Dealing with Failure

 Oh wow, you guys.  It's been almost two years since I last posted here.  I didn't realize I'd neglected it for so long.  I'm sorry.

I've been dealing a lot with feelings of failure--as a mom, a wife, a sister, a daughter, and a writer.  As a housekeeper, a cook, a reader.  As a special needs parent.  The list could go on forever, right?

But I'm also learning (slowly) to love myself, to accept that while I try to keep moving forward, here is where I am right now, and that's okay.  Because I am here, and that's a good thing, and a wonderful thing.  I didn't always know I'd make it to this point.  While I've never had suicidal thoughts, I have many times thought how nice it would be to just fall asleep and never wake up again, never have to deal with all the stressful aspects of life.

I'll delve more into that later.

Henry.  Remember him?  He's eight now, almost nine, and growing so tall.  He actually talks to me sometimes, real sentences that he's constructed himself instead of parroting.  He has come so far, and I am so proud of him--most days.  Some days I have to remind myself sternly that he is 8 and autistic and developmentally delayed. On those days is when I most feel like a failure, because shouldn't I always be proud and happy and understanding?

Sometimes it feels like there's a bit of competition in the special needs parenting community.  "MY child has xyz syndrome and it's SO difficult, but he can read Harry Potter in Latin and he's already mastered calculus."  That might be a little exaggerated, but some days it really feels like it.  Especially with distance learning--when I heard that schools wouldn't have in-person learning for the fall (at least), I went into despair.  Henry's SPED team is so wonderful, and there are so many people with qualifications that I just don't have.  I don't mean that parents can't teach; of course we can.  But with special needs, there has been so much research, people get so much training, and there are so many resources available.  Having a team makes it all so much easier.

He's adapted, of course.  We all have.  But it's also given me a glimpse into the classroom, as it were, when he has his live sessions.  When I see other children so bright and eager, sitting calmly in their chairs, doing all the activities, participating in discussion, and then I see Henry upside down in his chair, or slouched down with his hands in his pants, or running away out the front door--well.  It's not much of a confidence boost.

But sometimes I get a little hope that maybe I'm doing something right.  Two days ago I set Henry to do his math homework on his Chromebook while I helped Rowan (11) with his work.  Henry excels in math, and I figured he'd be alright.  Ten minutes later I glanced over and saw that the Chromebook was closed, and Henry was nowhere in sight.  I called, then called again, and Henry finally appeared.  I said, "Did you finish your math? Are you ready for Minecraft time?"

That was when he started sobbing.  I couldn't figure out what was wrong.  Low verbal really makes it challenging.  Was he hurt?  Was he sad?  He wouldn't stop, just kept crying and crying while occasionally gasping, "I can't."  Finally I moved him to my bed and had Rowan bring his Chromebook there, so I could still help Rowan while consoling Henry.  The tears stopped at last.  I said something about a Chromebook (referring to Rowan's) and the flood of tears began anew.  "Mama, I can't look at my Chromebook right now."

Aha.  Finally, a lightbulb.  I asked, "Did you make a mistake on your math?"  The tears poured down as he flung himself dramatically backward, buried his face in a pillow, and wailed, "I'm dead."

Sometimes it's hard not to chuckle at things that, from an adult's perspective, are so minor; and yet, from a child's perspective, are earth-shattering.  I let it go at that for the night; I figured some rest and time would help.  I didn't tackle it yesterday, either.  But today I sat down with him and said that we would be finishing that math lesson.

Oh, he did not like that!  He bolted; I grabbed him.  He grabbed my hands; I opened the browser anyway.  He slumped to the floor; I parked him on my lap and held him upright with one arm, while using the other to open the lesson.  The system his school uses allows students to pick up where they left off or start over from the beginning.  I figured starting from the beginning would be easiest for him, since it would be a clean slate.

But oh!  While it did take us back to the beginning, his answers were still there.  He could change them, but he realized that he--and I--would see his mistake.  He cried and begged, said he was "just too tired," that he wasn't feeling well, etc.  He tried dramatic Minecraft deaths.  I ruthlessly continued page by page until we got to the dreaded one.  They've been practicing rounding numbers, and he had accidentally hit "round up" instead of "round down."  As soon as we clicked onto the page, he shrieked, "Change it to round down!!!!"

I did.  He cried.  I hugged him.  Then I wiped his nose and dried his tears, and we continued to the next section.  By the end of the lesson he was smiling again, although he verbally confirmed every answer with me at least five times before marking it on the computer.  I told him that it's okay to make mistakes, that everyone does, and that it takes courage to go back and fix mistakes.  I don't know if that stuck in his head, but he should at least know that Mama will always be there to walk him through those mistakes.

And honestly, whether we're eight or eighty-eight, it's good to know that sometimes you just need to go back in and make it right, and then the weights can fall off our shoulders and the sun starts shining again.  And sometimes that's all it takes.