No, I'm not crazy about halloween, no I don't think you're evil if you love it. Really, it's cool. Do what you do. It makes it extra-unappealing to think of dressing the dude who is OCD about his shoes being tied just-so (extra hilarious when you realize he will only wear velcro shoes) dressed in a costume, pulling at it, miserable. The littles don't seem to care one way or the other. If, at some point, the kids start to beg and ask if they can trick-or-treat, we will revisit the topic. For now, we have a great time giving out candy as a family. Unless, of course, the event is on Friday night... or an unexpected Saturday when the kids are bathed and dressed for bed and we're about to start family devotions... yeah, that was last weekend.
When Eric and I were first married, and even when we were pregnant with Ryan, We sat on our front porch in Fort Worth with our dog, commenting on each family's costumes and of course handing out candy. And, as any newly married couple, discussing our childhood experiences with the holiday and dreaming about what we'd do with our kids. Yeah, that's hard to think about.
On the way to therapy today, in between reaching to the CD player to turn back to his favorite song, Ryan started to pick at his shoes. As he did, I looked (yes, carefully) at them and noticed out loud "oh, buddy... you need new shoes."
I know that a lot of kids get attached to shoes. I get that. I was one of them! I had this little pair of brown ballerina-type flats when I was a bit younger than Ryan. Mom couldn't get me out of them. When I went to see Nanny that summer, you can bet that was one of the first things we did. The Dillard's in Fort Smith, it was, where I picked out not one but two pretty new pairs of shoes. You've got to hand it to her... Nanny was geniusly creative. I know what she was thinking. She got me all tickled about new shoes, which is totally not hard to do, and tried to have the salesman throw the old ones away. We got all the way back to Heavener, and I asked for my old shoes. Didn't take many tears and we were back in Fort Smith the next day to pick them up. Nice try, Nanny. Nice try.
But Ryan, oh dear. As I reached down to do the "mommy toe pinch", I hoped desperately that I was going to be able to get through this without a trip to the shoe store, department store, or otherwise with him. The last time we bought shoes for Ryan with him in tow, I apologized to the saleslady as we walked in for the noise she was about to endure. She laughed.
I didn't. But she'd know soon enough.
It took all of ten minutes. With my nearly six-year-old on my shoulders (hubster had just had back surgery) it was a ready-set-go kind of deal. We went to his size, I pointed. Then we took a deep breath and removed a shoe. Literally, I held out his foot as he screamed, pulled my hair, and beat my head so his daddy could try the shoe on his foot. Once we found the ones that fit, were brown so he could wear them to school and church just fine, and were velcro closure, we checked out.
Yeah, I think the lady at the checkout got the point.
Most of the time, we're just different. When I go out with the littles, people talk to us, comment on how precious they are... but when Ryan's with us it's so often not that way. When he's screaming and beating his chest anywhere and folks are staring, we can't choose what looks or feels different. There are times when it's no big deal, but there are times when the different stings. Some times, like halloween, I can kinda decide that we're different because we want to be. No, we don't do halloween. We talk about Reformation Day, and we pass out candy because we want to give because we have been given so much. And some people like to dress up and trick or treat, which is fine for them. For me, it sounds like a nightmare. As for the scary stuff, I guess you could say I'm a chicken. I don't like to be scared. The whole scary-movie, haunted-house thing is lost on me. There are people who dig it, but there are also people who dig not having kids and love every sporty thing under the sun, and that's just not us. Ah, a real reason to be different that can, if I choose, have nothing to do with Autism, advocacy, or safety. Aaaaaaah. Yes, we choose not to participate. We have our reasons.
Then there are some things that I miss... like sorting through the candy. I was one of those kids who would sort the candy into several piles, categorizing it. I loved doing that, but I did that with M&M's and Skittles too, even when M&M's were only brown, light brown, yellow, orange and green. Guess who loved sorting through the candy too? Richie picked out little boxes of Lemonheads that we had planned to pass out. He lined them up by color, then made a little design or two out of them. Then he made a nice little ramp in the middle of a cute, colorful box highway.
As I listen to someone talk about what their kids will dress up as, where they'll trick or treat, and even whether or not they do Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny, my heart wants to scream "JUST BE GLAD THEY NOTICE." I want to launch into a dissertation on our reasoning behind this, that, and the other, and make darn sure they know to be sure they enjoy every last second of the neurotypical childhoods taking place all around them. Would I be entitled, even justified? Oh yes. In the world a lot of us live in (if you turn on a TV or pay attention at the checkout in the grocery store... sheesh), I'm entitled to splat my feelings all over someone's face, just because I felt them. Tell 'em. Give 'em hell. Put them in their place. How dare they flaunt their normal lives in front of my splattered heart and shattered nerves? I could go on and on with excuses stemming from childhood abuse, even, for things I say and what I can and can't handle and the decisions we make. But I do my best not to.
Yes, I have and will, in the proper setting and with the proper tone, remind someone gently to be a tad more aware of what they're saying. But anything I choose to say better be of a heart of humility and grace, not out of my own agenda. Putting someone in their place? My agenda. Fixing someone? My agenda. When my agenda doesn't align with God's agenda, disaster will ensue. I may not see it. The results may be delayed, and they may be invisible. To hurt someone just because I am hurt, insulted, or just too cranky that day is simply adding hurt to hurt. There are times when it is appropriate to speak up regarding someone else's choices, but these times must be chosen with the utmost humility and prayer, and incredibly carefully. Is life at stake? Safety? I mean, "Hey, don't throw that match into that gas can!" is a pretty safely chosen bet. But "you shouldn't let your children watch Spongebob"? Not so much. That's preference. No matter how strongly you feel about it, no matter how many strong arguments you may have against it, it's still not a life-or-death decision. As a wise person once said, "Does this need to be said? Does this need to be said by me? Does this need to be said by me right now?"
So yes, I hope you're out there trick-or-treating it up safely with your little Spongebobs, your Optimus Primes, your ghosties, your Sheriff Woodys, your princesses. Have a fabulous time! And thanks for bringing them to the house. We SO enjoy seeing them all dressed up! Enjoy sorting through the candy like I did with my mom. I will be here with my kids, in their regular clothes, having a regular night, save a little study about Reformation Day with my BFF, Eric. That and I'll be here ready to hand out candy, should there be any trick-or-stragglers left over from Saturday night. You know, people like me, who had no idea. And out of the appreciation of the grace that you and so many others... but mostly the Holy Trinity... extend to me, I will more than happily dump a load of candy in your little Angry Bird's plastic pumpkin. I will comment on what a cutie bug he is, and all because I mean it. And I will trust that you know what is best for your kids and yourself, as I know what is best for me and mine.
And when you come to the door and see my kids already in their jammies, or when you see us, get to know us, or read this and notice our differences daily, don't feel sorry. Please. We appreciate your smiles, your friendship, your words of encouragement when the day gets screamy right in front of you, and we're thankful for your prayer and all these things. We're learning to not just embrace but enjoy our different. We're learning to see the amazing in every personality difference, preference, and all the other behaviors that make us who we are. We're also seeing that each of us is just as different as the other, and Ryan's differences just seem to stick out a bit more. And this time, as far as halloween goes, difference is our choice. We've had a great day.
Blessed evening to you all, whether you've been trick or treating, trunk or treating, fall festivaling, remembering the 95 Theses, Diet of Worms, and other adventures of Martin Luther, or just hiding in your house with the porch light turned off.
And to all a good night.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Quittin' time, part 2
Sorry I made you wait for the rest of this. I keep thinking I'm going to have more time, and every time I think that something comes up. When will I learn? The bad news is my best friend is sick tonight so what I was hoping I'd be doing isn't going to happen. But the good news is I have the rest of the day (and I mean until like 1:00 tomorrow morning) to get the stuff done I need to do today. So here I am.
If you're wondering about part 1, click here. Now that we're all on the same page...
So after I left bible study, I reminded myself at times audibly that God is in control. There's always a reason. Always. Even when we don't know what it is, there's a reason. I went home, changed the littles' diapers and stuff, got what we needed and went to the school to get Ryan. I was almost sure that since his aid wasn't with him, I'd have to get the kids out and go in and get him, since I pick him up in the middle of the school day. Imagine my surprise to see his teacher bringing him out. When he got to the van, it went something like this:
Me: So how'd he do?
L: We're good.
Me: We're good? Oh, he had a good day?
L: No, we're GOOD.
Me: Um... you mean we don't need to hire someone else good?
L: I'd like to try it.
That last comment and the look on L's face I will remember for eternity.
She went on to describe how well he'd done since lunch the day before, when his aid had resigned. Not one meltdown. Little fits, but no meltdowns. Being the mommy I am, I had to make sure he was safe. Satisfied with her answer, I put my official mommy-seal on the deal and we agreed.
RYAN IS IN KINDERGARTEN WITHOUT AN AID!
Full inclusion. All day. Only someone to help with music and p.e.
After searching the van for and reattaching my chin, we headed to therapy. Soon as I was out of the school zone I called Eric. We both teared up. I think we both said "FOR REAL?!?!" about ten times. The only other thing that we could manage to utter was Praise God.
It has now been a week and a half. If Ryan's folder was still here, I'd show you the happy faces and "Great Day" markings on his behavior chart. I am still in utter disbelief.
I'm in disbelief that he's doing this! We are so proud of him! We are so proud of his teacher! We are so proud to be in a school district that makes the paperwork fit the kid instead of the kid fit the paperwork! I mean, he still needs some support. But when you're in a place where all the teachers actually really do care about the kids... all of the kids, not just the easy ones... kids like Ryan get a shot. They get a real shot. And when they fall, others pick them up, dust them off, and give them another shot. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for God's providence in all this. For the teachers, administration, the special programs department, his teacher form the last three years who still checks in on him, the aid who knew for whatever reason it was time to go... all of this, we are so grateful.
I don't know why God chose to give us all He's given us. I could begin listing it all, but don't think blogger would allow me the storage capacity. Just looking around in our family, just seeing our three kids smiling at us, is more than enough. We're healthy, my husband and I love each other, we still have my mother, his parents, and his Nana, we have our sisters and their husbands and families, and we have extended family. We have a fabulous church, wonderful friends, and a roof over our heads.
As King David said in 2 Samuel 7:18, "Who am I, O Lord God, and what is my house, that you have brought me thus far?"
Who am I, Lord? Who are we, that you have brought us this far?!
Thanks and much praise be to God!
If you're wondering about part 1, click here. Now that we're all on the same page...
So after I left bible study, I reminded myself at times audibly that God is in control. There's always a reason. Always. Even when we don't know what it is, there's a reason. I went home, changed the littles' diapers and stuff, got what we needed and went to the school to get Ryan. I was almost sure that since his aid wasn't with him, I'd have to get the kids out and go in and get him, since I pick him up in the middle of the school day. Imagine my surprise to see his teacher bringing him out. When he got to the van, it went something like this:
Me: So how'd he do?
L: We're good.
Me: We're good? Oh, he had a good day?
L: No, we're GOOD.
Me: Um... you mean we don't need to hire someone else good?
L: I'd like to try it.
That last comment and the look on L's face I will remember for eternity.
She went on to describe how well he'd done since lunch the day before, when his aid had resigned. Not one meltdown. Little fits, but no meltdowns. Being the mommy I am, I had to make sure he was safe. Satisfied with her answer, I put my official mommy-seal on the deal and we agreed.
RYAN IS IN KINDERGARTEN WITHOUT AN AID!
Full inclusion. All day. Only someone to help with music and p.e.
After searching the van for and reattaching my chin, we headed to therapy. Soon as I was out of the school zone I called Eric. We both teared up. I think we both said "FOR REAL?!?!" about ten times. The only other thing that we could manage to utter was Praise God.
It has now been a week and a half. If Ryan's folder was still here, I'd show you the happy faces and "Great Day" markings on his behavior chart. I am still in utter disbelief.
I'm in disbelief that he's doing this! We are so proud of him! We are so proud of his teacher! We are so proud to be in a school district that makes the paperwork fit the kid instead of the kid fit the paperwork! I mean, he still needs some support. But when you're in a place where all the teachers actually really do care about the kids... all of the kids, not just the easy ones... kids like Ryan get a shot. They get a real shot. And when they fall, others pick them up, dust them off, and give them another shot. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for God's providence in all this. For the teachers, administration, the special programs department, his teacher form the last three years who still checks in on him, the aid who knew for whatever reason it was time to go... all of this, we are so grateful.
I don't know why God chose to give us all He's given us. I could begin listing it all, but don't think blogger would allow me the storage capacity. Just looking around in our family, just seeing our three kids smiling at us, is more than enough. We're healthy, my husband and I love each other, we still have my mother, his parents, and his Nana, we have our sisters and their husbands and families, and we have extended family. We have a fabulous church, wonderful friends, and a roof over our heads.
As King David said in 2 Samuel 7:18, "Who am I, O Lord God, and what is my house, that you have brought me thus far?"
Who am I, Lord? Who are we, that you have brought us this far?!
Thanks and much praise be to God!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Quittin' time... part 1
Aaaand I'm alive. This fall (if you can call it that in central Texas) has been fabulous, just very busy. Somewhere between my crafty-time, trying to get the house decorated and settled for real (I'm so not a decorator), keeping up with driving to therapy, church, all the stuff that's important to our family and still managing to be able to keep the daily stuff like dishes and laundry done is keeping us so busy. I won't even go into how exciting football marching season is for us... well, let's just say we're busy but happy.
Somewhere in all the excitement last week, I was taking time for one of my favorite mama treats, our ladies' bible study here in town. Discussion had just ended and we had just settled into our chairs after singing for a few minutes when my phone rang. I picked up my phone and tried to make my way out of the room, my hunched-over shadow taking off poor Beth Moore's legs on the screen. Sneaking into the church library I answered. It was our diagnostician.
If you've been in our situation or something similar, you know how your heart can drop when it's not time for a yearly ARD meeting and the diagnostician's number is on the screen. Usually it's not great news when she's contacting me, and I had that sinking feeling in my gut that says there's something up.
Hate it when I'm right.
She was gentle and sweet and calm, but there's no good way to deliver it. "Mrs. Senzig, I just wanted to let you know that as of yesterday at lunch *Ryan's aid* has resigned." After that it was just kinda emotional freefall. I don't generally go nuts over these things. I manage to sing my version of that Veggie classic "God is Bigger than the Boogieman" in my heart, and it's eventually all okay. I managed to be all business on the phone, using my version of what we affectionately called Nanny's "Tupperware Queen" voice, but I was dying. Seriously? She really decided she couldn't do it? I was surprised, frustrated, upset, sad, nervous... and just flat hurt that dealing with my kid wasn't possible. Not at her. I am so thankful that she knew her limits. I like her, I really do. I know she cared about him, I know she was good to him and wanted the best for him. But a lack of training is hard to overcome when you're thrown into the deep end of the Autism pool on your first day. She had managed to rally and we were all proud of her for that, but in the end it just wasn't something she could keep doing. And that's okay. Really. We're thankful for the time she spent with him, the effort she spent, the heart she spent.
So after she promised they would keep looking for an aid, told me that I'd need to bring Ryan just a little later to school so that he'd be with his class when he showed up (long story), and assured me that he was safe with a temp aid for the next two days I hung up and went back to class. I did pretty well, listening and keeping up with Miss Beth on the screen. Then I told my friend Melanie, who was right beside me, who then suggested I tell the rest of the ladies so they could be praying. Actually, she volunteered to do it for me, and (being me) I said I'd manage. Right as I explained that I knew exactly what was hard and why because she basically was doing my job, I told them I could understand why she wanted to quit, because sometimes I do too. And as those words left my lips, I crumbled into a pile.
If you've never experienced a group of people who sincerely love you around you, crying with you and praying for you, I hope you get the chance. Attention is not my favorite thing, especially with a tear and snot-soaked face, blubbering with all I've got. But there I was, humanity all over my face, exhausted, enrobed in the hands and hugs of women of faith.
They like to call us "Warrior Moms" at times. Most days I wouldn't call myself that. I don't deserve that. I'm not petitioning anyone for the cause, not knocking on doors or breaking down huge walls in the area of advocacy. I'm not one of the scientists searching for a prevention or a behaviorist studying a new way to help these sweet ones figure out this crazy world. I'm just a mom.
Just a mom.
Just a mom who loves her children and wants the... no, God's... best for them. Just a mom who would do anything needed for her kids. Just another mom who keeps the sword and shield up on one side with the game face on, and usually manages to polish the shield and smile with the other hand in a somewhat futile attempt to keep our family going. Fighting Autism's symptoms while at the same time attempting to help our family learn to act in a way that is palatable to society as a whole. All this without losing who we are as a married couple, plus laundry, dishes, social planning (anything social takes a ton of it), potty training, keeping up with all the usual homemaker stuff, and what? I'm supposed to look like a human when I step out of the house?
Yep, just a mom.
And there are millions of us. Being the warriors our family needs. But for every time someone's called us "supermom" there are about a hundred times we feel inadequate. Frustrated. Hopeless. Tired. Weary. But that moment of losing it... that moment where the cracks in the armor show and all the frustration, fear, and weariness pour from the floodgates... is the very moment when God shows who He is. It's when we get to see that those people who say hello and ask how we are every Wednesday really do care how we are. It's that little reminder that although people may never really get it, there are those who are cheering for us, whether or not they get the ins and outs of our struggles. In our weakness, in that proof of our humanity, the world gets a little glimpse into what God is made of. That He can do this through me? ME? Weak, tired, horrible at confrontation, recovering people-pleaser me? Me who can't stop being selfish and at times lazy and impatient, sometimes all at the same time?
Yup. In my weaknesses, He is strong. He will not leave me stranded, even in my darkest times. ESPECIALLY not in my darkest times.
Deep inside this Warrior Mom's armor is a scared, weary child who is tired and needs a hug. And even when you wear as much armor as Autism Warrior Moms, sometimes it's that feather on the 2-ton barbell that sends us crashing to through the floor. Sometimes something catches us so off guard that the armor falls and we need friends to help pick it up and put it back on... and sometimes hold it up for us. Just for a little while. Because even when your whole life and philosophy for living is grounded in the belief that God is sovereign, life can just be too much.
The story doesn't end there... stay tuned for part 2. In the meantime, have a listen. :-)
The Warrior is a Child
~Twila Paris
Lately I've been winning battles left and right
But even winners can get wounded in the fight
People say that I'm amazing
Strong beyond my years
But they don't see inside of me
I'm hiding all the tears
They don't know that I go running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I drop my sword and cry for just a while
'Cause deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
Unafraid because His armor is the best
But even soldiers need a quiet place to rest
People say that I'm amazing
Never face retreat
But they don't see the enemies
That lay me at His feet
They don't know that I go running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I drop my sword and and cry for just a while
'Cause deep inside this armor
the warrior is a child
They don't know that I go running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I drop my sword and look up for a smile
'Cause deep inside this armor
Deep inside this armor
Deep inside this armor
The Warrior is a Child
Somewhere in all the excitement last week, I was taking time for one of my favorite mama treats, our ladies' bible study here in town. Discussion had just ended and we had just settled into our chairs after singing for a few minutes when my phone rang. I picked up my phone and tried to make my way out of the room, my hunched-over shadow taking off poor Beth Moore's legs on the screen. Sneaking into the church library I answered. It was our diagnostician.
If you've been in our situation or something similar, you know how your heart can drop when it's not time for a yearly ARD meeting and the diagnostician's number is on the screen. Usually it's not great news when she's contacting me, and I had that sinking feeling in my gut that says there's something up.
Hate it when I'm right.
She was gentle and sweet and calm, but there's no good way to deliver it. "Mrs. Senzig, I just wanted to let you know that as of yesterday at lunch *Ryan's aid* has resigned." After that it was just kinda emotional freefall. I don't generally go nuts over these things. I manage to sing my version of that Veggie classic "God is Bigger than the Boogieman" in my heart, and it's eventually all okay. I managed to be all business on the phone, using my version of what we affectionately called Nanny's "Tupperware Queen" voice, but I was dying. Seriously? She really decided she couldn't do it? I was surprised, frustrated, upset, sad, nervous... and just flat hurt that dealing with my kid wasn't possible. Not at her. I am so thankful that she knew her limits. I like her, I really do. I know she cared about him, I know she was good to him and wanted the best for him. But a lack of training is hard to overcome when you're thrown into the deep end of the Autism pool on your first day. She had managed to rally and we were all proud of her for that, but in the end it just wasn't something she could keep doing. And that's okay. Really. We're thankful for the time she spent with him, the effort she spent, the heart she spent.
So after she promised they would keep looking for an aid, told me that I'd need to bring Ryan just a little later to school so that he'd be with his class when he showed up (long story), and assured me that he was safe with a temp aid for the next two days I hung up and went back to class. I did pretty well, listening and keeping up with Miss Beth on the screen. Then I told my friend Melanie, who was right beside me, who then suggested I tell the rest of the ladies so they could be praying. Actually, she volunteered to do it for me, and (being me) I said I'd manage. Right as I explained that I knew exactly what was hard and why because she basically was doing my job, I told them I could understand why she wanted to quit, because sometimes I do too. And as those words left my lips, I crumbled into a pile.
If you've never experienced a group of people who sincerely love you around you, crying with you and praying for you, I hope you get the chance. Attention is not my favorite thing, especially with a tear and snot-soaked face, blubbering with all I've got. But there I was, humanity all over my face, exhausted, enrobed in the hands and hugs of women of faith.
They like to call us "Warrior Moms" at times. Most days I wouldn't call myself that. I don't deserve that. I'm not petitioning anyone for the cause, not knocking on doors or breaking down huge walls in the area of advocacy. I'm not one of the scientists searching for a prevention or a behaviorist studying a new way to help these sweet ones figure out this crazy world. I'm just a mom.
Just a mom.
Just a mom who loves her children and wants the... no, God's... best for them. Just a mom who would do anything needed for her kids. Just another mom who keeps the sword and shield up on one side with the game face on, and usually manages to polish the shield and smile with the other hand in a somewhat futile attempt to keep our family going. Fighting Autism's symptoms while at the same time attempting to help our family learn to act in a way that is palatable to society as a whole. All this without losing who we are as a married couple, plus laundry, dishes, social planning (anything social takes a ton of it), potty training, keeping up with all the usual homemaker stuff, and what? I'm supposed to look like a human when I step out of the house?
Yep, just a mom.
And there are millions of us. Being the warriors our family needs. But for every time someone's called us "supermom" there are about a hundred times we feel inadequate. Frustrated. Hopeless. Tired. Weary. But that moment of losing it... that moment where the cracks in the armor show and all the frustration, fear, and weariness pour from the floodgates... is the very moment when God shows who He is. It's when we get to see that those people who say hello and ask how we are every Wednesday really do care how we are. It's that little reminder that although people may never really get it, there are those who are cheering for us, whether or not they get the ins and outs of our struggles. In our weakness, in that proof of our humanity, the world gets a little glimpse into what God is made of. That He can do this through me? ME? Weak, tired, horrible at confrontation, recovering people-pleaser me? Me who can't stop being selfish and at times lazy and impatient, sometimes all at the same time?
Yup. In my weaknesses, He is strong. He will not leave me stranded, even in my darkest times. ESPECIALLY not in my darkest times.
Deep inside this Warrior Mom's armor is a scared, weary child who is tired and needs a hug. And even when you wear as much armor as Autism Warrior Moms, sometimes it's that feather on the 2-ton barbell that sends us crashing to through the floor. Sometimes something catches us so off guard that the armor falls and we need friends to help pick it up and put it back on... and sometimes hold it up for us. Just for a little while. Because even when your whole life and philosophy for living is grounded in the belief that God is sovereign, life can just be too much.
The story doesn't end there... stay tuned for part 2. In the meantime, have a listen. :-)
The Warrior is a Child
~Twila Paris
Lately I've been winning battles left and right
But even winners can get wounded in the fight
People say that I'm amazing
Strong beyond my years
But they don't see inside of me
I'm hiding all the tears
They don't know that I go running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I drop my sword and cry for just a while
'Cause deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
Unafraid because His armor is the best
But even soldiers need a quiet place to rest
People say that I'm amazing
Never face retreat
But they don't see the enemies
That lay me at His feet
They don't know that I go running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I drop my sword and and cry for just a while
'Cause deep inside this armor
the warrior is a child
They don't know that I go running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I drop my sword and look up for a smile
'Cause deep inside this armor
Deep inside this armor
Deep inside this armor
The Warrior is a Child
Monday, October 3, 2011
Abide With Me
I took a calculated risk the other day. Of course, we all know my math skills stink like yesterday's diapers. This was no exception.
As the weather turns cooler (okay, as we can go outside without cooking in our skin... this is Texas) I start missing the smells and tastes of home. To celebrate the reuniting of myself and my crock pot last week and the seasoning of a very special cast-iron skillet, I decided it was time.
Big ol' pot of beans.
No, I haven't completely lost my marbles. Not all of them. As far back as I can remember, beans, cornbread, and fried potatoes has been part of my family. My Granny, Nanny's mother, used to have "bean day" every Wednesday for the whole family and any friends who wanted to come. All of us had different ways of eating them. Nanny liked the crunchies parts of the fried potatoes with beans and some "juice" with some chopped onion and salt and pepper. My aunt Gladys Mae, one of Nanny's sisters, likes hers with all that, plus more pepper and Tabasco. Grandad liked his like Nanny's except with catsup... and that's how I like mine. Beans, not so much juice, catsup, onion. Oh, and the crunchiest potatoes. Used to half-wrestle Nanny for those.
From the time I left for college, every time I visited home, Nanny would ask what I wanted to eat while I was home. This meal was always part of the list. Always at the top. She finally began to ask "what do you want to eat this week besides beans and fried potatoes?" With practice, I began to be able to recreate this meal pretty close to home. But it's just not the same without her.
As much as I was hurt in life, if there was a way for her to rescue me, Nanny would. Horrible breakup? She drove the three hours to listen to me cry. Need a way to go to college? She figured out a way to pay for my first year, because as she told the bank president, "her Mama wants to and can't, and her Daddy won't." But as much as she did for me, as much as she sacrificed for all of us...
We were still lonely.
We still hurt.
Even once she realized that I wasn't crazy, and autism really did exist and Ryan likely had it, she tried. She once had a lady who came to look at some Tupperware who kept looking out to the driveway as they talked. The lady kindly explained that her grandson was in the car, eating his lunch. She just didn't know what he'd do. After a minute or two of going on, the lady finally told Nanny that her grandson has autism. Nanny looked that grandmother in the eye and let her know that she wasn't alone. "Bring him on in!" she said, "there's not a thing in here he can hurt." And the boy came in, ate his lunch, and was awesome. And the grandmother was so grateful.
Even with family as amazing as I am blessed to have, even with a husband who loves me beyond what I can explain, even with friends I can call... they are still mortal. They will fail, they will mess up, they will... as my dear Nanny did... drift out of this life. And even if they lived forever, I am still me. My thoughts are my own, my heart is my own. There are moments when I have to be without someone else. There are times when I have to be alone.
Some people thrive on being alone. Some people say they do, but really just don't want to admit they're horrified of loneliness. Others still will readily admit their dislike of it, and go through life kicking, screaming, and whining every time they have to be by themselves. I'm not knocking friendships. I'm not knocking fellowship. I'm certainly not saying I have this area of life nailed. But there are times... and I'd like to throw out that, maybe even most of the time... we are who we are, doing what we do because it's what we do, and there's no one around with skin on who can possibly truly rescue us.
I've been on both ends of this. I've been the person who woke up on Saturday afternoon as a single adult with a stricken feeling at having to spend the day by myself, afraid I'd have to go it alone for a whole day. I've also been the person on whom someone placed their sanity, hope, and happiness. Both are awful places to be. Both, if taken to an extreme, can be detrimental or even deadly. It's not sinful to want company. It's not awful to enjoy company, or even to feel lonely! We were created with others in mind. Why did God create Eve again? Genesis 2:18 tells us, after creating Adam "It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him." We were made with a need for each other.
But who can sit with me through Ryan's meltdowns? Who can be with me through every fit? When my husband had back surgery and needed help out of bed at 2:30 in the morning to go to the bathroom after I'd just put the baby back down at 2:15, who was there? Me!
But I wasn't alone. No, I wasn't alone. Yes, my dear husband was there, but he needed me to be together and calm and loving for him. He needed my encouragement, not my whining (although he received quite a lot of that, I'm embarrassed to say). Through it all, from day one, to whom have I belonged?
Who knitted me together in my mother's womb? (Psalm 139)
Who planned my life's purpose? (Jeremiah 29:11)
Whose words calm my heart's fears, encourage me, teach me, reassure me, and remind me of His sovereignty?
Upon whose sovereignty does the very foundation of my faith rest?
It is He who abides with me. It is He who abides with my children, my husband, my dear family and friends. It is He who calms my spirit so I can be Ryan's, Richie's, and Maelynn's rock.
As we ate an unusually painful bowl of beans and fried potatoes last week, I was amazed at God's providence yet again. I love my husband, my children, my family, my friends. Although I may move, seemingly, heaven and earth to be with them in a time of need, I cannot be their everything. Even if I could write a check for their every need at every moment, I could not be their everything, nor could they be mine. And when I move away from God, forgetting to whom I belong for a time, He remains there, ever the same.
God alone can be my everything. He alone will calm me, hold me, give me peace, hold my tongue, and make me speak. Though my knees chatter, though my heart aches, though my heart, soul, mind, and physical strength be gone, He will abide with me.
Thanks be to God!
As the weather turns cooler (okay, as we can go outside without cooking in our skin... this is Texas) I start missing the smells and tastes of home. To celebrate the reuniting of myself and my crock pot last week and the seasoning of a very special cast-iron skillet, I decided it was time.
Big ol' pot of beans.
No, I haven't completely lost my marbles. Not all of them. As far back as I can remember, beans, cornbread, and fried potatoes has been part of my family. My Granny, Nanny's mother, used to have "bean day" every Wednesday for the whole family and any friends who wanted to come. All of us had different ways of eating them. Nanny liked the crunchies parts of the fried potatoes with beans and some "juice" with some chopped onion and salt and pepper. My aunt Gladys Mae, one of Nanny's sisters, likes hers with all that, plus more pepper and Tabasco. Grandad liked his like Nanny's except with catsup... and that's how I like mine. Beans, not so much juice, catsup, onion. Oh, and the crunchiest potatoes. Used to half-wrestle Nanny for those.
From the time I left for college, every time I visited home, Nanny would ask what I wanted to eat while I was home. This meal was always part of the list. Always at the top. She finally began to ask "what do you want to eat this week besides beans and fried potatoes?" With practice, I began to be able to recreate this meal pretty close to home. But it's just not the same without her.
As much as I was hurt in life, if there was a way for her to rescue me, Nanny would. Horrible breakup? She drove the three hours to listen to me cry. Need a way to go to college? She figured out a way to pay for my first year, because as she told the bank president, "her Mama wants to and can't, and her Daddy won't." But as much as she did for me, as much as she sacrificed for all of us...
We were still lonely.
We still hurt.
Even once she realized that I wasn't crazy, and autism really did exist and Ryan likely had it, she tried. She once had a lady who came to look at some Tupperware who kept looking out to the driveway as they talked. The lady kindly explained that her grandson was in the car, eating his lunch. She just didn't know what he'd do. After a minute or two of going on, the lady finally told Nanny that her grandson has autism. Nanny looked that grandmother in the eye and let her know that she wasn't alone. "Bring him on in!" she said, "there's not a thing in here he can hurt." And the boy came in, ate his lunch, and was awesome. And the grandmother was so grateful.
Even with family as amazing as I am blessed to have, even with a husband who loves me beyond what I can explain, even with friends I can call... they are still mortal. They will fail, they will mess up, they will... as my dear Nanny did... drift out of this life. And even if they lived forever, I am still me. My thoughts are my own, my heart is my own. There are moments when I have to be without someone else. There are times when I have to be alone.
Some people thrive on being alone. Some people say they do, but really just don't want to admit they're horrified of loneliness. Others still will readily admit their dislike of it, and go through life kicking, screaming, and whining every time they have to be by themselves. I'm not knocking friendships. I'm not knocking fellowship. I'm certainly not saying I have this area of life nailed. But there are times... and I'd like to throw out that, maybe even most of the time... we are who we are, doing what we do because it's what we do, and there's no one around with skin on who can possibly truly rescue us.
I've been on both ends of this. I've been the person who woke up on Saturday afternoon as a single adult with a stricken feeling at having to spend the day by myself, afraid I'd have to go it alone for a whole day. I've also been the person on whom someone placed their sanity, hope, and happiness. Both are awful places to be. Both, if taken to an extreme, can be detrimental or even deadly. It's not sinful to want company. It's not awful to enjoy company, or even to feel lonely! We were created with others in mind. Why did God create Eve again? Genesis 2:18 tells us, after creating Adam "It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him." We were made with a need for each other.
But who can sit with me through Ryan's meltdowns? Who can be with me through every fit? When my husband had back surgery and needed help out of bed at 2:30 in the morning to go to the bathroom after I'd just put the baby back down at 2:15, who was there? Me!
But I wasn't alone. No, I wasn't alone. Yes, my dear husband was there, but he needed me to be together and calm and loving for him. He needed my encouragement, not my whining (although he received quite a lot of that, I'm embarrassed to say). Through it all, from day one, to whom have I belonged?
Who knitted me together in my mother's womb? (Psalm 139)
Who planned my life's purpose? (Jeremiah 29:11)
Whose words calm my heart's fears, encourage me, teach me, reassure me, and remind me of His sovereignty?
Upon whose sovereignty does the very foundation of my faith rest?
It is He who abides with me. It is He who abides with my children, my husband, my dear family and friends. It is He who calms my spirit so I can be Ryan's, Richie's, and Maelynn's rock.
As we ate an unusually painful bowl of beans and fried potatoes last week, I was amazed at God's providence yet again. I love my husband, my children, my family, my friends. Although I may move, seemingly, heaven and earth to be with them in a time of need, I cannot be their everything. Even if I could write a check for their every need at every moment, I could not be their everything, nor could they be mine. And when I move away from God, forgetting to whom I belong for a time, He remains there, ever the same.
God alone can be my everything. He alone will calm me, hold me, give me peace, hold my tongue, and make me speak. Though my knees chatter, though my heart aches, though my heart, soul, mind, and physical strength be gone, He will abide with me.
Thanks be to God!
Abide With Me2007 Justin Smith Music
Abide with me; falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers, fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, abide with me.
Thou on my head, in early youth didst smile;
And, though rebellious, and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee,
On to the close Lord, abide with me.
I need Thy presence, every passing hour,
What but Thy grace, can foil the tempter's power?
Who, like thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless
Ills have no weight, tears lose their bitterness
Where is thy sting death? Where grave thy victory?
I triupmh still, abide with me.
Hold thou Thy cross, before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, Lord, abide with me.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
But is it worth it?
Last Sunday was just awesome. Ryan was begging for CE (Christian Education... our church's "Sunday school) all week, and I was hoping he'd still be ready for it when we got there. The littles cried as they were dropped off, but Ryan ran into the room happily. As we walked away to our CE class, I couldn't help but half-laugh to myself... I could hear Richie and Maelynn, the "normal" children, crying for Mama. Ryan? Happy as a clam. But honestly, if there was a "trotted off happily" that's what Eric and I did on our way to class. This is the one time of the week we can hold hands, chat, and enjoy each other while we're completely awake. No worries about the kids, they're safe and are either happy or they will be soon. It's not like some would think of respite, but it works for us. Among at least a hundred other things, I've learned through our parenting experience that our experience is designed for us. It's designed to stretch us, break us when necessary, but always within God's boundaries for our lives. I've also learned that the stretching and breaking isn't fun.
Fast forward to the worship service. I managed to sneak through the minefield of windows and doors, only revealing myself to Ryan and not the others. If you're a parent, you know that one poorly-planned glimpse of mommy that can tank the rest of the day. Yet another way parents have to be part ninja! We walked into the service, taking our seats in the very back-backest of the room. Ryan immediately asked for lunch and began to flip out just a little... but soon Daddy came in and all was well for a minute. The next time he asked for lunch, I whipped out the stickers. Ed. note... do not use stickers based on Angry Birds unless you want the sound effects that go along with every character. Lesson learned the hard way. Through the service, Ryan stick at least a hundred stickers all over a piece of paper. Then he started sticking them to the inside of his shirt pocket. I think Mr. Sensory Seeker was diggin' the feeling of the lumps in his pocket. Silly, sweet boy. And it was sweet! Such a wonderful time with my boy. No, he wasn't taking sermon notes. He wasn't sitting up most of the time. But he was in the chairs, between his Daddy and I, being quiet and letting us hear the sermon. We sat when everyone else stood, but that's no biggie. We were there and participating!
The Sunday before... even the night before... made this a vacation right up there with a trip to the beach. Ryan spent much of Friday afternoon having trouble waiting and accepting no. What's trouble? Meltdowns. Screaming, shaking, crying, kicking, hitting, beating, unstoppable. The previous Sunday I'd not yet discovered the sticker phenomenon. That day he started demanding loudly to leave. After a trip out of the building for about ten minutes, after saying calmly over and over that yes, he's okay, and that this is important and we're all going to sit together and listen and learn and worship... after explaining calmly over and over why we're here and that we're not leaving till it's over... he finally calmed down. More like snapped out of it. It's so hard to explain. I came very close to giving in and texting Eric to get the littles and let's leave. It was getting hard, and I began to doubt the worth of hanging on. After all, we go back in and everyone gets to hear all this. But I scraped what we had left and went back in, sitting by my dear Eric.
I was so tired. Weary. Worn. Exhausted. I wanted to hold him tight and cry. He started to fuss again, and as I was telling him calmly to "shh", the words shot through the room, hitting their mark with expert accuracy...
Pray your pain.
The little girls in front of me were writing notes to their mother, drawing pictures of random things, squirming, but generally just being normal little kids. The contrast hurt. Ryan isn't yet able to express himself by drawing. Doesn't enjoy doodling. Sounds silly, but you never realize how much these little things matter.. like sweet drawings on the bulletin in church... until they're not happening. Then more words hit.
Pray your hurt.
I get so frustrated, so angry at times that we live with Autism. I get angry at others for taking these things for granted. I get so angry at insensitivity... at CELEBRATED insensitivity from people who you'd think would know better... that I have to fight wanting to shut the doors and keep us safe from hurt. Safe from the looks and glares and shaken heads. So bruised and crushed by judgement of people... people who have no idea what we go through, what Ryan goes through, and have no idea who we are... that I have to fight to make myself step out and have relationships with other people.
Pray your anger.
This message was so huge to me. The things to do other than pray? Stuff it. Vent it. Stuff it... I've done that. It eventually explodes and causes more harm than good. If I do keep it from exploding, it still affects others via my attitude and heart toward life in general. I've vented too. But both of these options are expecting humans to solve our problems. Yes, there are times to go to the other person in love, but these instances should be carefully and prayerfully chosen. But if we pray it... always pray it when the hurt creeps up, the anger begins to boil, we're asking for help from a place we're likely to get it.
Right about this time, I realized that I had stickers in my purse. Randomly. I think I literally stuck them in there to clear off the table real quick before dinner, so they wouldn't get lost. Pulled them out, handed them to my precious boy... magic. For the last few minutes of that service, I had some quiet.
Fast forward again to this past Sunday. Ryan was all happily snuggled between us, being fabulous. I looked at Eric and asked if I should go get the littles. The service wasn't over, but the sermon was. Our church has communion every Sunday, each family walking to the front to receive the elements. We've decided Maelynn and Richie's first little taste of church will be this time. We walked to the front, did our thing, and walked back to the back to sit again through the offertory and wait for the benediction, the blessing in parting for the week. We raise our hands as a church to receive the benediction... as I glanced down, there was sweet Richie, standing with hands outstretched between his Daddy and I.
Is it a lot of work to stay involved in a body of believers? Yes.
Is it worth it?
ABSOLUTELY.
Thanks be to God!
If you'd like to hear the whole sermon, click >HERE< . The inspiring sermon for this blog was September 11.
Fast forward to the worship service. I managed to sneak through the minefield of windows and doors, only revealing myself to Ryan and not the others. If you're a parent, you know that one poorly-planned glimpse of mommy that can tank the rest of the day. Yet another way parents have to be part ninja! We walked into the service, taking our seats in the very back-backest of the room. Ryan immediately asked for lunch and began to flip out just a little... but soon Daddy came in and all was well for a minute. The next time he asked for lunch, I whipped out the stickers. Ed. note... do not use stickers based on Angry Birds unless you want the sound effects that go along with every character. Lesson learned the hard way. Through the service, Ryan stick at least a hundred stickers all over a piece of paper. Then he started sticking them to the inside of his shirt pocket. I think Mr. Sensory Seeker was diggin' the feeling of the lumps in his pocket. Silly, sweet boy. And it was sweet! Such a wonderful time with my boy. No, he wasn't taking sermon notes. He wasn't sitting up most of the time. But he was in the chairs, between his Daddy and I, being quiet and letting us hear the sermon. We sat when everyone else stood, but that's no biggie. We were there and participating!
The Sunday before... even the night before... made this a vacation right up there with a trip to the beach. Ryan spent much of Friday afternoon having trouble waiting and accepting no. What's trouble? Meltdowns. Screaming, shaking, crying, kicking, hitting, beating, unstoppable. The previous Sunday I'd not yet discovered the sticker phenomenon. That day he started demanding loudly to leave. After a trip out of the building for about ten minutes, after saying calmly over and over that yes, he's okay, and that this is important and we're all going to sit together and listen and learn and worship... after explaining calmly over and over why we're here and that we're not leaving till it's over... he finally calmed down. More like snapped out of it. It's so hard to explain. I came very close to giving in and texting Eric to get the littles and let's leave. It was getting hard, and I began to doubt the worth of hanging on. After all, we go back in and everyone gets to hear all this. But I scraped what we had left and went back in, sitting by my dear Eric.
I was so tired. Weary. Worn. Exhausted. I wanted to hold him tight and cry. He started to fuss again, and as I was telling him calmly to "shh", the words shot through the room, hitting their mark with expert accuracy...
Pray your pain.
The little girls in front of me were writing notes to their mother, drawing pictures of random things, squirming, but generally just being normal little kids. The contrast hurt. Ryan isn't yet able to express himself by drawing. Doesn't enjoy doodling. Sounds silly, but you never realize how much these little things matter.. like sweet drawings on the bulletin in church... until they're not happening. Then more words hit.
Pray your hurt.
I get so frustrated, so angry at times that we live with Autism. I get angry at others for taking these things for granted. I get so angry at insensitivity... at CELEBRATED insensitivity from people who you'd think would know better... that I have to fight wanting to shut the doors and keep us safe from hurt. Safe from the looks and glares and shaken heads. So bruised and crushed by judgement of people... people who have no idea what we go through, what Ryan goes through, and have no idea who we are... that I have to fight to make myself step out and have relationships with other people.
Pray your anger.
This message was so huge to me. The things to do other than pray? Stuff it. Vent it. Stuff it... I've done that. It eventually explodes and causes more harm than good. If I do keep it from exploding, it still affects others via my attitude and heart toward life in general. I've vented too. But both of these options are expecting humans to solve our problems. Yes, there are times to go to the other person in love, but these instances should be carefully and prayerfully chosen. But if we pray it... always pray it when the hurt creeps up, the anger begins to boil, we're asking for help from a place we're likely to get it.
Right about this time, I realized that I had stickers in my purse. Randomly. I think I literally stuck them in there to clear off the table real quick before dinner, so they wouldn't get lost. Pulled them out, handed them to my precious boy... magic. For the last few minutes of that service, I had some quiet.
Fast forward again to this past Sunday. Ryan was all happily snuggled between us, being fabulous. I looked at Eric and asked if I should go get the littles. The service wasn't over, but the sermon was. Our church has communion every Sunday, each family walking to the front to receive the elements. We've decided Maelynn and Richie's first little taste of church will be this time. We walked to the front, did our thing, and walked back to the back to sit again through the offertory and wait for the benediction, the blessing in parting for the week. We raise our hands as a church to receive the benediction... as I glanced down, there was sweet Richie, standing with hands outstretched between his Daddy and I.
Is it a lot of work to stay involved in a body of believers? Yes.
Is it worth it?
ABSOLUTELY.
Thanks be to God!
Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh, and since we have a
great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near. ~Hebrews 10:19-25 (ESV)
If you'd like to hear the whole sermon, click >HERE< . The inspiring sermon for this blog was September 11.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Knockin' Round Baylor Again... and again... and again...
How are ya? I've so missed talking to you. Really. It's been pretty crazy lately. We're getting used to Ryan's new therapy schedule, twice a week now instead of once. There are many new things these days, from starting and getting used to kindergarten to a new church, and add into those the usual football season mess that a band director's family has going on, and it's, well... pretty crazy. Since my husband is with the band at an away game, I have time to chat.
In all the stuff that's going on, I keep coming back to the other two kids. You know, the ones who don't need ABA therapy to keep from launching into true hysterics when the computer overheats and they can't finish watching that one Thomas on the internet. The ones who are growing up in a family who is blessed with a big brother with Autism.
We spend so much time taking care of Ryan's needs, making sure Ryan's routine is kept, making sure he makes it to this and that. We work to keep a lid on his behavior, stay calm and even to make sure he has the foundation of calm, peaceful parents to build on.
Not that we always make it, but we do try. We want all our kids to have a fabulous time growing up. We want them all to have great memories of things we did together, of the fun, unique situations most of us remember from childhood. I want them to love each other. To care for each other. I wanted each of them to have each other... at least two good friends for life. When Dad died, I remember sitting there watching the other three siblings talk and laugh about everything from life from day one. They were in pain, they missed their brother. But their presence comforted each other. In their mother's house, they sat in the living room in her absence and told the stories of getting in trouble together, getting each other in trouble, and getting out of it. Of fun times fishing, hunting, driving (and more than their parents crazy), school, sports, all of it. Life. Lives lived together to a point, and still somewhat together across the states.
I knew that moment I wanted at least three kids.
At that moment, it is true that I had no idea Ryan had autism. We had discovered that he did have some speech issues, because he was 2 1/2 and change and barely any words. I was about 6 months pregnant with Richie. Yes, I do have a sister... I have a very special, BFF kind of sister who is eleven years my junior. She is precious to me in ways I cannot explain, yet completely different than the type of thing I witnessed that night. A child of a necessary divorce, I grew up with one foot in eastern Oklahoma and a foot in southeast Kansas. The only people who can sort of imagine or discuss the way I really grew up are my mother, who was married to my father for a short but harrowing amount of time, and my husband, who has listened at length to my descriptions and made way more than one trip to Kansas with me. So the desire to have my children have each other is, like so many things in life, purely of my own desire... completely selfish in its own way.
The first meeting of this semester's ABA therapy sessions at the Baylor Autism Resource Center was to simply meet and discuss goals. The new therapist this semester is much like the last one... smart, sweet, caring, and patient. Chipper, happy, yet very aware of what she is up against. I'm so grateful for the BARC and its students and directors! Truly a gift of God. At the end of the 45 minute drive, we arrived on campus, parked, and went in. That sounds simple... but trust me, with my brood it's a trek that would make cross-country runners shudder. The kids bounded into the room when B, our new therapist, opened the door. The kids dove in and had a blast digging through the whole lot of cars, trains, balls, the whole nine yards. While I attempted to talk to B about goals, Mae kept handing me random things. At one point I was holding a giant stuffed bear, a plastic caterpillar, and a toy radio. So much for taking notes, right? I was doing well to think straight.
The kids had a wonderful time. When our time was over, we picked up all the toys, put away the videos (for real! Elmo on VHS!) and went on our way. Back to the van, drive the 45 minutes home. Then fast forward to Wednesday, the first real therapy session. Ryan walked in the room with B, and Richie bounded right behind. Only this time, I had to stop him.
"Richie, honey, it's time for Ryan's therapy. We're not here to play today. It's not your turn." I tried to explain that we bring brother here to get help learning to do all kinds of things he doesn't understand.
He lost it. Crumpled in a heap, in real, frustrated, broken-hearted, I-totally-don't-get-this, It's-not-fair tears. He wasn't just unhappy that he didn't get to play. He wasn't just unhappy that his brother was leaving. It was both. Maelynn's beloved biggest brother wasn't there, her dear Richie was crying, so she starts losin' her little mind too. And there, in the hall in front of the BARC, with other classes going on around, my 3 year old and 18 month old were losing it. And it hit me.
This time has to be special for all the kids. It has to be about all of them, somehow. Not just Ryan. It HAS TO BE.
Now, we're not strangers to the Baylor campus. My husband is a proud Baylor graduate, and has taken me there on many occasions for games and the like. I didn't go there myself, but it is a pretty awesome place to study. So after about fifteen minutes of fussing (yeah, I'm a bit thick) I looked at Richie and asked if he'd like to go see the bears.
"Go see da sit 'em bears?"
Yes, baby. We'll go see them.
So every week, twice a week, we drive the 45 minutes to Baylor. We drop Ryan off at the BARC, then we walk around watching college kids, watching the bears in their habitat, walk around the bookstore (he loves to go to the tent... a tailgate display in the clothing section... and just stand there, saying "I in a tent!" We go climb a little hill with a tree at the top, with Richie taking time to walk down the hill "backterds". He also enjoys the fountain, walking up to stick his hand in the water flowing over the side. At the end of the semester, I've promised we'll do to the student union and get lunch, and then go to the bookstore and let him get a small green and gold football he's eyed, picked up, and snuggled every time we've been there so far.
Every time, Richie enjoys walking around with Mommy and Maelynn, pointing out the kids riding skateboards, bicycles, and talking to the squirrels and the birds and the bears. He smiles and says a hearty "Sic 'em" to all the real Baylor Bears on their way to class. He pushes the buttons for the elevator, and when we get to the BARC to get Ryan, every time Richie asks, "Want my tuuurn?"
In the chaos of keeping Ryan from running all over, all I can do is say "sweetie, just be thankful you don't need a turn."
And pray that Richie feels loved, heard, and special. And that Maelynn does too. Because they are wonderful, amazing, and special just as much as their brother. I appreciate the fact that they're giving up their naptimes in their little beds, snug with their favorite pillows and lovies. They're giving three hours of their sweet, precious days two days a week to making sure Ryan gets what he needs. No, they don't have a choice. But the days... the hours... of their lives matter, even if they're too little to complain. Brother's not more important, but we take care of each other. We care for each other, and do what we can to meet one another's needs. And we care for one another... we give... with a joyful heart. We may be tired, we may be flat exhausted. We may not understand why. But we do it. We do it because we're family. God gave us each other to care for, love, laugh with, cry with, wait for, and go through life with.
And I'm inexplicably grateful that He did.
In all the stuff that's going on, I keep coming back to the other two kids. You know, the ones who don't need ABA therapy to keep from launching into true hysterics when the computer overheats and they can't finish watching that one Thomas on the internet. The ones who are growing up in a family who is blessed with a big brother with Autism.
We spend so much time taking care of Ryan's needs, making sure Ryan's routine is kept, making sure he makes it to this and that. We work to keep a lid on his behavior, stay calm and even to make sure he has the foundation of calm, peaceful parents to build on.
Not that we always make it, but we do try. We want all our kids to have a fabulous time growing up. We want them all to have great memories of things we did together, of the fun, unique situations most of us remember from childhood. I want them to love each other. To care for each other. I wanted each of them to have each other... at least two good friends for life. When Dad died, I remember sitting there watching the other three siblings talk and laugh about everything from life from day one. They were in pain, they missed their brother. But their presence comforted each other. In their mother's house, they sat in the living room in her absence and told the stories of getting in trouble together, getting each other in trouble, and getting out of it. Of fun times fishing, hunting, driving (and more than their parents crazy), school, sports, all of it. Life. Lives lived together to a point, and still somewhat together across the states.
I knew that moment I wanted at least three kids.
At that moment, it is true that I had no idea Ryan had autism. We had discovered that he did have some speech issues, because he was 2 1/2 and change and barely any words. I was about 6 months pregnant with Richie. Yes, I do have a sister... I have a very special, BFF kind of sister who is eleven years my junior. She is precious to me in ways I cannot explain, yet completely different than the type of thing I witnessed that night. A child of a necessary divorce, I grew up with one foot in eastern Oklahoma and a foot in southeast Kansas. The only people who can sort of imagine or discuss the way I really grew up are my mother, who was married to my father for a short but harrowing amount of time, and my husband, who has listened at length to my descriptions and made way more than one trip to Kansas with me. So the desire to have my children have each other is, like so many things in life, purely of my own desire... completely selfish in its own way.
The first meeting of this semester's ABA therapy sessions at the Baylor Autism Resource Center was to simply meet and discuss goals. The new therapist this semester is much like the last one... smart, sweet, caring, and patient. Chipper, happy, yet very aware of what she is up against. I'm so grateful for the BARC and its students and directors! Truly a gift of God. At the end of the 45 minute drive, we arrived on campus, parked, and went in. That sounds simple... but trust me, with my brood it's a trek that would make cross-country runners shudder. The kids bounded into the room when B, our new therapist, opened the door. The kids dove in and had a blast digging through the whole lot of cars, trains, balls, the whole nine yards. While I attempted to talk to B about goals, Mae kept handing me random things. At one point I was holding a giant stuffed bear, a plastic caterpillar, and a toy radio. So much for taking notes, right? I was doing well to think straight.
The kids had a wonderful time. When our time was over, we picked up all the toys, put away the videos (for real! Elmo on VHS!) and went on our way. Back to the van, drive the 45 minutes home. Then fast forward to Wednesday, the first real therapy session. Ryan walked in the room with B, and Richie bounded right behind. Only this time, I had to stop him.
"Richie, honey, it's time for Ryan's therapy. We're not here to play today. It's not your turn." I tried to explain that we bring brother here to get help learning to do all kinds of things he doesn't understand.
He lost it. Crumpled in a heap, in real, frustrated, broken-hearted, I-totally-don't-get-this, It's-not-fair tears. He wasn't just unhappy that he didn't get to play. He wasn't just unhappy that his brother was leaving. It was both. Maelynn's beloved biggest brother wasn't there, her dear Richie was crying, so she starts losin' her little mind too. And there, in the hall in front of the BARC, with other classes going on around, my 3 year old and 18 month old were losing it. And it hit me.
This time has to be special for all the kids. It has to be about all of them, somehow. Not just Ryan. It HAS TO BE.
Now, we're not strangers to the Baylor campus. My husband is a proud Baylor graduate, and has taken me there on many occasions for games and the like. I didn't go there myself, but it is a pretty awesome place to study. So after about fifteen minutes of fussing (yeah, I'm a bit thick) I looked at Richie and asked if he'd like to go see the bears.
"Go see da sit 'em bears?"
Yes, baby. We'll go see them.
So every week, twice a week, we drive the 45 minutes to Baylor. We drop Ryan off at the BARC, then we walk around watching college kids, watching the bears in their habitat, walk around the bookstore (he loves to go to the tent... a tailgate display in the clothing section... and just stand there, saying "I in a tent!" We go climb a little hill with a tree at the top, with Richie taking time to walk down the hill "backterds". He also enjoys the fountain, walking up to stick his hand in the water flowing over the side. At the end of the semester, I've promised we'll do to the student union and get lunch, and then go to the bookstore and let him get a small green and gold football he's eyed, picked up, and snuggled every time we've been there so far.
Every time, Richie enjoys walking around with Mommy and Maelynn, pointing out the kids riding skateboards, bicycles, and talking to the squirrels and the birds and the bears. He smiles and says a hearty "Sic 'em" to all the real Baylor Bears on their way to class. He pushes the buttons for the elevator, and when we get to the BARC to get Ryan, every time Richie asks, "Want my tuuurn?"
In the chaos of keeping Ryan from running all over, all I can do is say "sweetie, just be thankful you don't need a turn."
And pray that Richie feels loved, heard, and special. And that Maelynn does too. Because they are wonderful, amazing, and special just as much as their brother. I appreciate the fact that they're giving up their naptimes in their little beds, snug with their favorite pillows and lovies. They're giving three hours of their sweet, precious days two days a week to making sure Ryan gets what he needs. No, they don't have a choice. But the days... the hours... of their lives matter, even if they're too little to complain. Brother's not more important, but we take care of each other. We care for each other, and do what we can to meet one another's needs. And we care for one another... we give... with a joyful heart. We may be tired, we may be flat exhausted. We may not understand why. But we do it. We do it because we're family. God gave us each other to care for, love, laugh with, cry with, wait for, and go through life with.
And I'm inexplicably grateful that He did.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
I am weak...
I have a confession to make.
I absolutely adore my kids. They're awesome. Because I think they're awesome, I want to make them feel special, and make sure they have every shot at being happy, well-adjusted, and content. Seems like 90 percent of the time I spend making sure they understand the rules of the game. You know, the big one. The one we all play with spoken and unspoken rules. The one where the only thing you can control is yourself, and there's just not always that much one can do about oneself at times.
But having been on this rotating globe for a bit over 33 years, which is or isn't very long depending on who you talk to, I can tell you that I stink at the rules and the unspoken rules. Especially the unspoken ones. I like face-value, honest communication in love. Believe it or not, this doesn't always win friends and influence people. I really don't care who you know or what kind of car/phone/clothes you have. I care who you are. Over the course of the first 27 years of my life I absorbed enough emotional abuse to make me completely uninterested in anything but honest, forthcoming, and true. Don't get me wrong... I'm no angel. I make more than my fair share of mistakes. But the core idea remains the same. It's an attitude; a heart condition. I want to do my best to live the way Christ would live, and give others the benefit of the doubt that they're doing their best to do the same. My biggest problem there is having the gastrointestinal fortitude to say things like, "no, I don't agree. Yes, that hurts my heart. Please stop saying that." I'm not good at calling people on things, especially when I've seen how they've hurt others with words and/or actions. Drawing boundaries... lines in the sand, if you will... is something I have to work hard at.
The shortest way to say it? I make a great doormat.
Not with my kids... not with my husband. People I know I can trust to have my best interest at heart are different. Take my husband. I can tell him I have a problem with something he said, calmly and respectfully, and the biggest thing I worry about is seeing the hurt look on his face as he apologizes. We talk through those differences, sometimes agreeing to disagree. But when someone else disagrees or says something that I could contest, my brain often turns to mush. Depending on the situation, of course. I'm also one of those people who doesn't want to bother anyone. Not one to ask for help. And there is no "man's work". I was raised by a single mother. We put furniture together, we moved, we shopped, we fixed things, we painted, we lived... all with just a 30-something, gorgeous woman and a little girl. How does this translate to doormat? There's a whole other story there... one usually has two parents. I had a great mother. The rest is a whole other series of posts.
That said, read the term "warrior mothers" and have the hardest time applying that to me. I think of "warrior mothers" as the ones who speak up on behalf of all of us in the trenches with our kids. Those who are smooth enough to keep the sword moving with one hand and keep her own house going with the other. The ones who are fighting this law and have raised money with that fundraiser, all while fighting their own battles with ASD in their own families. The way I fight autism is more the way Hiccup in "How to Train Your Dragon" taught the villagers about dragons, using his accidental friendship with Toothless, the most horrible dragon known to vikingkind. Hiccup sought to be like the other vikings. In trying to kill a night fury, he found himself faced with a dilemma. After cutting the dragon loose from his bindings, Hiccup begins the process of getting to know Toothless. My favorite part of the whole movie shows Hiccup feeding Toothless a whole raw fish. Realizing that Hiccup doesn't have a snack of his own, Toothless regurgitates half for the boy, sitting back innocently on his haunches after dropping the "treat" in his lap, expecting the poor kid to chew into a half of a raw fish. Blech. Following that little scene, this one touched my heart.
Of all the crazy-tough, leathery Vikings, the weakest of all is the one who reaches Toothless and changes the village. Humility, giving, sincerity are more important to learning about the dragon and explaining them to everyone else. Gentleness and a willingness to listen and learn and adapt to learn about this completely foreign character. As I watched Hiccup dance around Toothless' drawings, looking for his reactions, I can't help but think of Ryan's teacher from the last three years, his teacher this year, his aid at school, his aid and teachers at church, his Daddy and I, and all of us who come into contact with Ryan. We have to think out of the box, learning about him, teaching him about us, teaching everyone about him... but remaining gracious and respectful. In our situation, for the time being, it works. There will likely come a time in the future when we have to draw our parental swords, but for now everything is going rather smoothly. We have a kindergarten teacher and aid who are humble and willing to listen to not only us but the teacher Ryan had for three years. And I'm thankful that the teacher Ryan had for three years in PPCD loves him enough to take the time to make sure she communicates everything that would be helpful, that all of us are willing to stay in communication about him.
In feeling through these still early years of raising a child who has severe autism, it is inexpressably valuable to have the school system we have, the teachers, the administrators who care for our guy enough to make sure he has what he needs. Everything dovetails so amazingly, so intricately, that I cannot explain it. Coincidence just doesn't do it. Even with the rough times we have dancing around the lines autism draws in the sand, it is more clear every day that "In him we have obtained an inheritance, having been predestined according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will." (Ephesians 1:11, ESV)
We are held in His hand, called according to the purpose He has for us. I cling to this because it has not failed me yet. It gives me peace and hope for not just Ryan but Richie and Maelynn... for everything. The belief that God is soverign gives me the only confidence I have. That faith is the only thing I've always had with me to rest on, the thing that never leaves, has never changed, and will never change. It is the greatest gift I can give my children in addition to my love and care. I have heard in the past that belief in a higher power... I've even heard God referred to as "an imaginary sky friend"... exhibits a weakness.
Yep.
Jesus Loves me, this I know
For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
They are weak, but He is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
The Bible tells me so.
I am weak. I need help. He is strong, He is real, and He loves me. Proof? All I have, other than the Bible, is experience. Some hard miles. Lots of hard miles. And through those miles I've learned that sometimes, nothing helps you become stronger more than admitting you're weak.
Because it's all worth the times I get to touch the real Ryan.
I absolutely adore my kids. They're awesome. Because I think they're awesome, I want to make them feel special, and make sure they have every shot at being happy, well-adjusted, and content. Seems like 90 percent of the time I spend making sure they understand the rules of the game. You know, the big one. The one we all play with spoken and unspoken rules. The one where the only thing you can control is yourself, and there's just not always that much one can do about oneself at times.
But having been on this rotating globe for a bit over 33 years, which is or isn't very long depending on who you talk to, I can tell you that I stink at the rules and the unspoken rules. Especially the unspoken ones. I like face-value, honest communication in love. Believe it or not, this doesn't always win friends and influence people. I really don't care who you know or what kind of car/phone/clothes you have. I care who you are. Over the course of the first 27 years of my life I absorbed enough emotional abuse to make me completely uninterested in anything but honest, forthcoming, and true. Don't get me wrong... I'm no angel. I make more than my fair share of mistakes. But the core idea remains the same. It's an attitude; a heart condition. I want to do my best to live the way Christ would live, and give others the benefit of the doubt that they're doing their best to do the same. My biggest problem there is having the gastrointestinal fortitude to say things like, "no, I don't agree. Yes, that hurts my heart. Please stop saying that." I'm not good at calling people on things, especially when I've seen how they've hurt others with words and/or actions. Drawing boundaries... lines in the sand, if you will... is something I have to work hard at.
The shortest way to say it? I make a great doormat.
Not with my kids... not with my husband. People I know I can trust to have my best interest at heart are different. Take my husband. I can tell him I have a problem with something he said, calmly and respectfully, and the biggest thing I worry about is seeing the hurt look on his face as he apologizes. We talk through those differences, sometimes agreeing to disagree. But when someone else disagrees or says something that I could contest, my brain often turns to mush. Depending on the situation, of course. I'm also one of those people who doesn't want to bother anyone. Not one to ask for help. And there is no "man's work". I was raised by a single mother. We put furniture together, we moved, we shopped, we fixed things, we painted, we lived... all with just a 30-something, gorgeous woman and a little girl. How does this translate to doormat? There's a whole other story there... one usually has two parents. I had a great mother. The rest is a whole other series of posts.
That said, read the term "warrior mothers" and have the hardest time applying that to me. I think of "warrior mothers" as the ones who speak up on behalf of all of us in the trenches with our kids. Those who are smooth enough to keep the sword moving with one hand and keep her own house going with the other. The ones who are fighting this law and have raised money with that fundraiser, all while fighting their own battles with ASD in their own families. The way I fight autism is more the way Hiccup in "How to Train Your Dragon" taught the villagers about dragons, using his accidental friendship with Toothless, the most horrible dragon known to vikingkind. Hiccup sought to be like the other vikings. In trying to kill a night fury, he found himself faced with a dilemma. After cutting the dragon loose from his bindings, Hiccup begins the process of getting to know Toothless. My favorite part of the whole movie shows Hiccup feeding Toothless a whole raw fish. Realizing that Hiccup doesn't have a snack of his own, Toothless regurgitates half for the boy, sitting back innocently on his haunches after dropping the "treat" in his lap, expecting the poor kid to chew into a half of a raw fish. Blech. Following that little scene, this one touched my heart.
Of all the crazy-tough, leathery Vikings, the weakest of all is the one who reaches Toothless and changes the village. Humility, giving, sincerity are more important to learning about the dragon and explaining them to everyone else. Gentleness and a willingness to listen and learn and adapt to learn about this completely foreign character. As I watched Hiccup dance around Toothless' drawings, looking for his reactions, I can't help but think of Ryan's teacher from the last three years, his teacher this year, his aid at school, his aid and teachers at church, his Daddy and I, and all of us who come into contact with Ryan. We have to think out of the box, learning about him, teaching him about us, teaching everyone about him... but remaining gracious and respectful. In our situation, for the time being, it works. There will likely come a time in the future when we have to draw our parental swords, but for now everything is going rather smoothly. We have a kindergarten teacher and aid who are humble and willing to listen to not only us but the teacher Ryan had for three years. And I'm thankful that the teacher Ryan had for three years in PPCD loves him enough to take the time to make sure she communicates everything that would be helpful, that all of us are willing to stay in communication about him.
In feeling through these still early years of raising a child who has severe autism, it is inexpressably valuable to have the school system we have, the teachers, the administrators who care for our guy enough to make sure he has what he needs. Everything dovetails so amazingly, so intricately, that I cannot explain it. Coincidence just doesn't do it. Even with the rough times we have dancing around the lines autism draws in the sand, it is more clear every day that "In him we have obtained an inheritance, having been predestined according to the purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will." (Ephesians 1:11, ESV)
We are held in His hand, called according to the purpose He has for us. I cling to this because it has not failed me yet. It gives me peace and hope for not just Ryan but Richie and Maelynn... for everything. The belief that God is soverign gives me the only confidence I have. That faith is the only thing I've always had with me to rest on, the thing that never leaves, has never changed, and will never change. It is the greatest gift I can give my children in addition to my love and care. I have heard in the past that belief in a higher power... I've even heard God referred to as "an imaginary sky friend"... exhibits a weakness.
Yep.
Jesus Loves me, this I know
For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
They are weak, but He is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
The Bible tells me so.
I am weak. I need help. He is strong, He is real, and He loves me. Proof? All I have, other than the Bible, is experience. Some hard miles. Lots of hard miles. And through those miles I've learned that sometimes, nothing helps you become stronger more than admitting you're weak.
Because it's all worth the times I get to touch the real Ryan.
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