Tag Archives: Sometimes I’m Serious

Hope Floats…and Flutters

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Last summer we thought we might lose my mother. I flew down to Key West with my son Oliver on literally a day’s notice.

Her cancer came back after nine years of remission.

It was sudden and terrifying and full of uncertainty.

And darkness.

But on an island that practically trademarked sunlight and sparkling water, it’s impossible not to look for hope.

Hope is something I do well. And of course my talent for dissociation doesn’t hurt…but I’d like to think that hope is the dominant of the two.

Pretty much everything we did that week involved entertaining Oliver, and what could be better inspiration for hope than a child?

From pushing my father into the pool (thanks Dad – great idea for a game!) to walking up and down the docks looking at fish (luckily the Push Grandpa in the Pool game didn’t seem to translate), Oliver kept everything light. We lived in the moment and were thankful for the distraction.

By far, Oliver’s favorite activity was visiting the Key West Butterfly Conservatory. It felt like we went every day, and I didn’t mind a bit. There is nothing more uplifting than walking into a room filled with fluttering butterflies.

It’s very hard to capture pictures of butterflies, especially when they are in motion, so this picture my father took seemed like a mini miracle.

As did my mother’s recovery. Something that wouldn’t have been possible a year or two prior.

Hope isn’t always easy to capture – but maybe it’s not meant to be held too terribly close. Letting it surround us without trying so hard worked best for my family.

Our hope didn’t just float – it also had roots. Ones that grow stronger every day. My hope now constant, and it’s both solid and lighter than air.

This post is part of 7 Clown Circus’ Wordful Wednesday. Angie is another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.

The Island of Misfit Toys

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I’m over at DC Metro Moms today writing about something very close to my heart. Please read it even though it’s a bit long (of course it is – I wrote it!) and comment if you have your own story to share, a different perspective to present, or even if you only have time for a quick “so-and-so was here.”

The Island of Misfit Toys

Parenting is hard, and with school starting for Oliver this week, I’m in a very “we’re all in this together” frame of mind…

The Island of Misfit Toys

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(click image if you have never heard of the “the island of misfit toys”)

On Friday, I went to the open house for my son, Oliver’s preschool. He’ll be in the afternoon class with the older kids, but the morning class for the younger ones was there as well, making it twice as chaotic and confused.

Everyone had questions about bus schedules, school forms and cafeteria lunches. Everyone tried to keep one eye on their children while maintaining appropriate eye contact with the teachers providing answers. Everyone forgot half the questions they wanted to ask as well as each other’s names seconds after every awkward handshake.

And since I had to bring my two year old twins along for the ride, I was probably the worst of the overwhelmed, overstimulated bunch. But there was one conversation that didn’t end with the tug of a small hand or the sudden realization that a child was no longer visible.

I met one woman who tugged at my heart with her obvious loneliness and her own perceived invisibility. Her need for connection and understanding was palpable. And I recognized all of this in her pleasant smile and bright small talk because I have felt all of the same things myself.

I too have a special needs child.

All parents of children with special needs have felt alone and confused. And we all need to find others. People just like us, who know what it’s like to watch other children effortlessly join playground games and amaze grownups with their precocious conversation. We’ve all been on the other side of that social fence, blending in like chameleons. Hoping that no one notices our own child’s challenges and questions them. Or worse – makes uninformed excuses for them.

I listened to this woman’s story about how friends she’s had since childhood now avoid her. They have typical children and no tolerance for her son’s “bad” behavior. They either don’t want to put up with it, or possibly they just feel uncomfortable around her. But the outcome is the same. She is alone. She doesn’t fit in with them anymore.

I gave her my phone number and told her to call me any time. Maybe we could have a play date since her son and my twins are very close in age. My twins are what I’ve learned to call “typical,” but I have no fear of exposing them to a child who isn’t. They live with one already. And I know how much that little boy, like his mother will need friends who understand.

Oliver is four years old and has been in Fairfax County’s special preschool program since he was two. Looking back, I realize how incredibly lucky we were to find out about his delays so early on.

He was our first baby, so we had no means of comparison. Sure, we have plenty of friends with children the same age, but when they’re so little, those differences can easily be explained away. You can say that all babies develop at different rates (true) and that their very unique personalities would encourage different areas of strength (also true). But without that personal experience of watching another child grow and learn, you just don’t have that instinct that tells you “something isn’t right this time.”

Some mothers claim that even without older children, they just knew. But I looked at my big (and I mean HUGE), healthy 18 month old and thought he was fine. In fact, I thought he was better than just fine. I thought he was beautiful, wonderful…miraculous. And he was…he is. But he does have significant speech and social delays.

He did then too. But he was so young. And so much could be explained away. AND he had just become a big brother to newborn twins.

What child wouldn’t withdraw, act out and even regress a little? So what if he didn’t quite fit in with the others? His whole world had been turned upside down. Of course it affected him. It all seemed pretty normal to me. But months later I had to admit that he just wasn’t catching up. He wasn’t like my friends’ “normal” toddlers.

With some prompting from concerned relatives, we took him to a private child psychologist who established that he was in fact very delayed and would benefit from early intervention as soon as possible.

Then we got smart and started talking to people. We discovered that there were county funded programs for special needs children (although we weren’t actually using that term yet…not yet…) And we contacted Child Find.

We learned that we never needed to pay for that first round of testing since our tax dollars afforded us free services. But of course this is the lot of special needs parents – to continually learn what we didn’t have to do, what we should have done, what we could have given our child, but just didn’t know…

But we quickly learn to move on from that and not beat ourselves up. Or at least we try.

It’s hard to accept this inability to identify your child’s need. Your baby cries and you feed him, change him or hold him. He gets sick and you take him to the doctor. He grows and you buy him new clothes. Your job is to meet these needs. Any and all needs. It is your new reason for being. The most important job you’ll ever have.

And then, one day you find that you failed.

But these new needs allow no room for self flagellation. There is too much to learn and do. And to waste time on guilt seems pretty selfish.

So does the new source of anxiety for a special needs parent: the fact that you no longer fit in either.

Special needs don’t start and end with the child. They are part of the family as a whole. You become a group of misfits. A band of intrepid explorers, thrust into uncharted territory without a map or a compass. All families are different, as are the journeys they take together – so no one gets a guide. Survival hinges on everyone doing their part. Loyalty to the team is imperative. There are no solo missions.

Unfortunately, the leaders rarely volunteer for the post. It’s the lottery ticket that no one really wanted or expected. And not one of us could claim to be instantly skillful team captains. Basically – it all really sucks, and our initial reaction is to avoid ever leaving the ship.

Suddenly the voice mail from a friend wanting to set up a play date doesn’t make you smile and run to check your calendar. It makes you begin the endless cycle of “what if” worrying: “What if he doesn’t want to be there and cries? What if he plays rough and hurts the other child? What if he refuses to listen to me and I have to go through the motions of yet another ineffectual time out, just to look like I’m TRYING to be a good parent?” And the deepest, darkest of worries – the one we so rarely speak aloud: “What if he embarrasses me?”

It’s so tempting to go for the isolation option. To stick with your own kind.

But all of that changes when you meet other special needs families. It’s so comforting to be with the other misfits. They get it. They don’t look uncomfortable when your son is rolling around on the ground. Or kicking up dust clouds without any regard for the people next to him. Or pushing other children to get their attention. They don’t assume that his age or size would make him more mature. They don’t assume anything. They just smile and nod. There’s no need for words. They just know. We all know.

And that is what special preschool has become for me. A safe haven. An oasis in a desolate landscape. A private island where no one gets voted off. Acceptance is mandatory. In fact, it’s second nature.

The children get the special services they so desperately need, but they also become part of a community. They meet children with the same challenges, with worse delays, with higher functionality and with very limited scope for improvement. They are all misfits. All broken to one degree or another. But all deserving of love and appreciation.

They are safe on their island, and they are loved. Their needs are recognized and prioritized, and their triumphs – no matter how small – are celebrated.

The parents spend no more time in the special preschool classroom than do parents of children in private preschools. But our hearts are there every second of the day. And not just in the expected way that parents claim to leave a piece of themselves behind at drop off. For those of us with special needs kids, those classrooms aren’t just a place for learning – they are a place for hope.

And oh – but isn’t that the most beautiful, terrible, spirit lifting, soul crushing, incandescent word that a parent can say, feel, pray….”hope.”

Because that’s what it boils down to in the end. We sit on that island with our polka dots and square wheels and inability to fly and our…what exactly was wrong with that doll again? I never did understand that one… But we all sit there together. And we hope.

Together.

Which is the opposite of alone.

But it doesn’t end there. It can’t. Because hope isn’t enough. You can’t live on an island.

It’s nice to have a port in a storm, but we all live in the real world where (to really beat a metaphor to death) it isn’t always smooth sailing. People are unkind. They are busy and cranky, and they would rather gossip than research. The real world isn’t perfect and neither are the people in it.

Which brings up an interesting point: no one is perfect.

No child is perfect. No parent is perfect. No family is perfect.

We’re all flawed. We’ve all felt like outsiders at one time time or another. We’ve all felt lonely – even invisible. So in a way, we’re all misfits. Atypical.

And what defines typical anyway? I think it’s simply a majority rule. But a majority based on sweeping generalizations.

Which is fair. Because who has time for case by case living?

But I would ask one thing of the more typical misfits out there. Please try to make time for compassion.

Don’t assume that a child is “bad” based on their behavior. Don’t assume that their parents aren’t trying. Don’t assume anything.

You never know when you might be on that side of that fence. And when you are, you’ll appreciate a little empathy. Not sympathy – never sympathy – but an acknowledgement that things are usually more complicated than they appear. Something that everyone knows from personal experience.

Your polka dots may not match my square wheels. In fact, you probably look like that totally normal doll (I think she may have had a psychological problem?) But we’re all misfits in our own way. And you should make a little time to recognize this.

Because it takes one to know one.

I Never Thought I’d Wear Sunglasses (Alternately Titled: Shooting Practice Starts Tomorrow)

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A few weeks ago when we were in Rehoboth Beach, my mother in law and I packed up the kids to drive over to Bethany where one of my friends has a house. She and her sister were staying there with their five children, four of whom were boys.

Once we all found each other, we spent most of our time by the water. We stood sentry watching all of our boys hurl themselves into the surf. And we counted heads in the foam while trying to hold a conversation between exclamations of “don’t throw sand!” and “that’s too far, come back here!”

My boy was right in the middle of this. This sensory overload of wind and water and squishy, grainy sand between his toes. He was in his element – in the elements. He needs to feel things and he needs to immerse himself in the moment without inhibitions. And what better place than the beach?

He also loved being in the middle of all of those boys. They were his people. They understood the joy of throwing wet sand in the air just to feel it splatter all around them. They wanted nothing more than to live in that moment with the waves crashing around them, drowning out the sound of their screams of laughter. They were just like him.

In that moment.

But only in that moment.

They called to each other and knew when to push and when to pull. They knew when to stop and when to start again (obviously when mom was looking the other way). They understood the rules of the game. They both made and discussed the rules. In bits and pieces of course – but still, they communicated. Communication came easily to them.

Communication does not come easily to my boy. He doesn’t know when to stop. He doesn’t know when pushing isn’t welcome. He doesn’t know the rules. He doesn’t know how to join. He wants so much to join – to play. But he doesn’t know how. So he just watched.

And I watched him from behind my sunglasses, happy to see him having fun even if it seemed a little lonely. Happy that he couldn’t see the tears welling in my eyes. Happy that my friend couldn’t see the tears either and only heard me talking about doctors and school and how well he’s doing. Because that’s really all I want anyone to see.

When I was a teenager, all of my friends wore sunglasses. but I never did. I didn’t like them. They gave me “raccoon eyes” in the summer and felt out of place with my coats and hats in the winter. Not to mention the fact that they never did look good on me. Back then it was always about how I looked.

Now I’m the one doing the looking. I don’t care as much about how I look. Sunglasses will never compliment my face with its long, slightly crooked nose – but I need them to see my children through the glare. I need them to see the road when I’m driving on a sunny day. I need them to be responsible. So I wear them. And I’ve found that they are pretty useful. They allow me to be the observer and they can hide what I don’t want people to see.

I also wear my sunglasses at the neighborhood pool where I take my children most late afternoons. After the twins wake up from their nap, I load up all of our towels and waters and changes of clothes and snacks and push the double stroller uphill, calling for Oliver to wait for me at the corner. Which he always does – but I ask him to anyway, just in case.

When we arrive, we head straight for the baby pool. At two, the twins are still too little to stand in the shallow end of the big pool like their four year old brother. This suits me just fine since Oliver is still young enough to be satisfied with the baby pool and I can sit with a magazine while they play. Or at least I can for a few minutes at a time, since I frequently have to administer warnings and time outs for bad behavior.

One thing I like about this time of day is that the pool tends to be rather deserted. More accomplished mothers are thinking about cooking family dinners at 5 p.m. My children will only eat kid food and my husband and I don’t usually have formal meals together due to all of the corralling required before their late, but “works best for them” bedtime between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m. When no other families are at the pool, only our own rules apply.

If Oliver is splashing, I can ignore it. That is, as long as his siblings don’t mind. And they often join in. If Oliver is being too rough and pushing them as part of some inexplicable game of his, I can just watch and see how it goes. I don’t need to stand or look alert as a show for the other parents. I can see just fine from my shady seat. My sunglasses cut the glare. Everything is crystal clear and I know exactly when to step in and when to let them work it out.

But more often than not we arrive at the tail end of another family’s pool time. And I have to stand and administer twice as many time outs as I would if we were alone. I have to find ways to tell the other mothers that Oliver has a hard time knowing when to stop. In Oliver’s mind, if another child seems to like being splashed at from across the pool, why wouldn’t they like it at closer range? And at that point, why not cut out the middle man and just shove them back into the water? Sounds fun to him!

So I can spend an hour having the same one-sided conversation with him over and over. Telling him to stop. Asking him to be gentle. Pleading with him to listen.

He wants to comply. I know he does. He wants to please me and he wants to please these desired friends (he has the makings of “a pleaser” – something else that worries me – but that’s another concern for another day). He wants to get it right. He just doesn’t know how.

I always keep my sunglasses on when we’re at the pool.

The other day, a few kids a year or two older than Oliver were in the baby pool during adult swim (everyone seems to call it “break” now – is “adult swim” no longer PC or something?) Anyway – they were being rowdy and Oliver was thrilled. They were pulling out the hose that was supposed to be filling the pool with more water. They were spraying each other with it and splashing and eventually ran to get their water guns.

As they stood there spraying each other and yelling unintelligible things about Star Wars, a movie that I doubt any of them has actually seen, Oliver decided to join in.

It didn’t work. He didn’t know the rules.

He splashed around in the middle of them when no one was splashing. They asked him to stop, but he didn’t understand. If they were shooting water at each other, then why wouldn’t splashing be allowed? A younger sister in the group, exactly Oliver’s age, explained, “we’re playing Star Wars now – you can play Star Wars too, but you can’t play with us if you keep splashing.”

So of course I had to intervene.

At this point, I didn’t think I had ever said, heard and thought the word “splash” so many times within the space of five minutes. It had completely lost all meaning and was just a rude noise that made me feel decidedly uncomfortable. It was an expletive. A swear word. I wanted it to not exist anymore. I was done with it.

But Oliver wasn’t. He didn’t understand, and I had to pull him aside. No time out though. How could I when he had only the best of intentions? Instead I offered to drag him around the other side of the pool. Something he loves and I hate. He loves the feeling of the water rushing all around him from head to toe. I hate the feeling of hunching over to pull a 60 lb. four year old from one end of the baby pool to the other.

Meanwhile Star Wars continued, Oliver still didn’t understand what was wrong with “splashing” (excuse my French) and I hid behind my sunglasses.

And I made plans.

Apparently shooting water at each other is generally okay at the pool. Or if it isn’t, it’s not unusual for kids to not know when to stop. Quite simply – it’s not weird.

So while I pulled Oliver around the pool, I made plans to take the kids gun shopping the next day. We didn’t own any water guns, but we would soon own an arsenal.

Oliver could learn to shoot a water gun. And the next time there was a game of Star Wars at the pool, we’d be ready. You don’t need to have good communication skills to play shooting games.

I never thought I’d like sunglasses. And I never thought I’d encourage my children to play with toy guns. But I guess I never thought I’d be doing a lot of things.

I have a friend who also has a son with special needs. His are very different from Oliver’s but there are so many parallels to our lives… I love this girl. She speaks my language. The language of mother grief. Of future worry. She worries that her son will wear all black and write dark poetry about death and Japanese anime. I worry that Oliver will be Tommy Boy. We have to laugh. It’s necessary – and we both understand this.

It’s nice to be understood. And that’s probably what most breaks my heart about Oliver. No one really understands him. So I’ll give him a water gun if that helps. And I’ll laugh, and I’ll hope. And I’ll always wear my sunglasses. Just in case.

Sound Byte: And of Course, Oliver…

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There is a reason why I didn’t have any sound bytes for Oliver this week. Speech isn’t his strong suit. He says and does plenty of hilarious things that make me laugh, but they’re not always the kind of stories that other people would understand. It’s all very, “you had to be there” – these anecdotes in the world of developmental delays…

But in just a few words of his off kilter conversational stylings – he can reduce me to a muddy puddle in the public showers of motherhood tears:

Oliver: Big hug Mommy!

Me: [gasping for air in his bone crushing embrace] I love your hugs honey. They’re the best ones.

Oliver: Best hugs, Mommy. Best friend hug.

Then time stopped and I didn’t know if I’d ever breathe again.

Through the series of fireworks exploding in my heart [LOVE! HOPE! FEAR! ANGER! GRATITUDE! aaaand….wait for it….wait for it….UNREASONABLE, UNMITIGATED FAITH THAT IT WILL ALL TURN OUT OKAY!], I wished with every fiber of my being that he’ll one day look at me and roll his eyes at the ridiculous notion that his mother would ever be his best friend.

If that makes any sense.

Why I Think Michael Jackson Was Guilty As Charged

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Today is Michael Jackson’s memorial service, and there were some morning commute music block tributes on the radio. I enjoyed this immensely and rocked out to Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground), P.Y.T. and Dirty Diana.

But it also made me think about him and his very weird, sad life. I’ve avoided saying anything about his death since I do have some pretty serious thoughts on his life. And it’s not like I’m a newscaster here. I’m not reporting world events (because to people like me who consider reading US Weekly, “catching up on the news,” Michael Jackson’s death is a major world event).

So I haven’t considered writing about it. Until this morning when I was picturing him singing Shake Your Body and then P.Y.T. and then…what happened to him!?

Back to my rather harsh judgement (or opinion really, since I didn’t know him personally and am not in a position to judge – have I missed any disclaimers?)

We’ve all heard that saying, “If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck…”* And at the end of the day, COME ON! There are WAY too many variables going on here for MJ to be completely and perfectly innocent of the child molestation accusations.

If you still think that’s not quite fair, I’ll give you a “duck” example from my own life.

At my last job as a conference planner, I met a man who worked for…oh, let’s say DHS (it was a different office, but I’m all about protecting privacy here – for non-celebrities I mean). I was walking our Annual Expo show floor with a co-worker who knew him, and stopped with her so they could chat.

Since I wasn’t part of the conversation, I had a little time to just observe. He was very handsome and impeccably dressed. His obviously groomed eyebrows were still subtle, so only a woman would be likely to notice. He looked to be in his 30s, but the flat stomach and broad shoulders could easily have walked off a college lacrosse field.

When I came to from this daze of admiration for such a fine specimen of a man, I realized that he was talking about (or more accurately gushing about) his niece and nephew.

So let’s see…beautiful Canali suit, perfect hair and eyebrows, rock hard work out body AND routinely chats about his niece and nephew…yeah – he’s gay.

As we walked away, my friend commented on how gorgeous he was and how she always felt so nervous talking to him – with the raging crush and all. And of course, I said something to the effect of it being too bad for her that he was gay.

And OF COURSE she was incredulous as to why I would think that, and doubted my expertise on the matter. Which is fair enough – because I’m certainly not an expert. I just see a duck who quacks like a duck and form my own conclusions. While no single one of my observations would make me assume that he was gay, all of them together created a rather flaming red flag.

Epilogue: A year later after returning from an international conference where delegates usually brought their spouses, that same co-worker dragged me into an office to tell me that – what do you know – I was right. Mr. Gorgeous arrived on site with his life partner (and a wallet full of pictures featuring the niece and nephew).

Integrity of Kate’s gaydar: 1. Naysayers: 0.**

I would apply this same line of thinking to Michael Jackson being accused of molesting young boys. Let’s review the facts:

  1. He had no childhood and an physically abusive father.
  2. He was a child star in an industry where plentiful drugs and loose morals were a given.
  3. He was the darling of said industry and exposed to who knows how many people with said priorities.
  4. Sexual predators are everywhere and a child like Michael Jackson would be an easy target for the adults populating his life (admittedly, this is conjecture – but still quite probable).
  5. He changed his appearance so many times that by the end he was barely human looking.
  6. He had high profile romantic relationships with female celebrities, also known for being somewhat damaged.
  7. No one ever really bought these romances which had the distinct air of being more friendship based and possibly just for show (more conjecture – but tell me you didn’t think the same thing).
  8. He had his first two children with a woman who relinquished all rights as a mother, so I’m going to say there was no romantic relationship there.
  9. Those children do not look like their father would likely be a black man (or at least not 100%) and the possibility of all three looking so Caucasian is pretty slim (if this statement offends you – pull out your old high school biology text book and read about dominant genes).
  10. Before even becoming a father, he built an estate called Neverland that would be a fantasy home for children (the child he never got to be).
  11. He had the monkey thing.
  12. He had the Liz and Liza thing.
  13. I could go on and on but the big, bottom line is that he had children, including 12 year old boys sleep over. In his own bed.

Each one of those items is not in and of itself condemning, but all together? It doesn’t sound like this was a man who was able to have normal romantic relationships with women. It does sound like a very sad, damaged person who made some bad choices. And it does sound like a very good candidate for pedophilia.

Again – I’m no expert, so maybe I’m wrong. But when you invite 12 year old boys into the your bed, you kind give up your right to being given the benefit of the doubt.

And on the possibility that he was in fact a sex offender who was able to buy his way out of jail, I wonder how those children, now adults, feel today. Are they rocking out in their car to P.Y.T.? Are they just happy it’s over? Are they in a good place now and able to forgive? That’s their story. One that fell off the radar long ago. And it’s probably for the best since they would at the very least deserve a chance for a normal life now.

I can’t judge Michael Jackson, but I can consider him. I can have pity for the child he never got to be, but also have contempt for the man he chose to be. And I can love the music in spite of the man. My personal opinion can waver on the details and find firmer ground in the big picture. But none of it makes any difference.

Do I think people should be held accountable for their actions? Yes. But after they’re dead? I don’t know… Because that really doesn’t make a difference either. Those of use who are living have a future and when we do look back at the past, we’ll all see different things.

Some will chose to see only the good, and some will choose to see only the bad. But both are there to be seen and considered. And in the end, I choose to see it all. With wide open eyes, and dancing feet.

*I Googled this saying since I wasn’t sure if it was “quacks” or “walks” and discovered that it’s actually a quote from Douglas Adams. And a pretty witty one at that: “If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, we have at least to consider the possibility that we have a small aquatic bird of the family anatidae on our hands.” I may have known this once – but I don’t tend to retain factoids or information that isn’t relative to my life experience. So sorry Douglas – you just didn’t make the cut.

**Why do I keep talking about gay men on my blog…? I don’t even have that many gay friends now that I live in the burbs and lost touch with most of the hospitality industry contacts from my meeting planning days. Too bad I don’t live in the city anymore – I obviously have some serious fag hag potential going on over here…

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

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One of my favorite online friends, Scary Mommy honored me with an invitation to guest post for her this week. She said that she thought it might be fun to have “a few people post their scary mommy moments (whatever that may mean).” And apparently, I completely missed the point…

She was talking about not being perfect – those times when you feel like “bad mom.” And I went in a totally different direction. Ultimately, she’s posting something else of mine that is more along the lines of what she had in mind. But since I went to the trouble of writing this thing, I’m posting it here.

So pretend that you are over at Scary Mommy’s blog and pretend that I completely nailed her guest post theme. And then leave me comments telling me what a tour de force this is so I can feel a little less moronic about the miscommunication.

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

When Jill asked me to guest post this week, she mentioned something about “scary mommy moments.” And my immediate thought was, “where do I start?!“

I suppose that’s a universal theme of motherhood, with its never-ending firsts, challenges and fears. But along with that comes all of the triumphs, the self discovery and the great gift of testing and proving your merit as a parent. It’s a heady experience.

Being a parent is absolutely the most amazing thing that I’ve ever done. Of course it’s just as terrifying as it is thrilling. And much of the time, it also really sucks.

My initiation into the world of scary mommyhood was the complete upheaval, the world turned on it’s head, the holy crap, what the hell have I gotten myself into slap in the face, otherwise known as bringing your first baby home from the hospital.

The mystery of shell shocked new parent expressions that I had previously puzzled over was suddenly revealed. I now understood. They had just willingly signed away life as they once knew it.

And I think that’s when it starts. Truly, it’s right there at the beginning. Babies may fool you for those first few sleepy days in the hospital…but the minute they cross the threshold of their new home, they turn into mini Terminators on a mission to throw their parents’ once peaceful existence into a state of constant chaos. At least for a little while.

When sleep, something so basic to a functional life, becomes a privilege and not a right, you join the ranks of zombies so easily identified as new parents. And it really gets scary when you realize that you have no idea when the madness will end, if ever.

After one particularly taxing day with baby Oliver, I looked at my husband and said quite definitively, “I don’t know how people take care of multiples – I could never do it.“

Epilogue: 18 months later I gave birth to twins.

Another scary mommy milestone would be caring for those twins during my maternity leave. Oliver was a week late and entered this world as a healthy, nine pound bruiser. Sure, he was fussy – but nothing beyond the expected newborn hoopla.

George and Eleanor were born just shy of 37 weeks and were each under six pounds. After my first tank of a baby, I didn’t know what to make of those skinny little things. They kept their wrinkly knees pulled up in a perpetual fetal position (common with c-section babies). And they looked so fragile, that even my 18 months of first baby experience made me handle them with extra care. Their tiny boniness was so foreign to me that when I dressed them in the morning I would often think that it felt like changing kittens.

They had reflux and colic and eczema and…well, let’s just say that I spent more time at the doctor’s office in those three months than I did in the previous 18 months with Oliver.

And taking care of both of them at once! Feeding them in tandem, bathing one while the other screamed, finally getting one to settle down for a nap, only to have the other wake up…When people knowingly advised me to “sleep when the baby sleeps,” I would reply, “oh yeah? Which one?” (The Miss Manners book got thrown out the window during that period of my life…)

But of course, they too eventually learned to sit up and hold their bottles, and entertain themselves and each other. And the scary new mommy phase quietly lifted away – quite the anticlimax to its bone crushing arrival.

I also think we all experience a touch of amnesia when it comes to those early months since the screaming newborn does at some point morph into a charming, cooing infant. Love and smug admiration for our offspring will inevitably win out in the end.

But then there is always something else… Some new scary development to snap us out of our self satisfied torpor. There is no relaxing in scary mommyhood.

My oldest child just turned four, and within that time I’ve experienced the NICU, the ER, hourly wake up calls for nights on end, speech and developmental delays, biting, fighting, tantrums, teething, crying, screaming and screaming and screaming…

But I’ve also experienced peals of laughter, hand holding, I wuv yous, flashes of genius, spirited identity building, earnest honesty, sticky sweet kisses, general center of the universeness and fervent gratitude for every single day that I have with those little monsters.

They have simplified my life and brought my priorities into sharp focus. My dreams for them are infinite, while my dreams for myself drop off somewhere after “showering with the door closed.” But that’s just for now because they are a daily reminder that anything is possible. They have aged me and made me feel young again. And yes – they scare the crap out of me.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. From the very beginning, they made it clear that no matter how scary life with them can be, every day is worth it. And every day is ours.

I’ve Got Disco in My Soul

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You wouldn’t know it to look at me of course.

When people look at me they see this:


and this:


and this:


But when we’re little, we absorb so much. All of that influences who we become – at least to some degree. And regardless of what the outside reflects, on the inside I run 98 ° Disco (Fahrenheit or Celsius depends on the day).

On the inside, I look like this:


and this:


and this:


Because when I was little, I went to Auntie’s house.

Auntie (which is phonetically pronounced “Ahntie”) ran a daycare service in her New Rochelle, NY house. My brother, Matthew and I at age two and four, were just two kids in what felt like a nation of children who stayed with Auntie while their parents worked.

As with all childhood memories, the images I conjure up are BIG: a massive dining room table where we’d all eat our Campbell’s Soup for lunch (hiding Lima beans in our pockets), the long flight of stairs up to her front door, the expanse of plastic slip covered sofa where we were not allowed to play…

The other kids at Auntie’s were mainly from the neighborhood, while Matthew and I lived in another town. They were boisterous and fearless where we were quiet and cautious. But we blended in. Soon enough, we laughed just as loud and played just as hard.

As the only white girl at Auntie’s, I was exotic for the first and only time in my plain jane life. My hair fell flat where theirs could be sculpted into shapes. My nose turned pink after time in the sun. And my hazel eyes would sometimes look green while theirs stayed the deepest of browns.

On the outside I couldn’t be more different. But not on the inside. My new friends marveled over my otherness but only for the novelty. Little girls are far too landlocked by their constant quest for common ground to be distracted for long. All little girls giggle in harmony, speak the language of fairy tales and whisper universal secrets that only fade with puberty.

My brother’s bright chestnut head was the only distinguishing feature in the blur of boys tearing through the house, as boys are even less concerned with external appearance. While the girls initially wanted to stroke my head and pinch my cheeks, the boys barely paused to pull Matthew into their hectic orbit. Pushing him to keep up or get out of the way. There wasn’t time for scrutiny.

But what I remember most about Auntie’s house was the music.

Auntie had teenagers who filled the house with more than just their presence. Arriving home after 3:00, they played their music loudly. Music from 1976 that commanded you to hustle, boogie and shake, shake, shake. Floors and walls pulsed with the sound of drums, bass and horn sections. Every movement of the teenagers kept time with these rhythms and they pulled us all in their wake.

During school hours when the teenagers weren’t there, the little kids would still hustle and boogie. We would sing the songs and choreograph dances. The boys would lose interest quickly, but the girls worked diligently to perfect routines.

I would bring these home and was frequently asked to perform Boogie Fever for visiting friends and relatives. I didn’t like or understand their gales of laughter. There was dignity in my disco.

As memorable as our time at Auntie’s was, it wasn’t very long. Just a year or two. Just long enough for a little disco to grab hold and not let go. And I would carry that always. First as a secret shame in the 80s – then as a triumphant comeback years later.

I rarely listen to the radio anymore. Instead I spend my commute reading via recorded books. There is so little time at home, making this the only way that I can feed my cravings for stories. But the kids are getting older now – no longer babies, but small children who like to dance and giggle as they try to sing along with their favorite songs.

I find that I frequently turn off my stories and listen to theirs (or at least Eleanor’s). Their exclamations over the world whizzing past now require a response. They need me to be actively engaged in their wonder.

So instead I turn on the radio. Now that it’s warm, I put the windows down. I yell at the kids to keep their hands inside, but secretly want to push my own palm against the press of air. I sing along with the songs I know – and even the ones I don’t know. And feel wave after wave of sense memories from high school when driving with the windows down and music blasting was a given.

Then the opening notes of something familiar distract me. I feel very young inside, far younger than I did in my previous reverie. If I close my eyes I can hear the sound of girlish giggling and possibly even feel the ghost of a small hand running through my hair (unless of course, that’s Oliver who just escaped from his seat belt).

But I don’t close my eyes (because you know, I’m driving) and I know that the giggles are coming from my own children who apparently like Donna Summer too. I turn up the volume. On the Radio transports me to a time when I had so few worries and responsibilities (other than covert disposal of the hated Lima beans). And I think that maybe I’ll do this more often, not just for me, but for the three little people in the back seat.

They are absorbing the world around them in the same way I did, and they need more music in their day. Particularly in the car when they have nothing to do but look and listen. They need a rythm to tap with their feet, a melody to lift up their hearts, and possibly a strings section for effect. They need more than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…they need Donna Summer and Stevie Wonder and Barry White. They need music with impossible high notes and finger snapping backup vocalists. They need a soundtrack. One you can dance to.

Because I think they’ve got a little disco in their souls too.

It’s Okay – I Didn’t Jump Off the Ledge…I Just Climbed Down When You Weren’t Looking

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*Don’t forget to enter my Blair Waldorf approved giveaway from Andrea’s Beau! Click here for details.

First of all, I’d like to say that I really have meant to personally respond to all of the kind comments left on my highly dramatic mind dump last week. But time has gotten away from me – so it might take a while.

Needless to say, I am feeling much better now.

The truth is – nothing has changed. But we now have a “point A” from which to work. “Point Z” is very far down the road, a road that I’ve heard is a hard one at that. But it’s far from being the one less traveled. Many people out there with similar experience have offered advice and encouragement, as well as tan, toned virtual shoulders to cry on (is it just me, or does everyone else have a much better body online?)

That said, I have learned a few things since my uncharacteristic breakdown last week:

1. It’s okay to feel sorry for yourself for short periods of time – but never longer than necessary.

2. There are always worse problems to have, so you have to focus on everything that is good and right about your lot in life.

3. Feeling sad is a waste of time unless you know WHY you are feeling sad – how else can you learn and recover?

4. Little pitchers DO in fact have big ears (though no one really knows what baseball has to do with anything) and if a child has a delay or disability, they are still far smarter and perceptive than you could ever know.

5. I often lose track of my thoughts and have no idea where I’m going with this list.

RIGHT – so I know that I had a point beyond platitudes…unfortunately, it now eludes me.

But what about Oliver?

He’s fine. In fact, he’s great. Still wonderful and amazing and miraculous. And still very delayed and on the Autism spectrum.

But like I said last week – that’s just a label. It defines his current behavior and challenges. But it doesn’t define him. And it certainly doesn’t define me.

I knew that things had shifted for me when one night in the dark, a disembodied voice (don’t worry – it was just Chris) asked me, “Oliver will be okay, won’t he?”

I answered without hesitation, “of course he will. Because I’ll make sure he is.” And I knew that was absolutely true.

So if you got scared when you noticed that I had disappeared from my angst ridden ledge – don’t fret. I just crawled back in the window while you weren’t looking.

It was a bit too breezy for my liking. I get cold easily, so I thought I’d better go get a sweater. And once inside, things didn’t seem quite so dire anymore.

There were sweet little babies who needed my attention and several pleasant hopes for the future that needed dusting. Someone was making dinner, and I realized that I was ravenous. I can always be distracted by snacks. And shiny objects. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m a little obsessed with my blog life.

Frankly, I’m just too busy to hang out on ledges with the pigeons. They aren’t the best conversationalists. And they eventually flew away when they tired of me hogging their spotlight. You know pigeons – it’s always all about them and their problems…

Right! AND (I just remembered) because:

6. Self pity is for the birds.

Magical Thinking, The Secret and Wishing Really, Really Hard

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*Don’t forget to enter my Blair Waldorf approved giveaway from Andrea’s Beau! Click here for details.

Sorry for the re-post – but I wanted to put this guest post on my own site as well. And if you didn’t read it – well here is your second chance.

I wrote it for my friend Christy’s blog, so she figures prominently – and it’s a little different from my usual style – but my mom said it was the best mothers day present I could give her, so that was nice!

Magical Thinking, The Secret and Wishing Really, Really Hard
May 7, 2009

When I first met Christy – I was almost bowled over by her enthusiasm. The Christy experience is one you never forget. Her excitement for life is truly a force to be reckoned with.

And she’s a good woman to have in your corner. I often call her my own personal cheerleader. If it were up to Christy, I’d have an agent and a book deal tomorrow, all based on the haphazard scribblings in my personal blog. I have no real writing experience, but Christy sees no hindrance there. She doesn’t waste time worrying about obstacles – she sees only infinite possibility. This ability to focus all of her energy on “making things happen” has served her well. She found her dream husband, her dream career and became the mother of a baby who looks to have sprung directly from a Botticelli painting of angels. She knows how to live life to the fullest and does so every day. And it’s all due to the fact that this girl keeps her eye on the prize.

Everyone has heard of “The Secret” by now, and Christy is in fact, a success story for this Oprah-approved method for finding happiness in life. In one of our recent conversations she told me that when she was single and feeling ready to meet Mr. Right, she thought about everything she would want in a husband and always kept that in the periphery of her thoughts. She went on plenty of bad to so-so dates, but never doubted that this perfect man was out there. She could picture him clearly and knew that she would recognize him the minute he appeared.
And apparently she did, because they’ve been married for five years.

And when they were ready to have the as of then unknown Ms. Foo…the same rules applied. As it did for the dream job. While direct routes may not have been available to her, Christy always knew what her final destination would be be. This complete confidence comes from knowing what you want. And now, thanks to a wildly popular self help book endorsed by talk show hosts everywhere, anyone can be a Christy.

I’m not mocking The Secret of course, but it just strikes me as funny that people need a manual for something that boils down to common sense and a positive attitude. It’s all so simple, or at least it can be if you let it.

So it’s no wonder that a seasoned professional in self-doubt like me would find inspiration here. And not just because it sounds so logical and attainable. For me, this approach to life also sounds very familiar…

While she may not engender Christy’s particular brand of zest for life, my mother is another force to be reckoned with. Jo Coveny is a firm believer in taking responsibility for your own happiness. She didn’t “see the light” as early on as Christy did – but hey, better late than never right?

It all started when I was in elementary school and found myself making frequent trips with her to the Georgetown new age bookstore, “YES! Books” (if you read The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, this may sound familiar – Anna Brashares grew up in the DC area and actually featured this blast from my past in her book). Crystal healing and meditation became common topics of discussion in my house and I believe there were “workshops” involved as well…

Since we were children, my brother and I didn’t actually meditate or read up on what crystals would best absorb the negative energy causing a recurring nightmare, but we were “exposed” to my mother’s new interests. A story that mom loves to tell involves my seven year old brother answering the phone while she was meditating and telling the caller that his mother wasn’t available at that time since she was not to be disturbed while she “levitated.”

But long after the crystals became fewer and far between, the self actualization tactics held strong. And my mother was a firm believer in the laws of attraction that The Secret explains. For YEARS I’ve been hearing that if I visualize good things coming my way, they eventually will.

I’ll admit that I’ve always battled a tendency to sit back and let life happen “to” me. Playing it safe and accepting what is offered is just so much easier than asking for more. But with Jo Coveny behind me, I’ve managed to expect more when it really mattered. I have a wonderful husband and beautiful children and my friends inspire me and make me laugh every day. But there is always that one tough spot. The one that doesn’t come clean with just one scrubbing. For me it’s a lack of confidence in my ability to “be something.” And it seems to be a stain made with permanent marker.

Or maybe not.

I recently read Magical Thinking by Augustine Burroughs, and was rather taken with his attitude that he can cause things to happen simply through sheer force of will. And he had this his whole life, even while he was “running with scissors” through his outrageous childhood. I love that he just decided one day that he would write a book that would be on the New York Times best seller list – and then DID.

Magical thinking is pretty much the same concept that the The Secret outlines. That you can make things happen for yourself. And I believe this – because I’ve seen it first hand.

My mother has cancer. She has for years. It began ten years ago as breast cancer, and after a long remission, came back as lung tumors and then brain tumors. So you might wonder how this secret magical thinking BS could be working for her. And I don’t blame you, because I’ve often wondered the same thing.

But that’s just not how life works. You can never dream up a perfect life and then get it. Nothing will ever be perfect – but it can still be wonderful. And the parts that aren’t so wonderful are always subject to change. The Secret proposes that “The Universe” is always listening. If you say “hey, Universe – how about sending me a life without any problems?” – you won’t get much of a response. It seems The Universe is more of a short order cook and not quite equipped to cater to requests on that large a scale. But if you ask for something specific, then you may get better results.

My mother realized many of her dreams. She and my father moved to Key West and opened a home furnishings store. They’ve faced floods and recessions – but they’re still there. In fact their current store is even more beautiful than the first location, and they now have a new business partner and best friend to share this dream. Mom wasn’t handed a perfect situation, but she has never doubted that everything would work out in the end. She knew what she needed, knew it would happen – and then it just did.

She never dreamed of getting cancer – but she did believe that she would find the treatment necessary to get her through it. The year that she developed tumors in her brain – a condition once only treatable through radiation and with a life expectancy of a few months to a few years – the FDA approved a new chemotherapy that specifically targets brain tumors. Almost a year later, my mother’s body is almost entirely cancer free. Was this just luck – or the laws of attraction?

Who knows. Maybe both. But we’ll take it.

There was a show on TV a long time ago (one that didn’t last more than a season or two) with a character named Annie who was kind of a flake. She lost her apartment and ended up secretly living in her sister’s garage where she was storing all of her furniture. A snarky friend discovered this arrangement and responded to her claims to have “tried everything” to find a new place to live by asking, “really Annie? Have you tried wishing really really hard?” Of course her deadpan “yes Brian, I have,” was supposed to be funny. But isn’t that what the laws of attraction and magical thinking are based on? That you start with a picture of what you want? A dream. A hope. A wish.

I don’t know if I believe that wishing is enough – but I do wholeheartedly believe in Jo Coveny. And I believe in Christy. And Augustine Burroughs. And everything that they have achieved started with a wish.

Of course you have to take action to make things happen, but first you have to know what you want.

So that’s where I am now. Figuring out what I want. I already have so much – but I want more. As I should. As we all should. So I’m going to make things happen for myself. I’m going to find a career that I love. Like Christy and like my mother (and of course Augustine) I’m going to picture this and believe in it. I’m going to believe that it’s all possible and that it’s never too late. And I’m going to start by wishing really really hard.