All This Before Ten AM

I had originally wanted to show you some pictures from my garden, but life nudged me in a different direction. Don't get me wrong---I'll still show you the pictures---but I'll attach meaning to it. I'll force out the metaphor like a washerwoman pounding worn dungarees with a rock.

I can't promise that it will be a successful metaphor, but I hope you'll stay with me.

This morning, I drove to the local middle school. I've been doing some editing work for one of the administrators, and planned to pop in and pop out to get a paycheck. I felt good on the drive down--sunny, hopeful. Paul and I had talked last night after a difficult conversation the evening prior, and I felt like we had made headway.

Marriage with young children is tough. It's easy to give everything away, and leave nothing for each other. We came up with all sorts of solutions, but we're trying this strategy: I will stop doing non-essential chores if they make me resentful. For example, if I don't feel like doing the dishes or picking up Paul's dirty clothes, then I won't. He will either do it himself, or I will do it at a time that it no longer makes me resentful.

It's not passive-aggressive, because we agreed on this strategy together. I've just started it, but I already feel a bit empowered.

But, oh, the fighting and the discussing is challenging. I spent yesterday emotionally spent, writing and deleting blog posts that were full of the drama and the darkness. It is work to figure out how you're feeling. It is work to push up from the darkness and bring issues to light. It is so much easier to stay underground. And yet, Paul and I made the decision to push, and to seek the sunshine.

This was on my mind as I drove to that middle school. I unloaded the boys and stepped into the office. While we were waiting to get the envelope, Joel bumped his head on something and started crying.

I rushed him out of the office, but not in time. There was another boy in the room, probably an eighth grader. Big kid. He was getting visibly agitated by the noise, started screaming,  and the next thing I know, he had shoved me, twice, and hit Joel in the face before an incredibly quick and compassionate secretary restrained the boy.

Joel was wailing. Owen was terrified. I was shaking. I was quickly whisked into another room, where we all settled down. The principal was apologizing, as she explained that the boy, who had severe Autism, was triggered by noise.

I understood. This was no thug. This was a terrified young man, already in the office for whatever reason, now faced with too much noise, too much overload, just too much. They were not excusing him-as they were attending to the boys and I, the young man was talking with the vice principal---nor were they dismissing the fact that my boys and I were physically attacked.

Somebody hit this face? 

I'll admit that the thought passed through my mind--Why was that kid unsupervised? Who allowed him there? 

The mama-bear inside me wanted to rip his face off. 

Of course, I don't know this kid. I don't know his history, or what makes him happy. 

I don't know anything except that somebody loves him.

Somebody rocked that baby to sleep.

Somebody is going to get a phone call today saying that her son attacked a crying baby, and that mother is going to despair, and hope, and pray for answers. She will cry for her son. 

And while I am sad for my sons, and scared, and furious, I am also crying for her son. Hoping for him. Sending love his way. Praying that he gets the support he needs so he can flourish, and grow. 

A Most Appalling Metaphor

Owen woke up this morning and said that his tummy hurt. Despite this, he still had the energy to put his brother in a headlock and demand cold spaghetti for breakfast. I wasn't terribly concerned.

Sure enough, following a truly impressive moment at the public (naturally) restroom, he was fine. His tummy just needed some time to work itself out.

Naturally, I found a metaphor in all this. Appalling, but they say, "write what you know!"

It's easy for me to get caught up in worry. Joel isn't talking the way I would like him to. He has a few words, but prefers to grunt, point, whine, and, in a most annoying development, lose his shit to convey his desires.

For example, instead of saying, "Oh, Mother dear, I would greatly appreciate a glass of apple juice," my second-born prefers to open the refrigerator door and remove items, all the while screaming, "DIS! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!"

We are supposed to read his mind to determine which "this" he wants. It could be anything from a slice of cheese to a strawberry to a shot of Jack straight-up.

Wait, maybe that's me.

At night and in the morning, I let the worry clutter up my insides, creating my own paranoid tummyache. I wonder if he is speech delayed, if he has autism or a sensory processing disorder. I wonder if those first eight months without ear tubes kept him from hearing us. Maybe we should have pushed the baby sign. 

I know enough occupational and/or speech therapists to know that we're supposed to let him get upset, and force him to use his words. We're not supposed to let him off the hook. We're supposed to label everything and read to him.

Well, at least we read to him. There is that. I'll admit it: my sense of peace compels me to avoid tantrums and frustration-induced meltdowns. I've got two needy kids, and sometimes it is so much easier to give the kid DIIIIIIIIIS instead of making him say it for himself.

I'm walking around with all this in my stomach, and I know that he isn't even two yet, and he's a boy and that Owen wasn't really talking at this point, either. It'll come. I need to relax. All I really need to do is sit down somewhere, and let all the feelings come out.

Internet, consider yourself  my psychic public restroom. You're welcome.

And if the language doesn't come, there are good people and good programs that will guide us along. I'm sure the speech language pathologists of the world LOVE being compared to prune juice. Elle, Tracie, again, you're welcome.

Perhaps the first step in all this would involve two words: Just relax.

Or, better yet: Unclench.

Small Indignities and Owen's View on Politics.

"Owen, what happened out there?" I asked, after giving him some time to cool down.

"I got angry with you because I don't want to go inside," he replied, not looking me in the eye, fiddling with the button on my cardigan.

I paused and considered my response, "Do you get angry when your teacher tells you it's time to go inside?"

"No," he responded, as if I had asked him if he had shoes growing out of his ears, "I just go inside!"

"Ah," I said, "So why do you listen to Miss Dot but you don't listen to your mother?"

He smiled, "Oh! That's because I like Miss Dot better than you."

***
Joel's language is slowly developing. He'll say a handful of words, although his favorites include: "cracker," "dog," "chicken," and "Dada." He understands everything we say perfectly.

Yet, when I say, "Joely, say 'Mama'" he shakes his head so violently that I fear it will fall off.

He refuses to say my name. And, then, he laughs in my face. Little bugger.

These small indignities pass, and I need to recognize that my children are so comfortable with me that they can revel in my love even in the midst of their jackassery. They know that they are cherished more than the stars and the sea. They know.

***

Yesterday, Owen asked, "Is my president George Washington?"

"No, honey," I replied.

He sat for a moment and asked, "Is my president Barack Obama?"

"That's right, sweetie," I replied.

He thought for another beat, then said, "He's always with me, all the time."

I laughed. "No, honey. I think you're getting him mixed up with Jesus."

"Oh," he said. "Jesus stands in trees and goes pee-pee."

"Right," I said. "Obama goes pee-pee in the potty."

"Thanks, Mommy." He said, "Now I understand."

Perhaps this moment alone is worth the small indignities.

Unlocking Gifts

I just re-started my computer after it was doing a strange typing language all of its own. Letters were added or dropped or capitalized so a word would look like: mdasfpafhjtjklath when I meant to write "muffin."

I called Paul at work, a maelstrom raging in my chest, and the phone kept hanging up on me.

At this point, I felt like a character in that terrible movie Maximum Overdrive. In this film, the machines rise up against the hapless humans. It also features an all AC/DC soundtrack. My brother, naturally, loved this film almost as much as he loved Dune and Big Trouble in Little China.

Did I have a point? Ah yes. Me get frustrated quickly. Like caveman.

It made me think about the ways that we are all smart. Howard Gardner, the Multiple Intelligence Guru, talks about not if we are smart, but how we are smart. It makes so much sense to me. I am not a logical, detail-oriented person, so at the first sign of computer issues, I freaked out and called Paul, who calmly said, "Why don't you restart it?"

Oh. Right. Paul is so logical, so patient, and so detail-oriented, which makes him a perfect counterpoint to my big-idea, impulsive, dreamy perspective.

I'll tell Paul, "I would like to go camping this summer." While I am daydreaming about mountain landscapes and fresh, icy-blue lakes,  Paul is doing a cost-analysis of the best tents, referencing Consumer Reports and the comments on Amazon.com.

People would suggest that Paul's type of smart is more functional in the world---and yes, that very well may be true---but my kind of smart makes it a world worth living.

Gardner talks about spatial intelligence, which makes me think of my father-in-law, a man who hated school from the first moment and doesn't want me to see his writing. His deeply-instilled fear of evil English teachers and their Red Pens of Doom is no joke. He was taught from a very young age that he was "not smart."

This same man can fix any engine. He can unlock the systems of a motor and instantly understand the intricate dance of the gears. He fashions quick fixes out of wires and gum, and can competently do any mechanical task. I am humbled by his intelligence.

It's early, and I don't want to label my children, but I can tell that both boys learn best by doing. Owen is very logical, and he likes the cause and effect of experimentation. He is visual, and I suspect will do very well in traditional school.

Joel? Yes, he is not even two, but I already suspect that he will require some creative teachers to tap his skills. I don't think he's a verbal kid, in regards to sitting and listening. His learning will be messy, interactive, and relevant.

As a educator, I will have to allow my children to own their education. They need to learn that they are smart, and being smart means finding methods of learning that suit their needs.

Yes, there will be teachers that try to stuff them in boxes, toe the line, and check off the boxes. Part of being smart is learning how to deal with that.

But, at home, as they do their homework, study for tests, and make meaning of the world, it will be their challenge (and mine), to channel their natural intelligences, and let the world unfold like a daffodil.


What do you think? How do your children use their gifts? How do you encourage them? What are your (and their) struggles?

Indulge Me Once Again

Family shots taken by our talented friend Trudy.

I Have No Idea About The Color of My Parachute.

Joel fell out of bed last night. His bed is a mattress on the floor, so there was no damage done that a kiss and a re-tuck couldn't remedy. He was back to sleep in less than a minute. 

I wish I could say the same. I was awake in bed, listening to my mind sing its evil little song  from 2:30 to 5:30 AM. It's like getting a super-annoying song in your head, like "Who Let the Dogs Out?" or "Smooth Criminal."

By the way, I know I just did that to you. You're welcome.

When I can't sleep, I hear a nonstop, extended slow-jam of the timeless ditty, "Someday you're going to have to go back to work."Usually, this song is sung by the Chipmunks, because that adds to the madness. Just once, I wish my bedtime neurosis would be sung by John Lennon. 

The plan has always been that we will get by--somehow---until both boys are in school. Then, I'll go back to full-time employment. The most logical way to go would be to return to teaching. I would make decent money, be on the same schedules as the boys, and I'm good at it.

Yet, the thought of it, at least at the wee hours of the morning, fills me with dread. I'm tired of it. I don't want to grade stacks of essays in the evenings. I don't want to ever teach anybody about a thesis statement EVER, EVER, EVER again. I don't want to listen to a principal drone on about meeting Annual Yearly Progress in all targeted sub-groups. I just don't.

I ran through some ideas in those early hours:

1) Have another child, to prolong the inevitable. This is a terrible idea on so many levels. We have no room. I don't like babies. Paul doesn't want another baby, either.

2) Homeschool. It's fine for many. However, to steal my own comment from Tracie's blog: "Some people create learning communities with their children. If I was to homeschool, it would be something out of Apocalypse Now." The horror. The horror.

3) Try to get a job as a technical writer for the federal government. Could I? Could I seriously sit in an office all day writing memos for the Department of Agriculture?

4) Write the Great American Novel. Ah, yes, but that would involve not being lazy. 

5) Sell Mary Kay/Tupperware/Pampered Chef/Creative Memories/Sex Toys/Jewelery.... I can't. I don't have that saleswoman instinct. Bless your heart if you can, because those woman are  business moguls. Seriously.

As you can see, I found no magical answers despite my fretting. Yet, things look less dire in the morning light. After all, it is four years away. Things will be different. The boys will be different. These things always work themselves out.

Besides, in a world where beautiful things like this grow from simple brown seeds....

 ...I simply choose to believe that there is a plan for my life, and it will bloom in a surprising, delightful way.

Sundays in My City: Foundational Undergarments

When I first moved to my rural county, one of the first questions out of my mouth was, "Where is the mall?"

It's not so much that I was a slave to fashion, it's just that I had grown up in suburbia, where there are malls, and there are movie theaters with stadium seating, and there are chain restaurants. That's just the way I've always known things to be. The sun will rise, the winds will blow, babies will be born, people will pass away, and there will be large shopping malls.

So, you can imagine my surprise when people said, "The closest mall is in Annapolis, which is about an hour and a half drive away."

I felt like I had moved to a lunar outpost.

Seven years later, I can say that I've managed to do just fine. I can find most of what I need online or in  regular stores. If I do go to the mall, it's maybe once a year. And, since living in the country has made me less patient with crowds, trafffic, and general tomfoolery, once a year is plenty.

Nevertheless, I went to the mall yesterday with a good friend, because we both needed some time away. I bought a few items, and we had lunch. It was all quite fantastic.

However, I must share my thoughts about bras. I went to Victoria's Secret specifically because they have the magic bra with the straps that move around. I wanted to wear tank tops and halter tops and other such things. Sadly, though, my days of letting the girls fly free are behind me. So, I was off to purchase the magic seven-way bra. Onward!

I went in and got measured. I must say that Oprah failed me. She had a show a few years back talking about how most women wear ill-fitting bras that add pounds or discomfort or other terrible things. My hero Tim Gunn has also opined about the necessity of foundational undergarments. I was sold, and prepared to let a stranger measure my chest.

Alas, on Oprah and Tim Gunn's shows, the women profiled were told that their cup sizes were too small. They were told that they had been constricting their bosoms. Let the girls loose! Give 'em breathing room!

No such luck for me.

They measured me and gave me tiny bras that could probably support a Cabbage Patch Doll. I asked, tentatively, hopefully, "Do you think I need a larger bra?"

The salesgirl shook her head quickly, "Oh, no. Definitely not. Not even close."

I didn't ask anymore questions because I was afraid the ladies would re-direct me to Gymboree for My First Foundational Undergarment.

***
I didn't take any pictures for Sundays in My City in the mall, because I think you've all seen a mall. Also, I would guess that brandishing my camera phone in Victoria's Secret could very well be misconstrued.

Therefore, here are some completely unrelated shots of the kids at the beach:

Thanks to Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City! Come visit her to see how you can share your city each Sunday.