she ought to be just as capable every other day as well. She must just be stubborn. She was stubborn, indeed, but at least I could recognize the source of her inflexibility at that time was the stress she experienced just trying to cope with a normal school day. She was unequipped for the rapid transitions that occurred each day, and the social requirements were far beyond her development.

In third grade, Maddie had a teacher that was new to the school. She had been teaching for over a decade, however, and was the first teacher to say, “Let’s get this kid assessed. She needs help.” She might have even used the word “ridiculous” in reference to the lack of services Maddie was receiving.

So after that year’s SST, the school began the assessment process. The school psychologist performed a number of tests to make her own evaluation, and she gave questionnaires to the parents and the teacher that covered a wide variety of behaviors. The goal was to identify a particular problem area that might qualify the child for services.

After several weeks, we reconvened to go over the results. (Keep in mind, this was a year before we had an autism diagnosis from her psychologist.)

The big reveal: She did not qualify for services. Her speech was fine (and a speech issue is usually a requirement for most services). And there was no diagnosis of autism. And that was because of me and me alone.

It turns out the questionnaires given to the psychologist, the teacher, and parents all have to match up reasonably well. If one person reports a very different set of behaviors, the other two questionnaires don’t hold up. And I was that one person.

I was heartbroken. We walked out of that meeting with no more help, no more answers, no more anything than we had when we walked in, and it was all my fault. Talk about regrets.

I think I was just so used to my own kid that some of the behaviors that others saw as outside of the norm seemed kind of normal to me. What did I know? She was just Maddie. I don’t think I was misreporting anything on purpose. I don’t think I was trying to paint a picture of Maddie that was rosier than reality. But that’s exactly what I did. And so we continued on the same path for the next three years, with Maddie struggling to live up to her potential at school, and with teachers who wanted to help her but didn’t know how.

When Maddie started flailing terribly in sixth grade, I had another chance, and I took it. Maddie was going to be the neediest kid they’d ever seen. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but I most certainly made sure that if I was on the fence about something, I erred on the side of “problematic.” I was honest. Brutally honest. Honest with the school and honest with myself. And no way was I going to let that travesty happen again. Remarkably (haha, not really), this time my reporting was more on par with that of the teacher and psychologist.

As a result, she finally got what she had needed all along. And after a disastrous entry into middle school, Maddie began to flourish, or at least cope better than she had been. We ended up moving her to private school the following year, ironically only after we had finally got her situated properly at the public school. But I guess at that point I saw more clearly what she needed.

If there’s one thing I learned from our experience, it’s that any time I’m revealing any of Maddie’s challenges at school, my goal has to be to get her services. I’m not worried about how she comes off on paper, except when it comes to getting her services. I wish I had undersold her abilities rather than the opposite. It didn’t help anybody.

Perhaps I was in denial that first time. I don’t know. But because of what I consider to be one of my biggest failures as her mother, it is my mission to tell everybody I ever meet who has a young kid struggling at school, and who may be a candidate for extra help:

Do not overstate your kid’s abilities. Do not worry about the picture you are painting of your child. Your goal is to get the help they need. Forget trying to impress anybody. Forget making excuses in your head for why your kid is a certain way. And don’t be in denial yourself. Face the reality of your child, and fight fight fight for help. Expect and demand everything that could help your child.

I know I recently said I wasn’t in the business of giving advice. Look at this not so much as advice but wisdom gained from my own mistakes. I hope somebody else can learn from mine and save themselves some time.

Here’s another regret of mine: I wish I had been a squeaker wheel. That’s a topic for another time.

Five Beautiful Words

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach2 Comments

The first time Maddie said anything (okay, the second, after the “light” incident), she said “Mama.” It was a long time coming, so even though all moms cherish the moment their child says that magic word, it was especially sweet for me. Twenty-five months of waiting and working finally paid off.

And today, Maddie is incredibly articulate. She’s not a huge talker necessarily, but she’s always on point; when she says something, it’s worth your attention.

But today she said something so magical, it was almost as exciting as when she said her first word.

Today’s memorable quote? “I’m gonna take a shower.”

If you’ve been following my blog, you know that personal care has been a huge issue for her. To be more accurate, her lack of personal hygiene has been a problem for me. We’ve had some terrible conflicts over her refusal to bathe herself. I can’t stand the teenage B.O., for one thing. But more than my own sensory torture, I’m concerned with how her failure to keep clean will affect her socially. NOBODY likes a stinky person. Well, maybe other stinky individuals, but we live in a society of good-smelling people who bathe regularly, so greasy hair and smelly pits just don’t do a person who’s already struggling socially any good.

So when she appeared in the kitchen with a towel, her phone, and her bluetooth speaker in hand, I couldn’t even fathom what she was up to. “Whatcha doing?” I asked.

And then she said those beautiful five words, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

When you have a child with delayed development, each minute achievement feels huge. I remember the entire year that followed “Mama.” Each sound was so slow to come. She would try and try to figure out what her lips and tongue were supposed to do to make a new sounds. “Nnnnn,” she would finally say, and it was cause for great celebration. A new sound! Woohoo!

It wasn’t like typical language development, which we often take for granted. Somehow babies absorb everything they hear, and their brains are able to make sense of it all. For Maddie, the words made sense; she just couldn’t move her mouth properly to make the sounds that form the words.

So, “mama” was first. She was 25 months and 2 days old. “Dada” came a little later. And that’s when we started calling her Maddie instead of Madeline. Making sounds was so difficult, and putting them together into a word was nearly impossible, so we thought the least we could do put her own name within reach. At first she referred to herself as “Ma-Da.” I separated those syllables because that’s how it sounded. “Ma. Da.” It wasn’t long before she could say that. What a relief that must have been for her! Instead of pointing to herself, she could actually say her own name!

The way I helped her learn words was really teaching her to read. We spent a lot of time with foam letters in the bath tub. I would stick them on the side of the tub, and we would sound out words. For a long time she said “wot” for water. Adding another syllable was too much. She said “c-at,” and just “hh” for her brother’s name.

By the time she was two and a half, she could read a few words. I would write the names of our two cats on a white board, plus “mom,” “dad,” and her brother’s name. She could identify them with ease. Whether or not she could actually say them was a different story, but by that time she knew the sounds associated with all the letters purely out of necessity. I didn’t set out to teach her to read; it was just a way to practice speaking, and especially combining sounds.

When you have a typical kid, you just can’t fathom the miracle that speech acquisition is. But when you have a kid whose every tiny forward movement is the result of hard work, it suddenly becomes miraculous.

And so it continues. I would bet that if you don’t have a special needs kid, you don’t remember your kid announcing they’re going to take a shower. Big deal. People take showers.

This isn’t the first time she’s ever said that, but it’s such a challenging issue here at our house that even one crisis averted is momentous. Those words might not be magical necessarily, but I feel like a million bucks. I’ve had a hard day. That one moment just made it all better.

And then something else happened. I had put a pot of water on the stove, intending to make pasta for my son. I then went to my room and started to write. Sometimes I lose track of time when I write. I get on a roll and everything else fades into the background. And so it was tonight. About 15 minutes into my session, I remembered the pasta. My son was waiting for it, and he’d been in kind of a bad mood all day. I knew I was going to hear about the delay.

I raced to the kitchen to toss the pasta into the boiling water, and right away I noticed the timer said 5:17 and was descending. Maddie was sitting in the kitchen texting her cousin. I realized she had seen the water boiling and taken the initiative to get the pasta going. For me. For her brother. It wasn’t for her at all. But she was observant enough to notice, and thoughtful enough to do something about it. To her it was no big deal. To me, it means the world. I am raising a good person. All the work I have put into parenting her is paying off.

And she continues to amaze me. Some days are so hard. Sometimes she gets stuck in her own head and can’t see beyond herself and the moment. And other times she is thoughtful and engaged and motivated. Sometimes she announces, “I’m gonna take a shower,” and notices I need help and does something about it.

Those are the breakthroughs. Those are the times I want to hold onto. Those are the things that define the person she really is. And she is awesome.

Terrible Morning Turns Into Okay Day

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

A brief update for you all:

Sometime shortly after I posted Monday morning’s blog, Maddie decided to go to school. It was about 11:00. She had missed half the day, but on the other hand, she would be GOING for half the day, so I was all for it.

After four and a half hours of struggling with her, I wasn’t exactly ecstatic, though. I was just exhausted by that point. I guess I was relieved, though.

So we got into the car and drove the 25 minutes to school. She expressed concern about what was going to happen when she arrived. “Is someone going to talk to me?” she wondered. I didn’t know the answer to that. I knew she had to check in at the office, but I really didn’t know anything beyond that. I suspect a discussion about her attendance is impending. She’s had enough unexcused absences to warrant concern. But I’m letting the cards fall where they may. That’s the main reason we moved her out of the private school, after all. I’m not going to interfere.

We had a pleasant ride to school. Might as well make the best of the remainder of our day, I figured.

We finally arrived, and when Maddie was just about to get out of the car, I had a realization.

“Maddie, I wish this morning had gone better,” I said, “but I’m proud of you for turning it around. I know that’s hard for you.”

I was so glad I both thought of that and said it out loud. She needed to hear it. Small victories, you know. Maybe the morning sucked, but the typical story is that she decides she’s not going to do something, and she’s stuck in that mindset. It’s frustrating as all get-out, but transitions are probably the most commonly difficult challenges for autistic kids. And she somehow transcended that challenge.

Maddie got it. She thanked me. She looked relieved. I knew she was probably nervous for what awaited her when she got to the office, but she picked up her backpack and held her head high as she said goodbye.

It really was a terrible morning, but sometimes it’s those challenging times that bring about the best moments. I remembered to praise her for what she did right (yay for me!), and she was proud of herself, too (yay for Maddie!). She did something almost impossible for her. And now we both know it’s not, in fact, impossible. It will still be hard for her to redirect herself, but as I always say to my kids, “It might be hard, but hard is okay. Is it impossible?” I ask that knowing, of course, that whatever is in question is NOT impossible.

I don’t know what’s in store for tomorrow, but I hope that whatever it is, I can find something to be thankful for.

Life Lessons on Friendship

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Recently I wrote about the stark contrast between the social life of my 13 year old son and that of my daughter. It breaks my heart sometimes.

And then this happens.

Maddie has a friend and classmate named Jordan.* She went to the private school with Maddie and then, at the last minute, showed up at the public high school as well. She’s a very sweet girl with wonderful parents. They are making a real effort to encourage the friendship between these two girls. I am so grateful.

This weekend Jordan’s mom reached out to invite Maddie to spend the afternoon swimming at their house. Not only are these people lovely, but they also have a pool! I call that a win!

At first Maddie was excited. She said, “Well, I do like Jordan. And I do like to swim!”

How wonderful, I thought. Finally Maddie has an invitation to do something with a friend.

And then, this morning, my son decided he wasn’t up for an outing he had planned with a friend. Apparently the idea of bailing out seemed appealing to Maddie as well. So now she wants to cancel. She likes Jordan, but she’s not up for an afternoon of socializing.

“You have no social life!” I told Maddie. “This is a chance to get together with a friend!”

And then she was offended. But that is the truth. The ONLY person she really wants to socialize with is her cousin. She is a lovely kid, and she and Maddie are the kind of best friends all girls should have. They’re kind to each other, and they can be fully themselves. And since they’re cousins, there is a lifetime connection that will always be there. I am so grateful for their relationships.

But I want Maddie to branch out. I want her to be able to make other friendships, especially with girls. I know that she mostly spends time with boys at school. She always has, and I have long suspected it’s because they’re less socially sophisticated and therefore less demanding. She doesn’t have to navigate the complexities of girl friendships. And in a way I can appreciate that.

And then when school’s out, she retreats into herself. She watches her anime show, she plays Minecraft, she spends hours making swords, she’ll go out into the open space behind our house and pick flowers or blackberries. That’s what makes her happy. And all of it is solitary (actually Minecraft often involved online friends, if that counts).

So here I am, very anxious about Maddie’s social life. I want something for her that apparently she doesn’t want for herself. I don’t know what to do with that. Should I help her develop her social skills with girls or just let her be? Am I trying to force something that’s not important or meant to be? I don’t know the answer to that.

I believe that if she went to Jordan’s house today she would have a great time. Jordan’s mom would ensure a good time. She’s that kind of person.

I often try to make plans for Maddie, with her consent, of course. She resists. She’s not interested. Ever. She can’t seem to overcome the idea that even if a friend has very different interests, they can manage to be friends and have a good time. Or even that if she has committed to something, keeping her promise is important. She doesn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but in the moment her own desires are taking precedence. I’m not comfortable with that.

The word autism comes from the root “auto,” meaning “self.” Her system is focused on “self.” I don’t mean she’s selfish or self-absorbed, exactly, but people with autism have a whole system that is very self-oriented, which is why they often function so well alone and may have difficulty in social situations.

Dictionary.com says autism is “a pervasive developmental disorder…characterized by impaired communication, excessive rigidity, and emotional detachment; a tendency to view life in terms of one’s own needs and desires.”

I don’t think of Maddie as selfish necessarily, but I can’t really disagree with any part of that description. She’s not incapable of empathy at all (in fact, she can be remarkably empathetic sometimes), but it’s not necessarily her first response.

Well, hello! In the middle of my writing, Maddie came up with a great idea. She had called and left a message for Jordan. It was an excellent, heart-felt apology about having to cancel today. She said she was tired from a poor night’s sleep (true) and was terribly disappointed about having to cancel, and wanted to get together another time instead.

And then we had talked for a few minutes about friendship. She is concerned because she and Jordan have very different interests. Maddie likes swords and Star Wars and anime. Jordan likes makeup and other girly stuff. (I am reminded of the time years ago when I took her to Toys R Us, and she specifically said, “I do NOT want to look at the girly stuff.” You know, Barbies and everything else located in the explosion of pink.) It can be challenging for an autistic person to see beyond the obvious sometimes and go deeper.

But I told her that it wasn’t until I was in my forties that I realized something important about friendships. It is unlikely that a single friend will meet all your friendship needs. I might have a shopping buddy who loves fashion as much as I do. And then another friend who parents just like I do, so we can talk about that. I have a friend whom I can call to help with the dogs, but maybe my other friend isn’t a good candidate for that. And another friend whom I go to for advice. We all have deeper connections, commonalities that go beyond what we like to do with our time. That’s what ultimately binds us together.

Those are some deep thoughts for an autistic teen. I realize sometimes when I try to impart life lessons to my kids, they may or may not be listening. Or they might hear the words, but the deeper meaning might not land. Not yet. So I say what I want to say anyway, knowing this great wisdom may or may not have any impact right now. It’s worth a try, I figure.

And then Maddie had an epiphany. We have two extra Giants tickets for next Saturday. Why doesn’t she invite Jordan and her mom?

YES. That is the perfect solution. It’s a way to spend time with her friend doing something they can both presumably enjoy. It’s a fun outing, an adventure. It’s a way to connect with another person over something completely outside of yourself. An opportunity to bond without the superficial differences getting in the way. That is how you build a friendship.

So she made the phone call and left a message extending the invitation. Even if it doesn’t work out, something magical happened today.

I still don’t know what will happen next time a social invitation comes Maddie’s way. This is not a linear path we’re on. There are leaps forward and stumbles back. There are surprising moments of greatness and devastating disappointments along the way.

But the net result is this: I’m proud of my daughter. She’s a good person. She’s growing up. I’m working hard. Sometimes my parenting yields instant rewards; most often I just put in whatever effort I can manage, and then hope our kids grow and mature, or that I continue to learn how to let go of the outcome.

*Jordan is not her real name.

An Exercise in Futility (perhaps that should be the title of my book)

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Here’s a big truth for you all:

Today I have one kid who’s home sick for the fourth day in a row. He misses a fair amount of school. Last year it became a problem, in fact, although he  did well in his classes anyway. He just wasn’t well. But I get so stressed out about the missed school days, regardless of the reason.

And then I have the other kid, who just refuses to get up.

So my success rate today is 0%. That’s how I feel. Zero percent successful.

I don’t know what else I can do, though. Once your kids get to a certain age, or size really, you can’t physically force them to do anything. No more carrying a flailing kid up to the car. It’s all mental. ALL OF IT. And today I’m losing the battle.

It’s 9:09. I can keep trying to get Maddie off to school, but it’s a rare day that she can turn herself around and get going once she’s late. I hate giving up because I don’t want her to be that relaxed and happy about missing school. I want to be relentless. But I’m not sure I have the stamina to keep pestering her all day. Even thinking about this makes my head pound. This is not a good day for me and how I feel about myself as a mother. I try so hard to stay positive and optimistic and give myself credit, but I’m not feeling it today. I feel, once again, defeated.

I’ve been hearing a lot of grumblings lately by my friends and acquaintances with 12 and 13-year-old kids. Preteens and teens will push you to your limit. Apparently that’s normal. So I’m not under the delusion that only parents of special needs kids have rough days. Or feel overwhelmed or helpless. Or feel like they’re failing.

I feel like that with both my kids at times.

When you decide to have a child, you are embarking on such a potentially harrowing journey. Each day is an unknown. You can put everything you have into parenting, all or your mental and emotional and physical energy, all the skills you learned from your parents, all the tactics you can learn from books, all the advice from your friends, all the enlightenment you get from your therapist, all the special approaches you learn from your child’s occupational therapist and psychologist and teachers. And then you can still feel as if you have no idea what you’re doing. Or you might think, “It feels like I’m doing the right thing, but it’s still not working.” That’s maybe the worst. The futility of it all.

10:10 a.m.: About 20 minutes ago I made another attempt to get Maddie up. I patted her back firmly over and over and said her name about 50 times. “Maddie, Maddie, Maddie, Maddie, Maddie, Maddie…” I was trying to annoy her into submission. No response. Then I remembered she has a really nice bluetooth speaker in her room, so I turned it up loud and took her phone. I’ve been playing music, switching songs randomly. Still nothing. So now it’s on NPR. Can I bore her into cooperation? I doubt it.

Because for better or worse, submission isn’t really in her makeup. She is a tough nut to crack. You are probably thinking, “Well, you should try this! It works for me.” Guess what? I have probably tried everything that’s not abusive. I’ve tried being overly nice, being flexible, being threatening, being tough. I have tried having her write me an essay about why she should go to school. I have to admit, that worked in one way. She didn’t go to school, but I sure made her day miserable. It literally took me the entire school day to manage that endeavor, with lots of tears and crying and arguing and anger and frustration on her part. I stuck to my guns. I was proud of myself for doing that. But I think I was equally miserable. And that’s really the only thing I accomplished: making us both miserable. I don’t think she learned anything, nor would her misery that day ever translate into changed behavior another day. That’s our challenge.

10:17 am.: Tbe NPR news ended. Now I’ve turned on an NPR podcast called “Alt Latino.” Oh, it’s in English so far. I hoped it would be in Spanish. Maybe that would drive her crazy.

Ha! I just heard the speaker go off. That means she at least got out of bed to walk across her room. I’m sure she’s horizontal again.

She isn’t. She’s sitting up.

“Are you flat out refusing to go to school?” I ask.

She nods. “I’m hungry.”

“I made your breakfast and lunch. You can warm it up.”

Okay, I give up for today. I will keep her screens hidden away. She will surely find something to do to pass the time. I don’t want her to sleep more, though, or she’ll suffer tonight and we’ll be back at square one tomorrow.

Wish me luck, people.