The In-Between

This past weekend my husband and I took our brood to a local reservoir that had paved walking trails. When you have to push two double strollers it's sort of a must have. Our four youngest (3 years, 2 years and the twins, 9 months) were along for the ride while our 4 year old got to be the big boy and walk.

I was watching him run with his big feet and skinny legs, his baseball cap was all crooked and I could see his sweaty hair poking out the back of it. He was being goofy and running with his arms up screaming "weeeeeee!" like you would on a roller coaster. He stopped to watch (and try to grab) a lizard that scurried across the path. He greeted all the passersby and was so uninhibited in every action. It was this total carefree play that reminded me that he is still so young.  He looked so small running out there in front of us. For a moment everything around us suddenly dwarfed him: such a little person in such a big world! 

We also visited what will be his elementary school for a brief meeting with the kindergarten staff to gauge his skill level and get a feel for anything we might need to practice this summer. Seeing him walk through the library and little classrooms made my heart simultaneously light and heavy. He is in this delicate in-between that I can sense is so fleeting. The last vestiges of toddler are ebbing away and he is growing into true boyhood. He will be taking bigger steps out of the world of women he's been raised in. Myself, Moms Groups, Preschool: it's all safe, planned and fairly protected.

What sort of twisted game is this whole parenting thing? We raise our children to walk away, to go out into the world and live their own lives. But man is it hard to let go sometimes. How can our children seem so big and so little at the same time? I look into his eyes and see those same baby blues that melted my heart from day one. It's scary to be constantly falling deeper and deeper in love with my children. It's like this ultimate and unending vulnerability and that's pretty damn unnerving sometimes.

I don't want to paint the wrong picture here, I am really excited for everything that's ahead of us. He is our oldest and has the distinct honor of having the first firsts for us, his parents. I so much look forward to watching him grow, learn and become the person he is going to be. There are so many wonderful times ahead. But he is only going to be asking me to play cars with him for a few more short years. He won't always ask for more kisses before bounding away. He will soon be taller than me and lock the bathroom door. He will want to spend more time with friends than me. And that's how it's supposed to be, if I'm doing my job right.

And so while his leg rolls and knuckle dimples are long gone, I see this kind, intelligent, silly, loving boy who is going to continue to show me the world through his eyes. He will keep me young at heart and always make me smile. I will enjoy this one-way ticket soak up all that I can. All the cuddles and battles and phases are part of this ride and as we pass through this flitting in-between, I will get in as many snuggles and extra kisses as I can.

Some Big Emotions

Control is such an illusion; I cling to it nevertheless. But as a friend's 4 year old daughter is fighting kidney cancer, another mom friend of mine is fighting breast cancer, and then the bombings at the Boston Marathon, I'm overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness; a feeling that pervaded my childhood. I am trying to be a mother to 5 little children AND cope with some hefty baggage. This combination does not a nice mommy make.

I guess I should pat myself on the back for (finally) realizing this. I am usually oblivious to the connections between my adult struggles and the wounds from my past. My hallmark reactions when negative emotions start to surface or I don't take time to deal with my baggage are irritability and control-freakishness. Everything annoys me and my temper is short. I micromanage everything and everyone around me in a futile attempt to restore balance. It's not a pretty sight and I'm not a very nice person in the midst of this. It's incredibly difficult to snap out of it.

Today I failed miserably at stuffing those feelings back behind the wall they're usually behind. I kept trying to ignore the rising wave of sadness that needed to break and instead ended up yelling at my boys and not being able to enjoy any of my babies. That makes me angry and frustrated with myself. So here I am at the end of the day with all these spectacularly powerful emotions swirling around and I have to figure out what to deal with first.

Helplessness: I watched my mother struggle through cancer and the poisonous chemotherapy rounds that made her sick. I watched one of my brothers conquer a serious drug and alcohol addiction. I fought my own battle with depression. All of this 'bad' in addition to other circumstances has solidified my fight or flight response as always be prepared for the worst. I constantly grapple with the false sense of control I get when I feel prepared. Prepared for a child's meltdown, prepared for a flat tire, prepared for an earthquake - anything. My husband can attest to the fact that I almost always have an extra of (fill-in-the-blank) for 'just in case.'

It's times like these, when so much inexplicable struggle and loss pile up that a part of each of us feels the sting of a memory where a piece of our childhood innocence evaporated. The weight of being an adult, especially a parent, in a world that sometimes seems like it's falling to pieces is crushing. I personally have to find a way to let my feelings quickly crest and then ebb so they don't brew and corrupt my life.

Tonight I crept into each of my baby's rooms and watched them sleep for a few moments. It's amazing to me that their actions can sometimes send me through the roof but they themselves are so grounding. I always say I am their rock, their constant. But the truth is they are my little rocks, my anchors to reality and keep me sane. I owe it to them to be the best I can be, every day. I am human and certainly not perfect, but my choice not to let my own brand of crazy tarnish our relationship is a promise I have to keep.

Tank

I'd like to preface this post with saying that I feel incredibly fortunate to have five healthy children whose struggles are minimal compared to others. I realize that there are children and families battling cancer, terminal illnesses and far worse situations than ours. I just need to vent about my life with a child who may or may not be autistic.

Our second son, who I'll call Tank, confuses the hell out of us. He is amazing: off the charts affectionate, super silly, very bright, focused, intense, stubborn, and über emotional. There are moments every day where I say to myself, there's no way he's autistic. Then five minutes later while he's repeating the same movie quote over and over (delayed echolalia) while running back and forth in the playroom where I think he's definitely on the spectrum.

Tank has no official medical diagnosis and for us there is no need for one at this time. He's receiving all the services he needs without one. If the time comes when he's older and his speech is finally (if ever) caught up where we need a label for treatment purposes, then we'll proceed with making all the necessary appointments. Personally, I feel that his speech delay presents in a way that makes it difficult to properly evaluate him. Plus he's SO inconsistent with everything that it's hard to fit him into any diagnosis. I suppose I should give just a bit of background so it's clear where we're coming from.

At 18 months we had Tank evaluated for a speech delay. He was SO frustrated and only had about 4-5 words. He all but refused to sign back to us and didn't sit still long enough for us to work with him on language. Our family life suffered because of his behavior. I should also mention we had our third son when Tank was just 16 months old. We could hardly take Tank anywhere because he would throw a fit or need to run or just scream and cry. If we did venture out I would wear him in a carrier on my back and would have to have pounds of snacks for him for distraction. We flew cross-country with our three boys and gave the older two lollipops to keep them calm. Tank ate a whole bag of Dum Dums and came off the plane looking like a glazed ham he was so sticky!

Tank qualified for not only two hours of in-home speech therapy a week but also for one hour in-home with an occupational therapist for a fine motor skill delay. At 20 months he began his work and after only a couple of months had enough language to get his basic needs met. He could ask for and sign for food and water, ask to go outside, ask to be held - the basics. Thanks to his occupational therapist he was sitting still long enough to make a few scribbles on paper, sort blocks in a shape sorter and feed himself using utensils.

Six months into therapy his OT suggested we started him on a Listening Therapy program. Tank would wear two-way headphones and listen to "modified music" for 30 minutes twice a day. In very simple terms the idea behind the Listening Therapy is that it "re-wires' their brain. My husband liked to say we were re installing his OS. For Tank, it was AMAZING and helped forge huge language capabilities and helped with his sensory seeking behaviors.

We decided to also throw in some weekly sessions with a behavioral therapist. By the time he was
2 1/2, I was in major therapy burn out (not to mention pregnant with twins...). We were up to 14 hours per week of therapy sessions (7 hours were Listening Therapy which I was responsible for). We decided to drop the behavior sessions (3 hour sessions, twice a week!) because we randomly had had too many changes in therapists (one quit, one retired and another was filling in for our "regular" because she was on vacation). That's not typical and I do want to mention that each behaviorist was wonderful but part of the behavior therapy is consistency which we obviously didn't have.

So, we continued with speech and OT and completed the Listening Therapy program until he turned three. Our Early Intervention services ceased and we transitioned into the Benicia Unified School District Special Education Program. Our little man was observed, I filled out a nice big stack of forms and surveys for the school psychologist, occupational therapist, speech therapist and Special Day Class (SDC) teacher. He of course qualified for the program and we developed an IEP (Individualized Education Plan). He is in an amazing preschool class with seven other children, two aides and a marvelous teacher. The whole program is designed for children with delays similar to his and is very speech heavy. He gets OT once a week and speech therapy as well.

Tank even rides the short bus to school. Yes, the short bus that I'm sure all of us have made fun of at some point in our lives. That's my baby boy on there now. And I'm kind of sad about that.

And here I come to the point of this post. Sometimes I am really sad about having a child who isn't "normal." And then I feel guilty for being so negative, and then I feel like an awful, selfish mother who doesn't appreciate her own child, and then I feel guilty again for thinking I have it so bad when in fact I have this loving, energetic healthy boy. You get the idea: it's a total emotional roller coaster, every day, all the time.

It is hard. It's hard having a child who struggles. It's hard on so many levels. Sometimes it still feels like he's a baby and I'm just meeting his basic needs. Sometimes I see Tank's little brother surpassing him in abilities. It's hard. It's hard to explain to his older brother why it's not okay for him to do ______ (fill-in-the-blank) but Tank can. It's hard not being able to do some things all together as a family because Tank cannot handle ______ (again, fill-in-the-blank). It's hard not knowing how Tank will be in 1, 2, 5 years. Will he have any friends? Will he get picked on? Will he always need such intense assistance? Will anyone ever fall in love with him? And as his mother, what the heck am I supposed to do?! The fear can become so suffocating.

I can't look forward like that with Tank. I have to focus on the here and now and look at how much amazing progress he's made. Did I ever think he would be able to sit at the dinner table and eat with us? No, but he does! Did I ever think I would be able to ask him to look at the camera, smile and say "cheeeese?" No, but he does! I'm hopeful that six months, a year, two years from now there will be even more achievements and that he will continue to grow and surprise us. Tank's brothers and sisters get to be exposed to someone who is different from them. They get to grow up learning early about differences and abilities and how to be kind to everyone.

Tank has been given to us for a reason. He is our son on purpose. I've learned so much about myself from each of my children, but especially him. I've become a more intense fighter and defender. I've learned that despite all the constant doubt and second guessing, I need to trust myself. He is an incredible little being who has been entrusted to our family. Whatever challenges he has in this life, we will all be right there with him.

So when you see Tank out with me next time, I want you to know that he's not dumb, stupid, "off" or weird. He's my special little guy who sees the world differently and can teach you how to see it differently too.

The Fine Lines

I recently became fascinated with the fine lines making their home around my eyes. Every time I look in the mirror I smile so I can see them better. I smile because I actually like them. I feel lucky to have them.

My mother passed away when she was 44. The image of her at that age is frozen in my mind: forever young, in a way. I'm almost 31, 13 years away from the big 44, but I know how quickly time passes and I will reach that milestone quicker than I expected. It will be emotional, I'm sure, to pass the age my mother never did. To see my children graduate from high school, get married, become a grandmother.

I think we lose sight of what a gift aging is: how full and exciting each year can be. Instead we seem to be in a cultural rut of obsessing youth. Sure I had a firmer body when I was 20 and no gray hairs or wrinkles, but my insecurities made it impossible to appreciate and enjoy being young. I'm more comfortable in my own body now and we have a good relationship. It's done some pretty cool things the last few years.

I'll admit I still have a sliver of vanity and don't like everything about my body - could really do without the muffin top - thankyouverymuch. I wear make up and exercise to keep my body strong. But when it comes to the hallmarks of aging like wrinkles and gray hairs, I feel honored to be able to have them. There are so many people who never made it to 31, who won't make it to 44.

I will show my sons and daughters how to cherish each day, how to love their bodies and appreciate change around them - and within them. Hopefully they will learn to enjoy their evolving selves. 

I gladly welcome the wiry gray hairs and crows feet. They're my badge of honor from Mother Nature. They are the timeline of my life and the echo of my smile. I will age proudly and with grace and know that my beauty lies in the memories behind my eyes, not the wrinkles around them.

The Daily Shirt

Everyone's familiar with the classic Mom cliché of used Kleenex in the pocket, enough crumbs in the minivan that a family of four could survive for a week on, or the mom who licks her thumb then wipes her kid's face. But an even more wonderful thing is the shirt worn my a mom at the end of the day. The collection of spots, stains, snot streaks and sneaker marks around the hips truly depicts Her life. The Daily Shirt as we call it in our house.


As babies, two of my three boys spit up after every single feeding (for us that was at least a dozen times a day). Now as toddlers and preschoolers they are sticky and play in the dirt and there's always someone with a runny nose: I think I would go nuts worrying about keeping myself totally clean. It's sort of sweet that by the end of the day we all match in our level of clothing grubbiness.


We mothers become washable: those Dry Clean Only clothes get pushed back to the back of the closet and only come out when we're literally walking out the door for our monthly date night with our spouse. Every item of clothing I regularly wear is somehow faulty: there are hidden holes, stains, it's permanently stretched in a funny way.... All the pictures of the kids' birthdays or outings we take I'm in the same nine outfits it seems. Although I spend hours on Pinterest pinning lovely trendy clothing and hairstyles, I know that the ease of my cotton t-shirts and jeans and flip flops works for me.


I admire those Mothers who have the fashion part of their life together and it's not my intent at all to make their efforts to keep that part of their pre-child identity alive. I suppose I never really had my own style down before I had kids, then I was (and am again) in maternity clothes. If you want to be truly stylish in maternity clothes be prepared to fork over some serious cash. I hear from those moms who spent the $200 on maternity jeans that it was totally worth it. I just can't justify that especially since those $200 jeans on me would be stained within a week!

I sometimes even go so far as to match our shirt colors to what I know I'll be eating or doing that day. When we go berry picking in the summer you'll see my whole family in navy blue shirts. We have a lot of brown pants to match all the dirt we collect. The only white my kids have ever really worn was their baptismal gown and it was put on at the last possible moment then covered with a huge bib until we had to hand them over to the Reverend. I do wear black often but I do it knowing that the day will be mapped out in the form of nose wipes on my shoulder and crusty fingerprints in various "designs."

And tonight, as I sorted the last 48 hours of laundry to be washed I found myself smiling: "Oh yeah, we had watermelon outside on Friday with lunch" and thinking about how my youngest always pulls my shirt collar when he's on my hip so that all my shirts are lopsided on the left. Those are the little stories from my days with my boys that make me smile. 


So, on behalf of those parents who end up as marked as their kid(s) by the end of the day, please admire us for our smiles and laughter and just go by the old saying, "Never judge a book by it's cover."

On being a Motherless Mother

One of the identifying moments in my life was the death of my mother when I was 12. This June will mark the 18th year I've lived without her. The last few years have been a whirlwind of having babies and moving around the country; it's been difficult to devote the necessary time and energy into unraveling all these emotions are simmering just below the surface.

This year is different: we're not moving any time soon (whew!) and this is my last pregnancy. And it's twins - twin girls. I have three amazing little boys and for the first half of this doubly-blessed pregnancy I was certain we were having two more little men. Two little ladies changes everything. My vision of our family was me, my husband and five boys. I had fallen in love with that idea. Now I get to fall in love with what my actual family is going to be. How awesome is it that I get to have three boys AND twin girls?! I can't express how truly blessed I feel. I am still just in shock about it. I keep waiting for the bad news - for the other shoe to drop. No one can be this fortunate, right???

Perhaps it's the lovely extra hormones or everything else going on in our lives, but the fact that my mother isn't around is hitting me harder than it has in any of my past pregnancies. I need someone to care for me the way I care for my children. The amazing mother-in-law, husband and friends I have just aren't completely cutting it this time. I can't yet place my finger on why and that makes me feel even more guilty. I'm good at feeling guilty - I've actually perfected it in my own special way.

It's never been totally natural for me to want to break down those thick emotional walls that have helped me to survive post-mom in an emotionally abusive household with a chronically ill step-father, drug-addicted siblings and a little sister six years my junior to help raise. I grew up fast to say the least. The thought of unlocking all those powerful memories literally scares the crap out of me so I keep my distance. But the insecurities are embedded in me and are leaking into my marriage and mothering big time. I'm sure I could keep a psychiatrist in practice for years unpacking and organizing my baggage. Alas, with three little kids and two more on the way, those appointments will have to wait.

I guess I would just like to say to all those other Motherless Mothers out there that you're not alone in your stormy sea of feelings. There are other ships out there riding the waves alongside you. If we can just catch a glimpse of each other's lights from time to time, perhaps we can get through the worst of it together.

Shockingly, we're not Mormon

My husband and I were wondering when it would happen; when someone would ask us if we're Mormon. It was a friend's husband at a kids' birthday party. To his credit though, he grew up around a lot of Mormon families so it was a seemingly innocent question in his mind.

I guess surprisingly, we're not; we're Episcopal actually. Our decision to have a large family isn't based at all off our spiritual beliefs. We just happen to both be super-fertile. Something that we feel very fortunate about. With all the assumptions people make when you have a large family, I guess this is just another question I should expect.

Just so we're all clear about my family's motives about having lots of kids - since it's not at all a personal question....