tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9681653831558899722024-03-14T01:14:03.734-07:00The Mothering DazeThe ups and downs and in-betweens of a special-needs mom who really needs coffee and a nap.The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-85183529988309903692021-09-21T10:01:00.000-07:002021-09-21T10:01:14.828-07:00Parenting for Real, Not for Show<p> <span style="font-family: verdana;">I've been thinking for quite some time about getting a Twitter account and Facebook page for The Mothering Daze. Not that I expect it to go viral or anything; I'm not THAT interesting. I just want to put my experiences with autistic children (and life in general) out there in case it helps anyone. One of the things stopping me is that I don't have any sort of logo or background banner.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Yesterday I asked Rowan (12) if he could make one for me. He did! --On Microsoft Paint, so its quality is questionable, but I still love it. It sort of embodies my life. Anyway, while he worked on that I busied myself with creating accounts for myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Enter Henry (9): "Mama, will you play Multiplication Splat! with me?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Not right now, honey," I replied, still working. Type, type, type. Look at Rowan's design. Revise. More typing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Henry again: "Will you play Multiplication Splat! with me?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It suddenly occurred to me what I was doing. There I was, being all lofty and wanting to spread my words to everyone about what a fantastic job I was doing with parenting, and I was putting off my own child, right there in front of me, just wanting to play a game.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Rowan and I stopped what we were doing. We went to the table and played the game. And it was FUN! Rowan said it's his new favorite. Henry won both rounds.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's no secret that I struggle with depression. Depression has a nasty way of making me close off from people and try to hide in my own space. Obviously I can't really get away from my children, because they can't be left alone, so for me it looks like sitting in my chair with a book or my phone. I make plans to clean my house or do fun things, but any slight interruption or deviation causes me to abandon everything.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I think the start of school has been really good for both my children and me. We've been forced to get on a regular sleeping/waking schedule. They are with friends and good teachers, and I am given the space I need to unwind. Well, except that I've been exceedingly busy helping plan a complete kitchen redesign. But I'm planning it with ADULTS, which means my constant awareness of my children can be put on pause.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">And so I've been gradually emerging from my self-imposed isolation. I emptied a box and donated the contents. I mopped my floor. I played a card game with my sons. And this morning I snuggled Henry in my armchair, cuddling him for a good ten minutes longer than was strictly safe for getting him to school on time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">One day at a time. One step forward, then another.</span></p>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-1862896490774755882021-03-04T20:00:00.001-08:002021-03-04T20:00:30.679-08:00Coping With Loss<p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">CW: miscarriage, child loss</span> </p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">Tragic and unsettling events drive me to write. I love writing--really, I do--but it seems like life gets so busy that I don't think about making time for it. And then life knocks me sideways, and I suddenly have to make sense of everything by writing it down.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">For those who don't already know, early Tuesday morning I had a miscarriage--my second. The first was nine years ago. I hadn't actually planned to get pregnant. I had the Paragard IUD, which had been working beautifully for a little over eight years. Apparently over time it migrated to my cervical canal, leaving my uterus wide open for a resident. January 19 I took a test and confirmed that I was, in fact, pregnant.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">Unplanned is not the same as unwanted. As unexpected as the news was, we greeted it with joy, and started looking at baby clothes and furniture. We kept it quiet, remembering the last pregnancy. Family and close friends soon found out, because we couldn't hide my terrible morning sickness. We checked in often with my obstetrician and had three ultrasounds within six weeks, to make sure everything was going well.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">Monday morning I had very light spotting. It had happened once before and turned out to be nothing serious, so I figured I would wait and talk to my doctor at our appointment Wednesday. Monday evening it was just a little more. Only a little. But I felt sharp cramping in my lower back. I lay down and stayed there for hours, whimpering with the pain.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">Matthew works swing shift, and he got home about 2:00 in the morning. He ate dinner, and got in the shower about 3:30. He had barely been in a few minutes when I felt something shift inside me. The pain lessened and I felt blood flow out of my body. I called Matthew and said, "I need you out here RIGHT NOW."</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">Matthew called 911 and I called my mom. I don't need to describe the ambulance ride or the hospital. I can say with complete honesty that the EMTs and the hospital staff were all so lovely, warm and kind. I am so, so incredibly thankful for medical professionals who show such care to their patients. They asked if I wanted to see my baby, and this time I said yes. They had laid my baby in a soft, satiny purple box with a white ribbon. I saw perfectly formed little arms and legs. Only twelve weeks along, so I don't know if it was a boy or a girl, but that didn't matter. It gave closure, and a sense of reality, that I hadn't just imagined being pregnant.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">I'm doing okay. My best friend came to stay about two weeks ago, to take care of my children while I spent my time vomiting and lying down. Now she's staying to help through the recovery. My lovely family and friends have offered to bring meals. One plans to take my boys out tomorrow morning.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">As for how I am emotionally? That's hard to say. Grief takes many forms. It looks like holding each other and sobbing in the exam room. It looks like lying back to back in bed, feeling each other's solid warmth, while we each scroll through Facebook. Like holding my living children extra tight and playing board games with them, even when I'm tired. Like going to Walmart with my bestie, just to get out of the house. Like sleeping for hours in the afternoon. Like laughing hysterically at memes because laughing lifts my spirit. Like praying in the dark and asking God to take care of my baby.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">It's not common to post about miscarriages. I wonder, even now, if I should actually post this. But I want people to know that it happens. It's a real hurt, a real wound for families. For those who have experienced this pain, you are not alone. I am there with you, and if you ever need to talk, I'm here. You don't have to walk that path on your own.</span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: verdana;">Love to you all.</span></p>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-90377173193009659432020-12-10T15:07:00.002-08:002020-12-10T15:33:55.767-08:00My Dad<p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;">Life has been rough lately. There's no easy way to say it, so I'll just put it out there: My dad is dying. He's had Parkinson's for 20-ish years or so, and now he's getting toward the end. His body is giving out and his soul is getting ready to move into his new heavenly home.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtLMhYVZu3V8dMFzpMhP85aewBJARHouEHDskwwTuqphwejyTaK0XTwRfA63RYmi3grVOVaN1f2J58tBnYAkjWxlkC_-IcBSVh6A_rpNEgzjA9t84ifX9RgIH8xLcP9MsUPw99-8L9L_k/s1152/IMG_1810+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1105" data-original-width="1152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtLMhYVZu3V8dMFzpMhP85aewBJARHouEHDskwwTuqphwejyTaK0XTwRfA63RYmi3grVOVaN1f2J58tBnYAkjWxlkC_-IcBSVh6A_rpNEgzjA9t84ifX9RgIH8xLcP9MsUPw99-8L9L_k/s320/IMG_1810+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;">Last Friday a nurse said she thought he had only a week left. We dropped everything and I took Rowan and Henry to see him, just in case we didn't have another chance. I had already talked to Rowan a few weeks prior to let him know that Grandpa was nearing the end of his life, but I had put off talking to Henry. How does one explain the concept of death--real death, without respawning--to a child? Any child, but especially one whose communication skills and comprehension are limited?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizP1rUadQjsf5idp60OCn8e433487d-CIqZhG7N1lxlXoYaozclkDeWZU0Pi6x_YGPVC2UVAQsrZcjIo6L5zQPC3R72LYAeQFAOCLcZ70OFtjySOFO6ViK_wXPN0e-jdSFWXOJpQea89H9/s1497/IMG_5793+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizP1rUadQjsf5idp60OCn8e433487d-CIqZhG7N1lxlXoYaozclkDeWZU0Pi6x_YGPVC2UVAQsrZcjIo6L5zQPC3R72LYAeQFAOCLcZ70OFtjySOFO6ViK_wXPN0e-jdSFWXOJpQea89H9/s320/IMG_5793+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;">Rowan took it in much the same way I did--with calm acceptance, keeping personal thoughts and feelings to himself. Death is a part of life, and we all will die someday. My dad has lived a full and rich life. He has nothing to regret.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-ZGHKKyfPvjUZoSHHjkLKCr0FWONtgzahH6aT4E0WVGMK4b4aHwLE2gEgNo3Sa50gXWs7ZcnbbZP973a3tUkxYj6eN7AS0UFy_u5rvln0mrSX9SodzRmjefVQSrmwrXWCQFOHi1pEUsA/s604/IMG_7438+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="604" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-ZGHKKyfPvjUZoSHHjkLKCr0FWONtgzahH6aT4E0WVGMK4b4aHwLE2gEgNo3Sa50gXWs7ZcnbbZP973a3tUkxYj6eN7AS0UFy_u5rvln0mrSX9SodzRmjefVQSrmwrXWCQFOHi1pEUsA/s320/IMG_7438+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>Henry looked confused, then uncomfortable, and then really upset. He couldn't find the words to verbalize his upset, which might have relieved his feelings a little. He didn't cry. He probably won't. But he saw Grandpa lying there so still and quiet, struggling to open his eyes. He hugged Grandpa and didn't get a hug in return, because my dad was too weak to lift his arms. He can see the difference, even if he doesn't know how to talk about it.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnX6hSHhvz2tLsbw4J4jgMUE9UwOOuyqK735o-G9p9gNBtftnwzW_IS9Z_eGbhXtGVl7VUDy_ujKGlU5ukasV98SocmQ16SwZvAZu74mAbowC_vKtm5KqiLF6bBFRRpOzHXDxGQMUAjhQ0/s1253/IMG_3007+%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1253" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnX6hSHhvz2tLsbw4J4jgMUE9UwOOuyqK735o-G9p9gNBtftnwzW_IS9Z_eGbhXtGVl7VUDy_ujKGlU5ukasV98SocmQ16SwZvAZu74mAbowC_vKtm5KqiLF6bBFRRpOzHXDxGQMUAjhQ0/w277-h265/IMG_3007+%25282%2529.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislrzBZhWkfRrVtURhKh_YyhImUFwJEs6qXXauvzHXfO_x_qRae9Ds30FZ-Kth6NyAqDnsG0SoHI-NW-Bw1r5AV3l_WxjNtHMarHw4-CLSpLO06i78NSMahhE6d-kK7Rtp_ua6ixvJmj4b/s1497/IMG_8764+%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="1497" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislrzBZhWkfRrVtURhKh_YyhImUFwJEs6qXXauvzHXfO_x_qRae9Ds30FZ-Kth6NyAqDnsG0SoHI-NW-Bw1r5AV3l_WxjNtHMarHw4-CLSpLO06i78NSMahhE6d-kK7Rtp_ua6ixvJmj4b/w283-h248/IMG_8764+%25282%2529.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;">In the days since then, my dad has improved again. He's eating, opening his eyes, smiling at people. We have more time. But we don't know exactly how much. I tend toward realistic pragmatism, and I didn't think I was affected too much by everything happening. I haven't wept at his bedside. I'm not lying awake crying at night.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__yl24PNc0AI16vtWnjtYEeO93YWonpr5-05WfVzV7PKPE4IX4AkCbudiKRW7pUCJA0tuZnMgVKdhUlf5oS_SStgZ4cv0hCrOg2RkJ9dL_ceyM1PCIQjrdOh1WuI1diS0o6qRMN9geAJi/s1132/IMG_4525+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1132" data-original-width="957" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__yl24PNc0AI16vtWnjtYEeO93YWonpr5-05WfVzV7PKPE4IX4AkCbudiKRW7pUCJA0tuZnMgVKdhUlf5oS_SStgZ4cv0hCrOg2RkJ9dL_ceyM1PCIQjrdOh1WuI1diS0o6qRMN9geAJi/s320/IMG_4525+%25282%2529.JPG" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;">But I've been short-tempered with my children. I've been sleeping in, unwilling to face the 8:00 a.m. classes with Henry. I told Matt that this year, of all years, we are Absolutely Getting A Full-Size Christmas Tree, not a miniature, even though I don't know where we'll put it.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPe5Fj2TJ25Qgpkwdv7ObjI-nn0BPy9HFxuxfyo8nLIQhn7yw-Hgpy6hPEk1SSsWDqNzGr7a1WbmUksVWGEUslNdmF4YOn52hyphenhyphenqrWPQlDWlBQGrZxfmiQP4SaKNd3_OKVQAAyFyRA8Qg0/s1714/IMG_1753+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1227" data-original-width="1714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPe5Fj2TJ25Qgpkwdv7ObjI-nn0BPy9HFxuxfyo8nLIQhn7yw-Hgpy6hPEk1SSsWDqNzGr7a1WbmUksVWGEUslNdmF4YOn52hyphenhyphenqrWPQlDWlBQGrZxfmiQP4SaKNd3_OKVQAAyFyRA8Qg0/s320/IMG_1753+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;">My dad is the best man I have ever known. I hope I can bring up my boys to be like him.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Vs3-8Ww74Ry-f5cTKQa5Mln1cBGSOy_SwItM0qK7di4B7Q3GE-Qvo9_vwk2MZz_xMHIu0kzbcYMcGAD8r2hckb9qZZ_31gO_dq8O6Q8SPS-MCiZmRWpRY1XvW8WZQhFpOeCoF3GwKMzE/s1671/IMG_9800+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1376" data-original-width="1671" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Vs3-8Ww74Ry-f5cTKQa5Mln1cBGSOy_SwItM0qK7di4B7Q3GE-Qvo9_vwk2MZz_xMHIu0kzbcYMcGAD8r2hckb9qZZ_31gO_dq8O6Q8SPS-MCiZmRWpRY1XvW8WZQhFpOeCoF3GwKMzE/w366-h302/IMG_9800+%25282%2529.jpg" width="366" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWZdhVFdEveI2EuEvQodF-hJp8CD06RX7HkIDcD8jaHKMxCe0-L616TKYIFDYOdDc68ik8KUkGgDXDsm2ljvaedAYL85DQ85XKMot5lmJoO9x7zGQUVF0kCUgloSi-axm7dBpdyxalYgi/s1138/IMG_7792+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1138" data-original-width="1058" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWZdhVFdEveI2EuEvQodF-hJp8CD06RX7HkIDcD8jaHKMxCe0-L616TKYIFDYOdDc68ik8KUkGgDXDsm2ljvaedAYL85DQ85XKMot5lmJoO9x7zGQUVF0kCUgloSi-axm7dBpdyxalYgi/w345-h371/IMG_7792+%25282%2529.jpg" width="345" /></a></div><p></p>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-37214016594339855272020-10-23T01:41:00.000-07:002020-10-23T01:41:02.663-07:00Dealing with Failure<p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"> 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.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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?</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">But I'm also learning (slowly) to love myself, to accept that while I try to keep moving forward, <b>here</b> is where I am right now, and that's okay. Because I <b>am </b>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 <i>have</i> 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.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">I'll delve more into that later.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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 <b>8 </b>and <b>autistic </b>and <b>developmentally delayed</b>. On those days is when I most feel like a failure, because shouldn't I always be proud and happy and understanding?</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9W6UTFbJuzmIKPSsf5MALtLGbJhKZWFaAutNZa4siNpLAM52079BexRltfajbroA5t2Fthwi_0NUEFBkbSFQvCkIu14daDGP6jqdxHvjWzcxbB6rjSjuNdphfryZDcvmxHe4pl5T3Vq8Q/s2048/IMG_3444+%25282%2529.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1930" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9W6UTFbJuzmIKPSsf5MALtLGbJhKZWFaAutNZa4siNpLAM52079BexRltfajbroA5t2Fthwi_0NUEFBkbSFQvCkIu14daDGP6jqdxHvjWzcxbB6rjSjuNdphfryZDcvmxHe4pl5T3Vq8Q/s320/IMG_3444+%25282%2529.JPEG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvoKqQIw_WTE0UTFj8Z4xlBVHjVapbZprqN0Ibf_elL29By1OU9N4PmIPVOqjUAxyVtGu46O2LVEJwryK18msYahGeDPR_P_MQgpGhl2FDmPdCZHpG1UC2JW41bVeW2uTL-6jclOXvLfo7/s1543/IMG_5886+%25282%2529.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1543" data-original-width="1380" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvoKqQIw_WTE0UTFj8Z4xlBVHjVapbZprqN0Ibf_elL29By1OU9N4PmIPVOqjUAxyVtGu46O2LVEJwryK18msYahGeDPR_P_MQgpGhl2FDmPdCZHpG1UC2JW41bVeW2uTL-6jclOXvLfo7/s320/IMG_5886+%25282%2529.JPEG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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."</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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."</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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 <b>would</b> be finishing that math lesson.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">But oh! While it <i>did</i> take us back to the beginning, <b>his answers were still there.</b> 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!!!!"</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;">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.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkg-KI-YHH4DxGpBJUM6q6f-3hTd_2AhBkuI-1V1btEgoXvafhmX_VMcMrBPit8G7_3HpGKQTMnFjMdyjK4famHvb8fMBzNIa1U5M0h1axbu8lpjxZLrEKOK583PQjqRqxcXqjryDizBzS/s2048/IMG_6002.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkg-KI-YHH4DxGpBJUM6q6f-3hTd_2AhBkuI-1V1btEgoXvafhmX_VMcMrBPit8G7_3HpGKQTMnFjMdyjK4famHvb8fMBzNIa1U5M0h1axbu8lpjxZLrEKOK583PQjqRqxcXqjryDizBzS/w150-h200/IMG_6002.JPEG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wHcvP8Ns8AiqHBoZJhOiZwQvMs6O379mn8B0fQVPUA4WJtn9u5CHCNjSzmqjqJKiW792kr7_36nj7fbrMUyaNfCUF4WxYHPsSDqclaKIsy584GQwRAf5mOvcy89tcdECMaJYtZjnNuaI/s2048/IMG_4998.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wHcvP8Ns8AiqHBoZJhOiZwQvMs6O379mn8B0fQVPUA4WJtn9u5CHCNjSzmqjqJKiW792kr7_36nj7fbrMUyaNfCUF4WxYHPsSDqclaKIsy584GQwRAf5mOvcy89tcdECMaJYtZjnNuaI/w150-h200/IMG_4998.JPEG" width="150" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-60165959541169854192018-11-09T14:35:00.000-08:002018-11-09T14:35:00.368-08:00The Protestors<span style="color: #0080ff;">I first became aware of their existence while fighting downtown traffic just after 5:00. That’s not really the best time to face Marion Street; it might not be Portland traffic, but it’s bad enough. The traffic stacks up for blocks and blocks. A light will turn green and the line of cars might not even shift. Everyone jockeys for their spot on the bridge and free-flowing traffic – unless you’re heading to West Salem. Then the misery just continues.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">Rowan (9) and Henry (6) sat behind me, happily playing with their Burger King toys. The deal right now is these blobby-looking plastic things that remind me of the Pillsbury Doughboy. But get this – they come with playdoh and are designed with spaghetti squeezers and accessories to make cool impressions. It’s actually pretty sweet.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">Back to the van. We slowly oozed along the road, hoping stoplights would stay green long enough for the cars in front of me to <i>move out of the way</i> so I could cross the intersection, when I saw a man hurrying along carrying a sign under his arm. From what I could see, I think the sign read, “PRESIDENT not GOD.” I looked around for other people, but saw none.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">Two blocks away from the bridge, I spotted them. They thronged on both sides of the street, all corners of the intersection at the bridge, so many people, waving their signs high in the air. My initial reaction was apprehension. I envisioned people running out and blocking traffic, rocks being thrown, general mayhem and possible violence. I pictured struggling to keep my autistic children calm while simultaneously trying to get them to safety.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">There was none of that.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">The throngs respectfully kept their distance on the sidewalk. Occasionally a car would honk in support and everyone would cheer. Nothing was thrown. No one got in our faces. It occurred to me that while there certainly are violent protests, I shouldn’t automatically assume that every protest is the same.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">Rowan asked me what all the people were doing, which led to a beautiful talk about our country’s founding principles, one of which is the freedom to speak. We have the freedom to stand on street corners and wave signs. We can criticize our government loudly and publicly. We can make our voices heard and demand change. <span style="color: #0080ff;">Whether or not I agree with these particular protestors is not the issue. Everyone here has the right to make their voice heard.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">I told Rowan that not all countries have it this way. Some countries will put their citizens in jail for speaking out. They can’t say anything bad about those in power. Rowan asked if some are even killed, and I said, yes they are. While no government ever likes to be criticized, here we are still free to do so. I am extremely thankful for that.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0080ff;">Rowan pondered this all. I reminded myself that every moment can be a teaching moment for my children. Every inconvenience can be turned into something more. My children are always watching what I do, what other adults around them do. They see and they learn. They will model my behavior and my words. Rowan understands that even when people have different perspectives, kindness and listening will go a long way. And I was reminded that for my children to grow up showing kindness and understanding, they must first see that behavior in me.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0080ff;"><br /></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-40513760665093003022018-10-26T09:58:00.001-07:002018-10-26T09:58:45.698-07:00It’s Not About the Men<span style="color: #4f81bd;">I’ve waited a long time to write this post. By now, most of the noise and clamor of Believe Her/Believe Him has died down. That’s the way it usually goes. My mind ponders a subject, goes over it again and again, editing and rewriting without it ever getting on paper, desperate to have Just The Right Words that will have Just The Right Impact. Even when I’m finally ready to commit my words to the screen where everyone can see them, I still second-guess myself.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">But it’s been long enough, and some things need to be said, even when I haven’t achieved perfection with them. If I don’t put my own words out there, if I only repost what others have written (no matter how eloquently), people can believe that I am only a Bandwagon Jumper, New To The Scene, and Not Really Passionate About The Subject.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">The reality is, I don’t always like to share my heart online, and some subjects can be very painful for some people to read. I don’t like to share my friends’ stories without asking. I did ask, and receive permission, to share a few.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">First, I need to get the obvious obligations out of the way. I know men have problems. I know men get assaulted. I know some men are raped. I know men are murdered. No one is saying that these things don’t happen to men. Of course they do. We live in a world that can be shitty at times – a lot of the time, in fact. Men have to be aware of dark alleys and lonely streets. Men have to be aware of their surroundings.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">THIS POST IS NOT ABOUT THE MEN.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b>This is for Janessa*, whose husband raped and beat her on multiple occasions. She was told that because they were married, it wasn’t really rape. Even the police ignored her cries for help.</b></span><br />
<b><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #4f81bd;">This is for Amelia*, whose boyfriend raped her. When she told a parent, that parent said that because it was her boyfriend, it wasn’t really rape.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #4f81bd;">This is for Nenia*, who was propositioned by someone she trusted. When she said no, he stalked her for two years.</span></b><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">There are more stories, so many more. I haven’t received permission to share them all. It hurts to be reminded of times when trust has been betrayed.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">For millennia, women have been suppressed, oppressed, trodden down, beaten, raped, and generally subjected to restrictions that no one would dream of applying to men. Here in America, we are so blessed, so fortunate to not live through such atrocities where CHILDREN sold as wives is a common occurrence, where it it illegal for us to drive, where we can’t walk in public with our faces bared. We are fortunate. There will always be another place where other women have it so much worse.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">There has never been a country where the women regularly rape the men without repercussion, where women can kill men for dishonoring the family by being raped, where men are not allowed to drive but women are, where women can vote but men can’t, where 10-year-old boys are sold as husbands to 80-year-old women, where men must cover their faces and bodies in public while women walk around uncovered, where it’s common for groups of large, strong women to chase and harass a lone man and demand sex because he’s wearing shorts and exposing his legs. Flip it to the reverse, and those things happen to women <i>every damn day.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">Just because we’re not as bad as some countries, that doesn’t make the problems here go away. We live in a culture where, if a woman is raped at a college party, the automatic response is, she shouldn’t have been there. Okay, maybe it wasn’t smart, but SHE IS NOT AT FAULT. The person at fault is the man who raped her. If she hadn’t been there, he would have found someone else to rape. The blame lies on the rapist.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">No matter how aware and cautious men are, there’s a certain element lacking in basic, everyday interactions with everyday passersby: fear. Women (speaking in general here) have a constant hyper-awareness of every man they encounter. We choose our words carefully. Stroke the ego just enough so he doesn’t think we’re insulting him, but not so much that he thinks we’re flirting. Know that on a date, if we let the man pay, he will probably expect – and might demand – sex.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">Being beaten and mugged is horrible when it happens to anyone. The thing is, men don’t usually have to worry about being raped into the bargain. For men, although they might be injured, their most private areas are generally left intact. For women, there is a very high chance of the assailant helping himself to her body as well as her money. Very few rapists are actually arrested. Even fewer actually are convicted.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">Of course there are some instances of false reporting, but those instances are astronomically fewer than the number of rapists who walk free. Women are shouted down, harassed, and questioned brutally if they even mention the assault. No one wants to believe that “that nice guy” committed such an atrocity. It’s easier to just say the woman is making it up or was asking for it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">No woman asks for rape. No matter how inebriated, no matter how she’s dressed, no matter how friendly she was, <b>that does not absolve the man of his behavior.</b> The blame for assault needs to be put where it belongs – on the assailant. Every person is responsible for their own actions.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><i>*These are real people and real stories. Their names have been changed to protect privacy. There are so many more stories I could share, but I won’t do that without permission from the owners of those stories.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-79799526334526131042018-09-28T12:15:00.000-07:002018-09-28T12:15:35.684-07:00Letting Go<span style="color: #4f81bd;">As a parent, there inevitably comes a time when our children are ready to strike out on their own and be their own people. For me, it’s happening much too quickly.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">I have very clingy children. They like to climb on me and smother me. Even at ages 9 and 6, they still want to climb in bed with me at night. They want to be snuggled to sleep. They clamber on top of my head and rub my hair in my eyes. They always say, “Mama, play with me! Mama, watch this! Mama, fix me a snack! Mama, mama, mama!”</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVrQaLewXf-LJA-kX8rTPHdAYx5tAO_YLK4E9CQXNd84sTru1RJlNFlcGhHZEjM3lzgEIoqJkr2-iOcDxiptAk6EgbwePQLAyftaj60HpnEhVSPsT5l0Y3hRdl6OIgdkkqM7Nku8VpQwIs/s1600-h/IMG_7757%255B2%255D"><img alt="IMG_7757" border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgp4o8SFQWIE7FLqhsr7JzKCIG6xLEyekIL7IAVHBe2X0NWGgBrcOKhb-dI4Fqu_1U6Xq4T3MqzUwUD_mvRdj53sUa_V-qewwEYK1_QIDSPHupwSvak3fa-HhdspoK9TmC_aSbJHTvQW0/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_7757" width="184" /></a></span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">I do my best to meet their needs, but for <em>years</em> I have longed for just a bit of space to myself, some room to breathe, some time alone to think. And suddenly, within the last few weeks, I have it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">I’m not ready.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">We get to the playground at school in the morning, and instead of holding my hand and giving me a snuggle, Rowan (9) shouts a quick, “Love you, Mom!” and runs off to his classroom to dump his backpack, then heads off with his friends. Henry (6) doesn’t hold my hand anymore, either. He runs and skips and looks offended when I offer my hand. When we get to his classroom, instead of me going in with him while he hangs up his backpack, he pushes firmly on my tummy when the door opens, to let me know that I am Not Welcome in his classroom. This is <strong>his </strong>space, with <strong>his</strong> teachers and <strong>his</strong> friends. Mommy isn’t needed there.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">Oh, my heart.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMIT-pJsFQ9ThOi-WLmUd7akcueb3JHQyIzKgx2FIYnMEiyD2PT6qAqS6LVTSt2nufdYmgbz_6puBLzbTqrisz3xZbRYsDq6-vmreH4kOdjzaUTE7jA2fDOfVeqT3VJWr4hTu3r41sM5v/s1600-h/IMG_8171%255B4%255D"><img alt="IMG_8171" border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhANRtZGDqEUGZvTQWTvfocR2JOQ_Shg6SyMgT5qaDi_pld2_lm4ioE2aQIhz8tST1Vopmq1JhaWGrLGMwL1r-Uxzpmmte2xh6sJKJQD6lvT4Vg-TzFCwDUJdx9GPGB1gWeVo7ZxlvWrXo5/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_8171" width="227" /></a></span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">I was talking this morning to Donna, one of the assistants in his special classroom. She doesn’t see him much anymore, either, because he’s spending most of the day in the regular first grade classroom. The fact that he is not just going there, but thriving and spending the majority of his days there, simply floors me. There were many, many days and months and years when I doubted whether he could ever function in school at even a basic level.</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">Anyway, Donna and I were commiserating with each other about how Henry <em>just doesn’t need us anymore</em>, and she said, “Well, that’s really what our job is. We provide as much and as little support as they need, and the ultimate goal is that they don’t need us anymore.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">Oh, that is so true, and it hurts! Some part of me wants to cling to my little children forever, keep them snuggled up with me. This morning Rowan opted to stay in his bed for ten extra minutes instead of having snuggle time with Mom in the rocking armchair. And I love that he’s comfortable in his own bed, but my heart!</span><br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #4f81bd;">I know they still need me. They still come to me for hugs and kisses and snuggles, to find their shoes, to fix their food. There will always be a part of them that needs their mama. But it is growing less every day, and while I am <strong>so glad</strong> and <strong>so thankful</strong> for their continued growth and development, I am <em>not ready.</em></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-15105263643866269352018-09-05T23:37:00.001-07:002018-09-05T23:37:37.413-07:00Back to School<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">Rowan (9) and Henry (6) went back to school today. I thought briefly about taking pictures, but that thought was quickly driven out of my head when Henry went into full meltdown mode this morning.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">It’s not that Henry doesn’t like school. He really does. He likes the structure, the activities, and the learning. He loves his teacher, Mrs. A., and the two TAs who work with him the most, Donna and Sharon. It’s just that he really, really enjoyed <i>summer.</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">He loved waking up at 8:30 or 9:00, wandering into the dining room for cereal, then settling down to play Minecraft. He loved lazy summer days spent outside in our backyard, driving trains over tree roots, throwing the ball for our dog, Lili, going to the river, and spontaneous visits to cousins or grandparents.</span></span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhTgzFQxJ-jsmtAxzjr0U1GTTiUXPBs9b2OFRAtBPxgYaT7-zjpxinB1zhhRTL00xKQyrjhajMX8fiwYtMvtshOV_vw4-8i5FBeujtDCqiKdRBPb7Tg47iVhWReDOHRL_PCJ9G6w2qQa0/s1600-h/IMG_6432%255B3%255D"><img alt="IMG_6432" border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVe3UwbA6M7LtW0geUAABIpIx-dexvQw2sqOaDViWc7pAIRvJu9Kpiqy7Np8axcGJtAfootwP6d4PuaaG34CsHLScP-wUkkKVvUJy6zzoGESLFcnC9H_5_j9LgOvtvl4_BcINzPXj3NoC/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_6432" width="211" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">We’ve been trying to prep him for school the last few weeks. He has always stubbornly responded with, “NO SCHOOL.” Yeah, not happening, kid. The staff at his school have many more tools in their toolbox than I do, to guide and teach through his autism.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">So this morning he absolutely refused to wear any of his new clothes, despite them consisting of the same type of t-shirts and sweats he always wears. I guess with everything else, it was just too much <i>new</i> and <i>scary</i>. We compromised at last with just a new t-shirt, and everything else old and familiar. He’ll get used to them in time, I suppose.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">There is a happy ending to this story. When I picked him up, Sharon said that Henry had a GREAT day, and that his time in the regular first grade classroom [he bounces between the special ed room & the regular class] was “night and day” different from how he started in the regular kindergarten classroom last year. He also got a candy for practicing safe body techniques all day, so that was great!</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">As for Rowan, while he wasn’t thrilled about going, he was excited to see his friends again. He sits across from his friend C. and she offered to introduce him to all the kids he doesn’t know yet! I got a running and jumping hug when he came out, and he told me that “today was the BEST school day I’ve ever had!”</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">In conclusion, I think we’re going to survive this year just fine.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzyIjESQVPn95qdRz3-VhIszaDSndkQYdNLAdOwKYY5GokHpDrA40blVkbEz1XETjvkQCpxU7SUMoSM9gygYfpefzk9SLYi9ryM7Z2X-EgVtNtYyNA1LfSy_xmxcdKnvLHjCAV0PERo5f/s1600-h/IMG_7863%255B2%255D"><img alt="IMG_7863" border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVPs2e_VILB5oaEIlabNf4z7SLLju4vrvhlPlSV_swjEJ6eh62UdwErwAcV_UE-ZUhKJlMmVLgtVl7WFnN7YiTD337InI7-T5lOkNrgMurEGR1uQ2kc6NCMbJW_4AUCaXURW47idAh2tZF/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_7863" width="184" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eTgcyEbDbweFiWTQeDTXYQoZTH9TCtbbPD5nTIltR7DxHGX3i2TehQLgIP92PJzQVP1lxt8rI0d1u3REaTCvExKndK_CsAlRcR3K6u99iEJpfTwXc9ZaHdEcVRSBfj9J66pbUkIASimd/s1600-h/IMG_6915%255B2%255D"><img alt="IMG_6915" border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir15ezsmZJt3Hsqw9c-LveNAJdMtUGFL7WFnN_4LTr6-tzj7Q8yXzj-XaTIGcQ6PYwqCDyIIf0mBdNWg2NMl_LIMYUyd3ypxc25T7-n2CHbrJkt6NjSfdN6vU0cxbe8lnv3fUSRh4RLg2c/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; display: inline;" title="IMG_6915" width="184" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6rOiCYHeX_IYfz1EUAdOkKggsa_nN4_rolKFKxXTCzlt8-ECUihfG9R1B6e4VD_ud-IIpeIt0e_6FKhiz8mxt9xJCpnv8Ce2zuIiwGZJJeyFARSH8FbwpnkoKdPL1J5oq2gnoFIsT2LT/s1600-h/IMG_7516%255B2%255D"><img align="right" alt="IMG_7516" border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtbXNOrXKIGKLtRi16Teq08HahZ3k4hRWmlPjg7SMSOHS4PzvfVP_czMjIHjq6dFAwfK4U7aJhfLOvuGhWES_WyKJ44PBixChWHKZlJ9b47E4zGwWot0r3e8SQvm9-0BKZf8g0AsVIJ1ck/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; display: inline; float: right; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="IMG_7516" width="184" /></a></span><br />
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The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-80575672543700950282018-08-14T15:33:00.001-07:002018-08-14T15:33:40.444-07:00Hello Again<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hello again.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I realized, looking on here, that it's been more than a year since I last posted. I am sorry for that. There have been many factors, not least of which is my ongoing depression. I keep telling myself that I need to write, but I just couldn't do it.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway, I'm back, and I'm taking steps to make sure that I'm staying around.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKqHIBfy1b12j2OcbnN5A6Yt31btdcNoXMYvLExc7ZR1CPlIjnZbBq0P4aDljSZPvKwbAME43_d37_tTHlSQHBAgj6wM2NDhrbiOfUTxmkmRqgBM7sDaAH6IiOQeK1GYwaXFB6IX1En2J/s1600/IMG_6561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKqHIBfy1b12j2OcbnN5A6Yt31btdcNoXMYvLExc7ZR1CPlIjnZbBq0P4aDljSZPvKwbAME43_d37_tTHlSQHBAgj6wM2NDhrbiOfUTxmkmRqgBM7sDaAH6IiOQeK1GYwaXFB6IX1En2J/s320/IMG_6561.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Different book, but still reading!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, what's new? I'll tell you. Rowan, my 9-year-old, has fallen completely in love with Harry Potter. Rowan, who was <i>never, ever, EW, no WAY, Mom</i> going to read Harry Potter. Actually, he mainly listens to audio books instead of reading print. It's easier for him to focus. We've been listening to audio books by C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Roald Dahl. Good stuff, yes? But everything has its saturation point, and although I never thought I'd say this, I found myself begging to <i>please</i> never make me listen to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory again! Enough! No more!!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I convinced Rowan to listen to just the first chapter of Harry Potter, and that was it. He was hooked. I made the introduction, and J.K. Rowling did the rest. He's been binge-listening for the past three weeks. He's halfway through book 5 now.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsv1lAecSiI-mzr71eiJAeihVBF4g_UgFcYIl3zc9oLTOIV3qjC8I8NECnJ9KT4w4mLvjGLxFGaOKCMI3RGm1ihyAtQOFMkzXrkEw_WHmXDprSy5nmb1hiBeB6H-uo8o8FbJ1ufnwR8_12/s1600/IMG_7175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsv1lAecSiI-mzr71eiJAeihVBF4g_UgFcYIl3zc9oLTOIV3qjC8I8NECnJ9KT4w4mLvjGLxFGaOKCMI3RGm1ihyAtQOFMkzXrkEw_WHmXDprSy5nmb1hiBeB6H-uo8o8FbJ1ufnwR8_12/s320/IMG_7175.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yep, that's the face.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Naturally, this translates into nearly everything else he does as well. Legos? He's building broomsticks and having face-offs between the different characters. Minecraft? He built a boys' dormitory & girls' dormitory, both of which have a portal to the nether in the back. Whaaaat? I didn't think even Hogwarts was THAT unsafe! He's placed a lot of armor stands around, decorated them with clothing, and named them according to various characters. So far he has Neville, and Draco Malfoy and his gang. Rowan, of course, is Harry Potter himself.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLHsoe-t7vJJrrh1O4Zr8lYewjAdPWJ0Wt4kguC1NOaDq7gK627uJPl0SYy7Np1TrHag4z0iupYgJB34fnoN_GOGdykO38Ot4EvU1utwEZ0Ek16tDmTR-M4ZC_P4-MkK_lEHMBbRT8Fai/s1600/IMG_6688.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLHsoe-t7vJJrrh1O4Zr8lYewjAdPWJ0Wt4kguC1NOaDq7gK627uJPl0SYy7Np1TrHag4z0iupYgJB34fnoN_GOGdykO38Ot4EvU1utwEZ0Ek16tDmTR-M4ZC_P4-MkK_lEHMBbRT8Fai/s320/IMG_6688.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whomping Willow?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He also roleplays at home, and insists that <b>everyone</b> joins in. I alternate between being Hermione or Mrs Weasley. Lili, our dog, of course plays Fang. Henry, age 6, is generally relegated to being Ron, although Henry doesn't know or care, and refuses to follow instructions. He's a free spirit.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I apologize, friends, if sometime in the next five years I get tired of Harry Potter. It's fun right now, but who knows where this obsession will lead! You may have to save me from it all!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKdD_SJ-xkNH17giUT_s2fJd8HJdEq1vWhFMmPKSf4PqwDLTLPLeJklF_KLa7ohB7mbjRFK-YAq3z9NwbThGZfDti-rZwhyi78QQB43BH_vaQx-onN1dS-KUazHaYnCUfGUuK9lg0arX7/s1600/IMG_5638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKdD_SJ-xkNH17giUT_s2fJd8HJdEq1vWhFMmPKSf4PqwDLTLPLeJklF_KLa7ohB7mbjRFK-YAq3z9NwbThGZfDti-rZwhyi78QQB43BH_vaQx-onN1dS-KUazHaYnCUfGUuK9lg0arX7/s320/IMG_5638.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wild as a summer storm.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVu_cwBpKwa-Q_piyuWPPT-rapjAETVT_1X-RjYEgYKXiYMcD6iXp6bnIo25MoLFjIVH3ociBSRAv4v6KLzcs-lsKrH8My3mNRwAIKm0IxPH2KpEederTTFVDbQx3JcgKrSnHtkrGeAC4S/s1600/IMG_5154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVu_cwBpKwa-Q_piyuWPPT-rapjAETVT_1X-RjYEgYKXiYMcD6iXp6bnIo25MoLFjIVH3ociBSRAv4v6KLzcs-lsKrH8My3mNRwAIKm0IxPH2KpEederTTFVDbQx3JcgKrSnHtkrGeAC4S/s320/IMG_5154.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Henry continues his search for Narnia.</span></td></tr>
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The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-20442430025334778982017-07-22T12:57:00.000-07:002017-07-22T12:57:03.756-07:00Emotions Without Words<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;">As the mother of two autistic children, I face a lot of challenges. My two children are very different from each other in terms of abilities: Rowan, age 8, is extremely bright in all the obvious ways. He has read through The Chronicles of Narnia; he listens to Roald Dahl and J.R.R. Tolkien on audio book; he is finishing Garth Nix's Keys to the Kingdom series. He has read Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little. He excels in math, and is very articulate. He has been speaking his mind in complete sentences since he was two. He has an uncanny ability to use logic, and he is extremely creative.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Henry, age 5, is less obvious in his genius. He is very low verbal, and much of what he does say is echolalia--repeating what he hears around him. If he is hungry, he asks me, "Do you want food?" If he pees his pants, he asks me, "Are you wet?" He still wears pullups, although we are trying to get him fully potty trained before he starts kindergarten this fall.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiixAi2pUJmwZVwCfgraCexSg4Yn9loRYzSWu2uA2xm64CaySb6Ic6Nyg5UEKUWR0pQwGIHRe6rfmurPZK9DlpmqZqTAe1iAEHNXBG5k-GUuhEQvp1bLPpBVoBSEorRaOOSuB1IvtyI0s_/s1600/File_001+%25282%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiixAi2pUJmwZVwCfgraCexSg4Yn9loRYzSWu2uA2xm64CaySb6Ic6Nyg5UEKUWR0pQwGIHRe6rfmurPZK9DlpmqZqTAe1iAEHNXBG5k-GUuhEQvp1bLPpBVoBSEorRaOOSuB1IvtyI0s_/s320/File_001+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;">However, Henry has been reading since he was three. He continually astounds us with just how much he can read. He reads everything he can get his hands on, and loves the text more than pictures. Once we figured out that Henry's preferred method of communication is writing, things got a lot easier. The first thing he said to us via "writing" was to spell "CHEERIOS" on the fridge with magnets. He got the point across.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Thanks to two years in an extremely good preschool, Henry's verbal skills have improved. Talking to him used to generate no response at all. Now he answers simple questions and talks to let us know what he wants. However, emotions are more difficult to convey. Yesterday morning Henry went into meltdown mode, with nothing I could do helping at all.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwT_T5fgh1U6tAocIz0Hd3vf8Jr0PTjzOl_dQ0k8bVpMRDdi4Ek5fsaJIiFtbzdRPeq3jGDslxvp21DuBWoIxaOAY38x__aqKlMYP0A1P2P9BjO0B759Hh3g-cBHX6HXEwUc5rmMHgxTMB/s1600/File_002+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwT_T5fgh1U6tAocIz0Hd3vf8Jr0PTjzOl_dQ0k8bVpMRDdi4Ek5fsaJIiFtbzdRPeq3jGDslxvp21DuBWoIxaOAY38x__aqKlMYP0A1P2P9BjO0B759Hh3g-cBHX6HXEwUc5rmMHgxTMB/s320/File_002+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;">He wanted his shoes off. I took them off. The howling continued. He wanted to build train tracks. Okay, I got those set up on the coffee table. Then he threw a fit because he wanted to put them together himself. I kept asking him what was wrong, but he couldn't find the words to tell me. It's frustrating when you know there's something wrong, and you just can't get the message across!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;">At last, as he sat sobbing on the couch, Henry managed to say, "Where's the train? Where's the train? Where's the train?" Aha! He couldn't find a train to put on the train track! Once the problem was known, it could be quickly addressed.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;">I think communication is probably the most challenging bit of parenting an autistic child. What is your experience with that? Do you have any tricks that work for you? </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-28652474128319488882016-12-03T01:33:00.001-08:002016-12-03T01:33:16.143-08:00Julie<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hi. I've been gone for a while. Have you noticed?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A lot has been going on with me. I can't go into it right now. Suffice it to say that I have been struggling a lot with depression, and things which would be distressing even <i>without</i> depression have exacerbated it. I simply have not had the energy or focus that I would like to devote to writing.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are sustaining forces, thankfully. I want to tell you about one of them. Really, I should have mentioned her long before now. It always feels personal writing about someone I know, and it can be hard to get the words out. I'll do my best to tell you about Julie.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is Julie. Well, one of them is. They aren't both Julie. The other person is Savanna, about whom I will tell you another time.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But seriously, guys, Julie is AMAZING. I am an introvert by nature, and shy about asking people to hang out. I haven't always been that way. Years of unpleasant happenings and various rejections drilled that into my psyche. So if I seem unfriendly, or I don't ask you over, or I say we should hang out and yet I never make plans--it's because I am terrified, TERRIFIED of rejection.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Somehow Julie understands this. She texts me, "Hey, what are you doing this weekend? Let's hang out." And of course I want to, because she's completely awesome, and lots of fun. I just find it really, really difficult to extend the invitation myself.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">See, here's the thing. I think that EVERYONE is much too cool to want to hang out with someone like me. Logically, I know that's not true. Logic doesn't play well with feelings. It took years of Julie's persistence (I've known her since 2004!) for me to finally accept that maybe I'm not a pity case. Maybe she actually does enjoy my company.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Quite apart from the much-needed self-esteem boost, she just does wonderful things. When she moved to North Dakota, she gathered together a box of the most wonderful, random, exciting things and mailed it to me. Such a lovely surprise! Tea, chocolate, honey, and lots of fun toys. Most of the cool mugs I use are from her, and I think of her every time I have my morning coffee or tea.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I can talk to Julie about what's going on in my life, without fear of judgment. She dotes on my children, and they adore her. I've been seriously depressed for some time, and last week she showed up with a bag full of good things, including an autographed CD.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Looking over what I've written, I realize that I still haven't managed to capture the essence of Julie. She is goodness, she is hope, she is light in a dark world. She is kindness personified, and she shares her journey toward personal betterment, which in turn inspires me to be a better person. I can't believe how lucky I am to call her my friend.</span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-86140528662470202402016-06-06T11:30:00.000-07:002016-07-07T23:37:29.411-07:00Conversations with a 7-year-old<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">[Written April 30; not finished & published until now. Because that's how it happens sometimes.]</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This morning the kids slept in. Which is to say, when I got up at 7:30 this morning (after actually getting enough sleep last night, for a change!), they were still snoozing. I got a shower without interruption and got dressed, still without interruption. The baskets of clean laundry which contained the socks I wanted to wear were in the kids' room, though. When I walked in to get them, I saw Rowan lying in his bed, eyes wide open, looking peaceful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"Good morning, Mama," he said. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"You look quite comfy," I remarked.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"Yes," he said. "Will you snuggle me for a while?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I needed to work on finances. I needed to have breakfast. I needed to figure out the logistics of registering him for school today. I looked at that happy face, just wanting some time with ME, and said, "Sure for a minute."</span>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was much longer than a minute, of course. We lay snuggled together and talked about our fun day yesterday, going to a children's museum and his cousins' house. His eldest brother, Noah, turned twenty yesterday (!), and dyed his hair blue to celebrate.</span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2cDOdi3ojlD_v6d1myLzWZRx7-hOsI4KnTDaVw2AIJWH9JdIohsApKK3DAe8HKD_QunQ9JRyAWZE_9yPIKsRwfv_keZMZcFT8_S8z1Y1iMlmllivrxhPm4Ht-JsUSW_-iDLe41LfsTua2/" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-json="{\"requiresResize\":true}" height="409" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2cDOdi3ojlD_v6d1myLzWZRx7-hOsI4KnTDaVw2AIJWH9JdIohsApKK3DAe8HKD_QunQ9JRyAWZE_9yPIKsRwfv_keZMZcFT8_S8z1Y1iMlmllivrxhPm4Ht-JsUSW_-iDLe41LfsTua2/" title="The Blues" width="307" /></a></div>
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Rowan and I talked for quite a while before I asked, "So, what do you think you'd like to be when you grow up?"</span>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He thought for a while, then asked, "Do the people who work at fairs get to go on the rides?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I laughed. "Well, not while they're working, but maybe after hours."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He thought again for a while, then said, "You know, Mama, when I grow up, I think I'd just like to be me."</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span><em>To be me</em>.
Oh, that struck me right in the heart. How many of us truly just want to be ourselves? I mean, we talk about it all the time. "Be true to yourself." "Be the best YOU you can be." "Just be yourself." But how many of us really like ourselves well enough that <em>that </em>is our chief aspiration?
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I know there are parts of me that I really, truly don't like. There are parts I like, too. I am (mostly) kind. I am (mostly) generous. I am (mostly) thoughtful. I am (mostly) honest. But that honesty, that tends to get me in trouble. Because the thing is, I like to be <em>absolutely, perfectly clear</em> about what I'm saying, with whomever I am conversing. Sometimes that means over-explaining things. Sometimes that means saying too much. One can be honest without spilling everything in one's mind. So then I try to backtrack or conceal, and I hate that, because that feels like deception.
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I want to just be comfortable being myself -- a bit too open, loving people fully and freely, speaking my thoughts without apology, saying what needs to be said without retracting it if it doesn't meet with the reception I hoped for. I want to say what I think without worrying what other people think about my words. I want to be considerate of other people's viewpoints without conceding my own. I want to accept that I am human, I am flawed, I make mistakes, and <em>that's okay</em>. Making a mistake (or a whole heap of them) is not the end of the world. Truly.
I want to be so confident in myself that others who are struggling can look at me and say, "If she can do it in her imperfect state, so can I." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So can I! I am trying to find the way to being authentic, being true to myself, to be the best ME I can be. For now I'm here, putting one foot in front of the other, plodding along and trying to stay upright. And that's okay.
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I squeezed Rowan a little tighter and said, "You know, Rowan, I think being yourself is the very best thing you can be."
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LqN2-1grsxz-TzgJuP3D402TZaL3hZvllT1VTSA4soPD6DSBnZ-ka5QBNEycui4SZ_g8lxs_w2g6K8cGdPFJEuEjxyZWNKb-sU-ZPxgBOp8-jqw8lQDZwTIohu33-K9hZVbwzpOsUtog/" style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-json="{\"requiresResize\":true}" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LqN2-1grsxz-TzgJuP3D402TZaL3hZvllT1VTSA4soPD6DSBnZ-ka5QBNEycui4SZ_g8lxs_w2g6K8cGdPFJEuEjxyZWNKb-sU-ZPxgBOp8-jqw8lQDZwTIohu33-K9hZVbwzpOsUtog/" title="Jedi on the Beach" width="400" /></a></div>
The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-9581400676526509182016-03-18T11:39:00.000-07:002016-03-18T11:39:01.370-07:00Rowan, Age 7<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Rowan is my first child. Or my third child, depending on how you look at it. He's third in order of age, but the first one I gave birth to myself. Blended families are complicated when it comes to figuring out number order. In any case, Rowan is seven. He is bright as a button and smart as a whip, and he adores his elder brothers and their friends.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Rowan also has a stubborn streak a mile wide, and lately he has begun to assert his independence. He's been saying things like, "I don't have to," and "You can't tell me to do that," and "You're not the boss of me!" Oh my. I haven't been letting him get away with it. There's been lots of, "Excuse me, young man?" and "Would you care to repeat that again?" and "As long as you are living in a house that Mommy and Daddy and Grandma and Grandpa are paying for, eating food that we buy with money that Daddy works hard for, wearing clothes that we bought for you, <i>you are not in charge </i>and you don't get to make that decision." We do try to be reasonable and discuss options when it's not a vitally pressing matter.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Rowan's latest interest is watching marble videos on YouTube, particularly the <a href="https://youtu.be/IvUU8joBb1Q" target="_blank">Wintergatan Marble Machine</a>, the <a href="https://youtu.be/kwedBdWIRuQ" target="_blank">Epic Christmas Marble Run</a>, and the <a href="https://youtu.be/VycoBoE4Qkk" target="_blank">ROBLOX Mega Marble Run Pit</a> by EthanGamerTV. That last one inspired him to create his own explanatory video yesterday. We were playing in the backyard when suddenly he said, "Mommy, I'm going to make a YouTube video. You need to video me." I obliged him by taking out my iPhone. The results were hilarious, and, I thought, pretty darn good for a 7-year-old making a video for the first time. He did have to chide his camerawoman a few times when she didn't immediately catch what he wanted her to do.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Note: RowansTallTales.com does not actually exist (yet). Rowan just thought it sounded cool.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He's something, that Rowan. He is simultaneously supremely confident and insecure. He will brag and show off like nobody's business, but put him in front of an audience under pressure and he will curl up in Mommy's lap, hiding his face. He loves to play with other kids. He loves to stay home and play alone. He <i>only wants to play games EVER, Mom! </i> and he devours chapter books like a starving man. We're currently rereading Ozma of Oz, the third book in the Oz series.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Last night I sent him upstairs to take a shower before bed. When five minutes had passed and I didn't hear water running, I went to investigate. I found him standing on the shower bench, which had been parked in front of the sink, stark naked, with the mirrored doors of the medicine cabinet angled to reflect himself countless times. He was dancing and shaking his booty.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Rowan," I said, "what do you think you're doing?"</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"I just like to look at myself, Mommy," he said. He got down and hopped in the shower. When he was done, he toweled off and <b>swaggered</b> to his room. Oh, he's got the swagger and the strut down, alright. I'm not sure where he got that. I don't think I've ever been that body-confident in my life.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There were tears yesterday. There was conflict--a lot of it. There were headaches and frustration. I wondered, as I wonder every day, if he will <i>ever get it</i>. But as we snuggled up to go to sleep, he leaned over to kiss me and whispered, "I love you, Mommy." Somehow, that makes it all worth it.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That's my boy.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-6160662781493416962015-12-16T10:58:00.000-08:002015-12-16T10:58:02.723-08:00A Listening Heart<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of my friends just started a job. He was put with another person to assist and be trained. After his first day, I asked, "So how did it go?"</span><div>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He replied, "It was great! It was really nice to be with someone who actually listened to everything I said, and let me talk, and let me ask all the questions I needed to."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That left me wondering, how often do I truly listen? How often do I take the time to stop what I'm doing and really <i>hear</i> what the other person is saying? How often have I let the other person's talk fade into the background while I wonder about finances or dinner or schedules or whatever else crosses my mind? How often have I said, whether truly or in jest because I just didn't hear, "I'm sorry; I wasn't listening to you"?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am ashamed. I tell people frequently, "I'm here for you. If you need a listening ear, I'm available. You can talk to me." The truth is, yes, I'm available to listen--at the same time as I focus on a hundred other irrelevant things.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here's a common example of mealtime conversation:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">6-year-old: "Mommy, did you know that Pluto is a dwarf planet?"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Me: "That's really cool. Eat your food."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Why? Why the constant attitude of "Get this task done quickly so we can move on to the next task"? Yes, sometimes we're in a hurry, especially in the mornings. Why can't I get up fifteen minutes earlier so we can slow down a little?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The fact is, I <i>can</i>. I just don't like to. I like my sleep. I like to hear my own thoughts instead of focusing my mind on what someone else is saying. I like to let other people make the effort of conversation. That attitude, however, is not productive, and if I continue, I will drive people away. My children. My husband. My friends.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The fact that <b>someone who cared enough to listen</b> was the important thing my friend took away from his first day, should tell us all how vital it really is to just pay attention. It also speaks, unfortunately, to how accustomed he is to <i>not</i> having people listen.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's time for us to make a change. It's time for <i>me</i> to make a change. Put down the phone, the tablet, the book, the puzzle, the laptop, or whatever is keeping you from giving full attention to those around you. Phones and games have their place; sometimes we do just need to chill and relax. And honestly, sometimes in public I use my phone as a Do Not Disturb sign. When we're with the people we care about, though, let's make sure we're actually <b>with</b> them--not on Facebook or buried in a book or playing Dragon City. (Unless, of course, it's mutually agreed upon to hang out and ignore each other.) We can do this. <i>I</i> can do this. I am determined.</span></div>
The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-89066673536544597732015-12-03T12:05:00.000-08:002015-12-03T12:05:19.185-08:00New Treatments, New Hopes<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, a while back I promised you a blog about why I'm feeling so down lately. Then France happened, and the Syrian refugees, and I just haven't had the energy to spare to write anything else of real significance. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A lot has been happening. You might remember that back in June, I told you that Matthew was being put back on Tysabri for his MS. The same Tysabri that could potentially cause him to develop PML (progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy), which could potentially kill him. In January 2013 they found antibodies for it in his blood and stopped the Tysabri treatments immediately. This year, after no other medicines were effectively treating the MS, his doctor made the decision to try Tysabri one more time.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Well, between June and October the amount of antibodies in his blood went up times five.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Times FIVE.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That's huge.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He was immediately taken off Tysabri again, and his doctor said he will never, never, NEVER be put on it again. The problem then was, what medicine COULD he be given? Tysabri is one of the heavy hitters, and we'd already seen that anything less was ineffective for Matthew. When he takes the weaker medicines, he might as well not be taking anything, but with horrible side effects.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So we settled on a Very New Drug called Rituximab. It's a twice-yearly infusion, although initially he'll get two doses two weeks apart. We went in November 24 for him to get his first dose, and we were there from 8:00 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. That is a LONG day. Midway through he started to get bad chills, nausea, and dizziness, so they paused it until the symptoms went away.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Being Matthew, he insisted on going to work anyway that evening. He would be fine, he said. So I dropped him off about 6:30; he said to pick him up at 11:00. Well, about 9:15 I got a call saying to come and pick him up. I set off (it's a half hour drive), and when I was almost there, he called again saying I'd need to take him to Emergency.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Chills, nausea, dizziness--yep; it had all come back. The ER staff gave him medicine which got rid of the symptoms and sent us home. He's been okay since, except for one more short bout of chills the next day. Other than that there haven't been any problems that we've noticed, but his doctor said she wants to meet with him tomorrow. He's having another infusion Tuesday, so this time they're going to take more precautions ahead of time so hopefully he won't get the nasty side effects.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am tired. I am so unutterably <i>weary</i>. Life is weighing heavily on me with medical and financial concerns, and last night I received even more medical concerns. Some days it's all I can do to get out of bed and face the day. I want to hide in a cave somewhere and pretend the world doesn't exist.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Since that's not an option, thankfully I have good friends who bear me up. I feel so very alone most of the time, and when they come over it's like light and sunshine entering my house. I don't know how I'd manage without them.</span></div>
The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-73665943747936238282015-11-23T13:27:00.000-08:002015-11-23T13:28:16.023-08:00Anatomy<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Guys. <i>Guys.</i> And yes, I'm addressing you of the male persuasion. I have something important to talk about. Something vital to your health and sanity, and to that of those you love. It's time for us to talk about your monthly visitor. Your regular unwanted guest. Your <b>period</b>.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You don't have one, you say? My, how disappointing. Well, I know how easy it is to trivialize something to which you cannot relate, so I'll do my best to put it in words you can understand.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Let's start by preparing the womb--I mean, your testes. For the purposes of this experiment, your testes will be known as the Human Development Chambers (HDCs). Every four weeks, your HDCs begin the process of interior decoration. They're hoping to welcome a live-in guest, you see. They put up soft, squishy wallpaper and install even softer carpet. They spend three whole weeks making everything perfect for their guests' arrival.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When the fourth week comes, your HDCs are shocked to realize that no guest has landed on the doorstep. They become angry, and in a fit of rage they begin ripping up the carpet and slicing off the wallpaper. They hack it, they tear it, and they begin sending it down the Evacuation Tube (along with a lot of blood) straight into your underwear. Congratulations! You've just gotten your period.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You can expecting this state of ranting and dropping chunks of wallpaper down the tube to last for approximately a week. Of course, you're still expected to work and carry on as usual. Stick that pad in your underwear and go about your day with a smile, pretending you don't have several pounds of tissue and blood building up between your legs. Don't forget to use the bathroom at least every two hours, so you don't have any unfortunate leaks and spoil your favorite jeans! And you might have to change your sheets three or four times.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">With all this turmoil happening in your lower regions, naturally your brain gets irritable and distracted. You forget things. Your lower back aches in sympathy. You scream at your significant other for forgetting to buy chocolate. And whenever you express anger or frustration--even if it's totally justified--your friends wink knowingly at each other and brush it off with, "Is it That Time again?" If you dare to mention your condition to your female friends, they respond with, "Gross! Don't talk about that!" or, "Whatever; it's just a period. All men get them."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When the tirade from your HDCs is finally over, you breathe a sigh of relief. Don't worry, though--they'll start decorating again right away. And since the whole cycle takes four weeks (not one month), you can expect it to happen thirteen times every year for approximately thirty years of your life.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There are a couple of ways to avoid your period, of course. You can go in to a clinic and have your reproductive system surgically removed, but then you run the risk of being rejected by potential life partners who want children. Or, you can allow yourself to get pregnant. You might even think that being pregnant is <b>totally worth</b> not facing a bloody mess every four weeks.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So you get little babies growing inside, and for the first few weeks you don't notice much. Then suddenly, dear God, you are starving like you haven't eaten in fifteen years. You gobble everything in sight, and then you realize that your body won't tolerate it. All the food you ate comes right back up. You can expect this to go on for about three months, while your HDCs (and their protective covering) grow to the size of potatoes. Your jeans don't fit, and you start wearing sweats a lot.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">For the next three months you're mostly okay on the nausea front, although you're still eating enough for a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The doctor tells you this is normal, although your HDCs have now swollen to the size of cantaloupes. Even your sweats don't fit now. You have to buy special clothes which are freakishly expensive, and everyone comments on how "cute" you are.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The next three months see your HDCs increasing to the size of jumbo watermelons. "How is this even possible?" you wonder. You worry that your body won't be able to support the weight. You need yet more new special clothes, and your significant other groans as they take out their wallet. "More clothes? Can't you make do with what you've got for the next two months or so?" You try to make them understand that you genuinely can't fit into anything, so unless they want you to go out in public naked or wearing a blanket muumuu..</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And finally, <i>finally</i> the day arrives when your sweet little babies are to make their appearance. You have the option of having a doctor slice you open and remove them, stitching you up afterward, or of pushing them centimeter by centimeter out the Evacuation Tube over the course of several hours. You'll probably still need stitches if you choose the latter. Whichever way you go, finally you have your precious little ones and it is so worth it. Your insurance allows you a whole two days to recover in the hospital before you're sent home. You know you'll have a few months before you have to face The Period again. And then, with all your sensitive bits still swollen and aching, your significant other asks:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">"So, how soon can we have sex again?"</span></div>
The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-17580104007541230852015-11-16T11:32:00.001-08:002015-11-16T11:32:25.864-08:00World, My Heart Is Heavy<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">World, my heart hurts for you.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm sure by now, everyone knows about the terror attacks in Paris. Most also know about the attacks in Beirut. We are all hurting and saddened, with no clear picture of how we can <i>change this mess</i>. May I first suggest that we stop the infighting? It seems like every time I go on Facebook, I see posts along the lines of, "Sure, you care about France, but what about Beirut?" As if we can't care about both at the same time.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I looked up the Wikipedia list of terror attacks this year. There were far too many for me to post here, so I'll just stick with the November ones:</span><br />
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<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 1: <a href="http://sputniknews.com/middleeast/20151102/1029445409/west-bank-driver-Israeli-soldiers.html" target="_blank">Palestinian rammed his vehicle</a> into Israeli soldiers in the West Bank</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 1: <a href="http://nypost.com/2015/11/02/deadly-car-bombs-tear-through-hotel-in-somalia/" target="_blank">Car bomb</a> was detonated on a hotel in Somalia, opening it up; perpetrators then starting shooting and throwing grenades; Al-Shabaab</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 3: <a href="http://www.usnews.com/news/world/articles/2015/11/02/israeli-army-shoots-dead-palestinian-after-stabbing-attempt" target="_blank">Palestinian stabbed 3 people in Israel</a>, including an 80-year-old woman</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 3: Palestinian stabbed a 71-year-old man in Israel</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 4: Sulemain Shaheen rammed an Israeli border patrol officer in the West Bank</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 4: Suicide car bomb near the Police Officers Club in Egypt; Wilayah Sayna, affiliated with ISIL</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 5: <a href="http://www.channelnewsasia.com/news/world/suicide-bomber-kills-5-on/2241018.html" target="_blank"> Suicide bomber</a> attacked Qalamoun Clerics Association in Lebanon</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 6: <a href="http://www.jpost.com/Arab-Israeli-Conflict/Breaking-News-Two-Israelis-wounded-in-Hebron-shooting-attack-432266" target="_blank">Unknown sniper shot two Israelis</a> near Cave of the Patriarchs</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 6: <a href="http://www.haaretz.com/israel-news/1.684599" target="_blank">Baraa Issa</a> stabbed an Israeli in the West Bank; member of Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 6: Palestinian shot IDF soldier in the West Bank</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 7: <a href="http://www.ibtimes.com/isis-claims-responsibility-baghdad-suicide-bomb-islamic-state-targets-iraqi-shiite-2183451" target="_blank">Multiple bombs</a> set off across Baghdad, Iraq; ISIS suspected</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 9: <a href="https://bcnn1wp.wordpress.com/2015/11/08/6-people-wounded-in-car-attacks-and-stabbings-in-israel-on-sunday/" target="_blank">Sulemain Shaheen </a>rammed his vehicle into a hitchhiker station in the West Bank</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 9: <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/world/palestinian-woman-attacks-israeli-guard-knife-article-1.2427561" target="_blank">Palestinian woman</a> stabbed Israeli guard in the West Bank</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 9: Two Palestinians stabbed Israeli in a shop in the West Bank</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 9: <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/chad-declares-state-emergency-boko-haram-hit-region-195727693.html" target="_blank">Two suicide bombers</a> detonated in a village in Chad; Boko Haram suspected</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 9: <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/women-suicide-bombers-kill-3-cameroon-mosque-attack-203742265.html;_ylt=AwrTcccWJUpWmR8A3kwPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh1BGNvbG8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--" target="_blank">14-year-old suicide bomber </a>detonated at a mosque in Cameroon; Boko Haram suspected</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 12: <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/nov/12/beirut-bombings-kill-at-least-20-lebanon" target="_blank">Suicide bomber</a> detonated in <a href="http://edition.cnn.com/2015/11/16/middleeast/lebanon-adel-termos-beirut-hero/index.html?eref=edition" target="_blank">Lebanon</a>; when crowds gathered, a second detonated; ISIL</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 13: <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/2015/11/13/us-israel-palestinians-violence-idUSKCN0T21H620151113#223UZOYZm7fE28KU.97" target="_blank"> Gunmen ambushed & shot a family car</a> with 7 passengers in the West Bank</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 13: <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/iraq-officials-suicide-bombing-baghdad-kills-17-121729470.html;_ylt=AwrT6VmEKEpWV9EAcgsPxQt.;_ylu=X3oDMTByNWU4cGh1BGNvbG8DZ3ExBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--" target="_blank">Attacks targeting Shiites</a> in Baghdad, Iraq, including suicide bombing; ISIS</span></li>
<li><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">November 13: <a href="http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-34814203" target="_blank">Series of attacks in Paris</a>, France; ISIS</span></li>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is the official list from Wikipedia. I searched each terror attack in an attempt to verify these incidents. Some look like the dates are wrong. I've linked the articles I could find.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some of these might not seem like much. A shooting here; a stabbing there. What's important to remember about all of these is: The attackers had no personal issue with the individuals they attacked. All the victims were merely members of a hated group. Shiites. Israelis. Police.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hate is in the world, and it's real. Fighting amongst ourselves about which terror incident is worse, or who cares more about the tragedies, or whether or not we should do a French flag overlay on our profile pictures, does nothing but cause division. It separates us instead of uniting us.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mourn for the Paris victims. Mourn for those in Lebanon; for the Shiites in Baghdad; for the family attacked in their car; for those in Cameroon; for the villagers in Chad; for all those caught in conflict in the West Bank; for the police in Egypt; for the Israelis; for those in Somalia. When their stories are told, don't trivialize them by saying, "Yeah, but do you care what happened to this other group?" <i>All</i> these attacks are important. All are tragic. They should not have happened. It is not wrong to mourn one group at a time.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Let's stand united on this. Terror is real, and arguing will only further its cause.</span></div>
The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-18493630615956067462015-09-28T23:29:00.000-07:002015-09-29T09:35:10.706-07:00The Great Zucchini Race<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm <strike>three</strike> </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">four</span><span style="color: #4c1130;"> days late posting this, but I'm finally here to tell you about The Great Zucchini Race. Now, you might not have realized that zucchinis are capable of racing. They have no visible legs, and I've never yet seen one wriggle like a worm. However, an annual tradition at Rowan's school is, indeed zucchini racing. Rowan decorated a lovely zucchini.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All the kids were given their zucchinis on Monday. The race was held Friday, which meant we had four days to get this guy ready. Naturally, we put it off until Thursday evening. I am not an artistic person. Craft projects send me into panic overdrive. I kept hoping someone else would volunteer to help him with it, but when no one stepped forward, I knew I had to do my motherly duty.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nail polish! I thought. Surely nail polish would give it a nice, hard coating, while also making it smooth and streamlined! I thought maybe a few racing stripes. I wasn't factoring in Rowan, though. Rowan wanted a CAT wearing PANTS and a SHIRT. Yeah, if you can't tell that from the picture, you're not alone. I think it looks more like a pig. ("Rowan, if it's a cat, where's the tail?" Rowan, disdainfully: "It's a Manx.")</span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">FYI, if you ever decide to use nail polish to decorate a zucchini, here's a helpful tip or two I could have used: Buy 10 bottles of the same color. Pour them all into a container. Get a larger paint brush and dip in. I really, really wish we had done that, because OMG, it took forever to paint that thing with a little, tiny polish brush. Grandpa did the wheels, which were awesome.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Friday we sent him off to school with his zucchini in a box. Savanna, Henry, Grandma, and I went over in the afternoon to witness the event. Rowan's was first on the ramp. It went a decent distance, but was nowhere near the winner.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Actually, not all the zucchinis really raced. Only the ones in the Fastest and Furthest Distance categories got sent down the ramp. Other categories included Prettiest, Sparkliest, Tallest, and Heaviest. Here are some of the other contestants:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I bet you never imagined you could do so much with a simple garden vegetable! Anyway, it was a lot of fun, and everyone had a good time. (Apart from the kindergartner who broke down in tears when his zucchini failed, but he was soon comforted with Twizzlers.) So far Rowan's school has done an exceptional job of Making Learning Fun, and that is very encouraging. I hope it continues to be a pleasant experience for him!</span></div>
The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-81410161552526801652015-08-22T15:22:00.000-07:002015-08-22T15:22:36.725-07:00I'm Sending My Children To School (And I Don't Want To)<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My 6-year-old and my 3-year-old are headed to school this fall. This is a surprise to me, because I have been planning for their entire lives to school them at home. I have a variety of reasons, as do all parents who choose to homeschool. Firstly, they are both autistic, and it can be quite difficult to work with them. Secondly, they are <i>extremely </i>active, and not designed to sit still. Thirdly, no matter how wonderful their teachers would be, they would not receive the same level of care and attention that they get from me at home. No one knows them like I do, not even their dad. I know (usually) what sets them off, what calms them down, and how to deal with tricky situations. I am home with just them, so any emotional crisis can be given my full attention immediately. Teachers, while excellent, simply don't have that flexibility.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Henry, the 3-year-old, is mostly non-verbal. We started having him tested by the school district back in June. The testers recommended that we put him in a preschool to improve his verbal and social skills. We reluctantly agreed, and he's due to start in just a few weeks. I am terrified. Henry does not deal well with change, particularly changes where he won't see Mommy. I am waffling between sending him off to preschool against his will, or keeping him home and cuddling him.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As for Rowan, the 6-year-old, we've been leaning toward Connections Academy, an online free public school. Friends of ours have gone through it and said it's wonderful. This is the route we thought we would go until five days ago. But here's the thing--Rowan wants to actually <i>go to school</i>. A physical school building with physical classmates and a teacher.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A physical public school is out of the question. Rowan alternates between extreme childishness and extreme adult-like speech. He is extraordinarily sweet, but if he is handled wrong, he will go into an emotional shutdown. Public school would eat him alive. That left us with just private school as a physical option, and we were sure we couldn't afford private school.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Still, we arranged a meeting at a small local private school to weigh our options. We met with the administrator and the woman who would be his teacher, should he enroll. And--oh dear!--it sounded absolutely ideal. Rowan would be in a mixed first and second grade classroom. Only eight other students were enrolled for that classroom. Wednesdays are special activity days, with activities ranging from gardening to cooking. Rowan's potential teacher took him to her classroom for placement testing, since he did not attend kindergarten. She came back and said that in writing, spelling, and math he scored as a solid first grade. His reading is at a third grade level. He loves her and the school already.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So how could we say no? We believe this will be a thoroughly positive experience for Rowan. He mostly associates with adults. He needs and craves social interaction with other children, but in small groups. Large groups are terrifying for him. In every way we can imagine, this school sounds perfect.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We're having to make some lifestyle changes, of course. We've shut off our cable service. We've consolidated our cell phone plans. Even that might not be enough. With both Rowan and Henry gone, at least for the mornings, I might have to get a job. I'm sure we'll be feeling the pinch of tuition soon.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't want to send him. I don't want to send either of my boys to school. I have always planned to keep them home with me and teach them myself. I have been preparing for it for years. I don't know what I'll do without them here. I may yet keep Henry home, although I'll probably give him at least a week in the preschool to see how he adjusts. For Rowan, though, it's time for him to stretch his wings and try them out in a new environment. So far he's handling it better than I am.</span><br />
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The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-79886533697201788652015-08-09T23:45:00.000-07:002015-08-09T23:45:09.199-07:00Social? Antisocial? How about Selectively Social?<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A month or so ago, some truly wonderful family members decided to treat me to something special. They bought a ticket for me to a Ladies Night event, full of massages, nail treatments, and bonding with other women. They purchased this without consulting me, because of course you don't tell people when you're planning a surprise. They presented it to me--Wow! An evening of fun and pampering with lots of other women! And we've already paid for your ticket, so make sure you don't skip out!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Maybe that sounds like heaven to you. I fought the urge to run screaming and vomit in terror. Instead I pinned a smile to my lips as best I could and thanked them, albeit a bit stiffly. When I got the news that the event had been postponed, I nearly cried with relief.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Few things inspire more anxiety in me than hearing the words "group of people" and "must go" and "bonding time." Oh, I <i>like</i> people. I do. I like almost every person I meet. Forced socialization, however, is something I just can't handle. When I'm put into a social situation where I'm expected to mingle, I feel like a rowboat set adrift in the Pacific Ocean--no compass, no sense of direction, no guide, nothing to sustain me, and only a couple of piddly paddles to set me going one way or another. But when I don't even know which direction to head for, what's the point of paddling? I might as well lay back and let the sharks eat me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today I finally explained to one of the gifters that I really, truly do not want to go. She seemed baffled, and kept asking why. I did my best to explain: It won't be relaxing for me. It won't be fun. I will be stressed and anxious the whole time, and that's not a pleasant experience for me. I'm not sure she ever understood. I think she was offended that I rejected her gift. It got me thinking, though, about a few other similar situations.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Years ago a friend invited me to a house-warming party. I foolishly accepted a ride there instead of taking my own vehicle. My friend was immediately caught up in the crowds--yes, crowds!--of people, chatting happily and showing no signs of stopping. I spent the evening huddled in a corner, pretending to talk to another very uncomfortable girl. I caught sight of another person sitting alone in the office, a comfortable door between him and the crowds, and I envied him. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A few years later, some other family members bought me a gift certificate for a massage. A massage! How wonderful! How thoughtful! How delightful! I never called to make an appointment. I could never quite pinpoint why I didn't; there always was some reason why I couldn't do it just then. It was only today that I finally nailed it down: They paid a stranger to touch my naked back without my permission. Here, look! We paid an exorbitant amount to have you take off your clothes and let a strange person touch you!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That might sound like an extreme overreaction, and perhaps it is, but this is <i>my</i> body and I get to decide who touches it. I'm sure the masseuse would have been wonderful, but the fact remains that I didn't get to select her. I was not given the opportunity to decide if this was something I wanted or not. I am grateful, really, that my family gives me gifts they very obviously value so much. I just wish they had bought the massage for themselves and gotten me a CD instead.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So is it just that I'm an introvert? Am I antisocial, or a people-hater?</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">No. I am just <i>selectively</i> social. I really do like people. I can chat easily to other parents on the playground and random old ladies in the grocery store. I go to church and smile and greet people. I can do all that, but it exhausts me. It tires me beyond belief, and then I have to crash by myself for a long time to recover.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That might sound like introversion to you. Introverts get their energy from being alone, right? </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The thing is, I also get energy from being with people. Specific people in specific places, and in small groups. By "group" I mean no more than three or four people maximum. Except for when I'm with my immediate family, I am comfortable socializing in three places: my own home, the park, and a coffee shop. In my home, if I'm not involved in a conversation, I can busy myself with fixing tea and preparing snacks. I know the territory and can move where I need to so I don't feel awkward. At the park, I move around a lot to keep up with my children. This keeps me from sitting in an awkward silence. At a coffee shop I can busy myself with my cup. Not much conversation is expected there, anyway.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And yet, I love to be surrounded by people.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Yes, I <span style="color: #cc0000;">love to be surrounded by people. <span style="color: #0c343d;">Not all people, mind. A few of my friends; a few of my stepson's friends.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">I like the sound of conversation swirling around me as I sip my tea. I like hearing laughter and joking as I change a diaper. I like contributing a sentence or two as I pass cookies around. I like having them present, having them in the house, in the room, without feeling the need to entertain them.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">So what's the difference? The difference is that these are people with whom I am supremely comfortable. They know me. They know what to expect when they see my home. They don't have any crazy expectations of me. More importantly, I know what to expect of <i>them</i>. These are people who have woven themselves into my heart and made themselves family. They know my fridge and pantry; they know where the tea is stored. I have tested them with small fragments of my soul and they have not disappointed me. They belong here, in a way I could never describe with words. Having them around is simultaneously relaxing and energizing for me.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">So do I get energy from being alone? Yes. Do I get energy from being with people? Yes. Both of those can also weary me beyond belief. It just depends on the situation and the people involved.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: #0c343d;">If you're not yet one of my inner circle, I still want to see you. Yes, you. I really do like people. Just--one at a time, please? That will give me an opportunity to focus on just you and get to know you better, instead of feeling harried and pressured to chat up everyone at once. I might even bake cookies. </span> </span> </span></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-61244768572755843792015-08-03T00:17:00.002-07:002015-08-03T00:17:58.861-07:00Too Much Facebook?<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I read a post today entitled, "<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/samantha-rodman-phd/why-men-criticize-their-s_b_7817764.html" target="_blank">Why Men Criticize Their SAHM Wives</a>." I like the post a lot. It has some very good points. And although I have a wonderful, fabulous, amazing, supportive husband, I realized that I have been judging myself for some of these things. On some things I know I could definitely do better, but there is one point in particular where I wonder--over and over in my mind until I want to scream--if everyone else out there judges me for. They're probably not, but that doesn't stop me wondering.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Facebook.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh, Facebook. Nearly everyone I know has a love/hate relationship with it. It's a great way to stay in touch with family. It's full of mindless drivel. You can reconnect with old friends. Some old friends might be better left in the past. It's entertaining. It's a time-sucking vacuum.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When it comes to moms, Facebook is a deadly trap. There are so many fabulous pages and communities where we can find other moms and say, "At last! Someone who gets it!" That is a wonderful thing, of course, but there are other posts out there, too. Posts that say, "Put down your phone," and "Limit your child's screen time," and "You're spending too much time on Facebook." Ironically, these get posted on Facebook. I understand these posts, and I partially agree with them, but the end result is that I feel guilty any time I pick up my phone--even to take a picture of my children--or check my Facebook notifications. And I wonder if all my Facebook friends think I'm neglecting my children so I can just play all day.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So for the purposes of clarification, and also so that I can see it in print for myself, I'm going to explain. Yes, I probably spend more time on Facebook than I "ought" to or "need" to.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here's what you see: I start off the day by sharing a post at 6:30 a.m. That early, and already I'm Facebooking! At 1:50 p.m. I share another post. Maybe I even comment on a few things. At 2:43 p.m. I share another. Then another at 8:56 p.m. I imagine the commentary: <i>Is she on her phone all freakin' day? Doesn't she do any work? Her poor, neglected children. Her poor husband. It must be awful to be around someone so addicted to her phone.</i> No one has said this to me, of course, but the articles and blog posts I see on the subject seem to stab me personally. Maybe it's just that I always feel like I could do better.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here's what you don't see: Shortly before 6:30 a.m. I awakened to a small child lying on my hair. I very carefully extricated myself from the bed and headed for the bathroom. No one else was awake; this was <i>my</i> time. I checked my notifications and played a few games of Candy Crush. I left the bathroom and found that both of my children had woken up and were downstairs. I scrambled into my clothes as quickly as I could and ran down to make sure the front door and the back gate were closed and locked. It's been hot out, and we've taken to opening up the house in the morning.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The morning passed with minimal fuss--for once--and then it was time for church. You didn't see me there, telling my distraught 6-year-old that he couldn't take the stroller to church to play with. You didn't see us stop on the way so that I could explain once again that it is not okay to stand the very edge of the curb, because it make drivers nervous.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You didn't see that I had to stay in the children's church for the whole service with my 3-year-old clinging tight to me, wiping his nose on my shirt and snapping my bra straps repeatedly. <i>Snap. Snap. Snap.</i> You didn't see that I carried my 6-year-old all the way home from church, with him sobbing that he didn't have a chance to play the Xbox. You didn't see the way I forced myself to be gentle and speak calmly when he bit my shoulder in an attempt to muffle his sobs.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You didn't see how desperately I watched the playground while we ate lunch with another family, visually tracking my children so fiercely that I hardly noticed what I ate or who sat near me. You didn't see the way I ran to where my sweet, precious, autistic 3-year-old had blundered into a group of boys twice his size, who tried to talk to him and couldn't understand why he just ignored them.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> You didn't see the way I pushed the merry-go-round around and around and around while my 3-year-old balanced precariously on a rail, watching the patterns of dirt as he whirled by. You didn't see the teenage Down syndrome girl who sat by him. You didn't see how sweetly they smiled and babbled to each other, her mother looking relieved that we didn't run away.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You didn't see my panic when I realized that my 3-year-old, who had been playing in his room just five minutes before, was no longer there. Five minutes of taking a break with Facebook and posting something. Never mind that I was thoroughly exhausted from the day already; my mommy guilt said that I should have spent every waking moment glued to my child's side. Mommies don't need or deserve breaks. Facebook made me lose my child. You didn't see my overwhelming relief when my husband found him playing in Grandpa's camper.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There are so many more things you didn't see, and don't see, and that I really don't see either, even though I'm living them. I see the sparkle in my son's eyes when I sit down to play trains with him, and instead of feeling happiness at his delight, I feel guilty that I haven't been playing with him all morning. I fold a basket of laundry, and instead of feeling accomplished, I chide myself for not doing it earlier.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So do I spend too much time on Facebook? Yes, I suppose that could be argued. I could read a book when I take a break. Better yet, I could just work without pause, without taking any breaks. Here's the thing, though: If I am allowed pauses in my day, why not Facebook? Why is it any worse than anything else I could be doing? With it, I can share fun stories with my family. I can connect with other people who are just like me. I am the administrator of a support group to strengthen and encourage people.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Like anything else, Facebook is a tool. It can be used wrongly, but when used in a good manner it can strengthen, support, and build up. It is a vehicle in which we travel to community. When I can't get out to see people in real life, I can turn to my online friends and they say, "I understand. I've been there. You can do this."</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Perhaps the judgment I should be worried about is my own.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">What do you think? Is Facebook a hindrance or a blessing in your life? </span></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-80734250877086430202015-07-12T02:33:00.001-07:002015-07-12T02:33:48.527-07:00Enough<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This evening I had to leave my house shortly after dinner, and I did not return for a few hours. When I came home, Matthew had done a load of dishes, changed the laundry, and put the children in bed. This might sound like an ideal situation to you, but to me it just felt like yet another confirmation that I am a lousy mother and wife.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I am not a natural multi-tasker. Something I have said frequently to Matthew is, "I can do housework OR I can take care of the children. I can't do both." Truthfully, I do a bit of both, but I can't do them at the same time. I simply can't.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Multiple sclerosis complicates things. Remember that it's Matthew who has it, not me. This is something I have to keep in mind every moment of every day, because it affects every moment, both physically and emotionally. What does this mean? It means that in everything Matthew does--watering the garden, doing laundry, doing dishes, taking kids to the park--he is in horrible pain. He takes three painkillers multiple times every day, just to bring the pain down to a level where he can walk and function. Even then he still hurts with every step, and fatigue hits him like a freight train after thirty minutes to an hour.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So apart from the obvious, what does this mean for me? It means that every task I do counts for less in my mind, and every break is less excusable. I load the dishwasher? That's part of my expected duties; nothing special. Matthew loads it? I know that every moment on his feet was filled with pain and exhaustion, and my gratitude to him is through the roof. At the same time, I then feel completely inadequate, because if I were doing my duty, Matthew wouldn't have to lift a finger. (FYI that's in my head, not his. I think.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Every tiny little thing I do feels like <i>not enough</i>. If I were <i>really</i> dutiful, the house would be spotless and sparkling every moment of every day, and I would have the kids in the park for at least four hours every day. If I sit down to take a break while Matthew is working, I feel like a dreadful person, because I know he's much more exhausted than I am. If I take a break while he's taking a break, I <i>still</i> feel dreadful, because he's collapsing because he has to. I just want to sit down and not work for a moment. If Matthew sits down and plays a game, it's because he can no longer stand. If I sit down and play a game, I'm a lazy, slothful person who's neglecting her work. That's what it feels like, anyway.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Back to multi-tasking. One of the biggest things for me is that my children L-O-V-E physical attention. It often feels like they need to be attached to my person every moment of the day. Henry in particular was very clingy today. I sat with him and watched a 50-minute episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, twice in a row. During that time, Matthew walked through carrying a laundry basket. My immediate reaction was guilt--I should have been up doing that, instead of lounging on the couch with my baby! And yet, don't my children need my attention, too? Where do I find the balance between giving attention to my children (very necessary) and giving appropriate attention to household duties (also very necessary)? And where do I fit in time for my husband, and time for myself? Do such things exist?</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> I haven't found the answer yet. If I ever do, I'll be sure to let you know. In the meantime, I'll go on doing the best I can, because here's the thing: <i>I am enough</i>. God put me here, and when I am not sufficient, I can draw on His sufficiency. Together we are <b>enough</b>. I just need to remind myself of this every hour.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #274e13;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">An extra load of laundry probably wouldn't hurt, too. </span></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-21875198630280669642015-07-05T01:27:00.000-07:002015-07-05T01:27:15.111-07:00Hospital Fun<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To celebrate his 71st birthday, my dad went to an exclusive getaway where he was waited on hand and foot, getting not only breakfast in bed, but lunch, dinner, and snacks as well. It's called the hospital.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Well, technically he went in on Thursday. For a week he'd been having terrible pain from his hip to his foot, and he was having a lot of trouble walking--when he could walk at all. My sister spent a lot of time Thursday trying to persuade him to go, but neither he nor my mom wanted to face the looooooong emergency room times. Also, his leg was hurting so bad that he couldn't ride in a car for more than five minutes at a time without having to stop and stretch his legs out. So--they called an ambulance.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The doctors initially were looking for a potential fracture or blood clot, but after numerous tests, those were ruled out. They haven't found an official cause yet, but it's suspected that there's a nerve problem.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today I got to go in and spend all day there with my dad and one of my sisters. We've been trying to keep one of us there at all times so we can better advocate for my dad to the doctors. The physical therapist and occupational therapist this morning said that in their opinion, Dad is not safe to come home at this time. They want him to go into a skilled nursing facility. Since we couldn't reach a care facility, due to the holiday weekend. The therapists then suggested that he stay at the hospital at least until Monday.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This evening Rowan and I went to go see the fireworks show at the park. He had an absolute blast!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I would write more, but I keep falling asleep over my keyboard. I can't write more tonight, and that's a fact. See you all later! </span></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-79577078919635060302015-07-01T00:53:00.002-07:002015-07-01T00:54:26.049-07:00Why I Am Neither For Nor Against Legalized Same-Sex Marriage<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On Friday, the Supreme Court's decision regarding same-sex marriage sent my Facebook newsfeed into overdrive. I saw a lot of extremely polarized views, mostly either, "OMG this is the best thing ever!!!! #lovewins," or else, "OMG this country is on a downward spiral now!!!! #fallennation." I don't agree with either of those views, but don't mistake me for being neutral, because I'm not. I did see a few "neutral" posts that basically said, "I don't agree with it, but as long as it doesn't affect me, what do I care?" That's not my viewpoint, either.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Brace yourselves. I might be making every group angry.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I firmly believe that homosexuality is wrong. I also believe that sex between a man and a woman, outside of the context of marriage, is wrong. I believe that greed, indifference, lust, and covetousness are wrong. I hold these beliefs because I am Christian, and I believe God's Word.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The thing is, God didn't put me here to legislate my beliefs onto others. Yes, I believe what God said to be true, but nowhere did He say that I should enforce His Laws onto the country where I reside. Or, to quote 1 Timothy 4:16, "Take heed <b>to yourself</b> and to the doctrine [emphasis added]." Take heed <i>to myself</i>--pay attention to the way that <i>I</i> am living my life; to <i>my</i> standing with God; to how <i>my</i> life lines up with the Bible. That doesn't mean I shouldn't care about my neighbors. We need to pray, always pray. But prayer is not the same as forcing someone to live in what you perceive is the correct manner.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This country where God has placed me was founded on the principle of personal liberty--that is, the liberty for each individual to live his or her life in the manner that he or she chooses, so long as it does not harm anyone else. That means I have the right to seek employment where I choose, vacation where I choose, and marry whom I choose. My neighbors also have those rights, even when I disagree personally with their choices. And really, if you believe in God-given free will, you must recognize that <i>God allows us to choose.</i> He allows us to choose wrongly. He allows us to make mistakes. He allows us to do things that will hurt us, because He loves us so much that He wants us to <i>freely choose Him</i>. There wouldn't be the same joy in us choosing to follow God, if we were forced to do so.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">At the same time, I believe that officially recognizing same-sex marriage is a mistake, because when "love" is the only listed requirement, that opens the door to all different kinds of love. Incest? Sure. Pedophilia? No problem. After all, why shouldn't two brothers be allowed to marry? It's not like we'd have to worry about their genetics when it comes to children. And with so much push to allow young girls access to birth control without parental consent, isn't that basically saying that they already know their sexuality better than their parents? So why shouldn't a 10-year-old girl marry a 35-year-old man? Studies have already been done to determine if <a href="http://www.medicaldaily.com/science-pedophilia-it-sexual-orientation-242403" target="_blank">pedophilia is really just another sexual orientation</a>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The problem we have here is having the government involved in marriage at all. It wasn't always, you know. For many years marriage was a social institution, recognized by priests and villages but not regulated by the state. The state has its claws in now, and it won't retract them easily. Being in charge of marriage--something most adults crave--<a href="http://www.alimonyreform.org/content/articles/How%20Did%20Government%20Get%20Involved%20in%20Marriage.pdf" target="_blank">gives the state too much power</a>. If government were to remove itself from marriage, including all tax benefits, etc., marriages could once again be performed by priests, rabbis, shamans, or what-have-you, without needless coercive redefining. Those who want to marry someone of the same gender can easily, in this day and age, find someone to perform that ceremony. Those who want male-female only relationships can find places that line up with their beliefs. And when government is removed from defining marriage, it can better protect children, which <i>is</i> one of its intended functions. Of course children should not be allowed to marry, but when "love" is officially recognized as all that's needed to marry, that line can become blurred.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The point in all of this is <i>personal liberty</i>. God gives us liberty. Our Constitution is supposed to affirm that liberty. It is not just to force an entire nation to abide by your personal beliefs, whether they be heterosexual-only marriages or love-makes-a-marriage marriages. <b>Get government out of marriage<i>. </i></b>It should never have been in it to begin with.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So yes, I believe same-sex marriage is wrong, but not any more so than homosexuality itself, or sexual relationships outside of marriage. The Church, however, is not the State, nor should it be. They each have their separate functions. <a href="http://careynieuwhof.com/2015/06/some-advice-on-same-sex-marriage-for-us-church-leaders-from-a-canadian/" target="_blank">Carey Nieuwhof wrote an excellent piece about this.</a> </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Live your life. Live it the best way you know how. Don't force others to fall in line with what you believe, whatever side of the issue you're on. Be kind, be generous, be thoughtful. Be the kind of person you want to meet. You're much less likely to be frustrated with others' perceived idiocy that way. And for heaven's sake, if someone around you is loudly spouting a different viewpoint, don't engage in an argument. Maybe you could offer coffee, and a chance to discuss differences in a civil manner.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Another good read: <a href="http://blog.ganderson.us/2011/05/why-christians-should-oppose-a-government-definition-of-marriage/" target="_blank">Why Christians Should Oppose a Government Definition of Marriage</a> </span></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-968165383155889972.post-23761168583226417282015-06-24T21:14:00.003-07:002015-06-24T21:14:39.239-07:0032<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today is my birthday.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My <i>birthday</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I don't usually do a lot to celebrate, because it's my stepson's birthday also, and because as the years pass, I really don't feel the need for a huge celebration. A bit of peace and quiet is what I like the most.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This year, though, I was kept busy all day. By 9:00 a.m. my sister and I, along with Rowan and my sister's two children, were busy taste-testing cake, frosting, and fillings. Okay, it was for a cake for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary, which will be celebrated this weekend, but I see no better way to start off my birthday than with tasting frosting! I hadn't even had breakfast yet!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">...Which leads to, after the taste-testing, we dropped off Rowan and my sister's eldest at my parents' house, and she took me out for brunch. I can highly recommend Oregon Crepes in the Pringle Plaza!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> I came home and a good friend, Neil, had stopped by to visit. He brought me a lovely card and two boxes of Earl Grey tea. Hurray! Unfortunately I was very, <i>very</i> tired by this point, so I went up for a birthday nap while Matthew and Neil chatted. Birthdays are exhausting!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I woke up when my lovely friend Julie showed up to babysit my kids, while Matthew and I escaped to Dairy Queen (paid for with birthday cash from Carol). It's so nice to get out with him without children! And then Julie bought delectable margherita pizza for dinner. <3</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And to top it all off, Wednesdays are VariTechnical Artistry days (VTA for short), which is what we've renamed our writer's group. VTA days are my favorite days! How wonderful and fitting that my birthday should land on a VTA day! So Savanna, Richie, and Fletcher came over to join us. Savanna brought me an absolutely gorgeous copy of Peter Pan. I am so excited to read it with Rowan! And I got to see artwork from Richie, and I had time to write, and Henry is asleep now, and Matthew is taking care of Rowan, and even though three people have gone home now, Savanna and I are still sitting and writing.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkGIWw1IbiQokHRg2iu15Z0rKvLwDqLiSwGA0yCsfzoReYktRkyycnGosC6b7Z1Gxy_ILF63TJLiL1Zm6AcKUEeI-4gW-9BlZQJBBqLDS6l9bVVQhPyIAZC8cSBLx2euYtD2rbVY7ehpw/s1600/Book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkGIWw1IbiQokHRg2iu15Z0rKvLwDqLiSwGA0yCsfzoReYktRkyycnGosC6b7Z1Gxy_ILF63TJLiL1Zm6AcKUEeI-4gW-9BlZQJBBqLDS6l9bVVQhPyIAZC8cSBLx2euYtD2rbVY7ehpw/s320/Book.jpg" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVR-JtEichXJ53xDgnzM509osU2hLaFqaaJ35kvWD1SRS2cJQXxvoO7A58bwz5dnrAwWgXL6LKxiPiHbZbFmECpZK6CGsZ4FaE2cVdQXUvivWHapei1UzKPzTm-RI83H-LLEAxfT_JfQ_R/s1600/Savanna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVR-JtEichXJ53xDgnzM509osU2hLaFqaaJ35kvWD1SRS2cJQXxvoO7A58bwz5dnrAwWgXL6LKxiPiHbZbFmECpZK6CGsZ4FaE2cVdQXUvivWHapei1UzKPzTm-RI83H-LLEAxfT_JfQ_R/s400/Savanna.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">All in all, this has been one of the best birthdays ever. I loved every minute. And now I'm off to read Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator with Rowan, which is even better. I am so very blessed! Thank you all for giving me such a wonderful, fabulous, splendiferous, absolutely magnificent day! I love you all!</span></span>The Mothering Dazehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430099464738862871noreply@blogger.com0