...resilience:revisited...

Last week I attended a speaker presentation hosted by a local special-education parent advocacy group, on the topic of "Building Resilience for Kids and Teens" and it reminded me of this mini series I wrote a while back:

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-sunday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-monday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-tuesday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-wednesday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-thursday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-friday.html

https://confessionsofthecaffeinated.blogspot.com/2015/03/wow-resilience-saturday.html

At the start of the meeting, during the roundtable intros, I spoke briefly about myself and my son before sharing that my primary reason for attending was because the topic was one near and dear to me and one that I had consistently worked hard at fulfilling.  

I've spoken before (probably ad nauseum at this point!) about how our family motto ought to be

Roll With The Punches

and it's safe to say I'll likely still be thinking-out-loud, so to speak, about this for many years to come.

I think it's important, in a parent-child relationship, to identify not only areas that need to be improved upon but also those strengths you have as a family...as a team.  Speaking for us both (and yes, I've asked him point-blank), our resiliency is definitely high on the list of our family superpowers.  It's not only our individual resilience that I'm thinking about here.  We've both, individually and independently in vastly different ways, become highly resilient, and that's no small thing.  But as a family...as a team...we've built a foundation that allows for resilience together through all of the ups and downs.  We've learned how to take the impact, redirect around it, and find another path to common goals.  

I love that about us.

I love that we come together to protect what we've created and are creating, and fortify the boundaries that keep our path to happiness as clear as possible.  

That night I said to the other parent attendees that happiness only exists where there has been an absence of it.  Think about it.  How would you know what happiness feels like if you didn't have its opposite to compare it to?  How would you be able to truly appreciate the good, if you hadn't made it through the bad?  That's the product of resilience.  That's what happens when you properly cope with your circumstances and move through them...when you allow yourself to bend a little and then bounce back...when you roll with the punches.

There's a lot in this mother-hood to worry about...to doubt...to wish you could re-do.  But at least in my experience, when you 'big-picture' it and step back a bit, there's something about all those missteps and mistakes to be grateful for.  After all, they are the very building blocks of resilience in both you and your child(ren).   I've talked before on here about how seriously I take my role as a parent, and how important it is to give my child all the tools to build the life he wants.  A huge part of that is not only allowing, but encouraging, him to move through failures.  Coddling and preventing and fixing may make you feel like you are protecting your child, but in the end you'll have raised up someone who is completely unprepared for real life.  You'll have raised up someone who breaks down at the first bump.  How scary is that? 

One of the handouts from the presentation included 10 tips for building resilience in children and teens:

1) Make connections

2) Help your child by having him/her help others

3) Maintain a daily routine

4) Take a break

5) Teach your child self-care

6) Move toward your goals

7) Nurture a positive self-view

8) Keep things in perspective and maintain a hopeful outlook

9) Look for opportunities for self-discovery

10) Accept that change is part of living

(Each of these includes a more in-depth blurb, and the full brochure is available from the American Psychological Association here: http://www.apa.org/helpcenter/resilience.aspx)

...billows and bellows...

I'm the mom of a 15 year old now.  It happened overnight.  I swear!

Just a moment ago I was cradling a newborn in my arms.  Now here I am a blink later and helping him develop his business.  

I can't wrap my head around it.  Where did that time go?  How did it just fast forward like that?  More importantly, where's the damn remote so I can just rewind and go back and stay there a while longer?  Oh, I miss it so!

The days are speeding up, it seems.  Frantic mornings and then the blur of school and work before he comes home.  There's catch up to do, conversing over espresso (or tea..but more often than not, he wants the good stuff!) about our days, reviewing the lists:done and to-do.  Homework and housework to get through.  Then on to the dream-building whenever there's time: designing and printing, refining and reprinting over and again until it's just right, then writing and editing, reviewing and listing.  

All the while I wonder as I look at him.

I wonder how this happened.

I wonder when this happened.

Surely I was there the whole time, wasn't I?

He's over 6 feet tall.  His shoes dwarf mine, lined up side by side by the doorway.  He bends at the waist, curling his shoulders in and down every time he gives me a hug.  When a meltdown seizes him and he comfort-seeks, sometimes he curls right up into me in a ball on my lap and I bite my lip to hold back the "ouch" of him crushing me.

Motherhood still confuses me.  I second-guess my every move.  I just know I'm doing it all wrong.

Why can't we go back?

I was good at baby-at toddler-at little boy...

But this is unfamiliar.  Being needed and pushed away all at the same time.

Being kneaded.

There were simpler days in the past.  Simple joys.  Simple fun.

I knew every trick in the book to make him smile or giggle.

Delight was in my back pocket, easily accessible.

Now, the smiles curve less frequently.  He's solemn.  Stressed or strained.  School is dragging on, and the homework is neverending.  It steals our time, making no room for splashes in puddles or sunlit walks or card games on the livingroom floor.

I'm confused.  I don't know what to do with myself.  I was good at splashes and walks and card games.  I was good at special snacks and silly faces and all the voices in the books.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do now, as he sits at the kitchen table tap-tap-tapping away at his computer, a furrow between his brows. 

I'm quiet.  Shoes off.  Step lightly.  I put away the dishes slowly, so as not to disturb the silence.  I put his snack on a plate and slide it carefully next to him, making sure it's far back from the algebra book.   I put his drink on the console behind him.  No more spills.

Then I, too, sit down at the table and tap-tap-tap at my computer.

I miss the giggles that used to fill up our house to the brim.

Last night I came home later than anticipated, having stayed to chit chat with the other program attendees after the session ended.  He was waiting, the very picture of responsibility, for me.  Already in pj's...homework done...

I was tired and achy and disgruntled, my tooth infection throbbing more after too much talking.

I dropped my bag by the door and took in the view.  Boy, in too short pajamas, upside down cat draped in one arm and one of his prototypes in his hand.

I took a breath and said "I'll make you a deal, ok?"

"What?"

"It's not even a deal.  There's no flip side to it.  Let's just stay up late and eat ice cream.  It'll hurt in the morning, when we have to get up.  But let's just do it."

"Ok.  I'll find something to watch, Mami."

We ate the ice cream.  We watched 'Krypton'.  We curled up on the sofa and fast forwarded through the commercials, then rewound each time we went to far and missed a scene.  His ice cream melted while he fiddled with his prototype, all the flavours combining in a mush.  

Then it was bedtime for real.  An hour behind schedule.  Extra tooth brushing "you don't want to have teeth like Mami's!" and shutting house.  Another page of Macbeth (Yup, Macbeth.  Bedtime reading.  We're quirky like that.)  Then bed, where sheets and blankets need to be unfolded.  The weighted blanket fights back every time.

He had his flat sheet out, still partially folded, sitting on the bed.  Arms lifted, he'd shake it up and out, billowing over his head.  I sat on the side of the bed, watching.  Just as the sheet came down and he pulled his head out from underneath...

Wham!

I nailed him.  Right in the head.  With a stuffed animal!

Womp.

 Silence.

Then...

a giggle.

An eyebrow raised.

A hand reached out.

Grabbed the next missile.

The battle was on!

(During spring break we tackled the storage, filling up car load after car load with discards and donations.  His stuffed animals...all those childhood friends...went into a bin, destined for donation.  He said goodbye to each one, giving it a final hug and "thanks for being my friend" followed by "I hope you like your new person".  In the end, I couldn't bear it.   We brought them all back home.)

Stuffed puppy and sabertooth and fox flying through the air.  The cat squeaked in protest, then hid under the bed.  He threw them all at me, one by one, and I grabbed them up.  Filled my arms.  Threw one at him.  He lunged for it...my distraction worked.  I tossed the whole arm load right at him and he burst out laughing.  The night suddenly full of sound.  Laughter bellowing right up and out of us.

We were right back there.  Those belly-shaking laughs of toddlerhood.

I grabbed the sheet and let it billow up over him.   Tossed those animals under before he even had a chance.  I won! 

He's 15 now.  And I am older, too.   But last night we were younger, just for a little while.  Just for long enough that I could breathe comfortably again...no worries, no doubts.  Just for long enough that the sheets could billow...the animals could fly...and the laughter could bellow.  

...it could be worse...

I stopped talking.

I caught myself, and stopped the words.

In the silence, my mind whirred onward...that lightbulb flickering on...shining brightly and suddenly on my mistake.

I stopped talking.

In the middle of a conversation that started, innocently enough, when I checked my email.  Another well-meaning missive chock full of good-intentions and misinformation.  Another scientific study...another medical miracle...another "have you heard of/tried...?  You should.  I read/heard/saw something about it!"

So, typically, I read or listen or smile and nod my way through these.  But for some reason, this time, my brain imploded.  Maybe it's the tooth infection's fault.  Maybe it's the antibiotics that have me feeling some kind of a way.  Whatever the reason: implosion.  Followed, sad to say, by verbal explosion.  Yup, full-on full-volume rant.  

So there I was, huffing and puffing my way through "The Audacity!' and 'Constant Interference' and 'Respect the Boundaries'  and 'Logic, People.  Logic!'.   (Listen, when you are the parent of a child with a diagnosis, this just gets old.  I don't care that you saw this article at your nail salon all about how cannabis cured some kid's autism.  I don't care that the morning radio show host thinks all boys with autism need to be on ADHD meds.  And I sure don't care that your found some one-off study that suggests my son is going to turn into my daughter if I keep him on his meds.)  I was full steam ahead with the litany.  All the things you want to say but don't?  Yeah, they were coming out of my mouth.  Loudly.

And then, suddenly, in the middle of it all...

I stopped talking.

Because I heard myself.

I heard the mistake.

I heard myself say something that if I heard someone else say, would tick me off.

"I mean, come on!  Do they not get it?  He's doing so well.  We are so lucky!  Just think about it!  It could be so much worse!"

So. Much. Worse.

Oh man, I said it.  I totally said it.  And you know what?  I've said it before.  I've said it a lot.  I've said it to extended family.  I've said it in IEP meetings.  I've said it in speaking engagements.  I've said it to my son.

Oh.  No.

It could be worse.

I could still be the me I was before I stopped talking.  I could still think that I was right.

I could still be building us up by tearing someone else down.

I could still be clueless.

I could still be comparing.

I swear I heard an actual Ding in that moment as the thought coalesced and I was suddenly aware of my mistake.  Just like that, the brain fog cleared and I knew something I hadn't before.  I knew how wrong I was in saying "It could be worse".  

Here's why:

So, autism is on a spectrum...low-functioning to high-functioning with an absolute infinity of points in-between.

Financial stability is on a spectrum...again low to high...completely destitute to beyond imagination.

Intellect is on a spectrum.  You've got some complete and utter morons out there.  Geniuses, as well.  And in between, a myriad of people with all levels of intellect...and an ever expanding list of intelligences.

Then there's life.  Complete.  The whole package deal.  Totally on a spectrum.  Happiness and misery at every possible point, in every possible configuration.  

So knowing that all to be true, can you find my mistake?

It could be worse.

It could be...

me...

comparing myself/my day/my child/my bank account/my wardrobe/my...whatever...

to someone else...to someone I likely don't even know-won't ever meet...and thus deciding I am better off.

Oh, lucky me.

Lucky me indeed.

It could be worse.

I could *gasp* be like that person.

I could *gasp* be like that parent.

I could *gasp* be in that situation...have that experience...know that challenge...

But no, lucky me...

I'm somehow better.

It could be worse.

I said it about my son's autism.  About his symptoms and behaviors.  About his personality and intellect.   About his reaction to a specific situation.

It could be worse.

It wasn't intended in a negative way.  It was said innocently enough.  I was trying to make a point of how remarkably he has coped with a trying situation and the only way I could think of to do that was to say "It could be worse.".  But as I said the words aloud and thought of who I was comparing him to in that moment, I stopped talking.  I realized my mistake.  

There is no worse.  There is no comparison.  There just is.  Different paths for different people.

Autism is challenging.

Financial stability is challenging.

Intelligence is challenging.

Life is challenging.

For the past 'I don't even know how long' I've been living my life in this sort of reactive, comparative way.  This "Stop feeling sorry for yourself because it could be worse" propelling me through life's twists and turns.  Honestly, it helped.  It helped to feel like I wasn't at the bottom of the pile.  It helped to be able to look down from up high.  The 'it could be worse' was what spurred me on.  It made me check my emotions at the door every time there was an upset, and find a logical solution.  It kept me from sinking into a pit of despair when things went wrong.  

I'm kind of scared to let it go.

But the light is on now and I see my mistake.  I can't keep teaching my son to mitigate his own emotional responses to honest upsets by comparing himself to some imaginary "it could be worse".  Nor can I keep teaching him to pity someone just because his/her challenges look different than his.

I can't speak to a group of special-needs parents and say it about our experience.   My version of "it could be worse" might very well be their version of "better" or "normal".  

I can't say it an IEP meeting without it diminishing my son's rightful claim on services.  "It could be worse" just tells his team to look elsewhere for a student who needs support.  

I can't say it to friends or family. "It could be worse" isn't honest or open.  It's a deflection.  A smoke and mirrors.  A go look over there and don't see my weakness.  

There is no worse.  There's just different.

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

There might not even be better.  *Gasp!

...silent treatment...

Please tell me I'm not the only one who sits down to write, head full of important thoughts and ideas, only to hit that wall where the words just won't come out.  

It's bad enough that the words literally won't come out right now.  I've been taking it easy the past few days, trying to ignore the pain of an infected, impacted wisdom tooth.  The antibiotics make me nauseous, exhausted and restless at the same time.  I've always been "chemically sensitive", so I tend to avoid medication unless it's really the last resort.  Even Tylenol makes me feel off.  But when the pain kicked in last week, I became best friends with my bottle of Aleve.  I made it through most of the week, firmly believing in the "this, too, shall pass" mantra.  Rinsing with salt water.  Feverishly brushing ever time I felt a twinge.  But come night time I was miserable, the pain enough to keep me wide awake and writhing.  

Yes, I finally went to the dentist.

(Dental Phobia.  It's a thing.  There's a reason.  Maybe I'll write about it.)

  Since then, I've been functionally silent.  Pushing a scramble of syllables out only when totally necessary.   What's that triangle called, in the back, between the upper and lower jaw?  I swear it screams every time it moves!  I think all that poking and prodding (which, yes, I get was necessary to ascertain the extent of the problem) further inflamed the affected area so I'm on verbal lockdown until the amoxicillin does it's job, sipping all my meals through a straw and feeling sorry for myself.   Yesterday, I put work aside...put my feet up...and hunkered down in front of the tv  in full human-burrito mode.

I managed a shower, and got myself down to the bus-stop in the afternoon.  But, once back in the house, reverted to couch-potato status.  My single contribution to the day?  Plugging in my laptop to print out his latest prototype.

He got to 'parent' himself for the evening.  Just imagine glazed eyes and frantic fingers tapping away at the screen, 'Speedboats.io' chewing up the hours, while he chewed up an entire box of fruit snacks.  Oh yeah, total mom-fail.

And I didn't care.

My mouth hurt.  My jaw ached.  My head throbbed.

Poor me. 

I skipped out on the BOE meeting.  It didn't take much effort to convince myself that I couldn't possibly go 'in my condition'.  

I left the dirty dishes in the sink.

Another restless night.  Another morning with the sudden Zing of pain when the nerves woke up.

And still, no words.

Soup for breakfast.  Coffee, through a straw.  Finally a use for that surplus-sized pack of straws from Ikea.  (In my defense, they're just the right size for smoothies and fit our 'cold-to-go' cups perfectly...oh, and cheap!)  I'm halfway through the pack already.  

Poor me.

I've resumed function today, sort of.  Made his breakfast, packed his lunch.  Reviewed that hastily done homework.  Got him on the bus.  Logged on, clocked in, hit submit.  But my jaw remains closed, still swollen and sore and reminding me that chewing is over-rated.  

I test it every few minutes, pushing my tongue into the corner to prod at the soreness.  Yup, still there.  Wince.

I thought I'd take my break.  Reheat my coffee.  Write for a while.  So many words.  So many things to say. 

But I opened the page and the cursor just blinked at me...on...off...on...off...

I started.  Then deleted.  Repeated. 

And finally just now, as I was typing, realized I can't write when I can't speak.  I can't write when I can't read aloud my own words and let my internal editor hear them.  

I have no words...

 

...a helping hand...

He is exactly who he is supposed to be.

On Sunday, we attended the "Mercy Me/Tenth Avenue North" concert.  It was, notably, my son's first (non-classical) concert.  Another first.  Another stepping stone.  We sat way up high in the nosebleed seats.  The only ones I could afford.  An usher pushed aside the curtains and led us to our seats.  He held my hand, as he usually does when we're out and about and I felt his grip tighten when he saw how very high up we were and how very low the guardrail was.  I kept looking at it, every few minutes.  Made nervous by my own imagination.  Feeling the tremblings of fear as people jostled by one another, far too close to that drop-off.  We took our seats, and I had to turn in mine, crossing one leg over the other to accommodate my purse.  It's awkward, I suppose, sitting half in and half out of a seat, just so that he doesn't have to relinquish my hand.  He pulled me further in, shifting my elbow beneath his ribs so he could lean against it.  I felt the muscles in my neck and shoulders twinge.  That ever-present ache that months of physical therapy couldn't budge.  It's always my left side that hurts.  That stiffens up.  My left shoulder that sits higher somehow, pulled out of whack by tense muscles.  It's always my left side he tugs on.  My left hand he holds.  My left arm held out for him to weigh down into.

I see those women who carry purses, the sort that just have handles and no long strap.  They walk about with their arm curved up and out, holding their bags on the forearm.  I used to buy purses like that, but I never carried them that way.  I'd let them hang from my hand, or swing them over my shoulder.  Now my hand is always full.  I wear a crossbody bag, or a low slung shoulder bag.  My hand always free for his, my arm curved up and out for him to lean on.  My hand faces up, his palm down.  His forearm presses down into mine.  I can feel my muscles cramp and my elbow lock.  Every once in a while, I have to wrestle my hand away...straighten my arm...listen for the crack in the joint...and then he grabs it back.  In crowded stores, my right hand comes up, covering his in mine.  Tapping against the back of his hand when we have to turn or when we take the stairs.  A signal, as though he's blind.  A pay attention, follow my lead.

At the town bonfire this year I saw when a pack of boys from his school first spotted him.  They stopped mid stride, reassembled, closing ranks.  One boy pointing us out to the others.  Heads on swivel.  A sneer.  And then it happened.  One looked down and saw our hands, his in mine.  Another pointed finger.  A giggle, or guffaw, or whatever that noise is that bursts out of teenage boys when they find a weak spot to poke at.  I stepped to the side, putting my body in front of his, blocking their view and his.  Hoping he hadn't noticed.  His grip tightened.  Fingernails dug into my skin.  He shrank into himself.  As if.  6'3" and trying to shrink.  I spoke up.  Too loud.  Overcompensating.  Fake cheery voice desperately pointing out the ice carving we'd just passed.  Pulling him along with me to escape, to stand in front of the ice carver's station and stare blindly, waiting for the moment to pass.  I was faking it.  And he knew it.  And played along.  Pretending that he, too, was suddenly oh-so-interested in the ice.

My hand is his lifeline.  It's the solid ground in the middle of a swirling tornado of sensory overload.

We sat in our high up seats.  Looking down at the crowd below.  Squinting at the stage.  The speakers, at full blast, distorted the sound.  His earplugs hardly made a dent in the constant throb.  Sometimes he'd lean close and push his ear down into my shoulder.  Then my right hand would come up and cover his left ear, crossing in front of us both, pressing firmly into his forehead.  Between acts there was a speaker.  Sponsorship ministry.  Touching story.  Reminding us of the child we sponsored.  Jose.  This past fall we received a letter from Jose's home church letting us know his family situation had changed.  That he was no longer in the program.  That his parents had found work.  We listened to the speaker, but kept our hands down.  No sponsorship this time.  No flagging down one of the volunteers to get a packet.  Our belts are tight enough right now.  Then music again.  Powerful, and uplifting...but louder than loud.  His body rigid, then slouching, cycling through overload and exhaustion.  Stage lights dimmed, and a spotlight in the center.  The singer speaking about his music.  Speaking about his son.  Speaking about the heartbreak of parenting through a diagnosis.  His son diagnosed with juvenile diabetes.  Feeling hopeless.  Defeated.  The "why God, why?" moments.  He stood there, speaking to an audience of thousands about why he wrote the song he was about to sing.  He stood there, talking about how weak and useless he felt.  How all his efforts to be a good parent were rendered meaningless in the face of something he couldn't fix.
I sat there, and the air felt changed...charged.  Everything around me a blur but the sharp outlines of my son and I.  His hand in mine.
Full volume again.  Those speakers blasting.  The song begun.  My son pushing his index finger into my thumb.  Pushing the nail into my thumbpad.  Hard.  Hard enough to almost break the skin.  The sharp pain of it enough to drown out the noise.  I wanted to wrest my hand away.  I wanted to shake him loose and stop the hurting.  But the quiet part of me down deep left my hand there.  It said to me "Shhh...sit still...don't move a muscle...let it be...", and I breathed deeply, in through the nose-out through the mouth.  Counting 1-2-3.  In. Out.

I knew what was happening.  He needed input.  Something to cancel out the pain of the volume and lights.  Pressure to focus on.  Pressure to center on.  Pushing that fingernail hard and deep to find resistance.

I bit the inside of my cheek and pushed back.  Forcing my thumb down further so that his fingernail, seeking resistance, could find it.

He moved his finger across my thumb, down into my palm, then back again.  Pushing and scratching.
I closed off that part of my brain.  Hand gone numb.  Focused on the flashing lights and pulse of the bass guitar.

On the car ride home, the words came back to me. A familiar language.  The heartbreak of discovering you are not enough.  The painful lesson of your own futility.

He had spoken about that heartbreak and pain.  And further.  He'd put into words his heart's plea for a miracle.  His journey through hopelessness and hope.  He'd said aloud "I want it gone".

But I never did.

Isn't that odd?

Never.  Never once.  Never for a year or a month or a day or a minute.  Never for a moment have I ever wanted it gone.

Oh, I have wanted much.  I have wanted easier and logical.  I have wanted understanding and translation.  I have wanted to be a better mother.  To be a better parent.  To be a better advocate.  I have wanted to know it all and prevent it all and protect it all.

But never once have I ever wanted it gone.

Not even in the first moments, when the phone rang and the voice shattered my reality.  Not even then, when the word AUTISM glared so bright it seemed to blot him right out of existence.  Not when his teeth broke skin on my shins at his special-needs preschool, when I tried to wrestle him away from the train table.  Or when he screamed for hours instead of sleeping.  Not when we couldn't leave the house without him getting violently sick to his stomach from the sensory overload.  Or when I had to turn down every single invite.

I never wanted it gone.

What I wanted, was to be better at helping him.
To be better at understanding.
At protecting.
At parenting.

I never wanted him to not have autism.  It never even crossed my mind.  It was always just a piece of his whole.  Nothing to get mad at, or about.  Just part of.  Like an extra sense.  Me, here, limited with just 5 or 6: sight, hearing ,taste, smell, touch, intuition. And he, right next to me but on another level with something extra...some part of him pinging away at a higher frequency...more aware, more connected...and overwhelmed by it all.

I wanted to be better at not having autism myself.  At being the translator.  The go-between.  The foot in both worlds.

I wanted to be whatever made it easier for him to cope with the symptoms.

So I became myself.  I became stronger.  More observant.  Highly alert.

I gave him my hand to hold. 

Arms to hug and squeeze oh-so-tight.  Legs to bite, and kick, and walk.  Shoulder to lean on and yank on.  Thumb to gouge and whisk away tears.  Every part of me of some use.  My voice to soothe or defend.  My head to predict and prevent.  My eyes and ears to assess and avoid.  All of me, surrounding him.  A buffer.  A blockade.  A door.

And my wants increased.  I wanted to keep him safe.  Make him happy.  Give him security and stability.  I wanted to open up his whole world as wide as it could go.  I wanted him to be free to be himself, autism and all.

I guess I'm lucky.  I'll never have to look back, ashamed at myself, for wanting to will away his autism.  For bargaining with God to "make him better".  Nevermind that...no guesses...I am lucky.  I knew even then, without the actual knowing it, that his autism was going to propel him forward.  That it was intended.  That he might need my helping hand.  That helping him was my purpose.   That...

He is exactly who he is supposed to be.

...just a few minutes to recharge...

Yesterday, I took a nap.

It was somewhere around 4pm.  My son was knee-deep in homework, studying for a Friday trifecta of quizzes and tests.  His after-school club had been cancelled, so he'd come home on the early bus and we'd made a snack of leftovers from his birthday dinner.  I took my tea to the livingroom, thinking I'd sit and read for a while so as not to disturb him.  My book was slow, the words just sitting there in a jumble with no hook.  I swung my feet up and leaned down into the sofa's arm.  Katja Noel, hearing the siren call of a lap in the making, dropped down from whatever nowhere she'd been hiding in and began kneading my stomach.  I pushed her further down to nestle across my legs.  Her purring filled the quiet space, competing with the rhythm of the sentences in my book.  I dog-eared the page, finger in between, and let it drop to my chest.

And then I woke.  Cold, immediately.  And shaky feeling.  Catching a breath I'd forgotten to take.  Katja Noel grumbled, a disgruntled "mrrrrr", slanting her eyes at the sudden disturbance of movement.  I squinted at the clock.  Wondering how long I'd drifted.  Embarrassed that I'd dozed off.  4:10.  I sat up, shaking the cobwebs from my brain.  Stood and walked into the kitchen.  My son still sat there, concentrating.  I yawned and stretched, up on my toes , arms reaching up and back.  He looked up.

"Mami, why don't you take a nap?"

"I just did, apparently."

"You're not very good at it."

"No, I guess I'm not."  

Sleep does not come easy to me.  I rest, restlessly...fitfully...  At night my mind does what his does when faced with a choice.  It races through the scenarios, analyzing variables, plotting outcomes, searching for solutions.  I remain alert.  Or maybe, I become alert.  The closing of my eyes signaling my other senses to take over.  The overwhelming volume of the quiet nighttime making it impossible to relax.  

Lately, I'm tired.  All the time.  The alarm goes off in the morning and I stumble into the kitchen to turn on the pitcher.  I have to concentrate...really concentrate...as I prep the French press.  4 scoops coffee, 1 scoop sugar.  Sometimes I catch myself, right before I pour orange juice into my mug.  Shake my head again, knock loose those cobwebs.  The cats just watch.  Curious, I suppose.  Wondering when I'll finally remember to feed them.  I take my coffee into the livingroom.  Set it on the windowsill above the sofa.  Then back into the kitchen to retrieve my laptop.  One thing at a time.  I can't trust myself not to stumble...to spill...  It takes a while to boot up.  I catch myself nodding off.  Jerk my hands from the keyboard.  Where's my coffee?  Take a sip...scorching hot.  Awake now.  

An hour later it's time to wake my son.  I make my way over, quietly.  Turning lights on halfway.  Pull the cover from his face, and softly...gently..."Good morning sweetheart...it's time to get up for school..."...a singsong.  He murmurs back "good muhhhhning" and begins to unravel from the nest.  A little struggle as his feet get caught in a knot of comforter and sheet.  I think to myself "Why not?  Why not just crawl back into bed?  Look, sooo comfy...."  

A second alarm goes off just then.  The one I set in case I forget to watch the clock.  He's up, reaching for his robe.  Back to the kitchen for me to fill his mug, add whipped cream and sprinkles.  He says "Oooh!" as though it's a big surprise...playing along with the daily ritual.  We'll sit together.  He'll watch a Transformers episode, licking the whipped cream and sprinkles off his coffee, and wait for his brain to turn on.  I'll take big gulps from my mug as I scroll through email and online news reports, rushing to read before I've to make breakfast.  

Breakfast. Dishes. Shower.

Lay out clothes.  Lunch.  Pack.  Refill the meds.  

There's PT and OT to get through.  He's nursing a sprain still, so I make sure the brace is secure.  Drop an ice cube in his travel mug.  Grab his bags, zip his coat.  Remind him to bring his tea.  We walk down the driveway, head to the busstop.  Mindful of cars as I read aloud.  "The Hardy Boys". The bus arrives a chapter later, like clockwork.  Shrug off his bookbag, his chromebook case.  Trade him for an empty mug, hug and a kiss.  Exchange greetings with the bus driver...the same smile, the same "Have a good day" day in and day out.  Wave, walking into the middle of the road so he can see me until the bus turns the corner.  "I love you.  Come home safe to me.", I say aloud into the air, blowing a kiss as the taillights fade from view.  

And then my day begins.  And I am tired.  

I go through the motions, knowing I'm probably missing the details.  Knowing I'm only getting half the info.  The work gets done, but the spark is gone.  There's no creative addition.  No digging deeper or drive to excel.  This candle burnt at both ends.  I feel ashamed of my exhaustion.  Angry at myself.  I want to be better.  Do better.  I have a to-do list that keeps getting longer.  And the 4pm slump interrupts it.  All my big plans vanish into the ether when the clock strikes 4:00 and my body collapses into itself.  

Hours to go yet.  Homework and therapy.  Errands and dinner.  More reading to do.  More dishes to do.  More everything.  And I am tired. 

All my "today we'll...." and "tonight we'll..." put off to another tomorrow.  There's housework to do, and prepwork to do.  And I am tired. 

"Mami, why don't you take a nap?"

Why don't I?  

~Leanna

...the bucket list...

(Sidenote: Look at that wee little bucket!  I remember when he wore it as a hat!)

15 Is Here.

While I'm stuck wondering how exactly all those years flew by before I was ready,

I'm also planning for the year ahead.  

Every year I make a list, usually just pen to pad.  I post it up on the corkboard in the kitchen as a check-off list of To-Do's.

Places to visit.  Restaurants to eat at.  Hikes to attempt.  Trips to take.

Memories to make.

Often as the year winds down, come the neverending days of January, I refer back to it in order to fill up our time and fill in the blank squares of the calendar.  All those useful suggestions I wrote out, helping us push past the winter doldrums.  

There's always a few wishes on there as well.  Trips beyond our reach and budget.  Days beyond our school-break limits.  Those are the ones that always get recycled, finding their way onto the next year's list, unfulfilled and possibly unfulfillable.  Who knows?

Today, I feel the pressure of the year ahead.  I see its ending at 16, only 365 days to enjoy it.  I want him to get the most out of it.  For us to wring every single drop of fun and adventure and experience out of it before it runs out.  

So, I'm making a list. 

A bucket list.

15 for 15:

1. Finish setting up his new business
2. Fill up the calender:
1. Zip-Lining
2. Hiking 
3. Camping (err...maybe in a cabin???)
4. Spontaneous road trip
5. Canoeing, or rafting, or tubing, or all three!
6. Work on that ice-skating!
7. Fishing or crabbing, or both
8. Use the library passes to check out new museums
9. Take the train to a new destination
10. See a Broadway show
11. Rock climbing
12. Roller coasters!
13. Water slides!
14. Biking
15. Take a class together
3. Let him teach me how to 3D design
4. Collaborate on some advocacy pieces, written and/or filmed
5. Switch out the nightly tv episode for a game at least twice a week
6. Take a walk together every day, no matter the weather. (Coats? Umbrellas? Flashlights?  Good to go!)
7. Cook dinner together once a week
8. Let him make breakfast once a week
9. Stay overnight at a hotel just to use the pool and order room service
10. Volunteer together
11. Build a piece of furniture together
12. Try geocaching
13. Try our hand (and eye co-ordination) at golf
14. Waste a day playing arcade games
15. Put him in charge for a week in the summer: have him pick the groceries, plan the meals, choose the activities!  Don't forget to be a good sport...even if he forgets that you NEED coffee!

~Leanna