I have been under a lot of stress lately. Feeling like I am being pulled in a million directions. Struggling to catch up and feeling like I'm always falling short.
Last week I submitted my thesis - five years worth of my best writing and it was like this weight was lifted off of my shoulders.
But there was still mounds of laundry to get done. Stacks of unopened mail. Paperwork to fill out. And everywhere I looked there was something that needed to get done. So much stuff that I let pile up for so long.
Then the pressure of writing and deadlines. Writing for Babble & Parents are second and third jobs for me. So between working outside the home, writing at night, writing my thesis, taking care of The Boy it was only a matter of time before I snapped.
Well I snapped last Saturday. Big time. (The Husband and I may have gotten into a little tiff.) And I just needed to get out. Because sometimes you just need to get away from your husband and your kid and your home. Sometimes you just need to say: F--k doing laundry and dishes and groceries and responsibility.
As I was getting dressed The Boy asked, "Where are you going Mommy?" (I know!! Such an appropriate WH-question!!)
"Out." I said.
"You're going to the supermarket." The Boy said. It sounded more like demand.
"No. I am not going to the supermarket. I am just going out."
I kissed him goodbye and walked out the door.
I took the train downtown and had an amazing day with my best girlfriends. We had sangria and burgers and wine and nutella panini's. (What can I say, we have pretty sophisticated taste.) I took a picture with Captain Cragen (swoon). And I treated myself to a mani/pedi.
I needed that day. All moms deserve a day to run away from home.
When I returned hours later, The Husband told me that when I walked out the door The Boy said, "Mommy's going to Texas."
Apparently, the only places The Boy thinks I go is to the supermarket and Texas. I don't always have to run to the supermarket for solace and I don't have to go as far as Texas (nor do I want to) but sometimes a happy compromise and a day away from it all is good for the mom soul.
During my final semester as an undergrad student, I was sitting in my Greek Mythology class when a girl asked me for some of the answers on the 30 question study sheet the professor handed out the week before. She had the nerve to say, she didn't have time to answer them all.
Side note: During this time I was working full-time, applying to graduate and having The Boy evaluated for Early Intervention.
It had been the third time during the semester this girl had asked me for the answers to something. Which was annoying for many reasons but mainly because she had spent the first day of class bragging about how Greek Mythology was "her thing."
Now usually, I'm the nice girl in the class. Ready to share my notes or lend a pen. But this time I needed to put my foot down. And this is how our conversation went:
Needless to say, she never asked me for another answer for the remainder of the semester. I mean really - she compared babysitting to being a mom. A babysitter gets paid. A babysitter gets to go home at the end of her shift. A mom's shift never ends.
And last week I was in class and sitting between two women and the conversation turned to motherhood. Once again I'm the only one in the class with a young child.
And one woman said, "It's annoying when my mom friends tell me I don't know what it's like to be a mom just because I don't have kids."
The other woman said, "I know right! I mean, I can imagine. And I hate when they tell me that I live a selfish life."
While I said I wouldn't dare call any woman who didn't have kids "selfish," I politely agreed that you can never know what motherhood is like until you're actually a mom.
I don't think they appreciated that but it's true. Imagining life as a mom and being a mom are two completely different things.
Because you can't possibly imagine waking up in the middle of the night, night after night to calm a crying kid. You can't imagine the amount of preparation it takes to run out for a quick trip to the market. Or having someone puking, peeing or pooping on you and just shrugging it off as no big deal. Or how quickly your heart stops when you think something has happened to your kid.
And you can't imagine how good a hug can feel. Or how a smile can make your heart melt. Or the pride you feel when you see your kid do something for the first time.
But it's so much more than that. Motherhood changes a woman. At least it changed me. Before The Boy, I occasionally imagined what motherhood would be like too. I had all these ideas about the kind of mom I would be and how I would raise my kid.
Now I have a really good imagination. And I was wrong about almost everything.
Dear Ann,
We met on Saturday afternoon at the library. We were there for the puppet show workshop. You saw me with my six year old son.
You saw how my son threw himself on the floor, fingers jammed in his ears. You saw him crying. Struggling to get out of my grasp. You heard him spitting out words. To you, they probably didn't make any sense.
And then there was me. You saw how tired I looked. You saw me struggling with my sixty pound son. You saw me trying to pick my son up off the floor with my bag in hand and our coats tucked under my arm. You saw how how finally let it all drop on the floor and whispered in my son's ear trying to talk to him and get him out of the room. Maybe you sensed how helpless and overwhelmed I was. Maybe even saw the defeat in my eyes, how I was silently berating myself for not being better prepared to cope with a public meltdown.
You saw all of this without judgement. Without rolling your eyes or shaking your head. Without thinking that my son was being a brat. You saw all of this and simply asked, "How can I help you?"
Thank you for those five words I so seldom hear. Thank you for trying to understand and for looking beyond the behaviors others might find unacceptable.
I declined your help.* But please know I was so incredibly grateful for the offer. Please know how moved I was by your sincerity. Please know how thankful I was for your kindness.
And if you see another parent struggling with their child - I do hope you make the offer again. They may deny it but the offer itself will mean so much to them.
Sincerely,
Lisa
* I declined Ann's help but had I accepted her offer she could have helped with my bags and coats by either putting them someplace where they were off the floor and/or out of the way. Ann could carried my bag and coat downstairs. She could have gone downstairs to get us a few books or a cup of water. I should have taken Ann's help. Because there are moments when I simply cannot do it alone. And there is nothing wrong with accepting help. If there is ever an instance when a stranger offers to assist me again, I will take it.
While attending the BlogHer Healthminder session, I had the pleasure of meeting Kate Canterbury, who blogs at The Guavalicious Life . We chatted only briefly but she was funny and down to earth and she liked my dress (so obviously she has good taste).
I have mixed feelings about BlogHer, but attending the Health Minder session was one of my BlogHer highlights. I loved every panel I attended that day. (There were so many takeaways that I haven't had the chance to write about just yet it, give me time) But Kate Canterbury said something that has stayed with me.
During the "Blogging About Your Special Needs Child" panel session (you can read the full transcript here), Kate said: "I don't feel lucky to have special needs kids. It's extremely hard on our marriage. I think it's valid to share. But I don't want my kids to think they didn't love them. I don't want readers to think I don't like my kids."
And as soon as Kate said it - the room got really quiet. There were tears in my eyes as I nodded and when I looked up, I noticed there were many women with tears in their eyes nodding their heads.
Kate had the courage to say - out loud - something so many of us keep tucked away in the back of our minds. Because we are scared.
Scared of what people will think about us. Scared of what people will think about our kids. And scared because people are quick to point, fast to talk and yet so slow to understand.
I love The Boy. My family and friends who know me beyond the blog, know I love The Boy. And I hope, if you've been reading me for a while you know it too.
And I can assure you, I do not want to cure The Boy of anything.
But that doesn't mean that our life is easy. That raising a child with autism isn't the hardest thing I've ever done. Or that I don't get sad or mad or frustrated.
I may be a mom, but I am allowed to have feelings - all of them.
And some days, I don't feel so lucky that my kid has special needs.
I don't feel lucky when I'm up all night worrying about IEP meetings.
I don't feel lucky when my heart aches seeing 6 year old boys whizzing by on their bikes, calling out taunts to their pals.
I don't feel lucky that I had sue the Department of Education just to get an appropriate education for The Boy.
I don't feel lucky spending thousands of dollars on therapies instead of softball, karate or soccer.
I don't feel lucky that the closest appropriate school is twenty two miles away from home.
I don't feel lucky when I have to turn down invitations because I know it's something The Boy can't handle.
I don't feel lucky asking The Boy questions and he isn't able to answer.
I don't feel lucky that date nights with The Husband are few and far between because there aren't many people we trust to stay with The Boy.
And I don't feel lucky that the thought of out living The Boy by a day, doesn't seem so bad.
Just as autism is a spectrum, autism parents experience a spectrum of emotions.
And maybe none of my feelings make sense. But you know what? The fact that I have to fight for insurance coverage, school placement and therapies - doesn't make much sense to me, but I go with it.
But even on those days when I'm not feeling so lucky - I am lucky it's a fleeting feeling. Because most days, I feel like the luckiest mom in the world to have a boy as sweet as mine.
I've been up since 4 am. Not by choice. That's the time The Boy woke up.
By 5 am, I was up and out of bed. Threw a load of laundry in the washing machine. Laced up my running sneakers and headed out the door. (On Day 4 of excercising)
By 6 am, I was half dressed and packing up The Boy's bookbag for his first day at a new school.
And by 7 am, The Boy's school bus pulled up in front of our building. I introduced myself to the new driver and matron. The Boy jumped on the school without looking back or a goodbye kiss. But The Husband and I called his name and we got the goodbye kisses we needed.
Walking back up to our building, I started to cry. I know, I know - I'm a cry baby.
Norrin has been taking the school bus since he was a baby - barely 3 years old. He's been taking the bus since before he could even talk and while he was still in diapers.
This is the 3rd school he's been bussed to in the last four 4 years.
You would think I'd be used to it by now. But it doesn't get easier. Handing your child over to a stranger for the first time. And this new school is the farthest The Boy's ever been.
Don't get me wrong - I LOVE the new school. I'm so happy he's there. It's the right place for him to be.
It was just never the place I expected him to be.
When The Boy was diagnosed with autism 4 years ago and we started the therapies - I remember The Husband telling me, "This is just to get him up to speed. By the time kindergarten starts - he'll be able to go to a regular school."
Because for many parents that's the goal. Mainstream education. It's the dream.
I think there was this tiny part of me that wanted to believe that.
That's the thing about life down the autism rabbit hole. You can make peace with it, embrace it but accept it? Acceptance is not a one shot deal, it's an on going process. There will always be something new to accept.
The Boy's kindergarten year came and went. And the fact is, he couldn't cope in a typical public school. Even in a classroom of 6 kids. Even with all the accommodations. Even with the after school ABA therapists coming to the house 4 days a week. Even with sensory gym on Saturdays. The Boy still couldn't truly be successful in a 'regular' public school. Granted The Boy was set up for failure but this last year was a huge eye opener for me.
So this morning as I waited next to a mother with her 13 year old son - who was also waiting for his yellow mini bus to appear - I realized that The Boy may never go to a school within walking distance.
The Boy may be 13, 14, 15 years old and will still need me to wait with him for the mini bus to pick him up. The Boys new school goes to 21 - he will probably be there until that age. The Boy will probably never have a mainstream education. I have to just let that dream go. I'm okay with it. At the end of the day, all I want is for The Boy to be in a place where he can be happy and accepted for what he can do. I know The Boy's education is about goals not grades.
And I also know there are plenty of new dreams to be had.
Sike: a slang term (correctly, "psych") that was big in the 1990s. It's similar in usage to adding "not" to the end of a statement that's meant to be either sarcastic, a joke, or both.
On Friday I came home from work and opened The Boy's book bag. In it, was a dog tag like chain "Student of the Month."
I stared at it for a while - amazed. Proud. And even a little hopeful. It was the perfect Mother's Day gift.
There are only 7 kids in The Boy's kindergarten class. (Even though, it's supposed to be a 6:1:2). May is the 8th month of the school year. And yet, The Boy has never been student of the month.
Is it me? Or does that seem messed up?
So when I saw the Student of the Month dog tag, I was all like - it's about damn time!
I asked The Boy about it. He said it was a "student of the month ring." I gave him a big kiss and a hug.
Every day I tell The Boy that he's a smart kid and that he knows his stuff. I was happy that his teacher was finally looking beyond the behaviors and diagnosis and seeing him for the bright kid he is.
Because in spite of everything, The Boy has come such a long way this year. He's talking so much, reads above age level and has been asking questions and wanting to make the social connection.
A few weeks ago, we had a play date with the little girl in his class. And ever since that day, he's asking about her. Asking if she'll come to his room and play. And The Boy's been asking for other kids in his class to come over. He's never done that before.
And then yesterday, The Husband broke the news in the dairy section (he met me at the supermarket). He said he listened to the messages. The Boy's bus driver called - apparently, the student of the month chain belonged to another kid on the bus. He dropped it and The Boy picked it up. The bus driver asked if we could return it on Monday to the real Student of the Month.
I'll be honest, the news put a serious damper on my Mother's Day. I went home and sulked on the sofa. Again, wondering - there are 7 kids in the class, May is the 8th month of the school year and still The Boy has not been student of the month. I mean, it's kindergarten. And there are only 7 freaking kids. Shouldn't everyone get a turn?
A few people tried to console me by saying - It's okay, The Boy doesn't know the difference.
But what if he does?
I read Carly's Voice - the book about the non verbal autistic girl who started communicating by typing. When she started typing as communication - her family realized that Carly had understood everything that had been happening.
What if that's the same with The Boy?
It's hard to know just how much The Boy knows. But I do know he's a lot smarter than the folks at his school give him credit for.
And in writing this I realize, that The Boy doesn't need a chain as recognition of his progress. I see it everyday. And we celebrate it.
You've seen it by now. The Time magazine cover that has every one's bra straps in a pinch. We all have our own opinions. Our judgements. Our snide remarks about the mother, the child and the boob that's hanging out.
Quite honestly, I don't care about the cover. Well - that's not true. I don't care about the picture. Because, guess what? Not me. Not my kid. And not my boob. (I'm secretly jealous of her perky 26 year old boob and the size of her skinny jeans and the flatness of her tummy. I am hoping that it's all photo shopped and that she's as saggy and flabby as me.)
It's the caption I care about.
Are You Mom Enough?
This photo went viral just a few days before Mother's Day. At a time when we should be celebrating the joy of motherhood and appreciating all the hardworking, caring, nurturing mothers - we're being pitted against one another.
Everyone is talking about the picture and breastfeeding. Very little is being said about the actual article. The mom on the cover is only a blurb in the six page feature. The article focuses on Dr. Bill Sears, his wife, Martha (authors of The Baby Book) and the philosophy of attachment parenting.
What's attachment parenting? Well, it involves the following: breast feeding, co-sleeping, walking around with your baby in a sling and the belief that no infant should be left to cry because every little whimper is a cry for help.
"Attachment parenting says that the more time babies spend in their mothers' arms, the better the chances they will turn out to well-adjusted children." (Kate Pickert, Time)
Breast feeding wasn't for me
Seconds after I gave birth to The Boy, the nurse asked if I wanted to breast feed. I was open to it. But it was difficult - physically and emotionally. The Boy wouldn't latch on. The nurses came in and worked with me, but once I went home - I was on my own. I was a new mom, uncertain of what I was doing. At 2 am - The Boy was crying hysterically. And I couldn't do it. I sat there, rocking in the glider, The Boy in my arms trying to breast feed. I was crying - feeling like the biggest mother failure - because he wasn't latching on. The Boy's face was red from frustration and hunger. Finally I yelled out to The Husband to get the bottle. I am sure there are women who will say I didn't try hard enough. I know - I tried.
Two weeks later, I became engorged. And it was painful. If you've never been engorged. (Slip two big rocks in your bra and try to lay down on your stomach.) I had to go out and buy a pump. I sat on my sofa for two hours pumping milk out like I was a cow. You know what I got? Three measly ounces of milk. After that - The Boy got formula. Momma closed up the milk shop.
Welcome to reality
As a mother, I understand the philosophy behind attachment parenting and why some mothers would choose to follow it. But it's not the reality for everyone. Most of the moms I know - work. Not by choice. By necessity. I work. Not only because I really need to work and make money, I also want to. But that's for another blog post. (I'll be sharing that with Carla in the next few weeks.)
Attachment parenting especially isn't a reality for urban working class families or for the single mom. And as a mom who works full time outside of the home and as a college student - I know I'm not alone. Many of my classmates are also working (outside of the home) moms. Again, not by choice. By necessity. We sacrifice our time in order to make our child's life easier.
...the arguments for and against attachment parenting mirror questions about family and work that still divide America five decades after the advent of modern feminism, when nearly half the U.S. workforce is made up of women. (Kate Pickert, Time Magazine
Based on the article, Dr. Sears has a skewed sense of reality. Dr. Sears "encourages mothers to start home businesses" rather than rejoining the workforce. Dr. Sears also suggests "mothers quit their jobs and borrow money to make up the difference." Dr. and Mrs. Sears "subsidized their sons' wives so they could stay home with the Sears grandchildren."
For the secretary, the receptionist or blue collar worker - how will this work? What home business can they start? (You really can't start a business without money.) Who are they borrowing money from? Not every family/mother has these options. Or maybe - they don't want them.
And not every mother has the privilege of a flexible work arrangement. Where I work, many executives have the option to work from home. After The Boy was diagnosed, I asked if working from home could be an option. I was told that my job - as a secretary - could not be performed from home. And while some flexibility was allowed to accommodate our family needs - I work my full 35 to 40 hours. Not to mention commute time - about 10 hours a week.
For the single mom - what about medical insurance? Who will supplement her income - if the father decides he wants to skip town or be a dead beat? Should welfare be an option so that she can stay home with her baby and follow the attachment parenting approach? If that started happening, I know people would be up in arms about that.
These are not the days of Archie Bunker - where a single income blue collar worker can purchase a house in Queens (New York), support his family and send his child to college.
Different. Not Less.
Temple Grandin's mother, Eustacia Cutler, described her daughter as different, not less. The same term can be applied to mothers. I work outside of the home, I didn't breastfeed but I co-sleep - though not by choice, its the only way I'll get some sleep. I am different. Not less.
And just because a mother stays home and adopts the attachment parenting philosophy - that makes her different. Not more.
Here's a novel idea!
Do what works for you and your family. GASP! I know, I know - sounds a little radical. But if you don't want to take my word for it. Listen to these guys:
"Trust [your] instincts...'You know more than you think you do.'" ~ Dr. Spock.
"Do the best you can with the resources you have." ~ Dr. Sears
These would have been great sentiments for Mother's Day. Though I suppose, it's not the sentiment that will sell magazines.
If breast feeding a three year old, works for Jamie Lynn Grumet (the mother on Time Magazine) - good for her. And if you know breast feeding a three year old isn't going to work for you. Don't do it.
As a special needs mom, I talk a lot about acceptance. But I can't be selective about my acceptance - especially when it comes to parenting styles. That would make me a hypocrite. So as long as a child isn't put in any physical danger - who the hell am I to judge?
Am I Mom Enough?
Not a day goes by where I think to myself - am I doing enough for my child? And I know many moms - whether they stay at home with their kids or work outside of the home ask themselves the same question. In a recent Huffington Post article, Erin Smith writes:
There are all types of mothers out there; working mothers, stay at home mothers, mothers that work part time -- all sorts of arrangements. With all their differences, I'd venture to say that at least one common thread exists among them: they all have some level of guilt.
Chances are if you are feeling some kind guilt, if you are questioning "Am I Mom enough?" - the answer is probably YES. You are mom enough.
And as mothers - don't we teach our children to do their best. If they do their very best, then that's all that matters.
The same should apply to us.
(I'm running out to enjoy my Mother's Day weekend - if there are any typos - forgive me, I'll revise later.)
