Tag Archives: Parenting

When Confronted With Parenting Questions, What Do You Do?

Someone asked me recently a question about teaching personal hygiene to their nonverbal child.  This was a question about shaving, in this case legs, but it could have been about underarms and certainly could apply to young men’s facial hair as well.  It got me thinking about  how I doubt my gut instincts or at least question them or perhaps even ignore them when it comes to my Autistic daughter and why that is.  This post is not well thought out, I’m just going to say that right from the beginning.  I’m mulling this over and would love other’s feedback.  Think of this post as a doodle pad and feel free to add your own doodles.

I’ve noticed that when confronted with a question about how to move forward with either of my children I use a couple of different methods to figure out what to do.  First I speak with Richard, then in Nic’s case, I’ll speak with him and ask a lot of questions, then I usually will speak with Richard again, sometimes he will have gone to Nic and the two of them will have talked about whatever it is too.  We will then discuss, often getting sidetracked with our own histories, there will be lots of comparing notes and then if both of us are still unsure as to how best to proceed we will ask friends, look for literature on the subject, go to the internet, seek professional help, call my mother.   (This last is said in jest, sort of, except that sometimes it’s been true.)  The point is there are a number of steps we typically take and so far this approach has worked out pretty well.

But what about when your kid’s language is limited or nonexistent, what then?  This is where the part of my brain that is firmly rooted in neurotypical thinking gets into a rut, like a record that keeps skipping until you pick the needle up and physically place it elsewhere.  I want to change my thinking when it comes to parenting my daughter.  I don’t like that I don’t automatically go to her and try to find other ways to communicate with her.  I want to make a concerted effort to do things differently, because here’s the thing, Emma has shown me countless times that she can and does have an opinion on any number of topics.  I may not have the kind of conversation I can expect to have with my son, it may take more planning, it may not be as “easy” but it is possible.  I have to train myself.   I have to teach myself and here’s the big revelation – often it takes me a while to learn, but I can and DO learn if I’m patient with myself and give myself the time and encouragement I need.

A couple of months ago I asked Ib (totally and unabashedly giving her new blog, Tiny Grace Notes AKA Ask An Autistic,  a plug here because it’s a much-needed and awesome resource, she’s brilliant and I love her, I love you too, Richard, but in a more, you know, marriage-y kind of way :D) anyway, I wanted Ib’s help in trying to interpret some of Em’s scripts.  Ib and I brainstormed, but what became clear was that I was looking for a key to unlock her language as I understood it and what Ib kept (patiently) trying to explain to me was that I would never be able to achieve a word for word translation.  At one point Ib said, “Do  you speak another language?”  And I said, “No.  I barely speak English, but if you think learning Russian will help me, I’ll learn it.”  Ib (I imagined her taking a long, deep, breath) said, and I’m paraphrasing now, No you don’t need to learn Russian, but you need to try to feel what the emotion is in what she’s saying.

At the time, I was completely freaked out, couldn’t understand what she was talking about, but then after a few more conversations, and thankfully Ib didn’t give up on me, I began to understand, I think, what she meant.  My literal mind wants a word for word translation, but that doesn’t work.  So I’m learning to train myself to ‘hear’ her words differently, which brings me back to the first paragraph regarding questions about parenting and teaching and puberty and everything else.  I admit, I’m fumbling my way along here.  I don’t have any concrete answers, but I do know that listening is a huge piece in all these questions.  Listening to my children, listening to their sensory needs, but also listening to my own instincts.

Questions about puberty, hygiene, shaving and other such matters, I will continue to seek advice, particularly from my Autistic friends, while also taking into account my specific child first and foremost.  If it’s a question that is ‘optional’ such as leg shaving, how does my child feel, is it important to them, do they care, are they interested?  On issues like teeth brushing, where negligence will result in cavities and larger problems, I don’t think twice.  I started teaching both my children how to floss and brush their teeth when they were toddlers.  Both kids need to be reminded, but I don’t grapple with whether I’m doing the right thing, I know I am, I know how important it is.  But some of this other stuff, I begin to second guess myself.

Em and I have a routine at night.  When it’s bedtime she’ll say to me, “Mommy come.”  So I will go into her room with her where she lies down and then pats the bed so that I will lie down next to her.  In the past she’s said, “Mommy read story.”  And I have.  But for the last few weeks she hasn’t said that, but instead has talked.  At first it sounded like scripting, but when I listened to her I realized she was talking about people and school, the bus, sleepovers, listing people she misses or things she wants to do, just the way my son used to do when he still wanted me to lie next to him at night.  So I started asking her, “Hey Em, would you like me to read to you or do you want to talk first?”  Every single night Emma responds, “Talk first, then read.”

And honestly.  How awesome and amazing is that?

“Talk first, then read.”

Em, Nic and Friend

Parental Bullying and Autism

I have kept the specific blog, post and commenter who I refer to in this piece anonymous because my point is not about any particular person, but about a larger issue.  But first, a little background…   I was alerted to some negative comments left on a friend’s blog.  She had written a post about learning to accept her Autistic child.  It was a beautifully written, honest and loving post detailing what things had helped her find her way to acceptance and how that journey had changed her and her relationship to her child.  The path she describes was similar to my own, except mine took much longer and was more circuitous, but I could completely relate to her process.  It was my journey, only on speed.

I went to the blog to read the comments and read this:  “”You accepted autism, I fought it.”  I stopped breathing.  I felt as though someone had taken a 2 X 4 and rammed me in the solar plexus.  I became aware of the fluttering in my stomach with the simultaneous sensation of dizziness in my head, starting just behind my eyes and then a prickly feeling at the back of my skull.  I could feel my heart pounding.  I swallowed.  I read on.  The words are no longer important.  She  related how she had “recovered” her child as though it were scientific fact and then said that her thinking would one day be common knowledge and any other view would be considered “archaic.”

I had to stop reading.  I stood up.  I left the room, walked around, drank some water and came back.  I could feel tears welling up.  I swallowed again.  I was aware that my hands trembled as I read “Seems to me a thinking person would keep an open mind and once you accept autism…there is no more thinking that occurs…just the acceptance.”  I couldn’t work out what that meant as there was no logic that I could get a firm handle on, but the feeling those words evoked was one of failure and shame.  I had to make a conscious effort to take a deep breath.  I felt the sting of her words, like a knife cutting me open.  I sat there and read the other comments and another from her, reiterating her stance, her position.  Her story, no longer a personal tale, but one given forth as though evidence in a court of law.  And her love shining through it all, triumphant, jeering, condemning.  Her actions and the outcome of her actions worn like a medal of honor, the purple heart of parenting, pinned to her chest, evidence of her supremacy.

I could no longer hold back my tears.  My tears, physical expressions of my inadequacies.  As I cried, as the tears ran down my cheeks, dripping off my chin on to my shirt, I closed my eyes and felt all those feelings of pain, of sadness, of shame that had nothing to do with autism, but are feelings I carry around, despite how hard I try to get beyond them, feelings I have had my entire adult life, long before I became a mother.  Those feelings of not being good enough, not being worthy, not being pulled together, not having all the answers.  Those feelings of being “less than” all of them came bubbling to the surface.  Those biting words from that commenter cut through the fragile dam I so carefully constructed for myself.

“You accepted… I fought…”

I am better than you.  My love is stronger, better… I love my child more than you do.

This is bullying.  Words used to personally attack or intimidate another person.  It makes us think we are not as good as someone else.  For me, her words took me back to all those years when I believed all those parents who spoke with assurance, with superiority, without doubt about something that could not be proven or even replicated, stories that are not based in any science, but are “one offs”.  All those false hopes I had and mistook for the real thing.  False promises that lead me down a path of tremendous pain, ultimately harming my daughter far more than helping her.  The biggest strides I’ve made that have positively impacted my daughter are when I was able to completely accept every aspect of Emma and put down the whip beating me to change her neurology.   This is not to say we do not do everything in our power to help her learn, teach her to care for herself and try to give her tools she can use to flourish.

Richard said to me the other day, “Parents are spending all this time and energy trying to teach their kids to be normal, when they should be teaching their kids how to be themselves.”

My husband is brilliant.

Emma – September, 2012

The Art of Negotiating – Get Them to Beg

“Go to Natural History Museum with just Daddy,” Emma announced this morning.

Because of the Jewish New Year it’s a four-day weekend.  Richard took Em to the museum yesterday.  Today is my turn to hang out with Em, while Richard spends the day with Nic and his friend Masiah.

“I know you do love going to the Natural History Museum with Daddy,” Em said as I came over to her.

“But Em, I’m going to spend the day with you.  What do you want to do with me?”

“Emma loves Natural History Museum with Daddy.  But they wants Museum of Natural History with Mommy.  I love playing elevator game with Daddy.  Emma loves BioLife.  Emma loves…”

“Em, what do you want to do with me?  Daddy’s staying home today.  I can take you to the Natural History museum.  Is that what you want to do?”

“Go to Toys R Us with Mommy, then Natural History Museum with Daddy!”

“No Em.  It’s just you,” I pointed at her, “and me today,” I pointed to me.  “What should we do today?”

Emma whispered, “Go with Daddy!  Oh I know you want to go with Daddy.  Say bye-bye Mommy!”  Then Em made fish lips at me.  Meaning she puckered her lips together and pretended to be a fish.  This is what she does when she really, really wants us to acquiesce.

I began laughing.  “Em.  I will take you anywhere.  Anywhere you want to go.  I’ll ask Daddy to explain the elevator game so we can play it together.  Or you can show me how.”

“Go with Daddy,” Emma said very quickly and in a mischievous voice.  Then she whispered again, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, just Daddy!”

So I sidled up to her and whispered back, “Emmy.  Can I take you to the Natural History Museum?  Just you and me?  Please?”

Emma grinned and nodded her head.  “Okay, okay!”

When both the children were toddlers I took them to the Natural History Museum every single day, one memorable day we even went twice.  After a few years of this, I announced to Richard, “I hope never to set foot in that museum again.”

“Uh-huh,” Richard said.

“Ever.  Seriously.”

“Yeah.  Got it,” Richard answered.

“Never.  For the rest of my life.”

“OKAY!  I hear you,” Richard said with a touch of annoyance.

So for the last few years Richard has taken Em whenever she has asked to go.  I think I’ve gone once, maybe twice in the last several years.  That I now find myself  literally begging, BEGGING Emma to take her, is just another example of Emma’s brilliant negotiating skills.

If Emma ever loses interest in being a singer, I feel confident she will find any number of career options available to her… diplomat, anyone?

Emma – Autumnal Fairy

Related articles

A First Day And Life Continues..

Bounce, bounce, twirl!  Bounce, bounce, twirl!  I’d provide a visual, but I don’t have one, so you’re going to have to take my word for it…

Yesterday was Emma’s first day at her new school.  Emma was scared and anxious.  I was scared and anxious.  Every time I tried to do the breathing exercises we’ve been practicing, Emma begged me to stop, “No Mommy.  I don’t want to do breaths!”  So I did them quietly to myself hoping she wouldn’t notice.  We did exactly what we planned.  I took her to school.  I brought her up to her classroom where she joined three other children, two non-speaking and one verbal.  I stayed with her longer than I should have, but seated across the room out of her line of vision.  Her head teacher, who’s been teaching for more than ten years, and special ed for six of those ten, was kind, respectful yet reassuringly authoritative without seeming intimidating.  I set the timer for three minutes, gave it to Em and told her I’d leave when the timer went off.  She said, “Go sit with other kids when Mommy leaves” and I cursed myself for not having set the timer for 10 seconds, at the same time congratulating myself that I hadn’t set it for 10 minutes.  But that was the kind of day it was.  A day of juggling opposites.  Emma’s favorite book kept up a steady patter in my head…  Matman stands, matman sits, let’s say opposites!  Staaaaaannnndddd!   Siiiiittttt!  Staaaaaannnnndddd!  Siiiittttt!

And in between matman’s curious chant, I watched and listened.  I could see Emma relaxing.  I could see her watching.  She began to join in.  The timer beeped, I stood up, Emma walked over to the table to join her peers, just as we’d mapped out and I left.  When I returned to have lunch with her she was happy and laughing.  As we sat in the cafeteria with her teacher, aides and other kids I mentioned the “letter” I’d written.  I said, “I hope you didn’t feel it was condescending, I didn’t mean it…” and one of the teacher’s aides interrupted me and said, “Not at all!”  She then went on to tell me she’d gotten out a highlighter and made notes.  She and the head teacher reassured me that they appreciated it and credited it with the success of Emma’s first day.  I was relieved and grateful for their kindness.  When Emma was finished with lunch, she turned to me and said, “Go with Mommy to the big carousel?”  This was what I’d promised and I nodded yes.  As we got up to leave, Emma turned, said, “good-bye” and then said each person’s name and blew each a kiss (the ultimate compliment from Emma and not something she usually does.)  It was all I could do not to openly weep with relief.

There’s a great deal of talk about us parents.  How we feel, what we think, our emotional state, our perceptions, our understanding of events as they occur, what we think our child may or may not be feeling, thinking, understanding.  All of it is through the filter of our own experiences, what we’ve learned or been taught.  It takes a leap to realize what we think we know or believe may be incorrect.  That’s a hard concept to digest.  It’s taken me eight years and there will always be more for me to learn and understand, I’m still very much at the beginning of this journey.  This fall will mark eight years since Em’s diagnosis.  Eight years ago when I believed I knew things about my daughter, only to learn how very wrong I was.

I think I understand and then find I really don’t.  I don’t “own” Emma, she isn’t “mine” in the sense that she is not my possession.  She is a being in her own right, with her own ideas, opinions and thoughts.  I have ideas about what constitutes a quality of life, I have opinions about other people I meet, I view their lives through the lens of my life, my hopes and dreams.  It’s easy to fall into the idea that my views are the correct views, but I know how often I am incorrect.

I began this blog to record Emma’s journey, but have found I am increasingly uncomfortable making the assumptions necessary to actually do that.  In recent months I see this more accurately as a record of my journey.  I find myself not wanting to talk about Emma as much and when I do, I ask myself is she okay with what I’m writing?  I have her photo splattered all over the internet and while I am perfectly fine divulging the gory, messy details of my past in a public way, I haven’t given Emma the choice.  I’ve just done it.  I don’t know where to go from here.  Just because she often cannot communicate her ideas and opinions doesn’t mean she doesn’t have any.  I know now how incorrect this assumption is.  I’ve asked her about this blog.  I’ve shown it to her.  A few times she’s asked me to read her a post I’ve written.  I’ve asked her which photo is okay to post, but just because she points to one, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s okay.  It’s a dilemma and one I am not clear on, though increasingly I’m uncomfortable with the choices I’ve made.

Someone once said to me, “We give birth, the umbilical cord is cut and from that moment until we die our job is to learn how to let go.”  The timer hasn’t beeped yet, but I know it’s ticking.

Chalk Art on 7th Avenue – “Happiness”

“Step Inside”

Anxiety, Fear and The Buddha

Emma’s new school begins Thursday.  I’m grateful for this because the pulling sensation in my stomach coupled with the constriction in my chest is increasing with each passing day.  As awful as that feels, it’s a familiar feeling, one I know to identify as anxiety and it feels better than the feeling of fear AND anxiety I’m going to feel Thursday morning when Emma looks at me with abject terror and says, “Please Mommy.  I don’t want to go to new school.  We go together.  You and me together.”

When I explain to Emma, as I have every day for the past two weeks, that I will be with her, when I explain that I am going to go into her classroom with her to meet her teachers for the first time, because the school has not returned any of my phone calls or emails since we returned from Colorado, when they explain how busy they’ve been, when they say that the assistant principal did, after all, reach out to me and whose name, phone number and email address I scribbled on a piece of paper because I was in Jerusalem at the time and cannot find that scrap of paper, I will nod my head.

I will hand someone the letter I’ve written about Emma so they can better help her and understand what she needs.  The letter that Emma would not participate in writing with me, but instead wandered off, insisting that she be able to watch the Hubble Imax theatre movie in our bedroom instead.  I will thrust that letter into her teacher’s hands and hope she will get around to reading it.  None of this is happening the way I envisioned it.  None of my plans, while in Colorado have been put into action because the school was closed, not a soul was around by the time we returned to the city.  So I will make some utterance of understanding, just as I did two minutes ago when I finally got through to the Office of Public Transportation who was unaware Emma was attending a new school, which means there will not be a bus for her until this gets straightened out.  It will require a dozen more phone calls to her new school who hasn’t picked up their phone, a dozen more messages like the one I left this morning will be left, and finally I will physically go to the school and find someone to speak to face to face because leaving endless messages on various extensions is an exercise in futility.   I know this.

In between writing this post I will pick up the phone and call several more times, just in case, just on the off-chance an actual human being will pick up and miraculously connect me to someone who knows that Emma is enrolled in their school and will be kind enough and compassionate enough to understand how big a deal this is for her.   Someone who will understand the enormity of this next step in Emma’s life.  Someone who will hear me when I say she is anxious.  Someone who will not judge me for wanting to ease Emma into her new school and will be kind to both Emma and me when we arrive.  Someone who will agree to work with me in these next few days or weeks, or however long it might take before that anxiety, that terror subsides.  Someone who will honor those feelings and not dismiss them.  And in the meantime while I try desperately to find that person who may not exist, I can, at the very least, be that person for my daughter.

I am walking that precarious fine line of honoring her feelings, while not changing the subject or saying anything that might encourage more fear and anxiety.  Identifying my own feelings, helps me in keeping my own overwhelm at bay, so that I might better help Em manage her own.  I try to reassure Emma, but not promise things I cannot know or keep.  This requires finesse, calm, tact, a level head, the knowledge of when to remain quiet and when to speak, this requires things I do not possess, but am trying to learn.

“I don’t want to go to a new school,” Emma said again yesterday.

“It’s scary to go somewhere new,” I answered as she put her head on my shoulder.

Em nodded,  “I don’t like the new school.  I’m scared, Mommy.”

“New things can be scary, Emmy.  But on Thursday I’m going to go with you.  I’m going to meet your new teachers with you.  And then when you are safe, I’m going to go for just a little while and then I’ll come back and we’ll go somewhere together.  Somewhere fun.  Where would you like to go?”

“Mommy will be right back.”

“That’s right.  Where would you like to go after your first day of school?”

I want to go to the big carousel and the zoo,” Emma said.

“Okay.  That’s what we’ll do then,” I promised.  I’ve cleared my calendar for both Thursday and Friday.  I am planning on hanging around the vicinity of her new school, I will be there to pick her up, I will go with her in the morning, I will photograph her bus driver and the bus, her teachers, her classroom, her classmates.  I will go over these photographs with her on the weekend.  It will take what it takes.  I can’t remove her fears, but I can try to ease them.

Over the weekend I took Em shopping for a new dress to wear to school.  We didn’t find one, but we did find some other things for her to wear.  On the way to the store Emma stopped in front of a shop window and said, “Look!  It’s a Buddha.  It’s a wonderful Buddha!”

And in that moment we were both happy.

It’s My Birthday and I’ll Laugh if I Want To

Saturday was my birthday.  I’m 52.  Or as my twelve-year-old son said to his younger cousin last night, “Do you understand how old she is?”  A look of confusion lingered on his cousin’s face.  Then, apparently tiring of her lack of response, Nic said in a grave tone, “She’s fifty-two.” There was a moment of silence and then to be sure he’d left no room for error he added, “Fifty two years old.”   His cousin looked at me with raised eyebrows and what I imagined to be a new-found appreciation or maybe it was horror, it’s impossible to know what an eight year old, having been given this sort of news, might think.

I figure I’m at the halfway point, though my husband would say I’m being unrealistic as he fully intends to live… forever.  Yeah, you read that right.  As in eternity.  I’m not as optimistic.  However, I like the idea of having reached the halfway mark, forget that I felt I was at the halfway point last year and the year before and the year before that too…  But let’s just say I’m right, that would mean I’ve got another 52 years ahead of me.  And I don’t know about you, but I fully intend to make good use of them!  Because the first 35 or so I kind of made a mess of.  There’s good reason I have a 12-year-old and 10-year-old when many of my same age friends have children graduating from high school and college.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for my past, I’ve learned a great deal.  I just wouldn’t want to do any of it over again.  I really like being 52.  I like being where I now find myself.  But mostly I really like my life.  

Birthdays are a time of celebration, but more than anything they’re a milestone of how far we’ve come.  At least that’s how I like to think of them.  I’ve come far in 52 years, but this last year has been more significant than any other year to date.  It has been within the last year that I have completely changed how I see my daughter.  And that change has unexpectedly altered my view of the world and my life.  I don’t know that any other single thing has changed my thinking and views of life and the world as quickly, dramatically or completely.  There have certainly been milestones – getting help for my eating disorder, stopping my bulimia and anorexia and getting sober are two examples of significant change.  And while the actual stopping of an action happens in a single moment, real change occurs over many such moments, repeated over and over.  The larger changes that take place as a result of those repeated actions or inactions can take years to recognize.  It is, as they say, a slow recovery.

My introduction into the world Autistics inhabit and talk about, was swift, abrupt and in many ways, more life altering than anything I’ve ever experienced.   I am still reeling from the force with which this knowledge has transformed my life and the lives of my immediate family.  As a result, I have never been so happy.  I have never felt so hopeful.  I have never been so sure we are on the right path.  I have never enjoyed my family as much as I do now.  Most surprisingly, my happiness is not because Emma has become a “normal” child.  On the contrary, my happiness is, in large part, because she is not.  I view her with wonder, without judgement and an open mind.  I have learned to see her as neurologically different, not wrong or broken or in need of fixing.

I no longer speak of Emma as though she cannot hear me or understand me.  When she doesn’t answer or walks away when I’m talking to her I no longer assume she’s not interested in what I have to say.  I have learned to examine all of my assumptions.  I have learned to question everything, and I mean literally everything I think or think I know.  At my friend Ib’s urging I’ve begun reading Autism and the Myth of the Person Alone by Douglas Biklen.  This book, like so many that I’ve read in recent months, throws everything we neurotypicals think and say about autism and Autistics out the window.  Judy Endow, just posted a terrific piece entitled, Seeing Beyond My Autism Diagnosis.  She talks about the lens through which NTs view Autistics and writes:  “Stereotypical views of autism are based on the neurotypical (NT) assignment of “truth” as they look at us.”

One of the greatest gifts I’ve received this past year is the joy that has come with  questioning my “truth” when it comes to Emma.  In questioning it I have found my sense of humor.  It never entirely left me, more like it had been tamped down by stress and worry.  To laugh, to really feel the absurdity of situations that used to cause me tremendous upset and concern, to feel the carefree pleasure of being with my family and enjoying them…  this is the life I had always hoped for, but felt would never be mine.

Yeah.  I turned fifty-two on Saturday and I’ve never been happier.

The vanilla cake with raspberry icing Em and I made.  Nic and Emma decorated it by writing everyone’s name on it.  And yes, it was delicious!

Beautiful Em wearing one of her pretty dresses

The Aftermath

Richard and I returned from Jerusalem and the icare4autism conference Friday evening.  It was so good to see Emma again after being away for an entire week. The three of us spent the weekend in NYC and then flew to Colorado where we were reunited with Nic (whom I haven’t seen in a month) looked after by my doting and wonderful mother.  I have at least three hours of recordings from the conference to transcribe.  I must write about the conference in greater detail, I have a great deal of work to do for my business, the one that actually brings in money, and I want and need to spend time with my family.  I’m tired.  That’s what I keep thinking.  But there’s more to it than that and I haven’t figured out yet what that exactly means.  There’s panic.  How am I going to get everything done?  But there’s something else, something I haven’t put my finger on yet.

It’s 4 AM (I’ve been up since 3) but you could tell me it was 1 in the afternoon and I’m so turned around I’d just nod my head.  So rather than say any more I’ll end with this – a little scene from last night.

Em:  Play duck, duck, goose?

Me:  Yeah, okay.

Em:  With you (points to me) and me (points to herself) and Nicky and Daddy and Granma?

My mother: What’s duck, duck, goose?

Nic:  You’ll see.

Everyone sits at the dining room table as Emma stands waiting. 

Em:  (Going around the table, while placing her hand on each person’s head)  Snow.  Snow.  Snow.  Snow.

My mother:  Should I do something?

Nic:  No Granma.  You have to wait.  She’ll say something different.

Em:  (Grinning, pats Granma on the head)  Raining!

Richard:  Oh no!  Emmy you have to pick someone else, Granma can’t run.

My mother:  (Looking horrified) I’m suppose to run?

Me:  (Laughing)  Yes, you’re suppose to run after her.

Em: (With mischievous grin)  Granma run?

Richard:  No, Emmy pick someone else, Granma can’t run.

Em: (Continues to go around the table) Snow. Snow.  (Puts hand on Richard’s head and hesitates.  Then shouts)  Raining!

This game continued for several rounds with Emma occasionally directing when things weren’t going as she felt they should.

Em:  Okay.  Last time for duck, duck, goose.  

When she’d finished going around the table, picked someone and after lots of screaming and laughing my mother said, “That was a great game!”

Em:  Play again?  (Looks around the table grinning)  Okay, okay, later.  Play duck, duck, goose later.  Tomorrow.

It’s good to be home.

Em on the High Line Sunday

Parent and Child – Who Needs Who

Emma just left, bounding out the door with Joe to catch the bus that takes them  to her day camp.  “I love you Em!” I called to her retreating figure.  “Bye!” she said, not turning back to look at me.  And I stood there in the doorway watching the outer door close behind her.  The constriction in my throat, coupled with the desire to run after her, hold her tightly against me, instruct her to “wrap both arms around and squeeze,” is so strong I have to talk myself out of it.  You and Em are different in the way you express your love for each other.  There is no one way.  You know this.  Shut the door, come back inside.  It’s okay.  It’s going to be okay.  I do know this.  I know Emma loves me.  I know she will miss me.  I know she is sad and perhaps even anxious that we are leaving for seven days, the longest we have ever left her since she was born into this world.

Earlier Richard and I sat in her bedroom with her and bopped up and down to Michael Jackson’s Beat it and Billie Jean.   Emma shut her eyes as she bopped, with a broad smile on her face.  She reached over and placed one hand on my arm.  It was brief, a second or maybe two and then her hand was gone again. Five minutes before she had to go down to get her bus, she said, “Play duck, duck, goose!”  So we did.  Richard and Joe and I sitting on the floor cross-legged as Emma went around patting each of us on the head, “Raincoat, raincoat, raincoat, Umbrella!” she shouted and then raced around and around before tearing off, laughing into another part of the house, with Richard in hot pursuit.  “Okay Em.  The bus will be outside.  You have to go.  I’m going to miss you Em.”  I wrapped my arms around her as she tried to squirm  away.  The constriction in my throat tightened.  It’s okay.  It’s going to be okay.  I know.  I know.

And then she was gone.  Just like that.  Gone.  And I want to sob because it’s so hard to leave her, because I need her to know how hard it is to leave her.  I want her to know I will miss her.  I want her to understand that I am not leaving her.  I hope she knows this.  I try to tell myself that she does.

I’m five and my parents are taking a trip somewhere, I can no longer remember where.  They go once a year for a few weeks, somewhere exotic, Africa, Peru, Ireland, Japan, returning with small tokens of their travels, a kimono in white and blue cotton, a pair of gold and emerald earrings from Ireland, a hand embroidered blouse from Peru.  The gifts have strange smells of some other land, a place I do not recognize, a place I may never visit.  But those gifts are for when they return.  The anxiety I feel when they leave is indescribable.  We are left with Mrs.  Williams.  

Mrs. Williams smells like antiseptic soap and something else, I hope never to smell again.  It is a smell that makes me gag.  I hate Mrs. Williams.  She is cruel and angry.  I know she hates me.  I can sense it.  I try to steer clear of her.  I try to keep to myself.  But it is never completely possible and then the hand comes down, sure and strong, unerring in it’s aim.  My bottom burns, my head slams into the bed frame with the force of her blows.  I try not to cry.  I try to be strong.  I think of my parents, why did they leave me?  What did I do wrong?

But we are not leaving Emma with Mrs. Williams.  We are leaving Emma with Jackie, someone she loves and asks for and she will be going to camp for one last week with Joe before we return to pick her up and return to Colorado where Nic is staying with my mother.  Jackie has planned wonderful outings for the two of them and Joe will be checking in over the weekend to make sure they are fine.  I’ve left copies of our phone numbers, passport info, hotel info, travel itinerary and contact info laid out on the island in the kitchen.  I went over the next week with Emma again this morning.  As though by going over and over it my anxiety will lessen.  Em, looks away from where my finger points at the calendar.  She is looking for her bowl to fill with Cheerios.  “Uh-huh,” she says, reaching for the milk.

She’s yessing me, I think with relief.  I’ve gone over this so many times, she’s memorized it.  She looks at me for a second, it’s a fleeting glance, but she looks into my eyes as if to say, “Mom.  Seriously.  I got this.”

And she does.  I know she does.  It’s me who’s struggling.  It’s me who is grasping. It’s me who needs to be reassured.  It’s okay.  You’re going to be just fine without her.  It’s okay.

Emma demanding that Richard come closer so that she can…

spray him with water from the seal!

Richard and Em, both soaking wet walking home last night

Look! She’s a Therapist, She’s a Teacher, No She’s a Mom

Sometimes it all feels wrong.  You know?  We’ve been working with Emma on her literacy, reading, writing, typing and then a couple of months ago I just couldn’t keep doing it.  I hit a wall.  I kept telling myself, you’re just tired.  You’ll get back in the saddle, give yourself a break, you’ll feel more energetic, you will.  You just need a little break.

But now it’s several months since I gave myself that little talk and I am no closer to “getting back into the saddle” than the day I said all of that.  And here’s the thing…  when Em was first diagnosed, we did what everyone advised us to do.  We fought and were given 40 hours of ABA, we were trained to continue the ABA after the therapists went home and during the weekends.  Emma was bombarded.  We called it baby boot camp.  It was horrible.  I hated it.  I remember saying to the diminishing few who’d listen, But I don’t want to be Emma’s therapist.  I want to be her mother.

I use to sit with Nic and Em in our big rocking chair, we still have it.  We still fight over who gets to sit in it, though these days, Richard has successfully commandeered it as his own.  But when the children were still little, it was mine, all mine and I’d sit in it with both children in my lap, holding them, rocking them.  Smelling their heads, that smell that only small children have, that smell that no one’s managed to bottle, but that if anyone did, they’d make millions off all us moms.  I loved my new role as mom and I wasn’t thrilled to trade it in for therapist/autism mom extraordinaire.

What was so wild about those early days was how all the “experts” I listened to, I believed they knew better than me.  Despite the fact I kept reading the masses of research saying how little we actually knew, how much we had to learn, there was never any shortage of people who seemed to think they knew it all.  Funny that I never thought to question them in the beginning.  Or more accurately, I did question them, but I tamped those questions down because I so wanted to believe, I needed to believe that someone somewhere knew what the hell they were talking about.

But they didn’t.  Not really.  They certainly didn’t know about Emma.  Every single thing anyone in the field of autism predicted about Emma has proven incorrect.  Everything.  It’s kind of astounding.  But it’s true.  “Oh, she’ll be mainstreamed by the time she’s in kindergarten” they assured us, always with the codicil, “if you keep doing ______  (fill in the blank).”  “You’re fortunate she’s so mild.  She’ll be one of those kids who loses the diagnosis,” they’d say with a tone of certainty.  And so we put our better judgment aside, we tamped down our questions, we trained, we worked with her, we questioned her, we showed her the flash cards with the bike and the green t-shirt and the yellow car, we played umpteen games of peek-a-boo and sang the ABC song and Head, shoulders, knees and toes for the nine hundredth time, never questioning why we were doing this.  Never asking ourselves, is this really the best way to spend our time with her?  Are any of these things remotely meaningful to her or are we doing this because this is what a neurotypical child would sing or play?  That Emma was not a neurotypical child was, evidently, not the point.

Now Emma’s ten.  If you ask her, she’ll tell you she’s nine.  I keep meaning to teach her the old, don’t-you-know-its-rude-to-ask-a-lady-her-age routine, thus letting her off the hook.  Because really, who cares?  We ask each other questions like “how old are you,” which is equivalent to the adult question, “what do you do?” but it’s really a way to fill in the silence.  A silence that can be painful.  A silence that doesn’t right the feeling that it’s all wrong.  So we fill it in with words and ideas and studies and tests, but we don’t stop to think, what exactly are we testing?  What exactly are we studying?  What exactly are we doing?  If we test someone and make conclusions based in neurotypical thinking aren’t we missing the point?

I spoke with an Autistic friend yesterday.  She told me she was given a standard IQ test where she proceeded to get every single answer right, so they kept giving it to her, trying to figure out how it was that she was getting all those answers right because she presented as having so many other “issues” and was clearly autistic, they concluded that something was wrong with the way the test was being given.  Meanwhile she thought it all great fun and each time they gave the test to her, she just dug in and cheerfully gave all the correct answers again and again, confounding them.

Which brings me back to all these therapies that require parents to become teacher and therapist.  I’m not a teacher for good reason.  I do not have the skills or the desire to be.  And while I’ve stepped up to the proverbial plate again and again to do what needed to be done, I don’t want to continue.  I want to be Emma’s mom.  I like being Emma’s mom.  I love reading to her and playing with her and dancing with her and being silly and making stupid faces and making up ridiculous sounding laughs and running around pretending to be a monster and cooking with her and showing her how to fold and sort the laundry and how to brush her hair and give her pedicures and manicures and run through the sprinklers together.  I don’t want to be her teacher too.

And maybe, just maybe I don’t have to be.  Maybe all those experts and autism specialists are wrong.  Maybe I can just be her Mom and that’s enough.

An Ode To Richard

I’m not trying to confuse anyone.  I post Monday through Friday.  Father’s Day was yesterday, so technically, writing an “Ode to Richard” today makes more sense than posting it last Friday when it would have been more than 48 hours away as opposed to about ten (at the time of this writing.)  Or so goes my convoluted logic.

Father’s Day, 2012 – Richard walking along the Hudson River with Emma and Nic

Autism doesn’t say much about all those dads out there who are tirelessly working to help their autistic children.  I know a few of them, but the one I know best, obviously is my husband, Richard.  This post is for him.

An Ode To Richard

You didn’t have a role model in your own father, yet you’ve managed to become one to your two children, Nic and Emma.

You’ve taken the traumas of your past, looked at them, dissected them and in doing so, pushed yourself to make sure you won’t repeat their lessons.

You are strong and secure enough to know that men can and do cry and those tears in no way diminish who you are, but serve to make you even more courageous and brave.

Your sense of humor has taught your children that nothing is so serious we cannot laugh.

By pursuing your dreams and doggedly doing what you love, you have shown them that they too can dream.

By never giving up, persevering and following your heart instead of a career you detest, but that will ensure a large income, you have encouraged them to follow their own.

By working tirelessly toward a goal, no matter how many obstacles have been thrown in your path, you have taught them to never give up.

By never accepting the word ‘no’ when applied to something you want, you have taught your children that what they want and care about is important.  You have taught them that they are important.

Through your compassion you show your children the path leading toward humanity, love and kindness and away from violence, cruelty and narcissism.

By giving your children your time, by enjoying their presence, by actively participating in their daily struggles, you have given them a gift no one will ever be able to take from them.

You have provided them with a role model so that they may not have to work as hard as you have.

You have given them the gift of knowing they are loved by their father, accepted completely for who they are and who they will become and in doing so you have provided them with a stability and security no structure or amount of money can.

You have provided them with a map, to help them navigate this life.

In giving, you have received.  In listening,  you have been heard.   In leading, you have been led.  In loving them, you are loved.  And yet you do all of this, not because you want anything in return, you do all of this because this is who you are.

To Richard.  My love.  My partner.  My inspiration.

Related Articles:

Richard, Oxytocin, Literacy & Love – Not Necessarily in That Order

Aspen, Work and Richard

Marriage – Part I

Marriage – Part II

This one is for the dads (Stuart Duncan’s Blog – Autism From a Father’s Point of View)

Listening to Emma

“Bad ear infection.”  This was the pronouncement made by the doctor who Emma saw yesterday.  Emma knew.  (Click ‘here‘ for a post about another time Emma knew and the only other time Emma had an ear infection.)  Emma told us to take her to the doctor.

We are relieved we made an appointment and sought help.  We are grateful to have her on antibiotics, which will ease her pain.  We are happy she is feeling better.  Those are the important points.  All the other words racing around in my head are less factual and more words that poorly convey my feelings of despair that I didn’t realize her pain was different than usual, that it meant something else was going on than a change in air pressure and anger with myself that I didn’t rush her to the doctor the minute the school called me two days ago.  My defensiveness, like the stereotypical white angel perched on one shoulder whispering, but you didn’t know, you couldn’t have known, is countered by the angel with devil’s horns yelling, “Yeah, but you should have!”  That dialogue or actually any dialogue that begins with – But you should have known – is better left elsewhere.

The art of the beat up job, something I could certainly write a handbook on at this point is not a message I am interested in perpetuating or sending.   What I am interested in is how I  might avoid a similar scenario in the future and take the necessary actions so that next time I can take care of my daughter in a more timely manner.   That’s interesting.  The beat up job is not.

Conclusion:  When Emma says, “Go see doctor.”  Immediately get her to the doctor.  Do not wait to see if things will get better.  Emma knows.  The cliché “better safe than sorry” leaps to mind.

This morning – Emma dancing to MJ’s Beat it 

Emma’s new-and-improved old string is back!

How I Made a Mistake and Was Given The Opportunity to Say I’m Sorry

“You put the toast in the basement.  That made me sad.”  Emma stared at me expectantly.

I drew in a breath.  My chest felt tight.  I knew exactly what she was referring to.  We’ve had similar conversations, but she’s never said it so directly.

This past fall in one last gasp of determined insanity I decided that I hadn’t done the gluten-free/casein free diet “right” when we put her on it a month after she was diagnosed and still two-years old.  So this fall, I took Emma to a naturopath, who’d been recommended to me, and after a number of “tests” he mapped out an even more restrictive diet than the standard GF/CF.   You can click on the links I’ve provided for more about all of this.  On the first day of the diet I cleared the house of all the foods Emma loved, but could no longer eat, according to the new diet.  Except I forgot to remove her favorite bread.

That morning she saw the bread and attacked it with the vigor of a rabid dog.   I whisked it away and hurried down to the basement with it, where I threw it into one of the large garbage bins, while Emma screamed and clawed at the door in an attempt to follow me.  I had it in my mind that it would all be worth it if the diet worked.   Which, to me, meant that she would suddenly begin to speak in beautifully articulated sentences, would be able to concentrate, would be able to comprehend what she read and would eat a wider range of nutritious foods.   Only the diet didn’t “work.”  Just as the GF/CF diet we’d put her on six years before, didn’t work.

Emma after 6 weeks on the diet

In many ways, that diet was a turning point for me.  After a couple of months on it and no change other than a significant weight loss, I reintroduced Emma to all her old foods, the foods she loves, the textures and smells she was familiar with and she was in bliss.  But Emma remembered those seven weeks when I had taken everything away from her.  The trauma she felt as a result of my actions was something I have been aware of.  I have, on several occasions, told her how sorry I am for what I did.  I have spoken at length to her about it, but in all those conversations, Emma has contributed very little until last night.  Now it was clear she needed to express herself.

When I started making decisions about treatments for Emma, many of them Richard did not agree with and he, thankfully, said, “No.  We are not going to chelate.”  Or “No.  We are not going to subject her to B-12 shots.”  Or “No.  We are not going to take her for another hyperbaric chamber treatment.”  There have been a number of things, that in my desperation to be a “great Mom” I would have tried had my wise husband not stopped me.  These are not moments I am proud of.  I have made a lot of mistakes.  This last diet was just one in a long line of bad ideas.  I know I will have more.  I understand it is human nature, but I also will be damned if I’m going to try to gloss over the choices I made that hurt Emma.

I promised myself long ago that when I became aware of a mistake, I would try to make immediate amends.  I don’t mean a quick, “Oops, sorry about that.”  I mean an amends.  Which is different from an apology.  An apology is what you say to someone you bump into by mistake on the subway.  An amends is when you seek to change your behavior so that you might at least have the chance of not repeating that mistake.  I try to do that consistently with both Nic and Emma.  I am sad to say, I have had to make a great many amends over the course of their short lives and some I’ve had to say over and over because I just can’t seem to get it right.  So when Emma said to me, “You put it in the basement.  You made me sad.”  I knew what I had to do.  I knew I had to listen to her.  I knew I had to resist the urge to make it better.  I knew I had to be present, no matter how much it might hurt to hear the things she would say, I owed it to her.  I had to give her that, at least, I needed to give her that.

I put my hand on her arm.  “Tell me, Em.  I promise to listen.”

Emma nodded her head.  “Never, ever.  You put the toast in the basement.  Mommy no!  Ahhhhh.  Mommy please!”  She pretended to grab at the bread and then she made a muffled screaming noise.  She got up off her bed and twirled her string.  She looked over at me.  “You made me so sad.  Emma’s crying.”

I nodded.  “Emma.  I’m so sorry I did that.  I made a terrible mistake.”

Emma looked at me.  She put her hand on her chest and she said the following words that broke my heart.  She said,  “You have to say you’re sorry to Mommy.”

I thought about all those Autists who talk about their awful childhoods and  how they were made to feel broken, not good enough and that it was somehow their fault for the terrible ways they were treated.   I thought of how those feelings about themselves continue to bleed into their lives today.  I thought about how they felt they needed to apologize for who they were and how so many of them believed these lies and some continue to.

“Oh God, Em!  No.  No.  You did nothing.  It was not your fault. I was wrong.”  I put my hand out to her.  “I should never have done that.   I am so, so sorry.”

Emma came over to me and sat down.  She put her hand on my shoulder and leaned her head into me and said in a quiet voice, “Mommy says I’m sorry.  No more bread in the basement.”  She paused and then said, “But next time just one?”

“No Emma.  Not one.  Not any.  I will never do that to you again.”

“Not one.  Zero.”  Emma smiled.

“That’s right.  Zero.”

“Not one, not two, not three…”  Emma counted up to one hundred.   When she got to a hundred, she smiled and made a zero shape with her hand.  “Not one hundred, only zero.”

I smiled.  “Yes, Em.  Only zero.”

Emma nodded and then she said, “Mommy lie with Emma and read stories.”

“Okay,” I said.  As we snuggled under her blankets together I said, “Who’s the most amazing girl in the whole world?”

“I am,” she said with a smile.

 The Depiction of Autism and Why it Matters on Huffington Post

Breastfeeding? I’m More Interested In Emma’s Culinary Skills

All of you have undoubtedly heard and some may have even read the issue of Time Magazine featuring a beautiful young woman on the cover with her three-year old son, who by the way, looks large enough to take on my 12-year old, (but that really is beside the point, or maybe it isn’t actually) standing on a child’s chair while his mouth is glued to her delicate breast, presumably breast feeding.  Both are staring into the camera while the text reads “Are you, and in large, red, bold type, Mom Enough?”  I’ve included the photo at the end of this post.

This is not a subject matter I care about.  At all.  They may as well have made the headline  “Masturbation:  Who Does and Doesn’t.”  My response would still be – who cares and frankly, who has time?  I haven’t picked up a magazine, any magazine for a long time.  My idea of reading a magazine is to glance at the salacious headlines on various covers while in line at Duane Reade picking up another bottle of shampoo because Emma has just emptied the contents of the last bottle into our sink while stirring it around with a large wooden spoon and singing, “Stir, stir, stir the soup, stir, stir, stir the soup…”  (I’m taking run on sentences and parenthetical remarks to a whole new level here.  Feeling sadly proud of this, I should add.)  In any case, I’m showing up late to this particular party, something I seem to have a knack for, because I’ve got a lot of other stuff going on and simply don’t have time to keep up with the latest “news.”

But last night while waiting for Nic’s school concert to begin, I scrolled through some tweets and came upon this article written for Redbook (another magazine I never read), by Joslyn Gray entitled, 10 Reasons I Don’t Care About Time’s Breastfeeding Cover.   Had I not had an hour to kill, had I not forgotten to bring any other reading material, I would have ignored the tweet and thus the article and would have missed out on this hilarious piece.  I had to share the link here because I laughed out loud while reading it.  Literally.  Out loud as in inadvertently snorting.  Joslyn Gray also has a blog – Stark. Raving. Mad. Mommy.  I haven’t had time to go to it, but intend to.

After reading the article I had to find the actual cover of the Time Magazine piece.  As I looked at the cover, I thought – How much did this child weigh at birth?  How is it possible that her breasts are that small and perky and yet contain enough milk to nourish such a big kid?  Is he that tall because she’s still breast feeding?   Calcium…  And then I made a mental note to encourage Nic to drink more milk.  

I then went off into a whole reverie of when I was breast feeding my children and how I luxuriated (briefly, oh so briefly) in having, what Richard and I joked, “porn tits” because when they were engorged with milk they became rock hard and therefore looked fake, as in 1950’s fake, before cosmetic surgeons perfected the art of more natural looking and feeling, I’m told, breasts.  Emma didn’t get her teeth until very late and yet all she wanted was to eat real food.  Nic got his teeth early and yet preferred breast feeding.  It all seemed like a cruel joke.  Emma would snatch whole steaks off nearby plates while the unsuspecting person would stare in surprise at their now empty plate and wonder what happened, while she gummed the steak voraciously.

Thankfully Nic’s concert began, interrupting my musings.

The point is I, like Joslyn Gray, don’t care about who breastfeeds, who doesn’t, for how long or anything else breast related.  I’m much more interested in figuring out why Emma thinks pouring an entire bottle of shampoo into the kitchen sink and then mixing it with a wooden spoon constitutes soup.

The magazine cover that has America talking

My latest piece The Depiction of Autism and Why it Matters published in the Huffington Post

Sleepovers, Staycations, Sixteen Hours & Other Words Beginning With the Letter “S”

Emma’s having a sleepover!

Yesterday I wrote here about how Emma has been asking for several months to have a sleepover at my cousin’s house.  This began after they invited Nic to come stay with them.  It has become painfully clear that  Emma, though she said nothing at the time, wanted to go too.  However, arranging this is impossible.  They are a couple in their 70’s and while I adore them and am close to them, I cannot ask them to have her.   They do not know her well, Emma’s language is limited, her routines plentiful, I would need to accompany her, which would be awkward.  So no, that’s not going to happen.

After I wrote yesterday’s post, I received a wonderfully thoughtful email from Emma’s therapist, Joe, suggesting she come for a sleepover at his and his gorgeous wife’s house along with his wife’s god daughter, who came to Emma’s ninth birthday party, this weekend.  Nic will be at the beach with his friend.  Emma will be with Joe and Angelica.  Which means….  drum roll please… Richard and I will have about sixteen hours to be together, just the two of us.   Sixteen hours.

Woohoo!  Oh yeah, baby! (Insert little snoopy like dance of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, here.)  Other than our ‘Staycation‘ in February, also thanks to Joe, Richard and I do not get a great deal of “just the two of us” time.  Don’t misunderstand, I’m not complaining, it’s just a fact of our lives, making Emma’s impending sleepover all the more fabulous.  It must be noted that Joe is contributing to the continued well-being of my marriage, in addition to providing Emma with her desire for a sleepover.

So last night after confirming that this was indeed happening, I went to find Emma.  “Hey Em!  Guess what?”  Silence.  “Do you want to have a sleepover with Joe and Angelica this weekend?”

“YEAH!”

“Do you remember Madison?”  Emma nods her head yes.  “Madison will be there too!  Do you want to go?”

“YEAH!”

Later Emma came to me and put her hand on my shoulder.  “Go to Angelica’s house for sleepover?”

“Yes, this weekend.  Are you excited?”

“Yeah!  I’m excited.  Go to Angelica’s house with Madison, Oliver and Trovel.  Go sleep in Central Park.”

If you are as baffled as I am by this, then welcome to my confusion.  I have no idea who Oliver and Trovel are, why they are sleeping in Central Park, of all unlikely places or why Emma thinks it’s a good idea to join them.  How Angelica is involved in this is also a mystery.  As I sat looking at her and trying to figure out which question I should ask first I decided to tackle the name Trovel.  “Do you mean Trevor?”

“Trouble,”  Emma said, carefully articulating the word as one might to a very small child or a foreigner.   “Oliver and Trouble,” Emma added.  She waited staring meaningfully at me.

“Okay.  Who are Oliver and Trouble?”

The look on her face was the equivalent to Nic’s disgusted and embarrassed shrug and eye roll combo. “Have sleepover with Oliver and Trouble.  Going to sleep in Central Park.”

After a number of questions I came up empty.  Finally I said, “But Em, don’t you want to have a sleepover this weekend with Joe?”

“Yes!  Sleepover at Angelica’s house!  I’m so excited!”  Emma grinned at me and then turned on a YouTube video of some arbitrary family’s home movie of themselves riding the Central Park carousel.  It’s one of Emma’s favorite videos and whenever she watches it I wonder what this family would think if they knew they’ve provided hours of entertainment for my daughter by posting to the public their slightly weird video.  I say slightly weird because the man, I’m assuming the father, looks into the camera and discusses at great length which horse he plans to ride.  Emma loves it.

Sixteen, stupendous, spectacular hours, people!

I couldn’t find a photo of roses to go with the caption – Things are coming up roses.  This photo taken in Central Park of tulips will have to do.  Things are coming up tulips! 

My latest piece My Fear Toolkit published in the Huffington Post

That Pesky Issue of Death and The Desire For a Sleepover

“Have a sleepover with Susan and Peter?”  Emma mumbles.  It’s early.  I’m tired.  I  didn’t sleep well, blinding headache, and it’s 6:07AM.

“What time is it?” Richard asks in that groggy-first-words-spoken-in-the-morning kind of voice.

“Six ten,” I reply, optimistically rounding up, hoping those added three minutes will serve to soften the blow.  In case any of you are wondering, Richard is NOT a morning person.  Anything earlier than 7:00AM causes him tremendous pain.  I can hear Richard’s slow intake of breath.  I imagine I can feel his exhaustion.  No wait, that’s mine, never mind.

“I want a sleepover,” Emma says, more loudly this time in case we hadn’t heard her the first time.

I know why Emma is saying this.  Nic has been invited to spend the long Memorial Day weekend with his friend.  He’s leaving Saturday morning and won’t be home until Monday.  Emma overheard Richard and I discussing this.  Emma overhears a great deal.  Emma pretty much knows more about what goes on in our house than I do.  She’s got her finger on the pulse of what’s happening.  And she wants in.

My heart feels as though it’s in a vice grip and simultaneously I feel euphoric.  It’s that bizarre feeling of holding two opposing feelings at once.  This is a rough version of my panicked inner dialogue:   What am I going to say?  This is so great!  How do I tell her my cousins will not be inviting her for a sleepover at their house?  We’ve been through this before.  How do I explain why it is that her brother, Nic, gets invited to sleepovers all the time, but she has never been invited to one?  But she’s asking to have a sleepover, which is fantastic and heartbreaking at the same time.   What can I say that’s honest, but not so honest it will hurt her feelings?  How do I explain what a sleepover entails?  How do I explain the intricacies of sleepovers, that it’s not just sleeping in a strange bed and then coming back home, that there’s so much more to it?  Maybe I don’t need to.  Maybe I need to figure out a version of a sleepover.  Does she understand that I don’t accompany Nic on his sleepovers?  I think she does, but I’m not sure she cares.  

“How about this?” I finally say, measuring my words.  “How about we have a sleepover at Granma’s in June?”  I wait as she stares at me.  She doesn’t say anything.  It’s as though she’s thinking – are you kidding me?  That’s not a sleepover.  That’s a visit.  We do that all the time.  What, you think I don’t get that?  I smile at her, encouragingly.

“Sleepover at Peter and Susan’s.”

Oh boy.  “Um.  Well.  No.  We can’t do that, babe.”

“In August,” Emma says with the tone of one who has tired of the conversation.  There’s a finality to her voice.  Case closed.  There will be no more argument.  She turns her back to me.

Should I let this drop?  Just leave it alone?  But I know there won’t be any sleepover at my cousin’s house in August.  Shouldn’t I tell her that?  I’m reminded of friends of ours who have two, now grown, adult children.   This was when Nic, then four years old, wanted to know about death.  As in – would we die?  What would happen when we died?  Who would take care of him? –  Our friends advised us to lie to him.  “Just tell him you’re never going to die.  He needs reassurance.  He’s just a little kid.”

“But that’s dishonest,” one of us responded.

To which they replied, “Yeah, but if you both die, he’ll be worried about a great deal more than your dishonesty, trust me.  That will be the least of his concerns.”

So…  We didn’t take their advice.  Instead we patiently and carefully explained to Nic that everyone dies, but assured him that we were not going to die for a very long time.  Richard went so far as to say that he was pretty sure medicine would soon solve the whole “death problem” and was convinced that he, anyway, would never die at all, ever.  Eventually Nic, either tiring of our tedious and spurious claims, or just as likely, deciding our responses were so lame he couldn’t cope with them anymore, stopped asking us about death.

I thought about using a similar technique with Emma, but I’m pretty sure she’s made up her mind, regardless of what I may have to say.  She’s very determined.

Emma’s “sleepover” at our cabin

My latest piece My Fear Toolkit published in the Huffington Post