...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!

🍎

...leaps and bounds, dinos and dares...

 Leaps and bounds, folks...leaps and bounds!

But a handful of hours ago...one turned page prior...Henri conquered 'the jump'. Two feet in the air...aloft...

After months of trying and failing...after months of frustration and consternation...after months of my staring at 'the goalpost' and watching it move ever backwards.

Until, it didn't. Until he didn't...or rather...did...did jump. By himself. For himself. At a time...in a place...by a manner of his own choosing.

A handful of hours later...and that page is done...

and another lay empty, waiting for the story of today.

(There are hours yet to come...the day only halfway through...)

And the page is already full!

Because today, I followed his lead (a bit) and decided to use his 'tools for success' to 'up the ante': I took those dinosaur puzzles that he'd jumped over to such awe and delight, and placed them atop one of the balance beams we'd tried so unsuccessfully to master.

Why not? Why not believe in magic? Why not hope that a handful of dino puzzles might just be the missing ingredient in the spell?

~~~

And, oh!

Friends...

He leapt!

I led him to the obstacle, and he...well, he sparkled....glee and anticipation and the enticement of challenge....

He sparkled...and chirruped a little battle cry...and he leapt!

Up and over...two feet in the air...weightless flight...and then landed on the other side.

A grin...from ear to ear and far beyond.

My shriek...applause...and laughter.

And then he turned right round and did it over and over and over again...each time with more abandon. A master of magic!

~~~

And then...

He looked at me with a glimmer in his eye...and took the puzzles off, laying each one carefully in a row, next to the balance beam.

A brief pause...to kneel down, raowring as he tapped on each dino with outstretched finger. Then he backed up...crouched down, pushed off...

Up! Up! And over!

I let out my breath in relief that he'd made it across without stumbling, or landing wrong, or crashing into the table.

Again and again he jumped...right over those magical dinos of bravery.

~~~

And then...

He stopped. Clapped for himself and chortled at me.

Straightened the balance beam.

Stepped carefully onto the end...and walked across it.

Oh, the pride on that little face!

The laughter bubbling up as he walked, back and forth...balancing...dinos below, at the ready to catch him in misstep.

~~~

The page is full. Perhaps the chapter is as well.

Leaps and bounds...

Dinos and dares...

And a magical little boy who mastered them all!

...leap of faith...

 For my future self, who will want the memory tied to a specific time:

Today, he jumped.

Both feet in the air.

Up, and over.

(On his own timeline, of his own accord, over an impediment of his own making.)

He'd set out his dino puzzles...all in a row...blocking off the doorway.

He trilled out a little lilting call for attention and, sure of the audience, jumped up and over. A self-congratulatory clap... then quick look up for praise.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

~~~

For months now, I've been 'failing' in my pt/ot efforts. The gains, impossible to see. I'd given up, a month ago...packing away the equipment "for a summer break" and revising the schedule to exclude those hopping and balancing and jumping drills.

And today? Today he jumped!

Today, it all came together for him.

By him.

Today he reminded me of the lesson I first learned from his big brother: all the pieces will settle where they are intended to, when they are intended to.

Have faith...stay the course...

Teach...and then let go...

And he'll jump when he's ready!

...on giving in rather than giving up...

"Ugh...I give up!", said my eldest this afternoon, whilst trying unsuccessfully to wrangle his little brother into lunchtime submission.
"No, you don't!", said I in response...somewhat harshly, mostly garbled...mouthful of salad.

It was a matter of one bite.  One singular bite of leftover hamburger, positively drenched in ketchup.  One bite, and an overwhelmed three-year-old, and the forkful he found absolutely impossible...impassible...for his little mouth.

Because...you see...there was a drip...
A drip of ketchup hanging from the bottom of the fork.
And Henri?
Does NOT tolerate anything on the bottom-side of a fork.

This is part of the current regime.  The current monarchy of three-dom.

It's etched in stone (at least, for now...), right up there with no squeezy hugs unless he initiates, and no cherries in the fruit platters.

And, because I am taking the time to write about it here, it will become part of the story in years to come...The Who and The How of Henri...

But for today, stone-script aside, it's just another thing to add to the already lengthy list of Henri's foibles and one which, in the moment, feels like a bit of 'abuse of staff' to those of us who serve his every whim.

I motioned at the bottom of the fork, where the ketchup hung down.  Not quite a drip...certainly not a tear-drop shape of crimson...but just...an upside down bump.  I pantomimed scraping it off on the plate, and watched as he did so.

The bite, proffered again...rejected again...this time with the hitching breath of imminent tears.

Several suggestions later (not a one of them a success), the remainder was finally eaten...by my eldest.

Because by then...by the long stretch of inaction and delayed action...the problem had swallowed the whole bite up.

And both my boys were now on strike.

"I give up."

"No."

~~~

How often we are tempted to Just Give Up.

To sink into that pit of hopeless failure and the inaction that follows.

To stop expending energy on a problem that seems unsolvable.

It gets you nowhere...giving up.

You just...stop...you stay...you settle...

And the problem?

It's still there.

And now you're part of it.

Giving in, though...that's something altogether different.

If giving up is putting the fork down and never again picking it up, then giving in is putting the fork down and getting a spoon...or chopsticks...or a cartoon-faced toothpick.

Giving in is recognizing that there's a problem...not with the person, but with the method.

Giving in is allowing for Henri's particular sensory needs to not only be recognized, but to be valued in terms of how we guide him toward success while respecting the boundaries his body and mind have set for the task.

Henri loves a good hamburger.  And by good...I mean a cheeseburger.

A cheeseburger with a perfect ratio of pickle to bite, and the just-right-amount of ketchup per morsel.

He wasn't upset because he didn't want the next bite.

He was upset because he did want it...desperately...but he couldn't eat it as it was...

He was upset because he needed his big brother to see the problem and fix the problem, before the problem swallowed the whole bite up.

~~~

There are things I see now, that my eldest has yet to notice.  Things that are familiar to me, because I've lived through some version of them before...with him...

Raising him...raising the autistic essence of him...was a long drawn-out lesson on giving in and never giving up.  Raising him was, and remains, the daily (moment by moment, rather) practice of giving in to his specific needs in order to guide him toward success.  It is the accepting of his parameters, and adjusting my lessons accordingly.

And so it is with Henri.

I give in, knowing his need for a clean fork-bottom...

I give in, and wait to relish the moments when he squeezes me round the neck...

I give in, and remove the cherries...

Giving in is the gift I give him...letting his needs and his preferences hold space...hold value.

Letting him hold space and value.

Letting him give in to eating the burger without giving up.

...but the first of many...

 A spark:
...of something new
...of fiery determination
...of limitless curiousity
...of exponential growth
...of change

Closing the very first chapter in the book of you, as you graduate from Early Intervention.

Just shy of 3, and already laying the foundation for a beautiful life of learning and growing. I'm so proud of all your hard work and your resilience.

You, little Henri, are a trailblazer...and I can't wait to see all the new vistas we'll explore together.

Happy Graduation!

 Progress.

There's a loaded word.

There's progress in achievement, right?  Where every step forward is counted as forward motion.

There's progress in action.  Literally one step (or movement) toward the conclusion.

There's progress along paths and journeys and travels and trajectories.

There's progress in pregnancies, and education, and careers.

And then there's progress...the loaded version...the word used when achievement is not in reach...when the development is stalled or so slow it might as well be frozen. 

That progress is the word that makes the reading of its reports an exercise in grief:
Progress Reports.
Namely, those associated with special education.
Reports where progress is noted and tallied and far too often...halted.

Where that bold black "P" just stares up defiantly from the page...day to day...month to month...sometimes year to year...never, ever turning into an "A" for achieved.

That progress is like a spill of black ink...gradually staining the page till everything is soaked in the lack of movement...the lack of development...the lack of achievement.

Sometimes that "P" is a lie.  A statement of progress that was happening at one point and has stopped since.

Sometimes it's a white lie...true in its basic definition but not accounting for the understood nuance of progress as defined by change.  Incapable of accounting for, or of, change that is so minimal...so gradual...as to be indistinguishable in the days or weeks or months or years.

"How's he progressing with that?", is a question that's been posed to me far too many times of late.  A well-intentioned expression of interest and care...I know...but one that's a literal pain in the neck.

(I carry my stress in my neck and shoulders)

"Any progress yet?", is another.

Both make my eye tic a bit, as I struggle to find the perfect, neutral expression with which to respond "No change" without those words imparting something negative to the solicitor or stirring up some feeling of defeat in me. 

The checkbox next to the goal reads "P", as it has for months now.

I expect it still will, months from now.

Perhaps that "P" isn't meant for me.  Perhaps it only exists as a clinical observation...a way to box into the structure of typical development a boy...this boy: brilliant and neurodivergent and expanding exponentially in ways that don't tick boxes or fulfill milestone expectations. 

Perhaps the progress report is just a piece of paper with ink on it.  Not a complete picture...not an accurate reflection...not even a realistic observation.  One hour a week...a clinical hour at that of 45 functional minutes or so...hardly equates to a full understanding of a child's skills~behaviours~intellect...of a child's progress. A snapshot that's been altered for size and contrast and saturation...but comes up pale and blurry against the real thing.

Perhaps progress is a misnomer, after all.  A word used in place of ones with more negative connotations...such as average or basic or ordinary as applied to development.  Perhaps progress is simply what's expected, and when it comes up against something different, it stops...like a computer program when it encounters functions beyond its coded parameters.

Perhaps the best answer is the easiest:

"At his own pace."

...words on a page to sort things out...

Finding the time to sit down to write is a challenge in and of itself.  Gone are the days of scheduled anything...gone are the minutes etched into my planner in ink...gone is any semblance of predictability.  It's the toddler's world, and I'm just surviving it.

And that...above...is what accounts for 90% of my difficulty in getting words onto page.  Because while my head may be overflowing, trying to organize into rational thought at a moment's notice (when Henri finally drops off for a power-nap) between all the other burdens of priority, just doesn't work.  For the words to flow, I need to quiet the tempest.  And to quiet the tempest, I need to remove the input.  And to remove the input, I need first to do all the other things.

And by the time the other things are done, Henri is wiiiiiide awake and I've lost the chance, and the words swirl into a maelstrom of discontent and disconnect and disappointment.

And then I shake them loose, and the post disappears into the ether, and the page remains blank.

~~~

I suppose I'll look back at some point in the near-distant future and see this as a time of refining.  Certainly, I've been winnowed down to little more than immediate reaction and constant alert.  Henri's toddlerhood is not unlike Johannes'.  So many, many similarities between my two boys.  Of course, there's that little detail of 17 years difference...and I feel it in my very bones.

Everything hurts.

Henri is, as Johannes was, sensory seeking and sensory avoidant and everything in between.  The pressure and relief sought, is taken out on my physical body daily.  Once again, all these years later, I'm covering up bruises and scratches and bite marks...and wondering how the younger me made it through.

~~~

I feel...defeated.

I feel...incompetent.

~~~

No. Scratch that. I feel as though my motherhood is being hindered by others.  As though, my success lies wholly in single-motherhood and once I have to allow for others in the mix...whether it's Henri's Papa or his big brother...it throws off the balance and offsets the gains.

Welp...there it is in black and white...stark words in stark contrast for me to admit and acknowledge.

~~~

I'm good at single parenting.

I'm failing at partnered parenting.

~~~

There's just no balance.  I can't account for what I don't know about.  I can't add in the resources or reserves to cover needs that are in their heads.  I can't put Henri on hold and spend precious time teaching my partner what comes naturally to me.

~~~

And worse yet?  I can't be guided by my intuition and instincts if I can't tune into them because the other voices in the room are shouting.

~~~

And so it goes.  Me, fighting to keep my head above water while drowning under the pile-on of needs and expectations from everyone else.  Me, stalled in my intuitive approach to parent a neurodivergent child because everyone else needs me to be able to teach them a technique or approach.

Me...half in the shadow of everyone else and falling prey to feelings of worthlessness.

~~~

And Henri?  Frustrated...stalled...lashing out.

~~~

Perhaps these words on this page will be enough.

Just the writing of them. The reading of them.

Perhaps I'll publish them and turn a corner.

I want to. I desperately need to.

~~~

I know, down somewhere deep within me, who I am as a mother.  I know her well, and I've silenced her for too long...trying to make room for others to weigh in.  Perhaps this signals the end of that?

~~~~

Let me be her again.

Let me be me again.

~~~

Sitting here...cursor blinking...one boy snuffling in his sleep and the other typing away across the table from me, I choose her...me...I choose me.

Everyone else can just coast along in my wake until they manage to get up on their own.  But I won't be stopping to pull them alongside me any longer.  I can't. I won't.

...when the safe space is only safe if you're not there...

Church. 
Worship and praise. A safe haven. Commune with Spirit and with your innermost self.
Church.
Both place and action word.  Both pews of parishioners and Word within.

 I'm about to throw down some inflammatory words right here. Prepare yourself.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I.M.O., no one needs church more than the primary parent of a toddler.
And no one feels more out of place at church, than the primary parent of a toddler.

Think about it.

(Now, for the sake of relating this post to myself because:blog, let's stick with mom as the primary parent. Fairly typical...not necessarily the norm, but let's just go with it. If you've a strong opinion, let me know.  You know we're here for inclusion and acceptance.)

Okay, now...back on track.

The toddler stage is...challenging. If it still involves nursing, all the more so.  It's burning the candle at both ends and in the middle.  It's constantly refilling the tablespoon you're using to put out little sparks, while all around you, the wall of flames keeps closing in. Parenting toddlerhood is soothing the upset, while bracing for the punch...and then not reacting to that well-aimed, direct hit.

And in public?  Parenting a toddler is an exercise in shame...the limits of which you'll have forgotten...do not exist!

Parenting a toddler is the refining stage of the relationship: burning fire and rough tumbles to polish, chemical baths of hormones and adrenaline. 

It's not pretty.  It's not easy or instinctive or natural.  It doesn't obey any rules of expectation or follow any pattern. What works one moment or one day, has the opposite effect the next.

And we tear ourselves into pieces trying to gently enfold a wild animal.

There is nothing like parenting a toddler, to make you feel completely useless.

There is nothing like parenting a toddler, to make you feel completely worthless.

So back to what I was saying earlier: no one needs church more than the primary parent of a toddler.

Because church...safe haven and worship...is the only real reminder of our worth.

That Love is the only place in which to be restored.

Church is where the parent can remember the person.

Or, not...

Because, the person...is the parent...of the totally disobedient, wildly rambunctious, distraction-causing toddler disrupting the service for everyone else.

It's stubbornness, pure and simple, that makes us go back.  We know it's going to be bad...epically so.  We know that the backpack full of favorites and treats...carefully chosen to distract and bribe...will only get us through the opening prayers.  We know that by the second verse of the opening hymn, our little darling will have made a run for it...or rearranged the prayer bolsters...or tried to make papier-mache of the hymnal.  We know that our attention will be so laser-focused on preventative-maintenance that we won't even hear the sermon.

We know that much as we may need Church, our presence is disrupting everyone else's experience.

We know, that just right now, no matter how much we want to, we just don't belong there.

We know that the Doors are always open, but that, in this season, we should do everyone else the kindness of not crossing the threshold.