...first bite...

 6.September.2023

Henri's 1st day of Pre-K (the homeschool edition)

"The beginning is the most important part of the work" -Plato

"Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. " - A.A. Milne

~~~

Here's to setting your spark ✨ ablaze and finding your own lifelong love of learning, little one.

Here's to celebrating your unique interests, creativity, and approach.

Here's to developing your intellect alongside your independence.

And...most importantly...here's to you and all that you are becoming!

🍎

...8 (in days gone by)...

 In Days Gone By:
27.September.2018

In the "further tales from an autism home" category, we've been on tenterhooks for the last week or so regarding some recent grades that showed up in the online student portal for J. At the time, he was surprised/disappointed/confused by a few of them...all low, all from the same day.

And so was I.

After all, this is my straight A scholar. My "can't get it wrong even if he tries" wonder-kid.

And yes, the stakes are high this year...this first, freshman year of high school. The stakes are high and the pressure is on. All honors classes. All honors teachers.

(Honors teachers who are known, quite often, for non-compliance regarding IEPs-for declaring the adaptations and accommodations won't be adhered to because...Honors! ***bang head here***)

So here we are. High stakes. High pressure. Low grades

Confused Mami, confused student.

Emailed inquiries got us nowhere. Voicemail inquiries, ditto.

Until...today...when one of those graded assignments was finally handed back to him in class and he saw "the answers I had written weren't the ones I had thought".

Errrrrr??? Huh??? Say what now?

Just to put a framework on this, this news was delivered to me as we walked back up the driveway this afternoon, me heavy-laden with his bookbag and lunch bag and....yeah, you get the picture...huffing, puffing, and trying to keep him from walking directly into a tree.

(Oh, did I forget that part? Yeah...trees...and sensory overload. Great match at the end of a long, hard day when the boy has been doing his damndest to self-regulate all day, masking his true self and passing for neuro-typical. We've a long history with this long, steep, tree-lined driveway and end-of-school day collisions.)

Now, where was I? Watch out....twig there! Up and over and....school...grade...answers??? "What do you mean?"

J-"Well, the writing was mine, but the answers were different than what I thought I wrote...what was in my head never made it to the page."

?!?!?!?

J-"But, I figured it out Mami. That was the day I forgot to take my Rescue Remedy."

!!!!!!!!!

And just like that, it all makes sense. On the day when the protocol was not in place, his intellect was there but his function wasn't. On the day when he didn't have a para to provide the reminders, he didn't remember. On the day when there was no accommodation, he couldn't participate.

The grades are there. They can't be erased or replaced. He can't get a "do over" for that day. These are the high stakes/high pressure/high school realities.

But at least, today, we're relieved to know the answer.

...1 (in days gone by)...

 Every once in a while, 'memories' pop up on one social media platform or another and I think to myself, I ought to copy that over to here.  I think it...and make a mental note...and then promptly forget again.

 Such was the case, once again, yesterday...when I first logged onto Facebook in the early hours and took a little detour from prep work , to traipse down memory lane.

So, this one's for me: a (hopefully fully manifested) series of 'past posts', come home to roost.

In Days Gone By:
18.June.2019

I slept through the alarm this morning.

Okay...not really.

More like...I dozed off after waking up just long enough to turn it off.

"Came to" some ten minutes later, with the heart-racing adrenaline rush when your brain knows you have s*** to do but your body is trying to pretend it's still nighttime.

The achy breaky stumble through morning routine commenced. Coffee? Check. Breakfast? Check. Clothes laid out? Check. Check. Check.

He hopped into the shower. I slumped over the kitchen table in between "2 minute warnings"...the coffee mug just out of reach.

Gurgle in the pipes as the shower stopped. Reminder to hurry again... Then...out...in a flurry of towel and drippy hair and shower thoughts about Transformers. (Of course!) He's off to get dressed. I'm off to make the beds-wash the breakfast dishes-download my workload-stumble over the cat once-twice-three times the charm!

It's Finals Week. Everything is off kilter.

No lunch prep needed. But snack and drink, and tea for the bus stop-wait. Check the bookbag. The rescue remedy refill reminder clearly didn't work-empty pill fob. Run through my checklist as I count out 9 pastilles-cram and twist to close. Chromebook? Check. Sharpened pencils? Check. With erasers? Err....crap...nope....where's the damn box? Check. Drawing pad? Check. Earbuds? Check. Glasses? Check. Check. Check.

Hazard a quick glance at the clock...woah, running late! My yell to "hurry up" answered by his "I can't" whimper as out he finally comes...shirt-tails flapping, hair still dripping.

"Mami? I wanted to wear this one, but..."

He's replaced the shirt I laid out with yet another blue and turquoise, plaid, short sleeve button-down. Yes...full title needed. Under no circumstances can we simply say shirt or blue shirt or even blue plaid shirt. Full. Title. Needed. "Precision of Language!"

So here he stands, in the middle of the kitchen, blue and turquoise, plaid, short sleeve button-down half on, offering up to me The Problem. "I wanted to wear this one, but look...." The buttonhole is torn. No doubt from his new(ish) stim of tugging on his hems...shirts, shorts, even socks...everything gets tugged.

"How about..." I start to say, but cut the half-formed thought off. Yeah, no. There's no how or why or rhyme or reason. It's Finals Week and everything needs to be just-so...calm, cool and collected, so that brain of his can churn away and spit back all the facts it's been crammed full of all year. There's no room for distraction or discomfort. No room for entertaining alternates. There is just this shirt-the first and only choice-and two minutes before our bus alarm goes off.

"Okay, I've got this" I say, as I wrestle him out of it...his arms, still damp, sticking to the sleeves. Off he goes to grab his robe...he does NOT do shirtless. Off I go to retrieve my sewing box. Precious time wasted as I try once-twice-seventeen million times, to thread the needle. Finally my brain processes the thread width vs. the needle eye size. New needle? Oh, yes, in the tin. The tin that WON'T OPEN! Argh! Yank, twist...sweating now. Glance at that clock again...Double Argh!

There goes the alarm.

POP! Well, the tin's open. And sewing needles are all over the sofa...and...

Yup. Ouch...that one's point down in my thigh. Waaaaah!

Let's fast forward...no real damage done.

New needle. All good. Thread zipping in and out. Tie it off. Snip!

Robe off. Shirt on. Good as new.

Grab the bag. Grab the tea. Grab the boy.

Off into the rain.

The rain?

The RAIN!

Welp! Back in, grab the umbrella.

Say cheese! Click...photo? Check.

Off into the downpour.

A noticeable groan from the boy who now, clutching his abdomen, says "I hate rain".

Yup. There's that. Weather-induced headaches and gastric issues.

It's Finals Week. And it's raining. And he's off his game.

Awesome. (Yeah, no.)

Down we trudge. Bus arrives. He winces, as ever, at the squeal of the brakes.

I stand, waving my arms about like the 'Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Guy' at the disappearing tail lights...

"I love you! Come home safe to me." Blow a kiss. My ritual.

Back up and in. Umbrella propped across the sofa to dry. (Small space living, m'i'right?) Tea kettle on. Laptop unplugged. Shoulder-mounted kitty.

Chime!

My phone screen lights up and I smile. Google Hangouts-from the bus.

"Thanks, Mami. Ps-why is everyone on the bus SO LOUD?!?!

Ps again-you look tired."

"Earbuds are in the left front pocket, kiddo. Put them in! I'm suuuuuuper tired...and old, and fading...but thanks for the reminder to shellac my face!

Good luck today...and DON'T TUG ON YOUR SHIRT, please?!?"

Chime!

"Okay. Ps-the button on my shorts is loose now, too."

...no safe space...

 "Are you ok?" (12:31 pm)

"Please answer me." (12:33 pm)

"I love you." (12:34 pm)

"You are my whole heart." (12:37 pm)

"I love you. I am so proud of you." (12:41 pm)

"Follow the directions of teachers and police. Stay with your classmates." (12:45 pm)

"Please stay safe." (12:46 pm)

"Come home to me." (12:49 pm)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He called at 2:27 from the bus to let me know he was on his way home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With the slaughter of elementary schoolchildren and their teachers in a Texas elementary school weighing heavy on my heart, I sent my senior to school this Wednesday morning and prayed (as ever) for a safe day. Safe. Not from the bullying that he's endured daily. Safe. Not from the shame of being ostracized. Safe. Not from the self-destruction of anxiety and depression.

Safe.

Alive...whole...intact...safe.

From bullets.

I prayed as I snapped his photo. I prayed as I kissed him goodbye. I prayed as I closed the door and turned to my youngest's concerns. I prayed, the silent all-encompassing internal whisper of prayer of every mother of school-aged children on Wednesday.

Be safe. Stay safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At 12:29, as I nursed my youngest down for a nap, both mind and body exhausted from a morning spent entertaining his every toddler whim and whimsy, my phone wishfully on silent-mode, I received a simultaneous robo-call and email:

 "WHRHS is currently in a lockdown due to investigation of a threat received over the phone. We do not believe the threat is credible. Out of an abundance of caution, police are on sight investigating the threat. An update will be sent at the conclusion of the lockdown."

I have never been more scared.

That call.

That email.

There is a sudden blackness that rushes through. A hollowing. The prayer goes silent.

And from the depths, a clawing urgency...instinct firing and burning off reasoning and logic.

I held one son as he dozed, in terror for the other.

Immediately I sent my eldest a text. And another. And another.

Desperate silence.

I have never been more scared.

Social media forums burst into life as other parents panicked and queried.

Another message was shared by the police department:

"The police department is currently conducting an investigation into a reported threat at WHRHS. The school is in lockdown and there is adequate police personnel on the scene. We ask that parents DO NOT respond to the high school at this time. More information will follow."

I left my youngest asleep and pulled out every piece of tech, tuning in to every source and forum I could pull up. And finally...a breath...as we saw a few students and staff begin to comment in the threads to reassure us that they were safe.  

"I am in school now. Kids are taking this seriously and we know what to do. We are still in classrooms."

"Officers with rifles are coming in room by room."

"Our classroom checked twice by 5-6 armed officers."

"Down on the floor in the dark."

And a swirling cesspool of fresh terror as parents shared text replies from their children:

"Gun in the bathroom."

"School was breached."

"Might be a bomb threat."

"I hear walkie-talkies...there's a shooter on the football field?"

I have never been more scared.

Volume up. Notifications on. Ringer at max.

My phone still silent.

Staring at those words on one screen and then another.

It is May 2022. And we, we parents, we know in a way that we didn't before, that there is no transparency offered by school or police. We know that what we are reading, others have read. We know that parents on Tuesday read similar words even as their children lay injured and dying and dead.

We know.

The comments flew by. Questions. Answers. Reassurances. Rumors.

And we waited.

I waited.

Safe. Please. Safe. Please. Safe. Please.

The endless refrain whispered as my mind went to dark places and prepared for the worst. As the facts and figures of school shootings I'd read about re-matriculated as data points to sort through and make sense of.

Safe. Obey. Please. Obey. Safe.

Splitting in two as one part handled every-parent fear, and the other took over the fear of parents of autistic children, who know full well that the statistics are not in our favor...our children injured...killed...by law enforcement because of their "unnatural" responses to unfamiliar faces and directions. Our children restrained, tasered, asphyxiated, shot. Our children killed by those sent to protect them.

Obey. Please. Safe. Please.

I have never been more scared.

My mind flickered through all the training I've done with him:

Stay calm

Answer direct questions.

State your name and diagnosis.

Ask for assistance.

My memory, though, flickered through every time he's frozen in place or gone non-verbal or flailed, aggressively, sensory-seeking and desperate to find an anchor.

I have never been more scared.

Two hours, roughly. From the time my phone vibrated to the time he called. Two hours in which my world stopped...froze...waited in emptiness...in hollowness. Two hours of desperate scrolling and texting and waiting and waiting and waiting...to breathe.

It is May 2022.  And we, we parents, we know our children are never safe.  Not in their classrooms.  Not in their locker rooms. Not in their cafeterias...hallways...bathrooms.

Not in this country. No, not here. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We cannot become numb to the tragedies we witness daily. We don't have to live like this—and we don't have to die like this. It's time to hold our elected officials accountable for their inaction.": Urge Your Senators to Pass Gun Safety Legislation Now

Junior Year...jury's still out...

 My alarm chimed this morning.

(Literally. As in..."Wind Chimes", courtesy of the ringtones/notifications/etc app I downloaded ages ago...back in those "halycon" pre-Covid days when schedules were life and every task had its own tone.)

So chime it did. Sweetly and softly, just barely rippling through the deep dark quiet of 5a.m. I ignored it, silencing the alarm with one hand and the whimper of Henri next to me with the other. Co-sleeping...such a misnomer. He sleeps in fits and starts while I cling to the side of the bed, scared to move. The crib lies vacant just a few feet away. Rejected. As it is every night over and over and over again until I finally give in and bundle him up into the center of my bed...clear off the blankets and pillows...and lay rigidly against the outside, barring any rolling off or cat clambers. The night had been long...barely time to drift between nursing demands. The alarm chimed and I groped about for the phone. Turned off the volume. Rocked my little neighbor with one arm and turned my head, closing my eyes...counting down again...

And then I woke.

But a minute later, or maybe two. The alarm. THE alarm. The first day of back to school...minus the back, the to, and the school. Time to rise and shine and prep for the unknown. Time to wake my Junior.

He picked the time, by the way. Not that you were wondering. Time for coffee...served hot and steaming...passed from my weary hands to his groggy ones. Time for breakfast and a shower. Time for a first day photo. Time, more importantly now, for playing with his little brother...squeezing in a book or two and their beloved floor time routine.

Some time later, I stood in the kitchen, my own mug gone lukewarm...listening to the happy baby chortles and sing-song baritone. I'd just finished rearranging the dining area...a bit of the push this here/remove that there swap...to take us from dining to zooming. Small space living is forever a balancing act, now all the more so with another purpose for the room to serve. School. A window into the world, or a window into his private life. Either way, uncomfortable.

Over breakfast I asked him how he was feeling about Remote-Learning. He answered right away...years of life with me must have taught him well...he can guess the questions well in advance.

"So here's the thing, Mami: I enjoy learning. You know that. We're alike.

I like new information and new challenges. I like learning. But not school.

School is where they teach "the What" but not "the Why".

It's sort of like the manuals that come with Ikea flat-packs. There's a parts listing (and you hope all the pieces are there!) and the diagrams, but it's up to the individual student to build it out. And more than that...it's only the instructions for the basic model. You want to customize it? Create something more suited to your lifestyle or your creativity? That's all on you. All you get in the manual-the school-is the basic/the average/the conventional. And sometimes that's just so damn frustrating! It's that feeling of "Here's something new and exciting to explore...but, no, we're not actually going to do anything with it".

So it's definitely time to try something new.

I don't know if this is it. But it's worth the trying, I suppose.

The schedule is way shorter, so maybe that means more time for self-guided learning?

I'm nervous what impact the shortened schedule will have on the quality of education. Longer periods but less frequent. Will that mean cramming things in faster, or losing out on some of the material? And assessments? How are they handling quizzes and tests? How will assessments be equitable in this hybrid-schoolyear?

But since you asked...I'm glad to be attending remotely. Wish that had been an option all along. I'm glad to be able to circumvent all the overwhelming 'white noise' of sensory chaos and just focus on the learning."

He answered...and I wrote (in Mami shorthand)...knowing I'd want to see it here in years to come. The moment passed. Breakfast done and the hustle and bustle resumed.

I stood in the kitchen with my coffee, waiting to be called in, and thinking back on all the frenetic first days in the past.

No bus to wait on this morning.

No bookbag to repack.

No supply list posted at the front door.

Just this. Easing on in. Rearranging the furniture and opening the Chromebook.

His school day began when the meeting opened. I watched him raise his hand and wave, a wry grimace of a smile on his face. I watched his eyes tracking across the screen. Heard the staccato click on fingers on keyboard. Saw his head nod and heard him say his name...repeating it for the teacher who still pronounce it incorrectly...marking himself as "present".

I caught his eyes briefly, the smallest acknowledgement that he was "good to go", before I whisked Henri from the crib and wrestled him into the carrier for our walk.

While the newly christened Junior watched (literally) his school-day begin, the junior and I headed down the drive and walked in the cool damp of early morning. Back and forth. Forth and back. I spoke nonsense to him. He played at enraptured audience. We breathed in the fresh air and heard the birdsong. We watched squirrels flirt and wrestle. We stood, both with eyes gone wide with surprise, as school busses drove by.

None of this even remotely like what came before.

Dear Younger Me /or/ Life in the Time of Covid-19 (version2.0)

Dear Younger Me,

    

    NO. WAIT.  STOP!  DON’T THROW ME AWAY!

    NO BUTTERFLY EFFECT WILL BE TRIGGERED BY THE READING OF THIS!!!

    

    Whew...okay, you’re still here…
    

    Apologies for the shouting...I know how your mind works.  I promise I’ve run this through all the algorithms to make sure no part of it will adversely affect you or your family. Speaking of: Congrats!  You, super Mami, will make it through labor and delivery by the skin of your teeth...and let me tell you, it will be a rough ride but well worth it.  Henri is everything you are dreaming up right now, and more!  So set your mind at ease (ha!) and try to squeeze in a few more catnaps in the recliner before he decides to arrive.  Oh, and maybe stock up on post-partum recovery supplies on your next wander’bout the good old aisles of Tar-Jay.  (T.P., my friend...T.P.  Grab a truck load...you’re gonna need it!)  Now, how to word this so it doesn’t trip any alarms…

Be kind to yourself.
Give yourself grace to recover.
And become comfortable with the mute button.

    Anyhow...you know how right now as you read this you are worrying the heck out of yourself over Johannes?  Yeah?  Don’t!  Waste of time, young one...waste of time.  He’s going to surprise the heck out of you.  Without any spoilers (Sorry...didn’t pass inspection on any of them!) let’s just say he’s going to be the best big brother the world has ever seen. 

    So, obviously, we both know ‘something’s up’...or else I wouldn’t have risked writing to you like this. Here’s what I’m allowed to tell you:

    That virus in Asia?  It’s not staying there.  Change is coming, fast and hard.  Familiarize yourself with some new terminology now.  Go ahead and google:
    

PPE
Cytokine Storm

Distance Learning

Social-Distancing

    Whew...Mami...now, breathe.  I know, you’re hopped up on all those pregnancy hormones, but come back down to earth.  It’s really not that bad!  I mean, it is...bad…   But you don’t need to worry about it now.  What you need is a game plan.  Again, T.P.  Toilet Paper is the name of the game...trust me on this.  Just go ahead and stock up now.

    So before your crazy hormonal self spirals out of control and you think I’m writing to you from some post-Apocalyptic future where asymptomatic-carriers are mixing it up in violent protest, and Cheeto worshippers demonstrate Darwinian stereotypes, and the government hunkers into bunkers, and murder-hornets force us all indoors...take a breath (1...2...3...in...1...2...3...out) and rest assured, only 3 of those things are true.

 
    You know how everyone keeps talking to you like it’s your first go-round at motherhood, what with the “sleep before the baby comes” and “get your prep work in now”?  Err...yeah, they’re right.  Go Nike-style and Just.Do.It.  Sleepless nights are coming, and Henri’s only half to blame.   Remember that google spree you just went on?  PPE?  Get used to the sound of 3D printers running 24/7.  And prepare yourself to be prouder of Johannes then you’ve ever been before.  He’s going to surprise you. (Oh, crap...you caught that pluralization of the printer, didn’t you? Yeah, maybe start rearranging the kitchen now…”if you move it, they will come” and all.  Oh, and stock up on filament and plastic bags and print-bed tape now…you do NOT want to know how much I’m spending on shipping these days. Just go ahead and jump on Amazon quick and I’ll wait…

    Yeah, so, you fell asleep, huh?  What do you mean, “How do I know?”.  I’m you, idiot.  Future you, sitting here with my bank account screen open, hoping my words of wisdom got through to you in time to get my balance out of the red. Nevermind, I know you needed it...that whole pregnancy-insomnia thing…

    So where were we?  Right...PPE.  It’s going to consume every waking hour (and yeah, they’ll all be waking hours...Henri has reflux and since you can’t do a thing about it, it’s safe to tell you!) and basically take over the house.  Good news, though: PPE production will be Johannes’ saving grace.  Investing his skills and talents into this social-project will keep his anxiety at bay, and distract him from what you will come to learn is the de-educating of American youth known as “Distance Learning”.   You know that term “Busy Work”?  Let’s just say it’s in no way IEP-compliant, or tailored to the individual learner, or...frankly...of any educational use whatsoever.  That said, it serves a purpose: school compliancy with fulfilling 180 days no matter the how-what-where.  Prepare yourself though...it will drone on and on and on...pointless and predictable and much to the frustration of both you and Johannes...right up until today. 

    Distance-Learning is a blessing in disguise though.  You’ll both spend so much time staring at his computer screen, waiting for teacher updates and grading, that not being able to go anywhere ever won’t even leave a ripple.  Remember those shipping fees and our bank account?  Yeah...let’s just say online shopping is your Olympic sport!  I’m told it’s okay to let you know that Quarantine-Life is coming, bringing a halt to shopping for non-essentials and a massive slooooow down to shopping for groceries.  You know the gas lines at Costco?  Reimagine them as people-queues...but with 6 feet between each person and wrapping round the parking lot.  It will also shut down public spaces such as your local library (enjoy reading your current loans about 2 dozen times!), parks and recreation.  I’m here to let you know that Ergo Baby Carrier you’ve been eyeing up is totally worth the $$$...you WILL be walking up and down that side road A LOT!  Plus side:amazing convos with J-Bug while Henri lolls chest-side!

    All that staying home is a good thing, though.  You know how Johannes is?  Yeah...I know you know.  Well, social-distancing is his jam!  Just follow his lead!  He’s been avoiding peeps for years...he’ll show you how it’s done.  (And listen to him when he tells you to take your own advice.  All I can say is “the only opinions that matter come from people who matter to you” are the wisest words you’ve ever uttered and you are going to need to start practicing what you preach!)  Go ahead and let him “waste his time” on that Nightstrike mask if he wants to...it might just come in handy!

I know, I know...your eyes are starting to glaze over.  Hit that pedal and recline away...but put the blanket on your lap first..the cat’s claws haven’t been trimmed and we both know how much she enjoys napping right on that belly!  Yeowch!  I think by now Henri has grown quite adept at the in-utero kickoff!

    

    Naptime over so soon?  Okay, let’s dive back in...springtime is coming, and with it, social unrest.  Be prepared to hit the unfriend button...a lot...in the coming weeks as your clown-car of acquaintances begin to show their true colours.  The “Orange Orangutan” will prove once again that there is literally No Limit to his long-game con of the American public, his ability to stir things up, and his white supremacist leanings.  Just...be prepared.  It’s going to get nasty on all fronts, and you’ll find yourself divided between supporting the push for racial equality and supporting your friends in the first-response field. Thankfully, Henri will start rolling over and pre-crawling right when it hits fever-pitch, so you’ll be too distracted keeping him alive to fall into the pits of despair. 

    Listen, you’ve got this.  The family motto isn’t “Roll with the Punches” for nothing, after all.  It’s going to be a rough season for sure, but you’ll make it to today at least!  And hey, all that Social-Distancing will serve as a great excuse for avoiding those who are generally too close for comfort...You KNOW who we mean! 

    So stay safe...stay healthy...and when they say “push”...dig in like your life depends on it...

    

    It Will!

 
                ~You, Me, and She

P.s- Feel free to pack away all your “nice” clothes.  You won’t be wearing any of them anytime soon.  Oh, and pants!  No need for them either.

P.p.s- Do Not Under Any Circumstances pack away your makeup.  Zoom is coming...and hi-def is not your post-partum friend!

Dear Younger Me /or/ Life in the Time of Covid-19 (version1.0)

Another long abandonment comes to a close.

Despite the silence, the space still exists here, just waiting to be filled up with all the words.

To that end, enjoy this little offering "in two parts"...the first: written by my longtime-editor/cause-of-caffeine-dependency/firstborn son, as his final assignment for the school-year.  The second to follow in another post: my first attempt at filling a page in months.
~~~

Dear Younger Me,

    

    No, not the song title. ‘Tis I, your future self! *Pen flourish*  Worry not, I’ve no intention of altering the timeline. I’m just here to prepare you a bit, for what’s to come.

    By now, you’re probably aware of that somewhat mysterious virus in Asia, and are mildly concerned about it, though thankful that you are safe at home on American soil. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean quite what you think. In fact, quick tangent here: you might want to stock up on some at-home basics right about now, such as toilet paper and sanitizer. The virus, COVID-19, will eventually go on a world-tour, spreading its pestilence far and wide. The first real casualty here in the United States will be the existing public health system, as hospitals scramble to provide care for a massive uptick in patients. Worldwide demand on the necessary hospital equipment will be shockingly higher than the supply, resulting in many countries instituting lockdowns and quarantines in an effort to slow the spread. 

    Is your anxiety beginning to peak, yet?  Worry not!  I’m here to tell you that this season of your life will be the one in which you rise to the occasion! You’ll suddenly find yourself up ‘til all hours, printing and packaging PPE to donate to all the front-line workers and first-responders, because the official supplies keep getting seized by the government for their private stash. While the general public will be doing its best to “flatten the curve” by engaging in something you’ll come to know as Social-Distancing, the Head Cheeto in Charge ©️ Nightstrike’s Customs will be holding hospital supplies hostage. You, though, and other socially-minded young people will step up and find ways to produce the very items hospitals need most. Ingenuity and creativity, as well as 3-D printers will win the day! Speaking of, quick tangent alert again: maybe stock up on filament now?!? You do not want to see the shipping costs I am dealing with, young engineer!

    Speaking of rising to the occasion: You’ll have to learn how to juggle prototyping, PPE-delivery, a mysterious time-depleter known only as “Distance Learning,” and helping out with your new baby brother Henri. Good luck! You’re going to need it! Good thing you’ve always been a pursuer of higher knowledge, buddy. By the time we meet, you’ll have earned you professorship!

    You, my friend, will end up looking back on the days you were trapped in the school building, and realize that the old adage is true: you never know how good it is until it’s gone.  Back then,you were at least learning something new every day. Let’s just say “Busy Work” will be the new curriculum. Teachers will scramble to find ways to keep students engaged, without the benefit of in-person learning. It won’t work out well. Your schoolwork will continue, and Watchung Hills will be that one school that does not accommodate those who lack in some area, be it a quiet space to work, or simply a lack of a computer to use. But you will make it through, and you will be able to relax, at least a little.

    Some three months in or so, people will think that everything’s going back to normal, but you know that won’t be the case. Society at large will be “tired” of having had to adjust their typical lifestyles and the first stirrings of unrest will be explosive. Racism will have a major influx the likes of which you’ll have only read about in History books. You’ll see playing out in real-time, the concept of survival of the fittest as various bigot groups forgo safety precautions to willfully spread their hate.

    Friends will be made, friends will be lost, and the effects of, well . . . 2020, in general, will continue, as tensions rise, and you start to fear that you’ll be silenced by the new policies put in place. Brutality and violence will increase exponentially, and, at the time I write this, it may even end up reaching Somerset County. But things will change. Maybe not for a while, but hopefully for the better.

    Don’t stress over your mistakes, but recognize that you now can do better.

    

    Don’t worry about things possibly getting worse.

    It’s out of your control!!!

    What IS in your control, is your life. Make the best of it, and don’t worry about the negative in the world, or you’ll find yourself worrying for the rest of your life. 

                            Stay safe, and healthy,
                                J. W.

    P.S. Don’t worry about the cat, either! She’ll eventually come around to liking Henri.

    P.P.S. Maybe ask your mother if you can take a turn on the stock market and dump some extra change into a little thing called Zoom.

...start the countdown...

This morning's arrival of the schoolbus signaled the start of our countdown, as there remain but 10 full days (not counting the half days designated for final exams) of school left to this freshman year.

Couldn't come soon enough!

Or to two more well-deserving people...in our humble opinion! 😏

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I remember those first early days of spring when Nature got one over on us...playing the part of summer with high temp. days and sunny skies.  We crawled out of our winter-doldrums and shed layers and laziness, and followed the sun.

But...school...

as undesirably dependable as taxes...

circled back round each Monday morning and broke the reverie.

Nonetheless, we persisted!

Ha!

We did, though.

Persist.

Pushing through homework and pushing past the whine of rusty muscles to get out and about as oft as possible.  Hitting the road each weekend for sights unseen (and revisiting old favourites) and roads less traveled.   Packing away the heavy layers and long sleeves and welcoming each increasing degree of warmth on our upturned faces.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood", so we took the one that led to the castle!

We raced the clock and chased the setting sun, heading home a moment or a minute or an hour later each day.  Borrowing against the morning and the inevitable ache of waking up at 4am.

And here we are, with summer almost in reach...

Both of us...

Completely burnt out on work and school and school and work and oh-so-ready to turn off the alarms and sleep through the sunrise and...
Just

Hit

Pause.

3 weeks to go.

(Counting those exams, that is.)

3 weeks of late nights and early mornings as we play both sides of the equation...

slipping in and out of summer as oft as possible...

returning to responsibility just in time to yawn through his first period and my first deadline.

3 weeks.

10 days.

5 half-days.

HOW ever will we make it???

10 - 9 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1

...well, bully for you...

(From March 19, 2019)

We are, in my personal opinion, the sum of our experiences:

ever-growing, ever-changing.

Marked by the passage of each day and what it brings into our orbit.

We bend and fracture with the punches.

We grow scar tissue over deep hurts; that "different tissue" that closes the wound but can never quite be what it replaced.

Some of us soften and blossom.

Others of us harden and refine. 

Our intellectual functions adjust to the tasks presented...worrying over the problems specific to our experiences...gradually becoming habitual users of the same processes over time.

Our physical bodies attune to repetitive needs in much the same way.

Even our emotional cores, our inner spirits, are gradually rewritten as we experience all those ups and downs.

My son is, right now, the product of his first 16 years. He is buoyed by the confidence created at home, and battered by the distrust created at school. He is shut down, shut out, from the social-emotional experience of school life (and, often, community life if school peers are present) by a learned "battening down the hatches" auto-response. He tells me how much energy he expends daily, in the rigorous process of shutting everything out. He arrives home, exhausted, just in time for those temporary walls of his to burst. He is crushed under the weight of those walls every afternoon.

I rebuild my son every day, after school. I let him crush my hand as we walk up the driveway, releasing all that inner turmoil into my very bones. I sit with him as he falls apart and catch, in my hands, the words that he'll need back. I listen to the ones unspoken and hear the cry of his defeat. And then I help him rebuild. It takes all night and all morning.

And then, he goes back to school. 

It's different now..

now that he's in high school...now that he's 16.

"Selectively Solitary-or-Safely So"

He's different now.

More guarded.

Less open.

Purposely numb.

Missing out just because he can't take the risk.

His efforts to protect himself, because everyone else (including me) failed to protect him, have cut him off from who he was.

I am different now, too...

I pull no punches now. I set aside "kindness" and stand at the offensive ready.

Gone are the days when I played only defense..only re-action. I have learned what to expect and grown accordingly.

This post:6 years old today. 

Part of the why...

(From March 19, 2013) 

So to clarify, calmly now that I've had some time, I received a call from school yesterday letting me know that another student had pushed my son and that he had fallen, hard. He did go to the nurse, and was checked out by her, and she felt that he could continue on with the school day. Once the individual who called was done sharing that information, it was time for the standard "cover our rears" speech. 

Generally it sounds very basically the same each and every time an incident like this occurs.

I am informed that my son is fine, and that the incident will be investigated.

I am informed that the other student has never displayed this sort of behavior before.

I am informed that while they will look into the incident, that they don't feel that anyone intended to harm my son.

So, four years in to this now, I'm used to hearing this same scenario or variations on the same.

And quite frankly I'm sick to death of it.

I knew even during that phone call that my child was going to come home to me at the end of today with some physical mark: either a bruise or a cut or scrape or a black and blue mark. And yet, despite the fact that he did not have that mark on him when he left for school that day, the administration does not feel that returning him in "damaged" condition is worth their time or concern.

So when things like this happen as they seem to do at least once a week, I play the waiting game.

I wait until my child gets off school bus and until he says something that triggers the conversation.

Yesterday was no different. Right off the hop, as soon as he got off the bus, he said he was sick and tired of being treated badly by the student who had hurt him that day. After listening to his side of what actually transpired, I left voicemail messages for several of the administrators at the school. And then waited. And waited. When I finally did get a return phone call I was treated with a good deal of oppositional defiance. Right from the start of the phone call, the principal attempted to first talk me out of my concerns, and when that didn't work, inform me that they were unfounded and melodramatic. She took great offense to my word choice when I describes my son as being a victim. Her only explanation was that all children in that age range put their hands on one another. Additionally, she did not like being told that my son is afraid to attend her school. In fact, she argued with me on that very same point, stating loudly that every time she sees him he is smiling and happy to be there. During the course of the conversation, which took over an hour away from my being attentive to my child, she continued to negate what I was saying and to talk over me and through me, interrupting me at every turn. It doesn't help lend credence to her cause, when she can't formulate a straight sentence without using at least one word inappropriately in each. I kept thinking to myself that this was quite literally the equivalent of banging my head against brick wall. Attempting to reason with someone who is not your intellectual equal is beyond frustrating. Particularly when that person thinks that they are in a defensive position. At any rate I stayed firm in what I was saying, which I know to be the truth.

My son has been at the school for four years.

He has been bullied relentlessly during those four years.

He is afraid to go to school.

We wake up hours before most other schoolchildren do, in order to spend valuable time addressing his fears and concerns, and providing appropriate therapy choices to help him combat them.

Every single day, every single morning that he has to go to school, I have to persuade him to do so.

He is afraid to go there.

He is afraid to get on the bus.

He's afraid of unpredictable classmates who wish to harm him.

Trying to reason with a now 10-year-old and explain to him that school ought to be a safe place for him becomes increasingly difficult with each new incident.

I could not believe the audacity of the administrator in her aggressive approach to handling my concerns. It was almost as though she felt that the appropriate way to manage me was to bully me and berate me until I gave in. Bully the parent of a bullied child. Are you kidding me?!? Thankfully I am rather talented at compartmentalizing (hey, thanks, crappy life-experiences!), and not letting my emotions get the best of me. So rather then letting her know how angry I was increasingly becoming, I maintained my composure. 

Which forced her to switch tactics.

Her next choice was to blame my son's autism.

Because clearly, when someone is physically harmed there's this area of gray that can be interpreted differently by an autistic brain...Right? (WRONG!)

 Again I'm dumbfounded by the idiocy of that sort of thinking. We're not discussing a verbal squabble on the schoolyard in which my son may have taken something personally that was never intended to be cruel. What we're discussing is physical assault. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there's no gray area there. This isn't a matter of my autistic son reading the situation inappropriately. It's physical assault, plain and simple! 

When the administrator once again realized that the course she had taken was the wrong one and that she was making no headway, she changed her tactics once again. This time claiming that the other child never engages with anyone. That his own special needs render him almost completely nonverbal, and that therefore he couldn't possibly have been teasing my son and my son's friend. And that he is adverse to touch, and therefore could not possibly have purposefully harmed my child.

And here, my friends, we deal with an out right lie.

This same child rides on the bus which a friend of mine drives. She informed me that he is quite verbal, and teases everyone all the time. Additionally she let me know that he is not nearly as vegetative as the principal would have implied. In fact, he's gone after my son and my son's friends routinely on the bus. 

Long story short, by the end of the phone conversation, the principal did come to some degree of her senses, and apologize for the tone she had taken with me. I held fast with what I was saying and reiterated that whether or not she was in fact sorry or even chose to believe what I'm saying, she needed to be informed of the fact that my son is afraid to be in her school. And for that, I hold her accountable. 

At the turnaround point in the conversation, she then played a different hand altogether. It was apparently trying to brainstorm with me, about what might make the situation better. She stated time and again over the next 15 or so minutes that she didn't know what to do and that if I had any suggestions she would greatly appreciate that.

Now, while I am well inclined in my daily life to be a bit of a brainstormer and to research possible solutions, it's hardly my responsibility to make her job easier. I did make a few suggestions (because I can hardly resist doing so) but I reiterated that it is her responsibility to investigate these incidents to the fullest extent of her capabilities, and based off of her findings then come up with solutions that actually work. 

And the administration wonders why I'm so frustrated?!?