Personal History (Part One)

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My father is putting together an “ancestor book” and has asked everyone in the family to write a little bit about themselves and their life to date. So of course as the only blogger in the family, I am also the LAST to actually write anything.

Isn’t that always the way?

Actually I find this very difficult since “brief overview” has never been my thing. Four pages in, I realized that I hadn’t even made it to Kindergarten!

I have been working on it though, and thought it might be fun (i.e. it might provide me with some much needed blog content) if I posted installments of it here.

So here is an intro of sorts:

My earliest memory is a family picture taken when I was about nine months old. Or at least, I had a memory – then saw a picture and made the connection. In my memory, I was in a good place (my mother’s lap). Then I was moved somewhere else (a grandfather’s lap), and that was no good. I cried. There was a flash.

My mother confirmed the sequence of events when I asked. So I know this must be true. And I like the idea of knowing what it felt like to be a baby. Pre-verbal memories are like dreams – everything comes in sensory flashes…no words or perception of what anyone else could be thinking. Just undiluted personal experience.

I think about this memory sometimes and marvel over the rare opportunity it offers. I actually have some insight into what goes on in the minds of babies! Apparently, babies prefer to be with their mothers. I know this first hand!

Okay – so maybe my pre-verbal memory doesn’t really provide any useful information… But it’s pretty cool, right?

I remember a lot from my childhood (which makes the exercise of writing a personal history less than 3,000 pages long a bit daunting…) But this is most likely because I was always an observer.

You know those fearless kids who hurtle into life, head first? Yeah – that wasn’t me. I was more of a watch-consider-decide that doesn’t look like a good idea kind of girl. One drawback to this attitude is that I often let my cautious nature get in the way of having fun. But on the upside, I grew up with astonishingly few scars.

Since a blow by blow of the last 40 years I’ve been on earth doesn’t seem possible, I’ll just try to cover the interesting stuff.

Cliffhanger right?! Don’t worry – I’ll be back in a couple of days with more!

In the meantime – here is a picture of balloons that were released in honor of Jack Donaldson’s birthday today. It was quite a site – all of those balloons. I brought Oliver and Eleanor with me (George was doing something with Chris), and while Eleanor was happy enough to send her balloon off into the great beyond, Oliver found the whole thing incredibly disturbing. He cried and kept saying “I want them down – I want them back down!” And I can’t say that I blame him. As lovely as the floating balloons were. I didn’t like seeing them disappear either. It was a fitting sentiment: No matter how beautiful the ascent, I wish they could have stayed…

Sound Byte: For Real

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As expected – I’ve been spending all of my brief moments for writing on Listen to Your Mother planning… So this week, I’ll have to keep it simple with a quote.

This is by far my favorite thing I’ve heard anyone say in a long time.

Overheard bit of conversation (no idea what it was about):

Eleanor: You’re lying…

George: I am NOT lying! I am very true… And real.

Stay gold Ponyboy.

Have a great weekend!

I’m Shy Every Day

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There is a little girl in the twins’ preschool class who takes my breath away with her familiarity. A solemn eyed four year old who simultaneously charms me and breaks my heart. Because she reminds me so much of myself.

Amy is very quiet. And when I’m working there, manning a craft table, it seems there are never enough friendly questions to elicit more than five words in response from her. I know this because I’ve tried.

I always try. And how can I not? When I can look into her brown eyes, I see the world in there. She takes everything in through those eyes, and I would love to hear exactly what she thinks about all of it.

Amy is an observer.

When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time watching. This may be why I have such clear memories of what everything looked like in my childhood. Some involve layered impressions of how I felt and what I thought…even how things sounded and felt. But the most reliable memories – the ones I know to be true and accurate – are dominated by images.

As a fellow observer of the world, I know that Amy feels far more connected to the whirl of life around her than she may appear. She isn’t just sitting by herself, lost in her own thoughts. She’s listening and experiencing. She’s seeing. All of it.

I didn’t know this about myself at the time – that I looked as if I was trying to be separate. I wasn’t old enough to have mastered the art of seeing myself through the eyes of others. As far as I knew, there was only one reality – one truth. And it was the one that I saw.

The view from my solitary perch wasn’t necessarily lonely. But it was cautious. I would eventually engage. I just needed time. And as I watch Amy watch the other kids play, I wonder how much time she needs.

For me, it varied. Whenever I started something new, it took me some time to warm up to the people around me – to participate.

New settings didn’t always require that much interaction. A gathering of grownups at the dinner table had no complaint with a little girl sitting quietly in their midst. But it was different with other children. They want more from you. If you take too long to join in, they leave you behind. And while the plasticity of their social dynamics will allow for latecomers, it’s hard for a cautious child to make that effort.

I can close my eyes and remember arriving at a new after-school babysitter’s house. I see the late afternoon sun that filtered through the trees as I sat quietly on a rock, watching the other children play. I sat and watched. For two days.

For two whole days, I watched them play tag and any number of other chase-related games. I also politely declined all of their invitations to join them. I wasn’t ready.

But on the third day, I left my rock. I walked into the middle of the crowd and was absorbed without question. Maybe it was because I would be there every day for what at the time seemed like forever, but there was an understanding that I would be one of them as soon as I was ready.

This wasn’t always the case.

And when I watch Amy, I see that it’s not quite that simple for her at school right now. She could just walk in and claim her right to be included…but it would require a forceful entry. And that’s not really her style.

To be fair, this isn’t the fault of the other children. A precedent was set early in the year when Amy wasn’t just “Amy.” She was “Amy and Audrey.”

Amy used to have a best friend.

The first few months of school, Amy and Audrey were inseparable. They made all of their craft table visits together. They sat side by side during story time. When hands needed to be held on walks to the playground, they stood apart from the frantic pairing off of the others. They were already holding hands.

This made me smile. I was rarely without a best friend when I was growing up. Maybe I wasn’t quite as exclusive about it, but I always had that one person who was “mine.” I understand the comfort of having a best friend. It makes the world seem safer – friendlier. People are more accepting of pairs.

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have friends. But I had the most fun with my best friend. That someone who would giggle with me at things that no one else seemed to understand. That one other person who liked me best too. Who shared all of the deep dark secrets that I can’t even remember anymore.

Moves to other cities and schools were hard for me. I didn’t like the transitions. Some adventurous spirits are excited by the possibility of a new start, but I never cared for the uncertain future. I needed a best friend’s hand to hold.

And now, Amy doesn’t have a best friend’s hand to hold. Because several months ago, Audrey’s family moved overseas.

It always gives me a little pang to see the one where there should be two.

Of course Amy could find another best friend – and she eventually will. But for now, she she’s not interested in merging with the chaotic puppy pile of her other classmates.

I’m not the only one who has noticed this tiny tragedy. The other moms will smile-frown at the sweet sadness  – perhaps remembering a time when they were missing a lost best friend. And we all try to help the quiet little girl feel included. We encourage her to participate in snack table conversation and suggest that she join playground games.

We also do that silly thing that parents always do…we say things to her to make excuses for her painful shyness. And that’s really what it comes down to – Amy isn’t just disinterested in finding new friends right now – she’s also very shy.

So we say, “not really in the mood right now?” or “feeling a little tired?” As if this will help her save face – a very grownup concern that’s hardly on the list of preschool priorities. And she humors us. Or just hopes that a small nod or glance of acknowledgement will make us leave her alone.

A while ago, a friend told me a story about this. One day on the short walk to the playground, Amy refused to hold hands with any of the other kids. No one made a big deal out of it, because all of them do this at some point. But just like the rest of us, my friend felt the need to validate this behavior as being perfectly normal. And she did that thing – asking with sincere sympathy “a little shy today?” But instead of the usual nod, Amy tilted up her small, serious face to respond, “I’m shy every day.”

This story just kills me. Partly because it’s really cute…but more so because ME TOO! EVERY DAY. Every goddamn day.

I’m shy EVERY day.

And I always have been.

This is why I like having a best friend. The intimacy is so comforting in the teeming rush of the big bad world. Because it’s overwhelming. No matter how beautiful life can be, it’s also terrible and menacing. It welcomes you in and throws you to the wolves all at once.

It’s a bit much for the gentle souled. It’s not easy to be shy.

And every time I look at that little girl, I want to tell her, “honey – it will be okay. You will find another best friend. There will be another hand to hold when things get scary – probably several. But sweetie, you should really reach out for that now, because it just gets harder. You’ll see. As you get older, it will never again be this easy to claim what you want – to walk into a group and grab someone’s hand.”

I want warn her that this shyness will sometimes make her feel like an outsider. That it will peak when she’s a teenager and it seems like everyone around her moves effortlessly through new social situations, while she needs time to catch up. Most of the boys won’t appreciate her thoughtful observations – her lack of talent for small talk (which ironically, she will most likely have mastered by the time they claim to not care for it).

But I also want to tell her that she will probably benefit from this under-valued tendency to be reserved when she is in high school. She will be less likely to throw herself into unsafe situations. Her version of the invincible teenager will be more careful and pragmatic. She will hang back where others race into danger.

I want to tell her everything. Because now, I know.

I know how much she will hate her insecurity and need to be cautious when she’s younger. How she will wish that she could be like the other girls with their perceived bold confidence. And when she’s older and adept at successful cocktail party navigation, she’ll look back and see how she could have done everything differently.

Then years after that, she’ll appreciate all of the unique weirdness that made her unlike any other girl her age. She will recognize the value in in this and be grateful for the experiences that made her exactly who she became. She will have few regrets. Because if things had happened differently, then she might not have everything she holds dear.

And at some point, the observer in her – the shy girl who watched and considered so much throughout her life – may even be able to acknowledge that it’s much the same for everyone else. That no matter how shy people may be – every day – some days – or even just ONE day…we all lead uncertain lives, full of risk and insecurity.

And even when we feel the absence of a best friend’s hand to hold, we’re never really alone. In fact, we are always in good company.

Did You Know That I’m Producing a Show?

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Well I am. And no – I have no experience in theater. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how I managed scam my way into heading up this project… But somehow, I did! I’m producing the Listen to Your Mother show in Washington, DC.

And luckily, I have a partner who actually DOES come from a performance background. Stephanie (or @MinkyMoo as she’s known on Twitter – where I swear, she spends at least 50% of her day…) is our LTYM director. And thank god for her – as I would be completely winging it on the whole auditions/casting/rehearsal thing if I was working solo. This experience wouldn’t be half as fun or exciting without her enthusiastic spirit behind it.

The show will take place at 2 p.m. on Sunday, May 6. We selected the Synetic Theater in Crystal City as our venue and, as I’ve mentioned here previously, will be donating a portion of the ticket sales to the Susan Niebur IBC Research Fund (see that widgety thing on my sidebar?)

And things are REALLY coming together now that we’ve completed our two days of auditions! Over 40 people read us their wonderfully unique stories about motherhood, and we are now tasked with the impossible job of selecting 10-11 cast members. In a perfect world, we could cast four different shows, because we didn’t have ONE bad audition.

Truth be told, I’m a little sad that auditions are over. It was like watching my own private production of Listen to Your Mother – but all day, two Sunday’s in a row. Nice work if you can get it, indeed! But we’re officially done now (sniff) and a cast will be announced this Saturday.

Next on the agenda – besides setting up rehearsals – will be contacting potential sponsors and sending out press releases (not to mention ticket sales). But back to sponsors, our sign sponsor BuildASign.com offered to send us these fantastic bumper stickers:

We passed some out at auditions (when we could remember that is). And we’ll bring them to the show as well.

That is one of ONLY THREE pictures I thought to take at auditions (typical). Here are the other two:

What – you don’t bring coordinating floral paper goods to your casting-related events?

No audition day is complete without a full table of snacks.
If in February-April, Cadbury Mini Eggs are a requirement.

So if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been for the past few weeks – this is it. I’m just a little bit distracted. But I really am going to try to get back to more regular posting soon. I promise! Definitely before May 6th…

Summer

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Today, I’ve exchanged posts with one of my favorite bloggers, Heidi Cave of Fancy Feet. You can read her favorite post of mine, I Never Thought I’d Wear Sunglasses over on her site, and below you will find my favorite post (or one of them) of hers, Summer.

As a quick intro… When I first started reading Fancy Feet, I thought Heidi was funny and her writing was beautiful. But I was a little confused about what her disability was. She referred to it every once in a while and I knew it had something to do with her feet because of her blog name…but there wasn’t a statement about it anywhere on her sidebar or in her profile at that time. Eventually, she wrote something that clarified the vague allusions for me. She explained that she had been in a horrific car crash that killed her friend and burned her own body to the point that she lost both of her lower legs. Heidi has been writing about this in a novel and she’s posting pieces of it on her Fancy Feet. While Heidi’s story of recovery is inspiring, it’s really her talent inspires me. Her talent and her choice to dream big. To make things happen. She chose the life she has. She made it happen. And she continues to dream for more. If you aren’t already reading her blog, you need to change that NOW! Here is an example of why:

Summer

I’m always excited about the first days of summer when sunsets linger and the night becomes an extension of the day. But, the heat, when it reaches its peak, is relentless and exhausting. It sinks beneath my skin and into my bones reminding me of what was.

The slap-slapping of flip-flops, toes curling into the sand, cool water over sun-drenched skin…the sounds and sighs of summer. I miss them.

When the summer unleashes its full force on us it takes my breath away with its memories. After all this time I’m still sucker-punched-in-the-gut-I-can’t-believe-I’ll-never-know-this-again, the scars too great to see too much sunlight; my legs encased in silicone, plastic and metal. The sun became my enemy, no longer something I  ran toward and bathed in. Summer was my favorite season filled with hours at the lake; reading until the words blurred together, adjusting my bathing suit straps for minimal tan lines. My year began in the fall, not in January. Summer was my chance to shed the worries and mistakes of the past year, and live carefree for a few months until I got to start over.

In the wake of June 12, 1998 the summer was cruel to me, a joke. I couldn’t do what I wanted. I couldn’t wear what I desired to wear. It was unbearable to see girls my age, toes wiggling, skin exposed, hair flipping, and complaining about the heat. God, I wanted what they had. I ached to have a toenail painted, to know smooth skin again. If I could just feel the stones under my feet as I waded through the lake one more time.

Today, you couldn’t pick me out in a crowd. I might be more covered up than some. I look as though I’m sun-conscious, worried about overexposure. Everybody’s concerned about the sun’s harmful rays now. You might notice my arms are scarred or that I have a small scar that curves around the right side of my chin, but you wouldn’t think I was too out of the ordinary. I’m not wallowing, shoulders hunched. There is little sign of loss. I’m at the park or the beach herding my kids like every other parent out there, telling them to stop that or shouting good job as they swing from wrung to wrung on the monkey bars. I’m dressed for work, in line at Starbucks picking up my coffee. I’m having a raspberry margarita with friends or shopping, gasping at some cute top.

I want to rush through the summer. I want to sprint ahead and get it over with. To get to my beloved fall, my favorite season by default. But, I need to give summer its due. The season of my rebirth. One beautiful summer evening my life ended as I knew it and another began. I was not stripped of my will. Nobody claimed my soul. It was still my life to do with as I wished. I fought for what was mine. The summer may be bittersweet, but I’m here. I’m rich in choices and family, alive with the knowledge of many summers ahead of me. And I can take the heat, relentless in strength and memories, if I’ve got that.

Greatness by Association

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Did you know that my brother is an artist?

Well he is. And he’s crazy talented – like “his work should be shown in important galleries” talented. And that’s not just the family love talking (okay .01% love – but the rest is strictly objective).

My parents’ shop participates in a Key West event called First Thursday (every first Thursday of the month, shops stay open later and serve refreshments to the patrons). And they always feature a special product or artist.

This month, Style Key West had a little art show for my brother! Here are some pictures my Dad took:

Don’t his paintings look great in the shop? I think they really work with those giant orange sea horses.

Seriously though – I can’t even imagine having that kind of talent… I’m a proud big sister.

Want to see more of Matt’s work? Check out his website.

And happy Valentines Day!

Remembering Susan

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A couple of weeks ago, I posted an image in honor of Susan Niebur, a local blogger battling a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer.

I didn’t know Susan well – only met her once. But we shared friends and acquaintances. And, of course I followed her courageous story through her writing.

When I learned that Susan passed away on Monday, I was overwhelmed by sadness for the people who loved her – love her – so much. And since then, I’ve spent a lot of time reading their words about this incredible woman.

And I’ve wished that there was something that I could do to help.

Then one friend, Stephanie or “Minky Moo” offered me two opportunities.

The first was a general call to action. She is putting together a book of memories for the Niebur boys, and asked that people share their stories. My immediate response was that this didn’t apply to me, as I had only met Susan briefly at a blogging event. So I did my part by helping to pass on the message – to let others know.

Then I actually read Stephanie’s post about wanting to give Susan’s children memories of their mother as others knew her. And something she said, made me think: “To me, stories of my father are precious jewels. I hold on to them like treasures. I can do nothing to heal their pain now, but perhaps we as a group can give them a gift to treasure.”

When one of my favorite people in the world lost her son last September, I learned a lot about grief. Particularly that there will never be enough memories, pictures, stories… That no detail could be too small to be treasured. And that anything new – previously unknown – is a rare gift.

And it occurred to me that I do have one small thing. One tiny detail: Susan’s smile.

Remember, I did meet her once.

It was a few years ago when DC Metro Moms hosted an event. I was late and didn’t see any familiar faces when I arrived. I don’t know what it is about walking into a room full of women who all seem to know each other, but I immediately flashback to high school and all of the associated insecurities and anxiety.

I can hide it well…but make no mistake – at times like that, I may as well be an awkward sixteen year old, worried that no one will want to talk to me.

Trying to find a seat in that crowded room – hunched over and apologizing – I cringed my way to an empty spot in the front. Then I sat down next to Susan.

The room was quiet – all attention on the speaker at the podium. It would have been entirely appropriate for everyone at that table to make room for me without any ostensible acknowledgement of my arrival.

But Susan did acknowledge me. She turned her attention away from the presentation and looked at me. Not just a quick glance…a distracted nod. She turned in her seat, really looked at me and smiled warmly. And just like that, I felt included.

It sounds like a small thing – a smile. But this one said, “there you are!” It was welcoming. It was in her eyes. It was genuine. And it immediately put me at ease.

I don’t remember meeting her when the presentation was over – though I know we were introduced. People I was looking for but didn’t see on my way in came up to greet me. Susan’s friends gathered around her. Pulled in different directions, we didn’t cross paths again.

I shouldn’t remember my brief interaction with Susan. There was nothing significant about it. Just a smile and companionable proximity. A few words of introduction… But I do remember it because she said more with one smile than others do in an hour of pleasant small talk.

In that brief moment, she told me that she was kind. That she cared enough to make others feel important. That she saw a potential friend in each new face.

She was so obviously that girl in high school who didn’t seek safety in small and exclusive numbers. She made room for one more – as many times as necessary. Or at least, she was that girl now.

She had a smile that was remembered. She left an impression. And I feel honored to have such a memory – one to give to people who can never hear enough about Susan. Who will treasure every small detail of the woman she was and the effect she had on others.

She had a beautiful smile.

…

The other request that Stephanie made was specifically to me.

We are working together on a production of Listen to Your Mother, a show in which local writers read original essays on the subject of motherhood. This is the first year that the national production will be held in the DC area, and Stephanie and I are over the moon excited to be part of it (let alone producing it).

All Listen to Your Mother productions donate 10% of their ticket sales to a local charitable cause. We’ve exhanged several links to causes close to our hearts, and have taken far to long to choose one… But Monday night, Stephanie asked me if we could contribute to Susan’s cause.

You can imagine my response: YES – OF COURSE – SEND ME THE DETAILS – I’LL GET TO WORK ON THAT IMMEDIATELY…

Unfortunately, Susan’s personal cause, the Inflamatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation isn’t local. So we decided to make it local. Introducing: The Susan Niebur IBC Research Fund.

In addition to 10% of ticket sales revenue for the DC Listen to Your Mother show, we invite anyone who would like to contribute to Susan’s cause – her legacy of awareness and support for research – to donate. Whether you do so in name or anonymously, every penny of your donation will go directly to the Inflamatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

Visit the Listen to Your Mother DC website for full details. And remember Susan. Her strength, courage and grace. Her crusade for awareness. Her hope for a cure. And her beautiful smile.

Stupid

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It’s a loaded word.

And we use it all the time in so many different ways…

“How could I be so stupid?…then the stupid coffee maker broke…don’t say stupid honey, it’s not nice…don’t be stupid, of course I’ll help with…that stupid dog was barking all night…please don’t say stupid sweetie, it hurts feelings…”

I’ve tried explaining that it’s okay to call a thing stupid, but not people…but that’s not entirely true either. “Your picture is STUPID – it doesn’t even look like a…” Sometimes calling things stupid hurts feelings too.

So we go back to the black-and-white-right-and-wrong-never-always world that makes sense to children.

And we NEVER say stupid.

Until we do. And get corrected or copied. And then remind ourselves that we’re doing the best we can. No one is perfect. And we try again.

A few months ago, Eleanor called Oliver stupid.

And what siblings don’t do that? Hurl that easy meanness back and forth without a thought beyond momentary anger? Feelings are hurt. Tears are dried. Sorries are said. And everyone understands that it’s not really true. “Of course you’re not stupid, she didn’t mean that.”

But when your daughter calls her older, special needs brother stupid, there is far more at stake than hurt feelings. Because at age six, Oliver can see that he’s different – that some things come more easily to his classmates. To his little sister. And he understands what stupid means.

Poor little sister…you’re just being a kid. Your cruel words have no agenda. And you don’t really mean it. Even when you do.

In this scenario, Oliver was throwing a blanket over her. Over and over. No matter how many times she asked him to stop. Because sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop. Sometimes he can’t…impulse control issues, you know. But regardless of the reasons, her anger was justified. And she retaliated with angry words.

“Oliver is stupid! ”

And a few minutes later, I heard the yelling and that word, “No YOU’RE stupid! No YOU are because YOU don’t listen. STUPID!” Stupidstupidstupidstupid….

So I sat them down, listened to sides, dried tears, defined words, explained cruelty, demanded reciprocal apologies…and ignored the ice that pierced my heart with that awful, everyday word that I misuse all the time.

We NEVER say stupid. It’s not nice. It hurts feelings.

Minutes later another squabble erupted, and this time it was Oliver calling his sister stupid. It was the first time I ever heard my sweet boy say that word, let alone say it about someone.

There were more tears and unreasonable behavior. Then arbitration. Then defiance.

Then Chris came in, saw all of the ugliness and disrespect for parental authority and sent everyone to their rooms.

This wasn’t a wrong thing to do, of course…but in this particular situation, with these particular children, it wasn’t the right thing either. So we gave each other the “okay, what do we do now?” look, and began damage control.

Since Chris administered the time out, I asked him to go talk to Oliver. Time outs don’t work with our oldest – and if I went to talk to him, then I would just be cast as the one who saved him from that mean asshole, Dad. They needed to work it out on their own. So I went to Eleanor.

She cried and explained. And I listened and agreed. But then I explained (and tried not to cry). And she listened. And finally understood. Why we never say stupid. Because it hurts feelings.

Later Chris told me that Oliver actually asked him, “Daddy, am I stupid?”

How do you continue to breathe when your special needs child asks you such a loaded question? How do you answer?

For the first, it takes a lot of effort. For the second, it’s as natural as breathing.  You say no. “No, you are not stupid. Never think that. Never worry about that. You are a very smart boy.”

And Oliver isn’t stupid. So that’s not an ambiguous response. It’s the truth.

But the rest of the truth is, he is different. He doesn’t learn the same way other kids do. Simple Kindergarten crafts are often difficult for him. He has a hard time sustaining the appropriate level attention. He falls behind easily. And he’s starting to see all of this.

During parent teacher conferences last November, I (again) brought up the issue of holding Oliver back a year. He’s currently in first grade and I was astounded that they didn’t think he should repeat Kindergarten. In fact, I would have objected if he wasn’t in a K-1 class. Knowing that he’d be in the same classroom and would spend close to 30 hours doing one-on-one work with a special ed teacher each week, made me feel comfortable with the decision. The only difference would be a label: “first grade.”

But now it’s February. And he’s so obviously not ready to move on to second grade, no matter how many hours he may spend in a resource room. He’s barely working on a first grade level, let alone second grade.

Don’t you have to master a skill set before moving on to the next level – the next grade?

Apparently not.

When I broached this topic, and questioned whether children simply “age out” of their classroom, I got the shocking answer that, yes – in fact, they do. And I suddenly understood what I’ve been hearing for so long. Why people have been talking about kids being pushed through the school system. OF COURSE no one was suggesting that my son repeat a year. All of this time, I’ve been missing the point.

The school’s goal is to advance students through each grade, giving them the support they require to reach their highest potential. And there is nothing wrong with that.

The only problem is that I may have different expectations for my own child’s potential.

Listen – I know that teachers care. I’ve seen this first hand. There isn’t one teacher, classroom aide or therapist working with Oliver whom I don’t implicitly trust to have his best interests at heart. In fact, I would go so far as to say that they love my son.

But he’s my son. No one will ever love him like I do. No one will ever have his best interests at heart like I do. No one will ever see as much potential in him as I do.

So it’s up to me.

There is only so much that his teachers can do. They can’t suggest that he repeat a year when the school system has created a means of him advancing through each grade with help. And now that I understand this, I know what I have to do to help them. Help them help him.

I don’t want Oliver to feel stupid. I don’t want him to think he’s stupid. And while I can’t control how he’s going to feel or think, I can help create an environment that will guide him to better self esteem. And the first step is giving him a little more time to catch up.

When he started Kindergarten, he could barely speak in full sentences. He would wander around the classroom, unable to sit still for more than minutes at a time. He hardly ever asked questions. He played next to other children, not with them.

All of that has changed. In only 16 months, he has accomplished more than I would have ever guessed possible.

His potential is vast.

I can’t predict what will happen next for Oliver, but I can do everything in my power to ensure that he’s given a chance. To see his own potential. To believe in himself. To never accept the label “stupid.”

It’s inevitable that my children will call each other names. And “stupid” is the least of it… But the implications of that one silly word that is misused and overused to the point of desensitization are far too harmful to be ignored by my family.

We never say stupid.

So I wonder where Eleanor picked that up anyway… School? Friends? Me?

Chris claimed it was a cartoon. He said that they were watching Tom & Jerry, and a female cat character – the object of Tom’s affections – said it. Jerry set Tom’s tail on fire during the cats’ date at a restaurant. And when the bewildered Tom wondered what was burning his girlfriend said, “it’s you stupid.”

I was skeptical. Such a common word…so easy to blame it on a cartoon. Far more likely for it to be something she heard at school. From a friend. From me.

But very soon after that, Eleanor was telling me about a funny cartoon she saw. Tom and Jerry…Tom was on fire…”it’s you, stupid.”

Huh.

Stupid cartoon.

We still let them watch Tom and Jerry. It’s not my favorite – but it’s the least of my worries. I can’t shield them from the word stupid. And cutting them off from television isn’t the answer.

Better to educate them. Help them understand why that word can be so hurtful. When it’s okay to say it…when it’s not… Let them know that it’s okay if they make mistakes – hurt feelings. We all do the best we can. No one is perfect. All we can do is try again…

Right now my job is to give Oliver a chance to catch up. Help him see his own potential. Keep fighting for him.

And I am so grateful for the teachers we have on our side. While their power has limits, I now know how I can help them.

In fact, I just met with them this week. I asked questions and they offered a meeting. There were a few things to discuss, and I brought up my opinion that he needs another year in his current classroom. That he’s not yet ready for second grade.

They said that it isn’t quite as simple a decision as it once was…that administration would have to be involved in the discussion…but that the situation and the student in question would be given consideration. And that there are a number of reasons why Oliver should be given this consideration.

I think that’s a good start.

They love my son. I know this. And it means more to me than I could ever express to them in words.

I hear it in the way they talk about him. Their pride in his progress. Delight in his unique personality. Admiration for his strength of character – his sense of self.

They like Oliver as much as they love him. And they tell me stories about him. Particularly ones that make them laugh. The most recent one came from his classroom teacher who has been with him since his first day of Kindergarten.

She asked me if he was eating enough for breakfast since he often tries to open his lunch bag when he arrives at school. She wasn’t sure if this was because he was hungry or if he just wanted to eat his snack. We all agreed that it was probably the latter. It was noted that he does like his salty snacks…

And apparently, he’s quite partial to the soft pretzels that they sell in the cafeteria. Not that he should even know about them since he doesn’t buy a school lunch… But someone obviously shared a pretzel with him at some point because he does know about them. And he really likes them.

In fact, according to this teacher, Oliver must have made a friend who works in the cafeteria who also knows this about him. Because regardless of the fact that I have always packed a lunch for him – have NEVER sent money for the school lunch – several times a week, she will look over at his table to find him enjoying his own soft pretzel. The ones that you can purchase in the cafeteria lunch line.

So several times a week, my son who has these delays and IEP goals to improve his ability to communicate and relate to other people charms someone into giving him a free salty snack.

Smart boy.

Horse Hell

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You know those girls who are obsessed with horses when they’re young? They pretend jump ropes are reigns and run around the playground neighing and whinnying with their other horse-crazed friends? They inhale books on horses and collect plastic replicas to display on shelves?

I was NEVER one of those girls. I never took a riding lesson. I thought barns were stinky. When I looked at a particularly majestic specimen of equine beauty, I mainly focused on the huge teeth that could take off a finger or two. And possibly the flies buzzing around its rear end.

National Velvet? Never saw it. Black Beauty? Never read it.

I just never understood the the girls and horses thing.

This doesn’t mean that I dislike horses, of course. I just don’t really think about them.

I grew up in the city. I’m not much of an animal person. And this is totally fine with me.

But now – NOW – I have a daughter. And she IS one of those girls who is obsessed with horses.

Woe to the librarian who asks if she can help us… How could she know that a whip cracking pre-reader will have her searching the stacks for the infuriatingly few picture books featuring a horse on the cover. At least she doesn’t have to come home with us and sit with Eleanor as she goes through her check out pile, discussing each page in minute detail.

I’m just about as interested in this now as I was in third grade when my horse crazy best friend would make me learn terminology for horse anatomy and paraphernalia, and THEN quiz me on it. Hey – don’t judge. I was the new girl and thrilled that someone was actually talking to me. Whinnying across the playground with a jump rope around my waist was a small price to pay.

Back to Eleanor though… As much as I don’t share her fervor for equestrian life, I do feel a little sad for her. Because we live in horse farm HEAVEN and it would be easy to find a place for her to take riding lessons. She would LOVE it. And it’s never going to happen.

Yes – I’m aware that it’s not just a fun activity – it’s also wonderful exercise. In fact, it would be fabulous for all of my children. Especially Oliver. I know this because my old friend who force marched me through Horses 101 lessons in third grade is now a pediatric physical therapist in Hippotherapy (a practice of integrated intervention for various disabilities, utilizing “equine movement” in physical, occupational, and speech-language therapies). There are so many reasons for us to get our kids in to riding: easy accessibility, health benefits, fairy godmother-like wish granting for our daughter…

But it’s too expensive. Maybe if we only had one child. We have three, though. And we already spend more money than we have on therapies for Oliver.

I’m not poor mouthing or saying anyone should feel sorry for me. Nothing more than stating facts. Riding lessons just aren’t in the budget.

Luckily – Eleanor is still young enough to think that a pony ride is actual horseback riding. So I don’t think she’ll lament her lot in life with the non-equestrian family too much… And she IS only five. Next year, she could be into theater. Or soccer. Or Wicca. Whatever – as long as we can afford the associated fees, we’ll do the best we can for her.

Unless it’s Wicca. Didn’t I mention that I’m a city girl? I’m not driving her out to the woods to collect lichen and mouse skulls.

It’s one of the less fun aspects of responsible parenting…knowing when you have to draw the line.

For Susan

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The DC Moms are hosting a “@whymommy love fest” today and this is the image I sent in for her digital card. Want to contribute your own heart? Click HERE for full details (just remember that you only have until the end of the day).

I don’t know Susan well, but I’ve been inspired by her courage, strength, beauty and grace since I found her blog a few years ago. She’s fought long and hard. She shines brightly. And she’s in my heart and my prayers.