for July 2008
Story Index
Now What? A Single Parent Story by Melissa
The Gift by Chynna T. Laird (Originally published on her web site Lily Wolf).
Jaimie, my three-year old, is my miracle. She hasn’t had the easiest start to her life --- she struggles everyday trying to cope in an environment continually causing her pain but not being able to tell us why. She lives with Sensory Integration Dysfunction (SID).
Jaimie isn’t able to process sensory information properly. Most people have a natural ability to tune unnecessary things out so they can focus. Jaimie doesn’t have this filtering ability so when her sensory organs receive information, she gets everything. Imagine how scary it must feel to have so much information flooding your brain at the same time and not be able to focus on any one thing because it’s coming at you so fast.
As a parent, the most painful things to experience with an SID child are (1) Inconsistency. What bothers them can change from one day to the next so you never feel like you’re doing anything right for them; and, (2) Aversion to being touched. These two things prevented Jaimie from being able to get close to anyone including her father, Steve and me.
I longed to wrap my arms around Jaimie and feel her tiny arms around me. But she’s never been able to allow herself to express her love for me in this way. Not because she doesn’t love me, but because even asking Jaimie for a hug is too upsetting for her to deal with. Jaimie hugs by putting her head out towards me and saying, “Hug”. I’ve just come to accept this expression of Jaimie’s love as “normal”.
For the first three months of her life, Jaimie loved being held, cuddled and whispered to. But as she got older she became agitated when I’d try to pick her up even if I was trying to offer comfort. It was as though my touch burned her skin. She began covering her ears and screeching at the top of her lungs at noises and if there was an unusual smell around where we were eating, she wouldn’t eat a bite of her food thinking the smell was what her food tasted like. The older she got, the worse her symptoms became.
Her sense of touch became so intense I had to cut all the tags out of her clothes because they “hurt” her; we’d have to change her clothes several times a day until she found what felt right; a feather touch on her skin threw her into an inconsolable rage; and she developed a strict need for things to be “just so” or she’d scream and cry until things were “just so”.
Worst of all, she’d resort to hurting herself in some way in an attempt to calm herself down (such as banging her head on the floor, biting her arms, pulling out her hair or scratching her eyes). What hurt the most was only being able to watch her as my touch made things worse. All I could do was push a pillow under her head to cushion the blows, make sure she wore long sleeves so the bites or scratches weren’t directly on her skin and try my best to shield her eyes and hair. This made me realize she needed help far beyond what I could give her on my own. Jaimie received her SID diagnosis when she was two and a half and she began therapy to help her learn to communicate and to cope with her feelings. Steve and I were actively involved in her therapy so we could help her at home. For Steve, it was a way to help him finally be able to bond with his daughter he’d only been able to love from a distance. More than anything, I was grateful to finally have name for the unknown, unseen assailant I’d been fighting since Jaimie was born.
It wasn’t an easy road. Jaimie had a real problem with anyone coming into her sacred world of routine and organization. But I saw positive changes in Jaimie’s little personality as she slowly allowed people in. Perhaps she felt there were actually other people in her life besides me who understood what she was feeling inside and who liked her in spite of it. Jaimie was beginning to express in words what was trapped in her mind. Yet, despite the positive aspects of her therapy, she still refused to be touched and would become very distressed even if we just talked about hugs. So, I simply waited with my arms ready.
One evening, Steve made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: “Hun, why don’t you go out for a walk and let me hang out with Jaimie.”
Jaimie had been doing so well with her therapy I thought, “Let’s give it a shot!” This was the first time I went anywhere without Jaimie since she was born. But I was worried because Daddy didn’t always do things exactly the way she needed them to be done nor had patience for her strict routines, and this caused Jaimie to explode in frustration. Still, she had to let herself try to trust him. What if, God forbid, something happened to me? All she’d have would be Steve.
I got ready to go then told Jaimie I was going out for a little while. She was coloring at the kitchen table and didn’t seem to notice I’d said anything. I looked at Steve who nodded at me then kissed me on the forehead.
At first, I felt a wave of guilt that tried to pull me back to the house. But after a few minutes, I felt exhilarated - so this is what it felt like to do my own thing. Considering I couldn’t even use the bathroom without leaving the door open because Jaimie needed to know where I was all the time, that walk was like going to a party for me - the best 20 minutes of my life. As I approached the house, I heard what I thought were crow screeches exploding from our house. Then I realized it was Jaimie.
I flew up the front stairs fumbled with my keys to open the door then found Steve straddling Jaimie on the floor, holding her arms and legs so she wouldn’t hurt him (or herself) as she screamed: “No! I don’t like you. I want Mama.”
Steve heard my sneakers squeak across the linoleum and looked up at me like a doctor who’s losing his patient --- tortured. His tears fogged up his glasses so I cupped his chin as I dropped to the floor. He enveloped my hand in his with a gentle squeeze and put it on top of Jaimie’s chest, then left the room. I took Jaimie off the floor and held her to me as she soaked the front of my shirt with her tears, sweat and drool.
For over two hours I tried every technique I was taught to calm Jaimie – nothing worked. Finally, I had no choice but to put her in her bed so she could release the rest of her fit in privacy. I went to the solitude of my room, flopped on the bed like a rag doll and allowed myself to do something I hadn’t for a long time: I cried. I didn’t stop the tears from coming like I usually did – I allowed them to flow freely.
I cried because I was angry at her for having SID; because I felt helpless and scared I couldn’t help her; for losing my temper with her when she wouldn’t stop crying; for being frustrated because I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do; for feeling guilty that I wished she was “normal”; and, mostly, for Jaimie – because she knew she was different but didn’t understand why. Why couldn’t she let us reach her? Why couldn’t I, her Mommy, help her?
Drained after my emotional release, I heard Jaimie downstairs with Steve. I splashed cold water on my face in a feeble attempt to reduce some redness in my eyes then went to join my family. As I descended the stairs, I assured myself someday I’d reach her. I saw in her big blue eyes she had so much love she desperately wanted to give but her body simply wouldn’t allow her to. Someday, she’d trust me enough to show me.
I entered the living room where Jaimie and Steve were watching a movie.
“Can I join you guys?” I asked.
Jaimie turned and ran to me when she heard my voice. “Mama!”
I crouched down so she could touch my leg with her head but instead she wrapped her tiny arms around me and hugged me – a real hug. I was in such shock it took me a few seconds to hug her back. I wrapped my arms around her tiny body and she whispered: “I love you, Mama.”
“Oh Jaimie,” I whispered back. “I love you too. So very much.” For the first time since she was born, I felt the joy other Mommies felt when their child expresses their love. Her hug only lasted for a few seconds but even as she pushed away from me to finish watching her movie, I still felt the warmth of her arms around me. I knew it would be a long time before she’d hug again but I wasn’t sad. Her hug was a sign of good things to come and it renewed my hope.
Thank you, Jaimie for your precious gift. I will treasure it always. __________________________________________________________________ CHYNNA T. LAIRD – a mother of two beautiful girls Jaimie (almost five) and Jordhan (three) and a baby boy Xander (1). In addition to living her dream building up her at-home freelance writing business (Lily Wolf Words), she is also currently studying in Edmonton, Alberta (Canada) to obtain her B.A. in Psychology, specializing in Early Childhood Development. She's won writing contests in ByLine magazine and her work has been published in various parenting, writing and inspirational magazines in Canada, the United States and Australia (see "Published Works" for details). As well, she has a personal essay featured in Chicken Soup For The Soul: Children With Special Needs. She is most proud of a children's picture book she's written called, "I'm Not Weird, I Have SID" where she describes--through the voice and perspective of four-year old Alexandra--what it's like to live with Sensory Integration Dysfunction (Sensory Processing Disorder).
From Chynna: Sensory Integration Dysfunction (SID) is also known as Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD) and Dysfunction in Sensory Integration (DSI). Simply put, an SID child isn’t able to interact with his/her external environment properly because their brains are unable to process sensory information effectively. SID isn’t one specific disorder but an umbrella term for a number of neurological difficulties.
Each child with SID has a unique combination of varying symptoms, and therefore, it can be very difficult to diagnose and treat. Main categories that Occupational Therapists tend to test these children under include, but aren’t limited to, “Sensory Modulation Problems” (how the child regulates responses to sensations); “Sensory Discrimination Problems” (inability to distinguish one sensation from another); “Sensory-Based Motor Problems” (how the child moves/is aware of his body); and “Associated Regulatory and Behaviour Problems” (issues that can result from SID).
A child suffering with a severe case of this disorder can affect his/her ability to interact with other people, ability to function in daily life or even just enjoying being a child. This disorder can’t be cured, but with proper therapy and care, the child can learn how to recognize sensations and learn to cope better dealing with these sensations [refer to the book The Out-of-Sync Child, by Carol Stock Kranowitz (The Berkeley Publishing Group: New York, 2005)].
I wrote this story not just as a reflection of my own experience, but also to, hopefully, extend some hope to other Mummy’s with SID children, or with other forms of Autism. Don’t give up hope. They know we love them, and with patience and understanding, they’ll show us they love us too.
Now What? A Single Parent Story by Melissa
Some nights get to me more than others, the nights where I hit that Now What moment. I’ve put the kids to bed, either in their own room or in mine. I’ve finished up the dishes. I’ve picked up anything lying around that I would rather have in its space. I’m done with work for the night.
I’ve gone through all my time killing strategies. And I’m stuck.
I don’t feel like reading, I don’t feel like staring at the television. I’m not sleepy enough yet to try to go to sleep. I want to talk and snuggle with someone. I really do not want to be alone and I am.
One of the harder parts of divorce has been those moments at the end of the day when I want to talk about the day with the boys, maybe it’s the letter I got from the kids’ school or the funny thing Brett said. Whatever it is, I want to go over their life with someone who is in their life, too.
I have a boyfriend. I adore him. He is not here every day; he does not stay the night. He is also NOT their father and will listen and care, but he isn’t going to be actively involved in their life any time soon.
I want a co parent back, without having my crappy marriage back. I don’t even have babies anymore, and I’m sure many, many mothers just want another pair of warm hands to hold the baby while she races to the bathroom. It’s just that some nights, I want to decompress what I’ve done as a parent that day. Or just share what made me laugh with someone else who knows and loves these two kids like I do.
And after I’ve killed all the time I can, now what? I need to learn how to dissemble on my own and be my own sounding board. Or really, to just trust myself, assume I’ve done a pretty decent job of parenting, and watch Project Runway already.
Melissa is a divorced mother of two boys, age thirteen and eleven. She teaches the history of art to college students and writes at her Blog, Sugared Harpy.
Wading In: Parenting in Cool Waters by Mary Thomas
I am the parent of a soon-to-be teenager,
who’s been wanting her own apartment since before she could
walk. This is a kid who puts more energy into her quest for
independence than I put into my attempts to fit into my
pre-pregnancy jeans. Her “live free or die” philosophy
baffles her befuddled parents, and not just because she’s
never even been to New Hampshire.
My husband and I don’t get this temperament, as he and I were both line-toers as kids. We rebelled occasionally in our own silly non-rebellious ways, but we both lived to please our parents and that drove most of our decisions as teenagers. So when it comes to our daughter, we teeter precariously on the line dividing the two extreme reactions to a pre-teen who seeks to be in complete charge of all aspects of her life: we either control her every move until the day we ship her off to college, or we give her all the space she wants and hope she’s got it in her to stay safe. (Boarding school is another option, but that thought only comes to mind on really bad days when I’ve had either too little or too much coffee.)
Obviously, the only way to proceed is to find the happy medium between total domination and total submission. She, of course, would disagree with this conclusion.
When new requests for freedom come up, I repeat the words of a wise friend of mine, a single mom with two teenage daughters. “Hey – I’ve never been the mom of a (fill in current age here)-year-old before, so this is all new to me too,” she sometimes says to her oldest. The great thing about this line is that you can use it until your first-born is 80, since all territory is uncharted when it comes to parenting a first kid.
Last summer, my daughter and I came upon the vast, uncharted territory of the beach near our home. Just after she turned 12, I took her and a few of her friends to the sandy shores of Puget Sound on a lovely, sunny day so that they could explore the treasures among the driftwood and the tide pools. This section of the Sound is typically too cold to swim in without a wetsuit, but it’s a great place to while away some outside time. I even packed a basket with snacks and drinks for the girls, and agreed to stay a respectable distance away. (After all, you never know when the cutest boy from school might wander by. And if he were to see my motherish self nearby, he might change his mind about proposing to one of them.)
“Mom, do you HAVE to come with us?” my daughter asked, suddenly slumping as if her spinal column had collapsed just a bit.
“Yes, but your brother and I will pretend not to know you if that would make you feel better,” I replied, only slightly kidding.
“Mo-um!,” she argued, using the two-syllable variation of my title. “But that’s so embarrassing. Nobody else has to go to the beach with their parents and their little brothers,” she insisted, once again reminding me how she is singularly deprived of most privileges enjoyed by ALL the other kids (who, apparently, lack parents altogether and live by no rules whatsoever).
“You won’t even know we’re there,” I assured her. “We’ll completely ignore you, and stay far away.”
She reluctantly agreed to the plan, grabbed the picnic basket and began marching with her friends so as to get a good lead on my son and me.
“Mom?” She continued walking, but turned her head to ask me one last question.
“Yep.” I watched as they walked farther away, hoping I could hear whatever it was she wanted to ask. This while I pondered how much of a head start I could safely give them.
“Can we swim?”
Absolutely not. No way. You’re not that great of a swimmer and I have no idea whether the other girls can even tread water and I’m responsible for all of you. Swim? Are you joking? That’s outrageous that you would even ask such a thing. Besides, you’ll get soaked and you didn’t bring a change of clothes. There might be sea monsters under the surface or a freak tsunami might hit any minute, and then you’ll be out there all by yourself and I might not be able to help you. And what if some creepy pedophile comes up to you in the water and whisks you away onto his nearby boat? Because you’re starting to develop and if your shirt gets wet, it might give someone the wrong idea. Swimming is just a terrible plan and it makes me nervous and I absolutely forbid it.
That’s what I said in my mind.
With my mouth, I said, “Just wade in to your knees.”
And that, I realized, sums up every single impulse I have about parenting this precious, beautiful, infuriating child. She wants to dive in, but I need her to take things one small step at a time. She wants to forge her own path, but I need her to stay closer to the trail her dad and I do our best to carve out. She wants to become the world’s youngest adult, but I need her to remain a kid just a little while longer.
In these moments when she pulls away and my husband and I try to tug her back in, we all end up with sore arms. But each of us is working to appreciate the perspective of the others. She continues to ask for a wider berth, although she (sometimes) agrees to modified terms. We do our best to remember what it felt like to have feet planted in both the kid and teenager zones. Not surprisingly, there’s a direct relationship between the stretches when our daughter most passionately waves her freedom flag and the frequency with which she climbs sleepily into our bed in the middle of the night. Our job is to guide her toward appropriate forms of independence that balance her desire for autonomy with the harsh reality that she’s only 12 years old.
For now, she may wade in to her knees. Soon enough, she’ll be up to her chin. And before any of us know it, she’ll be in the open water and I’ll no longer be on the beach watching. By then, with luck, we’ll all have adjusted to the temperature of the water.
Mary Adam Thomas is a freelance writer based on Bainbridge Island. Her two amazing children keep her on her toes, and never fail to provide her with great material.
Time Out: Single Parent Story by Kelly
Picture this; you're picking up toys, with a meal on the stove, laundry in the washer, and the kids running wild. The telephone rings and as you attempt to answer it, there is a knock on the door and a crash in another room. You try to handle everything at once, and it blows up in your face. By the time you get to open the door, you look and feel like a raving lunatic.
Believe it or not, it happens to everyone. It can be maddening, and it is only human nature to get frustrated and angry.
The important thing is that you take a step back and a deep breath. Everyone has bad days, however it is important that you recognize what you are feeling and take a time out.
Yes, I said take a time out. Children are not the only ones who need time outs. When the stress of the day is getting to you, and you feel like you are going to snap, go to another room, close the door and take a deep breath.
Taking a time out will not only give you time to regroup and get your senses back on track, it will also give you time to think of ways to avoid the situation again. Taking ten minutes for yourself is therapeutic. If you feel you need more time to regroup, go for a walk around the block. It is good exercise and the kids get some energy out.
When you give yourself a time out, use the time wisely. Think of the situation that caused you to get to the point you are at. More often then not, you will eventually find humor in the whole situation and be able to restore your sense of harmony.
Kids will be kids. They will always be rambunctious and full of energy. They are very intuitive and know just what buttons to push to get a reaction. No matter what situation, try not to overreact, if you feel yourself slipping, walk away and handle whatever the situation is when you have had a chance to settle yourself. That is one of the great things about time outs.
In today's economy, it is often necessary for both parents to work. This, in addition to all of the responsibilities of taking care of a home and family can lead to an extended day and lack of sleep. It is very easy to become overtired, frustrated and just drained from stress. Taking a time out will show your children that you discipline yourself as well as them and that time outs can be given to anyone.
Kelly is the mother of 3 children, 2 of which have severe difficulties. She lives in the New England region of US and is a work- at-home mom for 5 years.
The Greatest Gift by Karen L. Alaniz
God definitely has a sense of humor. How else can you explain my life? My son has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and I have chronic fatigue, due to Multiple Sclerosis. The very activities that send my son into spirals of motion, zap my energy and leave me wilted in the corner of the room. I didn’t always see the humor in it. In fact, I fretted over it for the first few months following my diagnosis. It was so unfair. My child had an abundance of energy, and I couldn’t begin to keep up with him. I’d look at him whirling around, bouncing energetically from one activity to the other and get tired just watching him. But my son and I would learn, over time that our greatest challenges were also our greatest gifts.
Any parent of a challenging child understands fatigue. Fatigue is relentless; it never gives up. It begins with the first tantrum of the day and insists on hanging out until the last glass of water is delivered to your child’s bedside.
When I came out of the fog of self-pity, I made a decision. I would learn strategies to ensure that I’d have the energy to reach, teach, and love my child, as much as humanly possible within the limits of my disease. And what I learned, I believe anyone can benefit from.
Pace Yourself
Every day before your feet hit the floor, you’re already ten steps behind. There are meals to make, phone calls to answer, kids to tend to, cleaning to be done, dishes to load, and laundry to wash. And that’s all before breakfast. The parenting life is not a sprint; it’s a marathon, so plan for the long haul.
Plan for Hectic Days
Some days it seems as if everything is conspiring against you; a company meeting, soccer game, violin recital, basketball practice, and an art project that was due yesterday. The day doesn’t have enough hours in it to finish all the tasks set before you. But most of the time, you have some advance notice that the day will be full. Use that knowledge to create a balanced plan. If you know that your evening will be crazy, pick up fast-food for dinner. If you know you have a stressful meeting at work, plan to go for a long walk, or go to the gym for a workout before going home to your family. And if your child has a recital, rehearsal, practice or a game, clear your housework schedule for the day.
Prioritize
Think about your day in terms of priorities. What is the most important thing you will do? Spend time with your daughter? Bake cupcakes for your son’s class? Get all of the laundry done and put away? Prepare for a presentation at work? Once you’ve set one or two priorities, you can focus on getting them done. And then at the end of the day, you will have a sense of accomplishment. You may even find that with just a few priorities to focus on, you have little chunks of time to do other things; put a load of laundry in the wash, dust the dining room, vacuum the living room.
Give Yourself a Break
In your head, you know that the world will not quite spinning on its axis if you haven’t checked all the boxes on your, “to do” list by the end of the day. But your heart keeps saying, “You should be able to do it all. Everyone else does.” When a day is so full that you feel unable to cope, that’s when you need a break. Give yourself a day to do whatever you want. Plan it if you have to; ask your spouse, your best friend, or a relative to be your children’s chauffer, and cook for the day. Whether you spend the day at home or out somewhere, spend it doing what you love. Scrapbook some photos, write in your journal, take a bubble bath, read a book, drive to a scenic area and walk on the trails. Do it for yourself because you deserve it. Honor yourself by creating time for yourself. In our culture, if we waited for someone else to see our need for time away, we’d never get it. It’s healthy to spend time away from your family. You may not be able to get away for days, but how about hours? Making time for yourself is not just good for you; it’s also good for your spouse and your children. Watching you take care of yourself is a gift you can give to your children. You are worth it, and so are they.
Unwrapping the Gift
No matter what shape your challenges come in, if you look closely, you will see that each one is gift wrapped. Sometimes they are wrapped so snuggly that the wrapping must be removed with one tiny tear at a time. Sometimes the wrapping looks more like duct tape than decorative wrapping paper. But if you remove one tiny piece at a time, you will find that beneath all of that wrapping is a beautiful gift that’s been there all along. Your greatest challenge is your greatest gift.
Comfort in the Waterfall by Laura Munion
Being a parent of children with autism is an especially trying job at times. However, I wouldn't be the same person I am today without my kids, difficult behaviors and all. Also, my kids can reward me with unexpected empathy and understanding when I least expect it (and need it most).
As I helped my daughters get ready for bed, I reflected on my life. Why did things turn out the way they did? Did I do or not do something to make things wind up how they are now? I never planned to have children; what would my life be like without them?
The more I thought, the more I decided that I’m grateful I don't know what it would be like without my little girls. I've always been a depressed, pessimistic person, and they help me get out of that slump. Sure, they add additional stress, but I wouldn't trade being their mom for anything.
"Waterfall! Waterfa-a-alll!" Celest yells, snapping me out of my thoughts. She is angry because I told her we would go to bed and watch the table top waterfall lamp, but I am getting her and Lotus some milk before I take them to bed. Obviously, I am not doing it fast enough for her.
"In a minute!" I yell overtop of her continued yells for the waterfall. By the time I have the milk ready and am heading for the stairs I see Lotus snuggled up on the couch.
"Come on, Lotus, we need to go to bed." Celest sees me stop walking, and she begins to cry about the waterfall again. I half yank Lotus off the couch so that her little feet touch the floor.
As we walk upstairs to the bedroom and the beloved waterfall, the girls grow quiet and I begin to think about my life again.
Well intentioned people have told me more times than I can remember, "God never gives us more than we can handle." I always just smile at them to be polite. I don't bother to tell them that I am Agnostic. Anyway, they tell me this because both of my daughters have autism. They are my only children, and this is the only life that I know with them. My girls developed normally until they were about 15 months old. Then temper tantrums, lack of language and communication, sensory sensitivities, and the other manifestations of their autism became our norm. I don't want pity or trite phrases. I want answers.
What causes autism? The mystery of why they have frustrates me. I feel that I will never know definitively why them, why me.
Back to the pity issue; I don't want it or need it. Sure, when you see me walking around dazed and with black rings under my eyes because the girls have been waking up at 2 a.m. for the past three nights and insisting that I get up with them, I may look pitiful. But still, keep the pity for someone else. I love my kids. Somehow I’ll survive until they get their sleep patterns back on track.
Also, I don't mind so much only going out one Saturday every three or four months. That's more than some moms get.
This leads me back to wondering why things happen, when and to whom? Did they “get” autism because of the mercury in the fillings of my teeth? From their vaccines? Would I be the same parent if they weren’t autistic?
For me, at this point, their autism is part of them. They wouldn't be the same kids without their complete lack of shyness and embarrassment. I mean, not very many people can fart quite audibly in public and not feel ashamed.
"Waterfall…" Celest whispers as she falls asleep. The waterfall is on the table in her bedroom. Its little red, blue, and green LED's flash on and off, making the water seem to change color. The water trickles over blue stones at the base of the waterfall. I lie on the floor and curl up next to the table, lulled into sleepiness by the waterfall that has just soothed both of my daughters to sleep.
Laura Munion is a freelance writer and single mother of twin girls with autism. They live in central Ohio.
Being a parent is supposed to be a rewarding experience right? That is what we grow up believing and that is what we expect.
However, sometimes life does not work out the way we expect it too. When I was expecting my daughter, I was elated to find she was a girl. I already had a son and a daughter would complete the picture.
My pregnancy was normal, and there were no complications. However in my 7th month, I went into labor. There were no causes for it, it just happens, I was told.
From the beginning, even when my daughter was in the infant ICU, I knew there were going to be problems. I was told to expect it. Premature babies suffer from a lot of different illness, some medical and some emotional.
My daughter grew out of her medical complications fairly quickly and became a thriving yet demanding child. I really never gave too much thought to it because she was so healthy. She was (and is) a beautiful and intelligent child who wanted everything.
I gave in most of the time, and as she grew older, her demands grew with her. Around 2 years old, I finally put of foot down and began the task of disciple and teaching her appropriate behavior.
She would have none of it. Her demands grew into fits of rage when she did not get what she wanted and violence when she was told no.
As she grew, I realized that something was not right. After being taken to several different doctors, and told that there was nothing wrong, frustration began to take hold of me.
No matter what method of discipline was used, nothing worked. Being a parent who does not believe in spanking, I tried everything else there is to try.
When my third child was born, my daughter did everything she could to get him out of our house. She would do things to hurt the baby, and it was necessary to monitor them at all times. They could never be left alone together.
At one point, it was necessary to hire a babysitter just to go food shopping because she did not get what she wanted.
The screams of rage and anger ran through our apartment building and neighbors would knock on our door to make sure she was all right.
One doctor suggested that I spend time alone with her and it seemed to work for a while, however the more time I spent with her, the more time she wanted. The more presents I bought her, the more she wanted. I was told that she was jealous of the new baby and could understand that. I set a side one day a week that I would spend just with her. It turned into a nightmare when she disappeared in a store one afternoon and the manager of the store locked it down so until we found her an hour later, underneath one of the displays.
When my daughter started school, she began to calm down; I thought that maybe that is what she needed. However, after about two months of school, the teacher called a parent teacher meeting. I found that my daughter was telling horrific stories about her home life and could not believe that she could come up with such things.
My daughter had taken aptitude tests in kindergarten and it was determined that she had learning disabilities which are common in premature babies.
The frustration that she felt at school was unleashed at home to the point where we did not know what to do. This has gone on for four years.
After years of bringing her to different doctors, we were referred to a behavioral specialist and it was determined that my daughter has many different disorders that need to treated with both therapy and medication. She has responded very well to both treatments and is finally becoming a happy child. She even laughs now, something she has done rarely in the past.
The point of my story is that as parents, we all have instincts regarding our children. Never let someone tell you that your instincts are wrong. It is your child's health and welfare that is at stake, and if it is necessary to see twenty doctors to find answers then do it. No one knows your child better then you.
My daughter went through years of behavioral problems that could have been managed before they grew to the level that they did because I ignored my instincts and followed the advice of others.
As a parent, I felt that I let my daughter down by not pursuing every avenue. I followed advice that led to more problems and I was physically and emotionally drained from this experience.
Expect nothing and parenting gets that much easier. Before I had that piece of knowledge in a sweaty new parent hand, I had expectations. Expectations of pristine report cards and unblemished popularity. Of supreme athleticism and fearless philanthropy. A beautiful mind without troubled thoughts, actions, words. Perfection in an imperfect world would be my children and I expected nothing different or else.
Until a 9-1-1 dispatcher asked me if my baby was still breathing and I had no logical way of answering his question. She was stiff and unmoving, unresponsive to my touch, unable to withdraw even from the hand of the man who'd hours before given her irrevocable brain damage.
Brain injury. Brain damage. Traumatic brain injury from shaking the baby. Wiped clean, someone in the children's hospital offered as though there was hope in a brain wiped clean. It's better to try to teach her three months' of stuff than thirty years' of stuff was the theory.
Oh.
Except that no one really had the proper way of telling me, a brand new mother who'd never tried to teach a child anything at all, that teaching the damaged brain is harder than scraping off dried shit. What you want to stick sticks not. What you want to wash away stays for an incredibly long long time. Get used to staring at the stains left behind, the ones that will not go away, no matter the reputation of the private school and cost of the tutors.
In a release of all expectations, two lives were born: that of my daughter as a funny, routine-driven friend to the underdog and of mine, more of a rules-are-for-suckers deist, abandoned by God, embraced by daily minutiae. Whatever works became our motto. She compensated for her physical weaknesses and mental deficiencies through adaptation and charm. I mourned our losses with a change in worldview, an ennui nearly unchallenged even when jarred by horrific events elsewhere. What is the violent deaths of thousands of people when my 12-year-old has no concept of long division?
My son was born and I found out this: picking up your child from the babysitter and discovering one unconscious infant is not a normal piece of living. Babies can learn without the additional necessity of hospital outpatient staff. Indeed, popsicles are for eating, dripping, making messes, not for stimulating the lower lip to encourage spontaneous babbling. Most babies babble without the assistance of occupational therapists, you know. Silly Mommy.
Six-year-olds enter first grade without having repeated kindergarten twice.
Some kids join sports teams with no extra explanation or accommodations needed.
On the flip, some kids are also well aware that commerce trafficked through the television is available to the annoying asker, the more annoying the better, is the misguided opinion. The one who knows television only as the messenger of the Bel-Air fresh prince is the one to take to the mall on a quickly needed errand, not her two-side-brained brother looking for Floam.
One of each I have. Girl and boy. Girl with the right side of her brain swimming in fluid being the one who keeps the family both on schedule and from too much whimsy. Boy with both sides firing light sabers and the capitals of all 50 United States. The disciplinarian versus the one who needs disciplinarians. The big sister with absolutely no concept of time who is never late walking the two of them to the little brother's early morning school bus. The six-inch medical file and the simple "NKA".
Mommy is somewhere in the middle. Coveting nothing from the universe, receiving everything it can offer. This is much better than I'd expected.
Erica (aka Fringes) writes on her Blog at 650miles.com. Before regaining her sanity, she wrote about her personal crazy. Now she writes about the three unconditional loves of her life. She wishes to God she were not so boring. Yes, insanity made her that much more interesting, but also more interested in knives and scissors. Boring, she freely admits, is good.
Story Index
Peace Starts
At Home by Rene Vernor
“Pick up the phone bitch.”
A male voice on the answering machine. While I try to sleep. Peacefully.
Wanting peace.
Wanting peace in the midst of chaos, in the midst of financial hardship, in the midst of
war poverty injustice inhumanity human suffering
“I will slit your throat”
I am suffering–
I don’t know that voice.
But, I know another voice
another voice
that utters
that same word.
Bitch.
Bitch
Bitch
Bitch is what some feminists say women
are
called when distinguishing self from doormat.
I am not a doormat.
I am not a bitch.
Bitch.
I read the personal files.
Of many domestic violence survivors.
bitch, slut, whore, fat, worthless, stupid cunt.
The women recount, the men recant.
I listen to their stories
While I think of my Own
Stories.
My own.
Father.
Shot to death.
By police.
In front of me.
I was almost four
he was 29.
I cannot seem to get over it.
Bitch.
I march for peace
in the midst of the madness.
I go to antiwar rallies
even though there is no peace at home.
Peace starts at home. They say.
I try and create peace in my home but it seems I only start more wars.
I conclude:
The easiest way to peace is through the absence of others.
He calls me the same names that the women in the shelter are called.
Bitch, whore, slut, fat cow, ugly pig, lazy cunt
Only
he is my son.
I think
what have I done to create this, to deserve this.
What could I do differently? What could I have done?
Its too late to change the past.
Insecure attachment, multi generational dysfunction, bipolar, sociopath,
conduct disorder, narcissistic child all caused from: overprotective mother, permissive mother, no father, selfish/ self absorbed mother/depressed mother a mother who is too strict, too this too that.
The experts say.
I am always too. Or not enough.
According to the experts.
my son,
The war in our family wages on--
similar to the wars in the world.
Holes
in the doors.
Holes
in the walls
I don’t put holes in things that the visible eye can see.
Rage consumes him.
He wants to fight
broken windows, tattered curtains, shattered dishes, destroyed art pieces
that he made
for me
when he was too young to wage war
against his own mother
my own home;
a war zone
Stop the war! the Irony!
If only the people
at the peace marches knew the truth
about my life.
I stop going to peace marches because it seems absurd.
How can I espouse peace in the world
when I cannot figure out how to create it in my own home?
He says he loves fighting.
He says he wants to join the army.
He says that he is going to drop out of school.
He thinks he is a gangster.
He thinks drug dealers are lucky
because they make more money selling drugs than his own mother
who does work she believes in
Even though it barely pays more than minimum wage.
He hates hippies, and idealists and feminists, too.
and I am a hippie (wannabe)
and an idealist. A feminist, too.
I want equality for all
I want to see a better world, to be a better self.
Next: he will be a conservative right winged republican
he says someday someone
is going to kill me
because I want peace
peace in the world
peace within myself
bitch, whore, slut, fat, lazy,
I want peace.
I want peace and quiet.
In the world,
in my home.
In my life
in my mind.
In my soul
I want to BE peace
instead,
I live and know violence.
I don’t like it ( Who would?)
it is true, that
My stepfather also died violently. He burned to death.
In a fire. Was in ICU two weeks before he died.
Third degree burns everywhere.
The previous two women
he was married to, barely escaped with their lives. He called them names, too.
Bitch, whore, slut, fat, crazy.
Some say that he deserved to die like that. For that.
Still some others say, an angry woman
started that fire.
And burned him to death.
More violence. Less peace.
I walk away.
My son wants to fight.
I say: fight with words.
That is what you do, not I, says he.
My son says that one of these days he is going to punch
punch me hard in the face.
He wants to knock me out. Knock me out cold
In some ways, I don’t blame him.
I am not a perfect mother.
Never was.
I am afraid of him now.
Reading books about juveniles who kill their mothers
does not help
me much.
Call the police, people say.
I see him in his orange jumpsuit,
in handcuffs, a belly chain,
I cannot call the police again.
The police are the enemy.
They are representatives of, represent the state
they beat, arrest, and tear gas people like me
during antiwar protests
the police killed my father.
the police are biased towards women, the poor, people of color, gays--
Bitch.
He says that his friends say that he should kill me. Because I am a snitch.
“You are so pitifully ugly, too “he adds
Men in the Teaching Men Non-Violent Solutions Class I facilitate say that even though
Men
won’t admit it, especially not
in a Court-Ordered Class
the truth for All Men is this:
men really want to slam
a woman
against the wall
when she Nags.
To shut her Up.
Silence the bitch. It is just a man’s truth.
“If she wouldn’t nag, we wouldn’t want to slam her against the wall.”
They say.
walls.
My walls are filled with holes.
My heart is filled with holes.
The world is full of holes.
I have many walls
Pick up the phone, Bitch.
I don’t pick up.
Probably the wrong number anyway.
Rene lives in the Midwest and is a single mother of one son, who still struggles.
Story Index
What to Expect When Your Mother’s Parenting is Not What You
Expected by Amanda
Every daughter’s relationship with her mother is special. I hoped that my relationship with my mom would have changed once I had a baby. Maybe she would treat me like an adult now, because living away from home for nine years, obtaining a Bachelors degree, a successful career, a marriage of four years, and buying my own home had not changed her attitude yet. To her I will always be the little blonde girl on her 10-speed bike. I shouldn’t have expected help from my mom given her past history in my life, but I hoped things would have changed when she saw me mother. They didn’t. She still patronizes me, gives guilt trips, and doesn’t physically help with her granddaughter.
I want to believe that my mom means well with her advice. It’s just that the delivery comes across so condescending. Her words make it seem as if I were an idiot with my new baby, Annabelle. “She needs socks. Where are her socks?” “Her feet are cold. She needs socks.” “Mom, it is 98 degrees outside. She is fine, Mom.” “She needs socks.” I mailed an 8x10 of my daughter’s beautiful studio Christmas photo. One of her first questions was, “Amanda, you are not destitute. Where are her socks and shoes?” I give up. I am so thankful for Robeez shoes, because she does not need socks to wear those shoes.
Breastfeeding became a source of criticism. “You don’t pump?” “You don’t give her any formula?” “You don’t give her a bottle?” “You have never given her water?” All questions I had to answer. I try to remember her frame of reference. Breastfeeding was not encouraged when she had her three children. I don’t think she would have gone through all of the trouble to nurse, even if it was encouraged.
I don’t expect my mom to listen even if I try to explain my decisions. I have tried to. She only replies with her advice. It isn’t not worth my energy to argue. What she knows is right and I will always be wrong.
She tried to explain to me one day that my daughter would be fussy a lot, because she is teething, even though she hadn’t seen her granddaughter in five months and does not know her temperament. I casually replied, “She is fine. Actually she is doing really well.” “No, Amanda, I have had three kids, including you. She will be fussy.” Thanks Mom for the encouraging words. I will listen to you from now on, because you are the Grand Poobah of parenting. My hospital offers a class for grandparents. The description of the class reads, “Times have changed since you have had a baby. Come and find out about new safety and parenting standards.” I wish my mom lived close enough to take the class. Maybe then, she'd learn something new and I would not have to be on the defense all the time.
My mother is a very generous person and she loves to give gifts, but she is also a shop-a-holic. I know she can’t always afford to give me the clothes and toys that she purchases. There is nothing I can do about her shopping habit, but I try my best to steer her in the direction of our actual needs. I exchange a lot of items, because our tastes are not the same. When I was pregnant, she asked me at least twenty times what my nursery theme was. It was really difficult to explain my modern Ikea nursery to her. Also, she tries her best to buy the right sizes in the right seasons, but she does not always hit the mark. Explaining why the pleather jacket is 6 months too big for my daughter is not easy. “It was the smallest one they had!” “I thought it looked small enough.” I appreciate my mother’s thoughtfulness and do my best to use what she gives me. I always try to put on her gifts on Annabelle when we visit.
We have only made the four-hour drive to my parents twice in the first 8 months of Annabelle’s life. The first visit was so bad, that we did not go back for another five months at Christmas. My mom had bought a crib, changing table, and nursery set. We felt compelled to stay at her house, because of the crib. Much to our chagrin, the crib also doubled as storage for dust-collecting stuffed animals in the same room with a large cockatiel birdcage. This was also going to be the first time that she did not sleep in the same room as us. Her room had a funny smell and a loud buzz from the air conditioner. Annabelle slept all right, but we decided to not give into the pressure next time and get a hotel for our second visit.
The second visit was much better, but some of my mother’s behaviors were still the same. She has never once offered to help change a diaper. We have to push Annabelle into her arms. Once Annabelle is there, she cries and fusses. She started crying really loud in my mother’s arms at a Christmas party while I was occupied across the room. My mother yelled for me to come get Annabelle. I knew my baby was fine and there wasn’t much I could do for her. I let her cry for a little bit. Then she yelled at me in front of everyone, “Amanda!" Come get her right now!” She also verbalized her offence that I kept wiping off every toy and item that my baby teethed with. There are three dogs and three cats in her tiled house. Maybe I was too paranoid about germs. I honestly don’t understand how my mom is interested about her granddaughter from a distance, but once she is in the room, she does not pay much attention to her. Her lack of enthusiasm with her granddaughter hurt my feelings.
I love my mom. I desire a mutual and understanding relationship with her. I want to be able to ask her for advice, but not at the expense of being treated like I am stupid. It is hard to let her words roll off my back, but I have to let them. I know I am a good parent, even though my mother has never said that I am.
Through my relationship with my mom, I have learned a lot about how to treat Annabelle when she has her own children. I hope that I can be understanding of her parenting choices and respect her as an adult. I don’t want to continue the cycle of guilt and control. I want to trust and listen to my daughter. My hope is that I can be a supportive grandparent in every way possible. All I can do is raise Annabelle the best I can and pray that she learned everything she needs to be a great mom. I know that she will learn what a great mom is from my example first.
From Amanda: I am the mother of my adorable combo-burrito daughter, Annabelle. She is 8 months old. I stay home with my daughter and help my husband with his web development business. I also created a parenting Blog with my friends called, The Mom Crowd. I am a graduate of The University of Texas at San Antonio with a Bachelors Degree in Human Resources Management. I worked for six years as a professional Human Resources Specialist for the U.S. Air Force. My husband and I train and take teams on mission trips. We love to travel the world and enter new cultures. Our daughter already has two stamps in her passport!
A Wild Ride announces a new feature this month. As I See It is designed for family members, friends, therapists, other professionals to share their suggestions in support of white-knuckled parents. Our first As I See It contribution is from our own Karen L. Alaniz.
Beyond the Schoolhouse Doors: Fostering a Community of Support
“Missy has never been invited to a birthday party.” Her mother said.
It wasn’t the response I expected. At parent-teacher conferences, I always asked the parent if there was anything they wanted to share with me about their child. Usually the response had something to do with a recent school project that their child had enjoyed or sometimes they’d share concern about their child’s progress in school. But I’d never had a parent offer something so…personal.
“Really?” I asked. “But she has so many friends at school.”
Missy had been my student for two years. Our small self-contained, multi-age classroom was more like a close knit family. Missy had an undiagnosed disability. She’d had all the tests and none of them resulted in a diagnosis. In academic areas, Missy was lacking but in social ones, she exceeded all expectations.
Missy was a perennial optimist who greeted everyone with a contagious smile. She was spunky, reminding others (even the principal) of our classroom rules and the consequences for breaking them. When she walked down the Junior High hallways, she smiled saying “Hi” to everyone and if someone didn’t respond she stopped and said it again. Missy didn’t know the meaning of the word clique; she treated everyone the same, from the jocks to the geeks and everyone in between.
“Even with her challenges,” her mother continued. “Missy’s teachers always reported that she had so many friends. She got along with everyone; it was the one thing she had going for her. But somehow that didn’t translate to friends outside of school. I just never thought that her life would be so…different.”
“In what way?” I asked.
“When her older sister was little,” she said. “Every time I turned around, she was going to a birthday party or a slumber party. And I just thought that’s the way it would be for Missy too. Her whole kindergarten year went by before I realized that she hadn’t been invited to a single party. It was the same in first grade and then second and then I just figured this is the way it is when you have a child with a disability.”
Tears formed in her eyes.
“What can we do about it?” I said thinking aloud.
“Nothing,” She said. “People are just the way they are. I can’t change them. Honestly, before I had Missy, I would have probably done the same thing. I was afraid of people with disabilities.”
“There has to be something we can do. Missy would love going to birthday parties. I can just picture her; all those kids and all that cake.” I said.
Her mother smiled.
“She would love it.” She said.
Before she left, we made a list of all the activities her mother wished her to be included in, all the things her typically developing peers enjoyed.
“I just wish I’d started this earlier, like when Missy was in first or second grade. Now it’s just so…hard.” She said.
And of course, she was right. We talked about what she could do to advocate for Missy. The most difficult part would be talking with parents of Missy’s peers. But as difficult as it was, there was a lot to gain. Missy would gain, not only some fun experiences, but also a group of people, a peer community, to care about her. And her mother would reap the same benefits.
Karen's strategies coming soon to our Blog.
Story IndexDivide and Conquer by Karen L. Alaniz
In our family, we have created many traditions over the years. But the one that is really special to me started when I was in Junior High. I learned how to bake sugar cookies, complete with festive frosting in my home economics class. And since no one in my family baked that kind of cookie, I baked them. And it caught on. Year after year, I’d roll, cut, bake and frost dozens of cookies. When my first child was about three she got to be mommy’s little helper; she learned to use the cookie cutters and how to space the cookies apart just so. But her favorite part was frosting the cookies. After baking them, I’d lay them out on wax paper and set out bowls of red, green and white frosting, along with a myriad of sprinkles to select from. When my second child was old enough, he joined us too. So when my third child, Zachary was born, I had the same dreams for him. Soon he’d join our happy little cookie factory.
But Zachary was different. He was very active and easily distracted. He was impulsive and loud. Zachary was just not cookie-baking material. It saddened me when I realized that he wouldn’t be able to join in on the tradition, but he just couldn’t sit still long enough. As much as he wanted to be a part of it, and as much as I wanted him to be a part of it, an over active child in a small kitchen working on a project that took hours to complete, just didn’t work.
When he was six, Zachary was finally diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and I realized that if I didn’t figure out ways to adapt, he would never be a part of our family activities. So when Christmas rolled around, I thought carefully about how to adapt our traditions for our very active child. And I started with the sugar cookies.
Taking a cue from the directions on the recipe, I adapted the way we made the cookies. The recipe said that after the dough was mixed, it should be put in the refrigerator for two hours. And that got me to thinking. What if I divided everything up that way? So that Christmas, for the first time, Zachary got to join us in our cookie-baking tradition.
We made the dough one day. The next day we used the cookie cutters to cut out the cookies and we baked them. Then we wrapped them tightly and put them in the freezer. A few weeks later and a few days before Christmas, we took them out and frosted them. Zachary was so excited to be a part of it all. And so was I. When divided up into small steps, not only was Zachary able to participate, but I too enjoyed the holiday tradition more.
Over the years, we have adapted many of our holiday traditions to meet Zachary’s needs. When we have guests over for Christmas, Zachary is too wound up to help much. So now we set the table the night before. He helps lay the tablecloth, set the table, and decorate the center of it. When we get our tree, we take a trip out to a farm to get it, and then we set it up and let it rest for the night. The next night we put the lights on it and the following night, the ornaments. Instead of long drives around town to look at the lights and decorations on houses, we take a few smaller trips. And when we take him shopping, we start in November and he buys one or two presents a trip. The same goes for wrapping; I keep a table set up in an unused room and he wraps a present here and there instead of in one steady and stressful session.
By adapting your holiday traditions, you can bring back the joy of the season. Your active child will enjoy being a part of it and you will have created a treasured memory for both of you. Traditions are the glue that holds a family together. When you honor the tradition, you honor each and every member of your family. And that is what being a family is all about.
On Purpose: Turning Deficits into Assets by Karen L. Alaniz
My husband and I joke that when Zachary is around other people, it is as if he drains all of the energy from each one of them and takes it for himself. He spins around the room, talking a mile-a-minute, his impulsiveness causing a whirlwind of chaos wherever he lands. The more people he is around, the tighter he is wound. So, as you can imagine, holiday get-togethers are beyond stressful. If it were just the holiday meal, Zachary would be ok. But the typical holiday meal begins and ends with a lot of down-time and Zachary doesn’t do down-time very well. Comfortable and relaxed time sharing stories with family and friends are the times that are most difficult for a child with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD).
One thing that we know helps Zachary to stay grounded at times like this is to have a purpose. A few years ago, when I was trying without success to take Zachary to the grocery store without having to leave because he was so out of control, I learned a key lesson. My mother was babysitting him while I worked half-days. One day, I commented about how I would like to take him to the grocery, just one time, and be able to actually get all the things on my list.
“We’ve been doing that for months,” my mother said.
She went on to explain her system. She started by making a list of three to five things she needed from the store. When they arrived at the store, she gave him the task of looking for certain things on the list. With his focus on finding the item, my mother was able to shop with him with very few problems.
My mom had just taught me something; for Zachary to be successful, he needed a purpose. Using my mother’s grocery shopping tips, I adapted for the holidays. Here are a few ideas to keep your challenging child happily busy during holiday get-togethers.
Waiter-for-a-Day – If dinner isn’t at your house, ask for the host’s permission prior to the big day. Take your child to a restaurant so he/she can see what a waiter does. Then practice at home. On the big day, your child can help the host bring food to the table, and seat the guests-pulling their chair out. You may even want to let your child wear something special that day, like a suit for a boy or a dress for a girl; the look is completed by placing a white dishtowel over his/her arm. Whether dessert is served at the dining table or in the comfort of the living room, your child can take orders and then serve each guest. When everyone is finishing up, he can pick up plates and napkins and ask, in his most waiterly voice, “Is there anything more I can get you?”
Memory Keeper – Give your child a camera to use, either yours or a disposable one. Before the dinner, talk to him about getting pictures of the entire day. Starting with guests arriving and ending when they leave, assign your child the task of making sure that the entire day is immortalized forever in living color. You might want to take a trip to the library and check out books on photography. Talk about the difference between posed and candid shots. Before anyone leaves, your child can ask that everyone gather for a group shot. At home, make a scrapbook and give it to the host or a guest of your choice.
Family Historian – Ask the host for permission to set up in a spare room. With a simple tape recorder, your child will be recording family history, one story at a time. Before and after dinner, he will invite guests to share their stories. With the tape recorder sitting close to the guest, he will say, “Tell me about your happiest holiday memory.” When each guest is finished, your child will take a picture of him or her, which can be used in a scrapbook later. At home, you can help him type up the stories on the word processor and pair them with the photo to make a scrapbook of holiday memories.
The holidays can be difficult for a child with ADHD. But this year, with a new purpose, your child will shine. Whether he is the waiter, the memory keeper, or the family historian, he will enjoy playing a part in the holiday festivities. You will be able to sit back and enjoy your family get-togethers and your child’s self-esteem will soar as he/she takes what is often seen as a deficit and makes it an asset.
A Con Straight Out of a Playbook by Gina Gallagher
If you’ve read our book, you know about our theory “No good can come from a school call.” Well, we’re just a few weeks into the school year, and we’ve both proven yet again that our theory is foolproof. To show that we’re in touch with the times, we would, however, like to expand it to the following:
“No good can come from a school call or email.”
Patty experienced this when she logged on to her email and found in the midst of Cialis ads, penis and breast enlargements, and other senseless SPAM, a note from her son Michael’s teacher, informing her that Michael had neglected to complete his 5th grade science homework.
The rational caring mother that she is, Patty approached her son.
“MIKEY, WHY DIDN”T YOU DO YOUR SCIENCE HOMEWORK?”
“Oh, I tried. I even asked Dad, but he couldn’t figure it out.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me?”
“Oh because you looked like you were busy and I didn’t want to bother you,” he said with puppy dog eyes.
This really got me thinking. Unlike my two daughters, my son never seems to worry about school. In fact, I’ve never seen him break a sweat about schoolwork or even utter the words, “I have to study for a test.”
Apparently, I’m not the only mother on the planet who has experienced this problem as I learned the other day when I met a mother who was picking up a child at football practice.
“Come on Jacob,” she called. “It’s time for me to take you home.”
“How old is your son?” I asked her.
“Oh, he’s not my son. He’s our neighbor. My son’s not at practice today. He didn’t do his Math homework, so I told him he couldn’t go to football practice.”
I was in complete admiration at this brilliant, but simple plan.
Then my son ran off the field and shouted, “Come on, Mom. We gotta get home. I have to study.”
I was thrilled that this incident had rubbed off on Michael.
“Great Mike,” I said. “It’s about time you got serious about your school work.”
“School work? Who said anything about school work? The coach