Because I always enjoy taking my little bud out to different places I would often take him with me to Starbucks. He loved the Raspberry Mocha and I had to fight him over mine all the time. Also had to fight him for the chocolate mint brownie…which he couldn’t shove into his little mouth fast enough. He is surely his grandmother’s grand”sun.” I, my friends am a raging chocoholic and proud of it. In Drake’s case I created a monster.
We were sitting at a table kinda doing our kinda stuff when something ticked him off. “When he gets ticked off” is an expression I use for MAN DID IT GET UGGGGLY because it is kinder and gentler, and it sounds so much better. Truth be known he had a raging meltdown (translated loosely as screaming)…probably wanted to show the public what a real meltdown is, and proceeded to fling the Venti Raspberry Mocha all over the floor. People looked aghast. Boy is that kid spoiled was written all over their faces. Boo hoo hoo…I thought…go bark up another tree! The people working there were great because they know all about this little guy and their faces said IT IS OK. My face must have said, UGH! $4.00 all over the floor. His face said, what? what? Did I do something wrong grandma? Never my love, never. We just have to teach you what is right. I would also like to add they replaced his drink!
Like I said earlier, sometimes Autism wins and sometimes Grandma wins. This was score one for Autism. Can’t win them all…at least right away. Now he can go in and order his drink and put on his restaurant manners. Way to go my love…
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Anecdote: A School Bus…Aaaaggggggg
When Drakster started his special ed program we were so darn excited. It would be wonderful for him to learn how to speak, socialize, follow directions, and get over certain fears. This first day was setting the little guy on his path of wonder and awe and all kinds of good stuff! (Did I just say good stuff—Did I???)
In fairness to the program they were all wonderful. In fairness to my HEART: Oh my oh my, never knew a STUPID YELLOW SCHOOL BUS could do so much damage to one’s very existence. Had no warning! Was not prepared! Boy did that bus rock my already rocked world.
When I removed Drake from his car seat and walked him towards the school, everything went well UNTIL THE STUPID YELLOW SCHOOL BUS came into view…just sitting there in all its glory…minding its own business…letting kids disembark in playful abandon…WITH THE ENGINE RUNNING! You want to talk about a wow moment—that was a “what the frig” moment.
Huh? What? Why? Why are you screaming my little darling? Why are your cute little feet encased in big boy sneakers not touching the ground? How the heck can someone run up in the air? I was shocked to say the least. STUNNED would be more appropriate. All this of course was in sync with screams that broke your heart. OK, OK…there has to be a solution; and being the tough old broad that I am I came up with one. HAH! Autism you will not win this battle, no how, no way.
I started parking my car on the other side of the bus so we would HAVE TO PASS IT…not just see and hear it. I took three Advil and braced myself. As his little guy feet were doing what I refer to as the Irish Jig, I would tell him that that bus was sooooo cool and yellow and fun and nothing to be afraid of and…UGH! He isn’t listening to one word I am saying. NOPA! NADA! How can he hear me above his screams. OK Autism, you may have won this round but the fight has just begin…
The next day I took three more Advil and tried this again. This time I didn’t say anything but just walked passed the bus a liiiiittle bit closer than the day before. He still did the Jiggie Jig but the screams were not quite as bad and off to school he went. In my head I kinda sorta stuck my tongue out at Autism! HAH!
For the next few days I would walk him a bit closer each time—NO SCREAMS—FEET ON THE GROUND—YES! YES! YES! I even had him touch the bus; another my oh my moment. Finally I asked the driver and the teacher if I could have him get on the bus for a minute (if he would do this,) and they gave a resounding YES! Isn’t yes a cool word? Anyways, back to the bus; he climbed a few steps then wanted off. The next time he climbed a few more steps before getting off. Before we knew it he was RIDING the bus to school.
Autism underestimates Grandmas at times! Sadly, sometimes Grandmas can underestimate Autism as well. So we will continue to butt heads…
In fairness to the program they were all wonderful. In fairness to my HEART: Oh my oh my, never knew a STUPID YELLOW SCHOOL BUS could do so much damage to one’s very existence. Had no warning! Was not prepared! Boy did that bus rock my already rocked world.
When I removed Drake from his car seat and walked him towards the school, everything went well UNTIL THE STUPID YELLOW SCHOOL BUS came into view…just sitting there in all its glory…minding its own business…letting kids disembark in playful abandon…WITH THE ENGINE RUNNING! You want to talk about a wow moment—that was a “what the frig” moment.
Huh? What? Why? Why are you screaming my little darling? Why are your cute little feet encased in big boy sneakers not touching the ground? How the heck can someone run up in the air? I was shocked to say the least. STUNNED would be more appropriate. All this of course was in sync with screams that broke your heart. OK, OK…there has to be a solution; and being the tough old broad that I am I came up with one. HAH! Autism you will not win this battle, no how, no way.
I started parking my car on the other side of the bus so we would HAVE TO PASS IT…not just see and hear it. I took three Advil and braced myself. As his little guy feet were doing what I refer to as the Irish Jig, I would tell him that that bus was sooooo cool and yellow and fun and nothing to be afraid of and…UGH! He isn’t listening to one word I am saying. NOPA! NADA! How can he hear me above his screams. OK Autism, you may have won this round but the fight has just begin…
The next day I took three more Advil and tried this again. This time I didn’t say anything but just walked passed the bus a liiiiittle bit closer than the day before. He still did the Jiggie Jig but the screams were not quite as bad and off to school he went. In my head I kinda sorta stuck my tongue out at Autism! HAH!
For the next few days I would walk him a bit closer each time—NO SCREAMS—FEET ON THE GROUND—YES! YES! YES! I even had him touch the bus; another my oh my moment. Finally I asked the driver and the teacher if I could have him get on the bus for a minute (if he would do this,) and they gave a resounding YES! Isn’t yes a cool word? Anyways, back to the bus; he climbed a few steps then wanted off. The next time he climbed a few more steps before getting off. Before we knew it he was RIDING the bus to school.
Autism underestimates Grandmas at times! Sadly, sometimes Grandmas can underestimate Autism as well. So we will continue to butt heads…
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Staying Focused and on Point: Yeah, Right!
One of the first things to be discussed after he was diagnosed, and we tried our best to stay focused on the doctor’s words was: “Get all the therapies set up as soon as possible. ABA is the very best…has a great track record…waste no time…basically, a kick butt and take names kind of attitude.”
We spent our ride home talking about all the calls we would start making as soon as we got out of the car. IMMEDIATE, IMMEDIATE, IMMEDIATE became our mantra. Get him set up with special education classes immediately. Get him into speech therapy immediately. Get him occupational therapy immediately. Get him physical therapy…YUP! ya guessed it…immediately. WE HAD TO GET ON ALL THIS STUFF IMMEDIATELY…IF NOT SOONER!! The entire time we are traveling back home and discussing everything we would glance back at Drake…watch him in all his innocence…having no clue as to all the work that was now going to become an integral part of his being. His being? His existence? Good God this kid is only three years old and his life has taken a drastic turn and he has NO awareness…and that was really a good thing…for us, unbearable!
As soon as we arrived back at Jen’s home, items were thrown on the countertop, he was grabbed and bombarded with hugs and kisses and more hugs and more kisses; not understanding the tears that were running down our cheeks and falling onto his beautiful little head, which I suppose was a good thing. He was tended to an then out came the phone book. OK, OK…where do we start…whom do we call first…what to do—what to do. Despair can cloud your thoughts yet it can also spur you on. What a weird word! What a weird flow of emotions! It started to seem surreal…a dream we would wake up from. But it wasn’t a dream to wake up from, it was a nightmare that was just being. Thank goodness we were too damn stupid about the AUTISM process to know this, for grief may have come in an unstoppable flood, hampering our going forward…and go forward we did…with a friggin’ vengeance. When I think back on everything that transpired I kinda sorta feel sorry for some of the people that dealt with me and my beloved daughter; but only kinda sorta.
We called the school district office and told them about our little angel and informed them that we had to get him into a special program right away; today if possible. WHAT? WHAT? We have to set an appointment and this takes some time? HUH? But we have to start immediately, don’t you understand? This is what the doctor said and this is what we have to do. There was nothing we could do but set up the appointment. Then the insurance company is called to see what was covered. NOTHING? ARE YOU SAYING NOTHING? No ABA? No therapies? NOTHING? NADA? ZILCH? ZERO? NOOOOOTHING? Oh, uh, I see…autism is not covered. Autism is a dirty little word never to be used with insurance companies. They hate it. It means they will have to pay…heaven forbid! We finally figured a way around this obstacle and set up therapies. We are on our way to immediate.
Finally the day comes for Drake’s evaluation at the special education program. While talking with them we found out there was another part to getting him in and that would have to be set up…yet again. (I envisioned myself beating the living crap out of these people but contained myself like a good grandma.) As luck would have it serendipity was on our side. One of the teachers happened to walk into the room to announce that someone cancelled and there would be an (here’s that word again) IMMEDIATE opening for further evaluation. If my memory is correct (at my age it is hard to tell so please bear with an old woman,) he was seen a few days later. Amazing! His initial evaluation at Children’s Hospital was also ahead of schedule due to a cancellation…seems things happen in strange ways.
When we went to the next meeting, we were told they would work with him while we stayed out of the room—but would be able to watch through a special one-way window. They would do different testing, including one requiring a ball. We told the woman testing him that he has this thing about throwing the ball UP and had incredible aim. She just took it in and walked away with our little guy and we held our breath. As we were watching him being tested we see someone hand him a ball…here we go. He took the ball, threw it straight UP at the tiled ceiling and down came a huge cloud of tile dust. I have to admit Jen and I laughed our selves into convulsions. All of a sudden, with all this white stuff floating around, we hear the tester, in a low voice say, “they did say he does that!” Way to go Drakster. He was accepted into the school, starting the beginning of the year and hope began to return.
When I start the anecdotes there will be some from the school experience. There will also be some funny stories about therapy. Hard to image the word funny being used. Actually, some stories are hysterical. Many times we laughed so hard it made it difficult to breathe.
The main thing that came out of this learning process is this: You are the advocate. You have to fight and fight some more if need be. Good thing we aren’t drinkers!
We spent our ride home talking about all the calls we would start making as soon as we got out of the car. IMMEDIATE, IMMEDIATE, IMMEDIATE became our mantra. Get him set up with special education classes immediately. Get him into speech therapy immediately. Get him occupational therapy immediately. Get him physical therapy…YUP! ya guessed it…immediately. WE HAD TO GET ON ALL THIS STUFF IMMEDIATELY…IF NOT SOONER!! The entire time we are traveling back home and discussing everything we would glance back at Drake…watch him in all his innocence…having no clue as to all the work that was now going to become an integral part of his being. His being? His existence? Good God this kid is only three years old and his life has taken a drastic turn and he has NO awareness…and that was really a good thing…for us, unbearable!
As soon as we arrived back at Jen’s home, items were thrown on the countertop, he was grabbed and bombarded with hugs and kisses and more hugs and more kisses; not understanding the tears that were running down our cheeks and falling onto his beautiful little head, which I suppose was a good thing. He was tended to an then out came the phone book. OK, OK…where do we start…whom do we call first…what to do—what to do. Despair can cloud your thoughts yet it can also spur you on. What a weird word! What a weird flow of emotions! It started to seem surreal…a dream we would wake up from. But it wasn’t a dream to wake up from, it was a nightmare that was just being. Thank goodness we were too damn stupid about the AUTISM process to know this, for grief may have come in an unstoppable flood, hampering our going forward…and go forward we did…with a friggin’ vengeance. When I think back on everything that transpired I kinda sorta feel sorry for some of the people that dealt with me and my beloved daughter; but only kinda sorta.
We called the school district office and told them about our little angel and informed them that we had to get him into a special program right away; today if possible. WHAT? WHAT? We have to set an appointment and this takes some time? HUH? But we have to start immediately, don’t you understand? This is what the doctor said and this is what we have to do. There was nothing we could do but set up the appointment. Then the insurance company is called to see what was covered. NOTHING? ARE YOU SAYING NOTHING? No ABA? No therapies? NOTHING? NADA? ZILCH? ZERO? NOOOOOTHING? Oh, uh, I see…autism is not covered. Autism is a dirty little word never to be used with insurance companies. They hate it. It means they will have to pay…heaven forbid! We finally figured a way around this obstacle and set up therapies. We are on our way to immediate.
Finally the day comes for Drake’s evaluation at the special education program. While talking with them we found out there was another part to getting him in and that would have to be set up…yet again. (I envisioned myself beating the living crap out of these people but contained myself like a good grandma.) As luck would have it serendipity was on our side. One of the teachers happened to walk into the room to announce that someone cancelled and there would be an (here’s that word again) IMMEDIATE opening for further evaluation. If my memory is correct (at my age it is hard to tell so please bear with an old woman,) he was seen a few days later. Amazing! His initial evaluation at Children’s Hospital was also ahead of schedule due to a cancellation…seems things happen in strange ways.
When we went to the next meeting, we were told they would work with him while we stayed out of the room—but would be able to watch through a special one-way window. They would do different testing, including one requiring a ball. We told the woman testing him that he has this thing about throwing the ball UP and had incredible aim. She just took it in and walked away with our little guy and we held our breath. As we were watching him being tested we see someone hand him a ball…here we go. He took the ball, threw it straight UP at the tiled ceiling and down came a huge cloud of tile dust. I have to admit Jen and I laughed our selves into convulsions. All of a sudden, with all this white stuff floating around, we hear the tester, in a low voice say, “they did say he does that!” Way to go Drakster. He was accepted into the school, starting the beginning of the year and hope began to return.
When I start the anecdotes there will be some from the school experience. There will also be some funny stories about therapy. Hard to image the word funny being used. Actually, some stories are hysterical. Many times we laughed so hard it made it difficult to breathe.
The main thing that came out of this learning process is this: You are the advocate. You have to fight and fight some more if need be. Good thing we aren’t drinkers!
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Diagnosis
The time had finally arrived for the dreaded trip to the doctor’s office, the dreaded testing, the dreaded discussion. Terrible day. So full of dread. Couldn’t seem to shake it. My daughter and I tried to stay calm and to keep things light as we made our way to the hospital with that cute little guy in tow. “Hey Chunkster, want a cookie?” I asked. “Cookie,” he replied. “Hey, Boo, want a drink?” his mom asked. “Drink” came flying back at us. That’s it kiddo, keep communicating and show those morons that you are fine. “Oh see the sky?” “Sky.” “Look, look, there’s a little dog.” “Dog.” This kid was going to kick some butt today, yes indeed. All kinda, sorta felt well with the world, as we tried to let the dread fade into the nether regions of our minds.
While sitting in the waiting room it felt like the walls were pulsating with fear. Nothing happy here. No sir. New babies aren’t being born here. Marriage proposals aren’t being made here. Plans for Christmas aren’t discussed here. Good school grades aren’t achieved here. Grades are made but they are not the kinds of grades you want to be discussing.
Within a few moments Jen and I are laughing ourselves to the point of painful stomach spasms. A social worker walked into the lounge area, and we hear this little voice say, “Hi doll.” Being the uptight stoic that most therapists appear to be, she glanced his way yet didn’t even acknowledge him, and we laughed to the click of her heels receding down the hallway. If someone that cute ever called me doll I sure as heck would have smiled, especially when the person saying it is THREE years old! Way to go kid.
I have to admit there is a story behind “hi doll.” Because I spent so much time with Drake I was constantly using little terms of endearment; hi doll being one of them. The first thing I would say to this fantastic little kid whenever I saw him was, “Hi doll.” During a trip to the supermarket one wild and crazy day, he was sitting in the front of the cart with his little boy feet covered by the cutest little sneakers that lit up when he kicked something (preferably not me), when he looked towards the woman standing patiently behind me and said (in a voice that seemed to reverberate throughout the store), “Hi doll.” The startled woman laughed so hard I thought she would bust a gut right there on the spot. Imagine your day being made by a little kid with his light up sneakers dangling through the front of a grocery cart, smiling and calling you doll. Awesome. Everyone in the store must have thought that his father was the town flirt, a real loser who tries to pick up the babes with his little babe at his side. His poor, poor wife. Shameful I tell ya. Little did they know.
Back to the waiting room and the ticking of the clock and piles of paper work to be filled out. Questions, a quagmire of questions, a sea of questions, a never ending list of questions, running on and on to where we did not yet know. How do they think up so many darn questions is my question. This paper work is the moment of truth. “Do I answer like this?” Jen asks. “Should I put this down? Will this make it seem like that? Will that make it seem like this?” I told Jen, “answer from the heart, and hold nothing back; holding back would do more harm than good so let it all fly.” And fly it did.
The first few questions were easy: parent’s names, child’s name, place of birth, date of birth, ya da ya da ya da. Going down the list became harder and harder, to the point of actually getting confusing, until you realize they are phrasing already asked questions in different ways to see if your answers stay consistent. Yes, he does that. Yes, he sometimes does that. Nope, never does that. “Ma, what do you think I should put here?” Jen asks. “I guess you should put a question mark, ‘cause I think that happens more often than not,” I whispered. He does that, but don’t most kids? Started to wonder. The list of yes check marks seems to grow out of control. I feel like we are losing control. I sense my daughter starting to internally spiral down, down, towards that place where you do not want to be yet can’t reverse yourself. After an eternity passes and you think you can’t answer another question, we are called into the testing area, and I almost expected to hear a voice over a loud speaker announce: Let the games begin.
As the doctor speaks to my daughter and me (I let Jen do most of the talking; this is her son and I want her to feel she has the control,) Drake is off doing his own thing, seeming to have a good time and being quite entertaining: charming everyone in the room with his amazingly beautiful big brown eyes and awesome cuteness. Before long we are asked to leave the room so they can evaluate him totally on their own. We were so afraid that he would cry and carry on, throwing himself into a fit when he saw us leave the room. What an ego deflater—he was fine—we weren’t.
We walked around and worried, and went outside and worried, and went back upstairs and worried, and didn’t talk about anything and still we worried. We worried ourselves right back into the testing room after almost two hours to find out the results. Worry is an awful word, a terrible emotion. Wish it could be stricken from our vernacular.
And now for the moment of truth. As this truth is pouring forth in tidal waves, Drake is going along his merry little way, completely oblivious to the devastation falling all around him, like a rock slide that has no end; just keeps falling until it lands on you. When it landed it was with vengeance: Autism. Autistic…ringing throughout the room. Autistic…reverberating through our heads, banging and crashing around in our skulls until we felt we would scream out with pain. Autistic but high-functioning—wawawawawa. Does that mean there is a God? Oh God, oh God, oh God—wawawawawa. Seemed like the only sound I could hear was the wawawawawa running through my head. I tried to focus but have trouble doing so. Jen was already walking down her dark path and to have asked her anything at that time would have been pointless. I would just have to wait for her return.
He is high-functioning we are told. He will need speech, physical and occupational therapies. He will need to attend special education classes. Intense ABA therapy would be the greatest thing for him. Will he learn to smile, hug, make eye contact, be able to concentrate on things, be amazed at all of nature’s creatures? Will he be able to say I love you, I’m sorry, I want a cookie, say I hate you when he gets angry, play peek-a-boo? Will he learn how to communicate his wants and needs? Will he ever ask for and ice cream or soda or candy or a lollipop? Will we ever be able to ask him to please be quiet? He has to learn these things. We will make him learn these things.
I again looked at my daughter and can see that she has been sucked into a tunnel of darkness that shows no glimmer of light at the end. Nope, I can’t have that. We will confer in the car. We will bounce this back and forth. We will—actually I had no clue. The only thing I do know at the moment is the thought of going home and crying my heart out, emptying it of all that is felt there, numbing myself so I could go on.
While driving home something hit me like a ton of bricks; more like two or three tons. I realized that every time Drake spoke he was actually repeating everything he heard. That moment was an epiphany for me. Everything seemed to become crystal clear after that. Now I truly understood the meaning of the word echolalia. Such a beautiful sounding word. How could such a beautiful word have such an ugly definition? We had a tortuous road ahead of us, and I knew we would find the strength to go on, but at moment I had never felt more fragile and capable of shattering into millions of little pieces.
The hour it took to get home was agonizing. The sky didn’t look as blue as it had on the way to the hospital. The grass took on a weird shade of green. Everything appeared blurry and fractured, like looking through a broken piece of glass. For a moment it even looked like the sun had turned black, but only for a fleeting moment. The sun had to keep shining if we were going to survive this.
While sitting in the waiting room it felt like the walls were pulsating with fear. Nothing happy here. No sir. New babies aren’t being born here. Marriage proposals aren’t being made here. Plans for Christmas aren’t discussed here. Good school grades aren’t achieved here. Grades are made but they are not the kinds of grades you want to be discussing.
Within a few moments Jen and I are laughing ourselves to the point of painful stomach spasms. A social worker walked into the lounge area, and we hear this little voice say, “Hi doll.” Being the uptight stoic that most therapists appear to be, she glanced his way yet didn’t even acknowledge him, and we laughed to the click of her heels receding down the hallway. If someone that cute ever called me doll I sure as heck would have smiled, especially when the person saying it is THREE years old! Way to go kid.
I have to admit there is a story behind “hi doll.” Because I spent so much time with Drake I was constantly using little terms of endearment; hi doll being one of them. The first thing I would say to this fantastic little kid whenever I saw him was, “Hi doll.” During a trip to the supermarket one wild and crazy day, he was sitting in the front of the cart with his little boy feet covered by the cutest little sneakers that lit up when he kicked something (preferably not me), when he looked towards the woman standing patiently behind me and said (in a voice that seemed to reverberate throughout the store), “Hi doll.” The startled woman laughed so hard I thought she would bust a gut right there on the spot. Imagine your day being made by a little kid with his light up sneakers dangling through the front of a grocery cart, smiling and calling you doll. Awesome. Everyone in the store must have thought that his father was the town flirt, a real loser who tries to pick up the babes with his little babe at his side. His poor, poor wife. Shameful I tell ya. Little did they know.
Back to the waiting room and the ticking of the clock and piles of paper work to be filled out. Questions, a quagmire of questions, a sea of questions, a never ending list of questions, running on and on to where we did not yet know. How do they think up so many darn questions is my question. This paper work is the moment of truth. “Do I answer like this?” Jen asks. “Should I put this down? Will this make it seem like that? Will that make it seem like this?” I told Jen, “answer from the heart, and hold nothing back; holding back would do more harm than good so let it all fly.” And fly it did.
The first few questions were easy: parent’s names, child’s name, place of birth, date of birth, ya da ya da ya da. Going down the list became harder and harder, to the point of actually getting confusing, until you realize they are phrasing already asked questions in different ways to see if your answers stay consistent. Yes, he does that. Yes, he sometimes does that. Nope, never does that. “Ma, what do you think I should put here?” Jen asks. “I guess you should put a question mark, ‘cause I think that happens more often than not,” I whispered. He does that, but don’t most kids? Started to wonder. The list of yes check marks seems to grow out of control. I feel like we are losing control. I sense my daughter starting to internally spiral down, down, towards that place where you do not want to be yet can’t reverse yourself. After an eternity passes and you think you can’t answer another question, we are called into the testing area, and I almost expected to hear a voice over a loud speaker announce: Let the games begin.
As the doctor speaks to my daughter and me (I let Jen do most of the talking; this is her son and I want her to feel she has the control,) Drake is off doing his own thing, seeming to have a good time and being quite entertaining: charming everyone in the room with his amazingly beautiful big brown eyes and awesome cuteness. Before long we are asked to leave the room so they can evaluate him totally on their own. We were so afraid that he would cry and carry on, throwing himself into a fit when he saw us leave the room. What an ego deflater—he was fine—we weren’t.
We walked around and worried, and went outside and worried, and went back upstairs and worried, and didn’t talk about anything and still we worried. We worried ourselves right back into the testing room after almost two hours to find out the results. Worry is an awful word, a terrible emotion. Wish it could be stricken from our vernacular.
And now for the moment of truth. As this truth is pouring forth in tidal waves, Drake is going along his merry little way, completely oblivious to the devastation falling all around him, like a rock slide that has no end; just keeps falling until it lands on you. When it landed it was with vengeance: Autism. Autistic…ringing throughout the room. Autistic…reverberating through our heads, banging and crashing around in our skulls until we felt we would scream out with pain. Autistic but high-functioning—wawawawawa. Does that mean there is a God? Oh God, oh God, oh God—wawawawawa. Seemed like the only sound I could hear was the wawawawawa running through my head. I tried to focus but have trouble doing so. Jen was already walking down her dark path and to have asked her anything at that time would have been pointless. I would just have to wait for her return.
He is high-functioning we are told. He will need speech, physical and occupational therapies. He will need to attend special education classes. Intense ABA therapy would be the greatest thing for him. Will he learn to smile, hug, make eye contact, be able to concentrate on things, be amazed at all of nature’s creatures? Will he be able to say I love you, I’m sorry, I want a cookie, say I hate you when he gets angry, play peek-a-boo? Will he learn how to communicate his wants and needs? Will he ever ask for and ice cream or soda or candy or a lollipop? Will we ever be able to ask him to please be quiet? He has to learn these things. We will make him learn these things.
I again looked at my daughter and can see that she has been sucked into a tunnel of darkness that shows no glimmer of light at the end. Nope, I can’t have that. We will confer in the car. We will bounce this back and forth. We will—actually I had no clue. The only thing I do know at the moment is the thought of going home and crying my heart out, emptying it of all that is felt there, numbing myself so I could go on.
While driving home something hit me like a ton of bricks; more like two or three tons. I realized that every time Drake spoke he was actually repeating everything he heard. That moment was an epiphany for me. Everything seemed to become crystal clear after that. Now I truly understood the meaning of the word echolalia. Such a beautiful sounding word. How could such a beautiful word have such an ugly definition? We had a tortuous road ahead of us, and I knew we would find the strength to go on, but at moment I had never felt more fragile and capable of shattering into millions of little pieces.
The hour it took to get home was agonizing. The sky didn’t look as blue as it had on the way to the hospital. The grass took on a weird shade of green. Everything appeared blurry and fractured, like looking through a broken piece of glass. For a moment it even looked like the sun had turned black, but only for a fleeting moment. The sun had to keep shining if we were going to survive this.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Real Journey of My Life Starts NOW!
In 2004 I felt I was the luckiest woman in the world. My home turned into a total free-for-all, with the Stu, Jen and baby Drake, and my youngest daughter Sara (switching to given names) staying with me while waiting for their homes to be built. The girls’ homes would be eight houses apart, and just down the road a piece from me. How cool is that? Best of all, down the hallway and around the bend, in a room set up for him, was my little love, who by now had become an integral part of my life. Hearing him jumping up and down in his crib and babbling little baby nonsense was pure music to my ears. That child was equal to my winning Lotto. I know, you think I am making this up…how can this kid be so darn special…to the point that he never got on my old nerves. He just was…and never did!
I told Jen not to worry about him writing on the walls, I’ll just put the date it was drawn above the picture. When she freaked out because he had gotten bottle drippings all over the carpet, I told her not to worry, I can draw a circle around that and date that as well. When she nearly had a heart attack when he dropped something, I explained that if I was stupid enough to leave it where he could get it then shame on me at that I should be placed in timeout , not him! I have a confession: At a birthday party he stuck his fingers in the cake and started writing on my dining room table with the icing. My daughter looked like she wanted to hide in a closet, but I said, “Wait, let me get my camera. I want to chronicle his creativity—wink, wink.” While he smeared away, I clicked away, and now those pictures proudly sit in a photo album…sequentially of course.
I don’t know why but it is like deep down in my soul I knew he was special. I can’t put it into words, or even understand it myself, yet something inside of me was so taken with him that everything else in my life seemed to pale by comparison. No matter how badly I might be feeling about something, he would always snap me out of my sadness, or blueness, or any other unwanted emotion I might have been feeling. He became my “chicken soup for the soul.”
When they made the move from slots land to y’all land, I told them I would baby-sit so they could continue working—which meant that for a good portion of each day that little guy was mine, all mine. I would like to add that I followed the rules, and never overstepped boundaries (unless you count the extra cookies and pudding I slipped in,) and had the time of my life. Everyday was like a party. Hours were spent sitting with him in his playpen…yes you read that right. In fact at any given moment someone was sitting and playing with him, and doting on his every whim. The fact that he didn’t speak too much at age two didn’t seem very important; lots of babies start talking at a late age. We all know what he wants so he must have what is called a lazy mouth; no biggie.
Toys, toys and more toys; you name it and he had it. He always enjoyed playing with his cars. How he loved to spin the wheels all the time. Oh how cute! He loves to watch them go round and round and round and round and round. We were all fascinated by his fascination. Then there was an even bigger discovery…the switch that turned on the ceiling fan. Whoa, can’t get much better than this for spinning heaven. Oh how cute! Now he knows how to kick the spinning up a notch by flicking a switch. What a smart little boy. Wonder of all wonders, he figures out how to open and close doors, and open and close and open and close, and open and close. Oh how cute! He’s making believe he is going somewhere. Hmmm, doesn’t respond to his name when called—must be so engrossed in what he is doing that he chooses to ignore us. Little creep head! Pushing two, and a boy, oh well.
While at the pediatrician’s office my daughter mentions the delay in speech, expecting to hear him say: Not to worry! Boys develop later than girls, or, so many adults around him he feels no need to speak. Be careful what you wish for; once they start they never shut up! He said none of these things. Why not? What he does say is he wants to monitor his development over the next six months to rule out autism. How dare he say that to my daughter who is standing before him with the love of her life in her arms. When my daughter told me what he said I became so angry I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to know why he would want to strike such fear in all our hearts. Why? Why dear God in heaven, why?
When I talked to my daughter about what transpired at the doctor’s office I based my misguided assessment on what I thought I knew was autism: rocking, screaming, not wanting to be touched or hugged, tantrums, head-banging and hitting. He likes to be hugged so he can’t have autism. You can touch him so he can’t have autism. He doesn’t rock, scream or have tantrums, so he absolutely can’t have autism. So on we went with life, all the while watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of our collective eye.
The two houses were finally finished and ready for the sound of life that was soon to overrun them. Helping two daughters with new homes at the very same time can seem like an impossible mission but we all survived and the joy of new homes took over. The unpacking was completed, furniture and appliances delivered and hooked-up, oohs and ahs were shared all around and then it was back to normal routines. The only difference for me was that now I would be having fun time with the little guy on his turf.
That first year in the new home flew by so quickly. Taking care of a two-year-old has a way of keeping you on your toes and making days zip along. Because I was babysitting I was with him five days a week. He seemed to be doing so much better. He was certainly communicating his wants. If I said, “milk” he said “milk.” If I said, “cookie” he said, “cookie.” When Jen arrived home from work and said, “kiss,” he said, “kiss.” He was doing this more and more everyday. That stupid doctor; what the hell did he know? Drake was always so happy going around and showing you every light switch and fan switch, saying, “on and off and on and off.” See! He is communicating. Just because he likes opening and closing doors and windows going up and down doesn’t mean he has autism. So I wouldn’t let myself think about that anymore. No sir.
Why is he flapping his hands like that? Something must have made him so excited he couldn’t control himself. Nope, I won’t go there…I won’t! Why won’t he make eye contact? Maybe because we are not as interesting as that spinning fan. Nope, I won’t even go there…I won’t…I refuse. Okay, okay, okay. I know you love all the doors in the house, but why, oh God why do you stand there and play with them all day long? I move you away and you find another door. So many doors. Nope, I still won’t go there. I won’t. I adamantly refuse to. Then I see my sweet little guy make a fist and peer through the opening out of the corner of his eye and I plunge head first into that place that I did not want to go to. I want to start screaming and never stop. I want to lash out at everyone and everything. I feel like I have just been sucked into an abyss that I can’t resurface from. How do I approach my daughter when she comes home from work? How do I tell her about the new thing he is doing? How do I do this? This is her little boy; my little grandson. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home and go to bed and hide under a blanket. I want to die.
She comes home, the evening winds down and I discuss this latest development with her. I can see the fear in her eyes so I tell her we should count how many times a day he is doing this. Let’s see if it increases or decreases and fades away. Talk about having your head in the sand. This was something we found very difficult to talk about, believing if you ignore it, it may just go away: but it could not be ignored, and it wouldn’t go away…
Needless to say, counting every time these things were done was ridiculous because it happened so frequently it was hard to count. It was time to concede and have him tested; he was now three years old.
An appointment was made and the waiting was dreadful. You want him to be seen now only to find out the wait can be months long. You keep hoping that something will change between now and the time of the testing. You have to have hope to cling to so you start thinking maybe miracles do happen, maybe all will be well and we can bring him home and have a good laugh about being so darn foolish. Can the time go any slower? Never knew a couple of months could take a year!
I told Jen not to worry about him writing on the walls, I’ll just put the date it was drawn above the picture. When she freaked out because he had gotten bottle drippings all over the carpet, I told her not to worry, I can draw a circle around that and date that as well. When she nearly had a heart attack when he dropped something, I explained that if I was stupid enough to leave it where he could get it then shame on me at that I should be placed in timeout , not him! I have a confession: At a birthday party he stuck his fingers in the cake and started writing on my dining room table with the icing. My daughter looked like she wanted to hide in a closet, but I said, “Wait, let me get my camera. I want to chronicle his creativity—wink, wink.” While he smeared away, I clicked away, and now those pictures proudly sit in a photo album…sequentially of course.
I don’t know why but it is like deep down in my soul I knew he was special. I can’t put it into words, or even understand it myself, yet something inside of me was so taken with him that everything else in my life seemed to pale by comparison. No matter how badly I might be feeling about something, he would always snap me out of my sadness, or blueness, or any other unwanted emotion I might have been feeling. He became my “chicken soup for the soul.”
When they made the move from slots land to y’all land, I told them I would baby-sit so they could continue working—which meant that for a good portion of each day that little guy was mine, all mine. I would like to add that I followed the rules, and never overstepped boundaries (unless you count the extra cookies and pudding I slipped in,) and had the time of my life. Everyday was like a party. Hours were spent sitting with him in his playpen…yes you read that right. In fact at any given moment someone was sitting and playing with him, and doting on his every whim. The fact that he didn’t speak too much at age two didn’t seem very important; lots of babies start talking at a late age. We all know what he wants so he must have what is called a lazy mouth; no biggie.
Toys, toys and more toys; you name it and he had it. He always enjoyed playing with his cars. How he loved to spin the wheels all the time. Oh how cute! He loves to watch them go round and round and round and round and round. We were all fascinated by his fascination. Then there was an even bigger discovery…the switch that turned on the ceiling fan. Whoa, can’t get much better than this for spinning heaven. Oh how cute! Now he knows how to kick the spinning up a notch by flicking a switch. What a smart little boy. Wonder of all wonders, he figures out how to open and close doors, and open and close and open and close, and open and close. Oh how cute! He’s making believe he is going somewhere. Hmmm, doesn’t respond to his name when called—must be so engrossed in what he is doing that he chooses to ignore us. Little creep head! Pushing two, and a boy, oh well.
While at the pediatrician’s office my daughter mentions the delay in speech, expecting to hear him say: Not to worry! Boys develop later than girls, or, so many adults around him he feels no need to speak. Be careful what you wish for; once they start they never shut up! He said none of these things. Why not? What he does say is he wants to monitor his development over the next six months to rule out autism. How dare he say that to my daughter who is standing before him with the love of her life in her arms. When my daughter told me what he said I became so angry I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to know why he would want to strike such fear in all our hearts. Why? Why dear God in heaven, why?
When I talked to my daughter about what transpired at the doctor’s office I based my misguided assessment on what I thought I knew was autism: rocking, screaming, not wanting to be touched or hugged, tantrums, head-banging and hitting. He likes to be hugged so he can’t have autism. You can touch him so he can’t have autism. He doesn’t rock, scream or have tantrums, so he absolutely can’t have autism. So on we went with life, all the while watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of our collective eye.
The two houses were finally finished and ready for the sound of life that was soon to overrun them. Helping two daughters with new homes at the very same time can seem like an impossible mission but we all survived and the joy of new homes took over. The unpacking was completed, furniture and appliances delivered and hooked-up, oohs and ahs were shared all around and then it was back to normal routines. The only difference for me was that now I would be having fun time with the little guy on his turf.
That first year in the new home flew by so quickly. Taking care of a two-year-old has a way of keeping you on your toes and making days zip along. Because I was babysitting I was with him five days a week. He seemed to be doing so much better. He was certainly communicating his wants. If I said, “milk” he said “milk.” If I said, “cookie” he said, “cookie.” When Jen arrived home from work and said, “kiss,” he said, “kiss.” He was doing this more and more everyday. That stupid doctor; what the hell did he know? Drake was always so happy going around and showing you every light switch and fan switch, saying, “on and off and on and off.” See! He is communicating. Just because he likes opening and closing doors and windows going up and down doesn’t mean he has autism. So I wouldn’t let myself think about that anymore. No sir.
Why is he flapping his hands like that? Something must have made him so excited he couldn’t control himself. Nope, I won’t go there…I won’t! Why won’t he make eye contact? Maybe because we are not as interesting as that spinning fan. Nope, I won’t even go there…I won’t…I refuse. Okay, okay, okay. I know you love all the doors in the house, but why, oh God why do you stand there and play with them all day long? I move you away and you find another door. So many doors. Nope, I still won’t go there. I won’t. I adamantly refuse to. Then I see my sweet little guy make a fist and peer through the opening out of the corner of his eye and I plunge head first into that place that I did not want to go to. I want to start screaming and never stop. I want to lash out at everyone and everything. I feel like I have just been sucked into an abyss that I can’t resurface from. How do I approach my daughter when she comes home from work? How do I tell her about the new thing he is doing? How do I do this? This is her little boy; my little grandson. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home and go to bed and hide under a blanket. I want to die.
She comes home, the evening winds down and I discuss this latest development with her. I can see the fear in her eyes so I tell her we should count how many times a day he is doing this. Let’s see if it increases or decreases and fades away. Talk about having your head in the sand. This was something we found very difficult to talk about, believing if you ignore it, it may just go away: but it could not be ignored, and it wouldn’t go away…
Needless to say, counting every time these things were done was ridiculous because it happened so frequently it was hard to count. It was time to concede and have him tested; he was now three years old.
An appointment was made and the waiting was dreadful. You want him to be seen now only to find out the wait can be months long. You keep hoping that something will change between now and the time of the testing. You have to have hope to cling to so you start thinking maybe miracles do happen, maybe all will be well and we can bring him home and have a good laugh about being so darn foolish. Can the time go any slower? Never knew a couple of months could take a year!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Life's Little Tricks
It is amazing how life can play little tricks on you without you being aware of the master plan. Two years before the arrival of my Chunky One my husband and I moved to Florida so we could be near another daughter and her little darlings. For clarity sake, the Florida daughter is known as Pet (sibling rivalry nicknamed her) and the mother of my “Chunky Monkey” is known as Short Pants, weird but true non-the-less.
Shorty and her hubs came to visit us in Florida and we knew after they left, that there was no way on earth we would ever get them to come back to live there permanently—not their cup of tea, they just loved the action of Vegas—while Florida is the bingo capitol of the whole wide universe. Slot machines, bingo, slot machines, bingo—hello! This was a no brainer, even for me. It was awful for me when a short time later I found out there would be a new baby (even though I harped for years about the joy of raising pets) and we would be so far apart. Being the feisty little thing that I am I figured I would just have to do a lot of flying; having a son who is a pilot for a major airline certainly has its perks, allowing this constant travel to be doable. So for now all seemed well with the world and I looked forward to the happy day.
It’s emotionally shattering to find out how short-lived happiness and plans for the future can be. The day after my little cutie patootie arrived, and I was making plans for a trip to Vegas to see him, I received a phone call from another daughter (ready for this one? Wooka, yup that’s her nickname) who was living in Texas, informing me that she was in the hospital. “Not to worry,” she said, “just stomach problems.” Her situation started to escalate for the worse quite rapidly, causing me to be on an emotional roller coaster that was spinning out of control. One part of me was scared to death for the one in the hospital, and the other part of me was desperate to see the new baby and to revel in the moment with “Shorty” and Hubs.” I went from joy to dread in a matter of hours.
The decision was made to leave for Texas and help my little wounded bird, then fly on to Las Vegas and celebrate. And that is what I did, not realizing everything in my life was about to change. When I flew out to Texas it was with the intentions of staying for a few weeks and helping “Wooka” who was diagnosed with mono…how bad can that be? Heard of it. Seemed to be a common ailment. Nothing to worry about. Or so I thought. Since that time I have learned to never, ever take anything for granted.
Two days after arriving in Dallas my sweet daughter was back in the hospital with paralysis from the shoulders on down. Originally diagnosed as Guillian-Barre (later changed to Transverse Myelitis) and everything came crashing down around me. I was an emotional wreck. A true basket case. Actually felt like I was going to lose my mind from worry, and the only thing that brought me comfort was the anticipation of seeing my grandson and having something happy to hold on to.
When my daughter was finally home from the hospital and seeming to be stable, I hopped a plane, went to Vegas, held that little bundle of sunshine, and fell forever under his spell. The visit was cut short as I noted in another chapter because my daughter in Texas took a turn for the worse. I will not go into it other than to say she can walk again, but is considered permanently disabled, and now deals with many health issues stemming from something I thought was so common and nondescript. Taught me a lesson. But that is another story. Because of the severity of her problems, I flew back to Florida after being in Las Vegas for about five days, then drove back to Dallas, not knowing I would not be returning to Florida to live.
Because my gentle little bird with the broken wing needed a lot of care and therapy, my tow week stay became permanent. My husband sold the house in Florida and we became (once again) Texans. Still waiting to get a pair of boots I might add. And a hat!
In the Spring of 2004, Shorty, Hubs and Chunky came out to Texas for a visit. The weather was great (for a refreshing change,) the food was great, Broken Wing was able to get around and totally enjoyed seeing her sister and her family; all was fantastic. I took Hubs on some outings and pointed out all the great things about living in the Lone Star State (for instance, all the great bar-b-cue…he just loves his food) and how you pass Texas Long Horn while driving on the parkway (great for the little guy to see, huh? huh?) all the while reminding him that I was not trying to pressure him (wink, wink) into moving here, (even though I was y’alling him to death,) and a great time was had by all.
We celebrated three birthdays and Mother’s Day to end the visit with a bang. Figured we wouldn’t see the little guy for his 1st birthday so we put mine, Shorty and Chunk’s together and had a truly wicked day. Time flew by so quickly and before we realized it, it was time for them to leave. With great sadness and a hole in my heart that only that little boy could fill, I saw them off on their trip back to Las Vegas and was all ready thinking about when I would take a trip out to see them. Figured I better wait a little while so they wouldn’t think I was stalking them. After they left the house seemed so empty and quiet. It is amazing how much joy and laughter a small child can bring into your home. Boy oh boy I missed that kid and he was only gone for a very short time.
A week later the phone rang and my daughter said, “Ma, are ya sitting down? “Nope,” I said. “Ma, sit down,” she ordered. “Can’t make me,” I said. “Ma”—and something in her voice said I had better sit down. “Shoot,” I said. “We’re coming back to Texas to live,” she babbled. “You are kidding me you creep,” I told her. “Hubs loves it out by you,” she laughed, “and wants to come back.” Praise the Lord and pass the mashed potatoes I thought but did not dare say that for fear she would think I had finally lost it. A few weeks later I was on my way to Las Vegas (and a last fling at the slots) to pick up my baby angel and head back to Texas, allowing them the opportunity to pack and gamble and pack and gamble some more before leaving for good. When they arrived back at my house they were greeted with hugs and kisses and a hi y’all.
Shorty and her hubs came to visit us in Florida and we knew after they left, that there was no way on earth we would ever get them to come back to live there permanently—not their cup of tea, they just loved the action of Vegas—while Florida is the bingo capitol of the whole wide universe. Slot machines, bingo, slot machines, bingo—hello! This was a no brainer, even for me. It was awful for me when a short time later I found out there would be a new baby (even though I harped for years about the joy of raising pets) and we would be so far apart. Being the feisty little thing that I am I figured I would just have to do a lot of flying; having a son who is a pilot for a major airline certainly has its perks, allowing this constant travel to be doable. So for now all seemed well with the world and I looked forward to the happy day.
It’s emotionally shattering to find out how short-lived happiness and plans for the future can be. The day after my little cutie patootie arrived, and I was making plans for a trip to Vegas to see him, I received a phone call from another daughter (ready for this one? Wooka, yup that’s her nickname) who was living in Texas, informing me that she was in the hospital. “Not to worry,” she said, “just stomach problems.” Her situation started to escalate for the worse quite rapidly, causing me to be on an emotional roller coaster that was spinning out of control. One part of me was scared to death for the one in the hospital, and the other part of me was desperate to see the new baby and to revel in the moment with “Shorty” and Hubs.” I went from joy to dread in a matter of hours.
The decision was made to leave for Texas and help my little wounded bird, then fly on to Las Vegas and celebrate. And that is what I did, not realizing everything in my life was about to change. When I flew out to Texas it was with the intentions of staying for a few weeks and helping “Wooka” who was diagnosed with mono…how bad can that be? Heard of it. Seemed to be a common ailment. Nothing to worry about. Or so I thought. Since that time I have learned to never, ever take anything for granted.
Two days after arriving in Dallas my sweet daughter was back in the hospital with paralysis from the shoulders on down. Originally diagnosed as Guillian-Barre (later changed to Transverse Myelitis) and everything came crashing down around me. I was an emotional wreck. A true basket case. Actually felt like I was going to lose my mind from worry, and the only thing that brought me comfort was the anticipation of seeing my grandson and having something happy to hold on to.
When my daughter was finally home from the hospital and seeming to be stable, I hopped a plane, went to Vegas, held that little bundle of sunshine, and fell forever under his spell. The visit was cut short as I noted in another chapter because my daughter in Texas took a turn for the worse. I will not go into it other than to say she can walk again, but is considered permanently disabled, and now deals with many health issues stemming from something I thought was so common and nondescript. Taught me a lesson. But that is another story. Because of the severity of her problems, I flew back to Florida after being in Las Vegas for about five days, then drove back to Dallas, not knowing I would not be returning to Florida to live.
Because my gentle little bird with the broken wing needed a lot of care and therapy, my tow week stay became permanent. My husband sold the house in Florida and we became (once again) Texans. Still waiting to get a pair of boots I might add. And a hat!
In the Spring of 2004, Shorty, Hubs and Chunky came out to Texas for a visit. The weather was great (for a refreshing change,) the food was great, Broken Wing was able to get around and totally enjoyed seeing her sister and her family; all was fantastic. I took Hubs on some outings and pointed out all the great things about living in the Lone Star State (for instance, all the great bar-b-cue…he just loves his food) and how you pass Texas Long Horn while driving on the parkway (great for the little guy to see, huh? huh?) all the while reminding him that I was not trying to pressure him (wink, wink) into moving here, (even though I was y’alling him to death,) and a great time was had by all.
We celebrated three birthdays and Mother’s Day to end the visit with a bang. Figured we wouldn’t see the little guy for his 1st birthday so we put mine, Shorty and Chunk’s together and had a truly wicked day. Time flew by so quickly and before we realized it, it was time for them to leave. With great sadness and a hole in my heart that only that little boy could fill, I saw them off on their trip back to Las Vegas and was all ready thinking about when I would take a trip out to see them. Figured I better wait a little while so they wouldn’t think I was stalking them. After they left the house seemed so empty and quiet. It is amazing how much joy and laughter a small child can bring into your home. Boy oh boy I missed that kid and he was only gone for a very short time.
A week later the phone rang and my daughter said, “Ma, are ya sitting down? “Nope,” I said. “Ma, sit down,” she ordered. “Can’t make me,” I said. “Ma”—and something in her voice said I had better sit down. “Shoot,” I said. “We’re coming back to Texas to live,” she babbled. “You are kidding me you creep,” I told her. “Hubs loves it out by you,” she laughed, “and wants to come back.” Praise the Lord and pass the mashed potatoes I thought but did not dare say that for fear she would think I had finally lost it. A few weeks later I was on my way to Las Vegas (and a last fling at the slots) to pick up my baby angel and head back to Texas, allowing them the opportunity to pack and gamble and pack and gamble some more before leaving for good. When they arrived back at my house they were greeted with hugs and kisses and a hi y’all.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A Little Chunk Known as Monkey
July 28th, 2003 was a day of pure unadulterated joy. My sweet 30 year-old daughter, with the wicked smile and cocky ‘tude had just received a package that came with no guarantee, nor warranty; worse yet no operator’s manual. The one favorable thing was: No batteries needed. July 28th stole my baby from me and threw her head first into motherhood—and what a wonderful mother she has become.
Five weeks later I found myself face to face with my “nervous nelly” daughter, my frantic and beside himself son-in-law, and this little critter who was able to bring them to tears and keep them both up all night with this teensy weeny little voice that amplified into a freight train rumble at will. I looked at the little guy and thought, way to go kiddo, way to go! When I looked at my daughter’s face I saw love, panic, joy, confusion, more love and even more confusion, desperation, and oh yes…a look that said: “Ma, you kept telling me to have pets instead of kids because they are cheaper, easier, non-judgmental and more forgiving. I didn’t listen Ma, I didn’t listen. Help. Oh please help!” My son-in-law had already transcended to a higher plane. Then I was handed this wonderful little boy and instantly fell head-over-heels in love. What a kid. Oh how cute. I went through the whole the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, therefore sweet daughter if he looks like you he must also look like me, routine. I had instantly become his slave, also known more commonly as Grandma.
The first thing I told those two babbling imbeciles that were in charge of my little precious guy was, “Why don’t the two of you go out for awhile. Go to dinner or something, whatever something is, just go, go, go! Seize the moment (sometimes I am into drama) for he will be here forever and I won’t be—go, go and enjoy some big people time.” Little did they know I had an ulterior motive…I wanted that little “Chunky Monkey” all to myself, to stare at him in awe and amazement, without them laughing at me.
Instantly that little boy and I bonded. I kinda got that feeling when I first saw him laying in his crib, looking as if he were wrapped up in a baby straight jacket (new parents, what do they know.) He turned toward me with such pleading in his little baby browns—Granny, (cool baby) please, please, please oh pleeeaaassse, tell them to loosen this stupid thing. I can’t swing out at the world if you don’t help me. Come on Gran, do your Granny Mojo. How the heck did he know about my mojo magic powers? This was too darn special; we were truly connected. Off came the blanket and poof—there was this baby of all babies free to feel life and not have the fear of remaining his birth size forever due to the blanket bondage. Also saved him from the nickname burrito, if you know what I mean.
I noticed that same dazed, glazed and confused look in his eyes when it was feeding time. Best thing to do was to sit back and watch–see why he was sending me little baby messages—kinda like with the torture chamber baby blanket incident. I watch as my sweet daughter feeds the little darling, and all seems well until my son-in-law jumps up in a panic, pulling the bottle from my daughter’s hand, ( all the while my little precious has his eyes on the prize and looks like he’s becoming mighty pissed off, for he knew something that I didn’t, and was about to find out). “Stop!” hubbs yelled in a panic. “No more! He has had two ounces. Take the bottle away, NOW! (I’m sitting there thinking, Huh?…What the heck?…Am I missing something?…You are surely jesting, right? RIGHT?…WHAT? WRONG? No jesting intended?…Are you kidding me?) And they wonder why the little wee one is up every two hours, and they are both walking around like the living dead? I made a vow to grab my son-in-law’s relaxation bottle of beer after he drank two ounces and to snatch the chips right out of his grubby paws. So! Ya like it big guy? Mister baby bottle bully. Turns out my daughter was doing the same thing—”and why?” I asked in total horror. In perfect unison, like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar and crumbs on their faces, they looked at me and said, “The nurse told us to do this, she really did, we swear.”
Not wanting to overstep my grandma boundaries, yet knowing full well that my baby angel was sending me baby angel messages that were growing stronger and stronger, I asked them if I could explain how I fed and raised six kids. YES, YES,YES! reverberated throughout the room, and so I proceeded to give them two hard and fast rules of parenthood—never, and I do mean never (unless absolutely necessary) wake a sleeping baby, and ALWAYS let them feed until they want no more. They will stop on their own and increase amounts as they grow. The way they were doing this would have killed them for sure after a few more weeks time, and certainly the babe would not be a happy camper. Needless to say they were up every two hours around the clock feeding him, and crying at the drop of a pin—my daughter and son-in-law—not the wee one. The first night of my visit I had the little doll sleeping through the night, after drinking away to his little baby heart’s content. Have to admit that this propelled me way up to a sort of ROCK STAR status, and was pampered and idolized like never before, or since I might add. Amazed myself as well. Only expected about four hours out of the little guy but he turned me into a hero. What a kid.
Unfortunately, my visit was cut short due to major health issues with another daughter, but I had managed to work my mommy mojo yet again. Sadly, I had to leave, not knowing that everything would be changing drastically within the next year.
Five weeks later I found myself face to face with my “nervous nelly” daughter, my frantic and beside himself son-in-law, and this little critter who was able to bring them to tears and keep them both up all night with this teensy weeny little voice that amplified into a freight train rumble at will. I looked at the little guy and thought, way to go kiddo, way to go! When I looked at my daughter’s face I saw love, panic, joy, confusion, more love and even more confusion, desperation, and oh yes…a look that said: “Ma, you kept telling me to have pets instead of kids because they are cheaper, easier, non-judgmental and more forgiving. I didn’t listen Ma, I didn’t listen. Help. Oh please help!” My son-in-law had already transcended to a higher plane. Then I was handed this wonderful little boy and instantly fell head-over-heels in love. What a kid. Oh how cute. I went through the whole the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, therefore sweet daughter if he looks like you he must also look like me, routine. I had instantly become his slave, also known more commonly as Grandma.
The first thing I told those two babbling imbeciles that were in charge of my little precious guy was, “Why don’t the two of you go out for awhile. Go to dinner or something, whatever something is, just go, go, go! Seize the moment (sometimes I am into drama) for he will be here forever and I won’t be—go, go and enjoy some big people time.” Little did they know I had an ulterior motive…I wanted that little “Chunky Monkey” all to myself, to stare at him in awe and amazement, without them laughing at me.
Instantly that little boy and I bonded. I kinda got that feeling when I first saw him laying in his crib, looking as if he were wrapped up in a baby straight jacket (new parents, what do they know.) He turned toward me with such pleading in his little baby browns—Granny, (cool baby) please, please, please oh pleeeaaassse, tell them to loosen this stupid thing. I can’t swing out at the world if you don’t help me. Come on Gran, do your Granny Mojo. How the heck did he know about my mojo magic powers? This was too darn special; we were truly connected. Off came the blanket and poof—there was this baby of all babies free to feel life and not have the fear of remaining his birth size forever due to the blanket bondage. Also saved him from the nickname burrito, if you know what I mean.
I noticed that same dazed, glazed and confused look in his eyes when it was feeding time. Best thing to do was to sit back and watch–see why he was sending me little baby messages—kinda like with the torture chamber baby blanket incident. I watch as my sweet daughter feeds the little darling, and all seems well until my son-in-law jumps up in a panic, pulling the bottle from my daughter’s hand, ( all the while my little precious has his eyes on the prize and looks like he’s becoming mighty pissed off, for he knew something that I didn’t, and was about to find out). “Stop!” hubbs yelled in a panic. “No more! He has had two ounces. Take the bottle away, NOW! (I’m sitting there thinking, Huh?…What the heck?…Am I missing something?…You are surely jesting, right? RIGHT?…WHAT? WRONG? No jesting intended?…Are you kidding me?) And they wonder why the little wee one is up every two hours, and they are both walking around like the living dead? I made a vow to grab my son-in-law’s relaxation bottle of beer after he drank two ounces and to snatch the chips right out of his grubby paws. So! Ya like it big guy? Mister baby bottle bully. Turns out my daughter was doing the same thing—”and why?” I asked in total horror. In perfect unison, like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar and crumbs on their faces, they looked at me and said, “The nurse told us to do this, she really did, we swear.”
Not wanting to overstep my grandma boundaries, yet knowing full well that my baby angel was sending me baby angel messages that were growing stronger and stronger, I asked them if I could explain how I fed and raised six kids. YES, YES,YES! reverberated throughout the room, and so I proceeded to give them two hard and fast rules of parenthood—never, and I do mean never (unless absolutely necessary) wake a sleeping baby, and ALWAYS let them feed until they want no more. They will stop on their own and increase amounts as they grow. The way they were doing this would have killed them for sure after a few more weeks time, and certainly the babe would not be a happy camper. Needless to say they were up every two hours around the clock feeding him, and crying at the drop of a pin—my daughter and son-in-law—not the wee one. The first night of my visit I had the little doll sleeping through the night, after drinking away to his little baby heart’s content. Have to admit that this propelled me way up to a sort of ROCK STAR status, and was pampered and idolized like never before, or since I might add. Amazed myself as well. Only expected about four hours out of the little guy but he turned me into a hero. What a kid.
Unfortunately, my visit was cut short due to major health issues with another daughter, but I had managed to work my mommy mojo yet again. Sadly, I had to leave, not knowing that everything would be changing drastically within the next year.
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Beginning of My Journey
I suppose you could consider 1945 as the year of my beginning my journey through life. It was during the month of May that I entered this world with a vengeance, and have gone full speed ahead ever since.
As a little girl I always oooohed and aaaaahed at all the babies being pushed around in baby carriages; dreaming of the day I would become a mom and have my own babies: Didn’t know I would need a husband until much later. At that young and impressionable age I wasn’t interested in those boring details. Anyway—my goal was to become a lawyer and to have lots of kids. Somewhere along the line I realized I needed a husband, so I met a really nice guy and we were married when I was all of seventeen. Wound up becoming a hairdresser and had lots of kids. At the tender age of twenty-one I became the proud parent of my fourth child…ahhhh the good old days when we married young and had a gaggle of little geese walking behind us.
I managed to survive all the trials and tribulations of raising a total of six precious little darlings with my sanity pretty much intact. I was learning life’s lessons through the joys of motherhood. I felt this experience was preparing me for whatever lay ahead, down the rock strewn road towards my future; after all I was like a child raising children, and a military training camp couldn’t be any harsher than this.
During the early years there were two major surgeries, as well as various and sundry mishaps. One kid gets shoved by another and ends up with a hairline fracture of the hip. One climbs out of a crib and as luck would have it, falls and breaks his collar bone. One falls from a friend’s bunk bed ladder and breaks a leg, and of course there was the usual coughs and sneezes and rashes and earaches and boo boos and splinters and bites from other darling little children, and so on and so forth. Amidst all the chaos, there was fighting over homework, who was controlling the TV, who got to stay up the latest, who got the last cookie, who left the empty ice cream container in the fridge, who stole whose clothes, and on and on and on. Pretty intense training for any life situation if you ask me. Probably could have learned the same lesson from two kids!
The teen years were like every other parent’s nightmare…you feel like you have fallen into an endless pit of despair, wondering aloud and through tears while hiding in the bathroom…where are my children? Where have my little angels gone? Then you realize that a natural phenomenon is transpiring: You find out that their brains start to dissolve at the age of thirteen and starts to take the form intended at around eighteen; hopefully. You also wonder if they ever get smarter or do they just get taller.
Everyone manages to grow up safely, and thankfully with some intelligence, and they leave to make their mark on the world. This one marries this one. That one marries that one. This one chooses this as a career. That one chooses that as a career. The phone rings and the news of the blessed arrival of a little boy or girl is greeted with laughter and tears, and boy are you going to have fun, and ya better sleep while you’re in the hospital, and all the other little pearls of wisdom that can be mustered while listening through a fog of memories and days gone by. You want to scream out: Where does the time go? Where? Did I blink one too many times, causing me to miss something? How did this happen without my seeing it coming? Yet here it is, the circle of life throttling ahead full force. So I have now entered what I thought of as phase two of my life’s journey feeling quite cocky and feisty and ready to kick some butt. Kids? Piece of cake. Need help? Piece of cake. Need advice on this or that? Piece of cake. Yeah…you let them cry a bit…won’t hurt. Yeah, you can put some cereal in the bottle with the formula…won’t hurt. Nope they won’t sleep through the night for awhile and that will hurt. Not to worry, the baby dearest won’t feel a thing.
The time had finally arrived to sit back and watch and enjoy and be able to go home. How sweet it is. Hug a baby, smell the baby fresh scent of a little one, rock them, kiss them, secretly wish it were yours then slapping your own head back to reality, feeling their gentle wispy breath against your neck…what a little angel. I now knew that I was part of a much bigger picture.
In case you are wondering why I am not going into very much detail the reason is this: I am just setting the stage for where I am now and that is what this blog is about. Everything that has led up to this point in my life was supposed to prepare me for whatever comes my way. I had to learn some form of patience considering I raised six little gems of my own. I had to have acquired some inner strength from dealing with various health issues, some of which required major surgery. I had to have developed some semblance of wisdom, seeing as how I had to resolve so many problems. One of my smartest moves was to tell my kids: When you cut something in half so it can be shared, one gets to cut in half and the other one gets to make first pick. The division could not have been done better by a surgeon. All this left me feeling a tad pompous and self-assured in my knowledge of children, or so I thought, and then my precious little grandson, affectionately known as “Chunky Monkey” was born.
As a little girl I always oooohed and aaaaahed at all the babies being pushed around in baby carriages; dreaming of the day I would become a mom and have my own babies: Didn’t know I would need a husband until much later. At that young and impressionable age I wasn’t interested in those boring details. Anyway—my goal was to become a lawyer and to have lots of kids. Somewhere along the line I realized I needed a husband, so I met a really nice guy and we were married when I was all of seventeen. Wound up becoming a hairdresser and had lots of kids. At the tender age of twenty-one I became the proud parent of my fourth child…ahhhh the good old days when we married young and had a gaggle of little geese walking behind us.
I managed to survive all the trials and tribulations of raising a total of six precious little darlings with my sanity pretty much intact. I was learning life’s lessons through the joys of motherhood. I felt this experience was preparing me for whatever lay ahead, down the rock strewn road towards my future; after all I was like a child raising children, and a military training camp couldn’t be any harsher than this.
During the early years there were two major surgeries, as well as various and sundry mishaps. One kid gets shoved by another and ends up with a hairline fracture of the hip. One climbs out of a crib and as luck would have it, falls and breaks his collar bone. One falls from a friend’s bunk bed ladder and breaks a leg, and of course there was the usual coughs and sneezes and rashes and earaches and boo boos and splinters and bites from other darling little children, and so on and so forth. Amidst all the chaos, there was fighting over homework, who was controlling the TV, who got to stay up the latest, who got the last cookie, who left the empty ice cream container in the fridge, who stole whose clothes, and on and on and on. Pretty intense training for any life situation if you ask me. Probably could have learned the same lesson from two kids!
The teen years were like every other parent’s nightmare…you feel like you have fallen into an endless pit of despair, wondering aloud and through tears while hiding in the bathroom…where are my children? Where have my little angels gone? Then you realize that a natural phenomenon is transpiring: You find out that their brains start to dissolve at the age of thirteen and starts to take the form intended at around eighteen; hopefully. You also wonder if they ever get smarter or do they just get taller.
Everyone manages to grow up safely, and thankfully with some intelligence, and they leave to make their mark on the world. This one marries this one. That one marries that one. This one chooses this as a career. That one chooses that as a career. The phone rings and the news of the blessed arrival of a little boy or girl is greeted with laughter and tears, and boy are you going to have fun, and ya better sleep while you’re in the hospital, and all the other little pearls of wisdom that can be mustered while listening through a fog of memories and days gone by. You want to scream out: Where does the time go? Where? Did I blink one too many times, causing me to miss something? How did this happen without my seeing it coming? Yet here it is, the circle of life throttling ahead full force. So I have now entered what I thought of as phase two of my life’s journey feeling quite cocky and feisty and ready to kick some butt. Kids? Piece of cake. Need help? Piece of cake. Need advice on this or that? Piece of cake. Yeah…you let them cry a bit…won’t hurt. Yeah, you can put some cereal in the bottle with the formula…won’t hurt. Nope they won’t sleep through the night for awhile and that will hurt. Not to worry, the baby dearest won’t feel a thing.
The time had finally arrived to sit back and watch and enjoy and be able to go home. How sweet it is. Hug a baby, smell the baby fresh scent of a little one, rock them, kiss them, secretly wish it were yours then slapping your own head back to reality, feeling their gentle wispy breath against your neck…what a little angel. I now knew that I was part of a much bigger picture.
In case you are wondering why I am not going into very much detail the reason is this: I am just setting the stage for where I am now and that is what this blog is about. Everything that has led up to this point in my life was supposed to prepare me for whatever comes my way. I had to learn some form of patience considering I raised six little gems of my own. I had to have acquired some inner strength from dealing with various health issues, some of which required major surgery. I had to have developed some semblance of wisdom, seeing as how I had to resolve so many problems. One of my smartest moves was to tell my kids: When you cut something in half so it can be shared, one gets to cut in half and the other one gets to make first pick. The division could not have been done better by a surgeon. All this left me feeling a tad pompous and self-assured in my knowledge of children, or so I thought, and then my precious little grandson, affectionately known as “Chunky Monkey” was born.
Dedicated to my GRAND"SUN"
This is written with love, devotion and joy towards a little boy who has changed my life forever. He has shown me what is important and what should be thrown out with the trash. At any given moment this little seven year old boy can bring me to my knees in a heartbeat…most times with laughter, and occasionally with pain… This is to share moments of pain so severe, you thought you would not be able to go on breathing; only to find yourself laughing hysterically (and on occasion maniacally) and thinking you would not change him for ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD. You realize the wondrous creature screeching and running in front of you is TRULY A GIFT.
Drake, my little “Chunky Monkey,” this is for you.
Drake, my little “Chunky Monkey,” this is for you.
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