like a shark

in no particular order

2009-11-13T19:52:00.000-08:00

Roxie has been wiggling her front tooth around for some time. Its partner, Other Front Tooth, left some time ago, and feeling lonely, it's decided that It's Time to Fall Out.

I'm in the middle of a production. Those of you who have known me a while know that it doesn't get any more stressful for me than these busy production times- at last count, I worked 91 hours last week. Last Saturday, I had two hours -count 'em! -before I had to go into the salt mines.

I bustled around the house, then, tornado-like, looked at the girls. "You guys? I've got to pick up some last-minute props before rehearsal today. You can come with me, or stay with Daddy." The only bonding time we'd have.

They opted for shopping with me.

In the mall, desperate for help, I grabbed Miss M by the shoulders. "Listen up," I said, "I need a pencil skirt in a size four for Lia. I need a pink headband, and some sparkly earrings." The music in Forever 21 thumped loudly. The lights were flourescent and bright. M nodded. "Got it," she said, "and I'll take care of Roxie. Where will you be?"

I was stunned by her maturity and can-do attitude. "Uh, in lingerie," I said,realizing that this was my daughter with autism who was manning a busy, bright mall store like, well, a neurotypical.

I heard the girls laughing and Roxie pinched my ass. "Done and done," M said proudly.

She displayed her booty.

I'll be damned. She had everything there. A little more gaudy than I'd want, but I'd take it. And I did.

We were rushing back to the car - always in a hurry to get to the theatre - when Miss M spoke up.

"Mother," she began timidly, "Roxie won't say this, but she'd like to stop at the Disney Store," she shot a look at her sister, "there are some things she'd like to discuss." Roxie held on to her sister's hand, the move that just a few months ago, was ours exclusively.

I glanced at my Blackberry. "We have ten minutes," I said.

Mother of the Year.

Roxie immediately shot over to the Princess and the Frog display. She pored over the dolls.

Miss M sighed. "It's so much more than being a princess," she said dreamily, "it's more about overcoming something. The whole African-American thing, the frog transformation and all that," she said. I nodded in disbelief.

A few minutes later, I called time.

Miss M stood before me. "If I may," she said, "I'd like a word with you. Alone." She looked at me meaningfully.

We pulled over in front of the pink pajamas. Roxie observed us from the corner of her eye. Smiling.

"Mother," she began, "I've been thinking about this. I'd like to get Roxie the Tiana doll for Christmas. Not the cheap one. The really, really good one." I smiled and patted her shoulder. "Whatever you want," I said, "we'll make a day of it. A spree," I said, in typical over-do fashion. "No," she said, "not a spree. Meaningful. With purpose."

I felt like a schmuck.

Miss M looped her arm in mine, and walked me over a little to the side. "And one more thing. She's going to lose that tooth any minute. I'd like to get her the figurines when she does. Sort of a rite-of-passage gift."

She then looked at me. Hard. Then, she slowly and methodically winked her right eye at me. She raised her eyebrows. "Got it?" she stage-whispered.

I did.

We walked over to her sister, who knew exactly what was going on. "Mommy," Roxie whined, "I don't like it when you keep secrets from me," she said, a sly smile creeping across her face and a sideways glance to the doll

As we exited the store, M hissed at me, "And I said not the cheap one, either!" and winked at me again - slow, deliberate, obvious.

We got into the car, and I started the ignition.

Roxie smilingly whined in the back. "I don't like it when you talk about me," she said, knowing that Christmas is right around the corner. "What were you talking about?"

M winked at me again, tapping my hand and giving me a thumbs up sign, hidden from Roxie.

"Oh, you know. Girl stuff." M was enjoying herself. "Like, uh, period stuff!" M. knew exactly how to shake the kid.

Roxie whined. "I don't even know what period is! But I don't like you talking about it!"

M silently chuckled at me and made a knowing face. "That'll teach her," she said, sideways out of her mouth.

It was all there. Nonverbal messages. Theory of mind. Thinking of others. A little fibbing. All in gorgeous, jumbled order.

My girl. She's got it.

I supppose when they said Not Otherwise Specified, this is what they meant.

Roxie's tooth fell out yesterday. Tomorrow, M and I have a date to buy some Princess and the Frog figurines.

It's not a spree.

But it is very meaningful.

ability

2009-10-26T08:26:00.000-07:00

The other day, I brought Ted, my number-one-all-time-greatest student - my most incredible actor and thinker - to a special meeting with the top theatre educator in the country. (Drama Mama pulled a few strings) They had an hour long one on one to talk about colleges, auditions, and future plans.

Ted, as I've mentioned before, is one of ours.

Ted has played every substantial role I've thrown him effortlessly. His vocabulary and astute understanding of literature has played a huge role in his understanding of text and dramatic structure. His comic timing is genius. Like, someone who has studied hours of vaudeville. Depth of character is impressive - like, well, someone who has studied character. Most importantly, his feel for character carries with it an empathy that only a person who understands hurt can cultivate.

Before the meeting, I coached Ted on how to talk to theatre professionals. "Don't chew on pen caps," I said, "Slow down your brain before you answer questions".

He knew what I was talking about.

The day before, I reminded him to take an extra-thorough shower (hygiene can be an issue at times) and told him to wear his school uniform, clean and pressed. His mother was on board.

At the end of the day, he met me to drive downtown for the meeting. His shirt had ketchup stains on it, and he'd ripped his pants.

I found some clothing in the costume shop, and checked that his shoes were on the right feet.

His mother met us at the office, beautifully dressed in her camel coat and boots, and we sat, waiting.

Ted looked around, interested. At one point, we heard the sounds of a group rehearsing in another studio. Ted closed his eyes and said to us, "Smell that? That's the smell of good acting, right there."

When the professional opened the door and greeted us, his first words were that Ted was tall and handsome, and that his voice was modulated and well-placed. I felt a surge of pride and relief, and knew how important that was to Ted, who has felt like an ugly duckling all his life.

Ted was brilliant during the meeting - smart, funny, interested. He was asked to cold-read a script (act without preparation on an unknown piece -no pressure there!)
and did so with the ease of an actor twice his age. I know him well, and knew that when he crossed his legs, he was gently applying pressure to help himself.

As Ted picked up the unknown script to read, I knew that he'd do well. He began reading, and it was beautiful. Instinctively, his mother and I looked at our laps. We cry at these things. I struggled to control the tears dropping onto my slacks, lest the pro notice me losing it. No need. He was rapt with attention at Ted's beautiful read.

We ended the meeting with the pro sincerely assuring Ted of his future, and giving him stellar professional advice. An old friend, he stopped me at the door and said into my ear, "You weren't kidding about this one. He's fantastic. Well done."

I savored his words all the way to the car. I felt some sense of propriety over those words, as if I have anything to do with his success. I laughed softly as I thought of the hours invested in this young man, the phone conversations with his mother, the strategizing, the work. Then I thought of the hours he's worked on himself, by himself.

His story is not mine to tell, but suffice to say, that he is one of our kids; down to the nubbly disco seat, the hours of OT, the therapy that he still goes to every week. There have been mishaps along the way; there's been the heartbreak of first love, and the need to "fit in" at high school - but here is a young man with his feet firmly on the ground who still kisses his mother goodbye and openly says "I love you, Mrs. Drama," at the end of rehearsal.

What I want to impress upon you is that these odd talents - the hyperlexia, the photographic memory, the need to figure out human nature from a third-person point of view - have only strengthened his ability to succeed. He has had a cracker-jack support team, to be sure - but his autism has inextricably made him the genius, lovable artist that he is.

The words "splinter skills" have always bothered me, as if strengths in our kids were an anomaly, as if they weren't allowed to have talents. It's all part and parcel of the same package, but a gift, nevertheless.

We left the building, and walked into the warm, dry, dusky air. Ted excitedly loped next to his mother, and playfully punched me on the arm.

"You totally have this," I said to him, rubbing his arm.

"I know," he said, rubbing mine back.

Splinter skills, my ass.

Ability. Pure ability.

No pressure.

2009-10-11T18:01:00.000-07:00

The tribe has spoken.

You need to know what is going on with The Fabulous Miss M.

I have been remiss - tending to my umpteen duties at work - and I've been ignoring your needs.

I'm sorry.

You know I could never quit you.

You had me at hello.

Anyhoo, let's catch up. When last we met, Miss M was entering the rough and choppy seas of NT tween girls in a world-renowned chorus.

Talk about drama for the mama.

Oy.

For those of you flooding my email, yes, she is doing splendidly; she loves singing and is thrilled by music theory lessons (I shit you not).

She organizes her two looooooong rehearsal days - juggling homework, shower, and rehearsal like a pro.

She wakes up in the morning, verbally going over the steps of the day, what items are needed (Ricola cough drops, Kleen Kanteen full of water, music folder, protein-and-not-carb snack)

We've been to a parent/student mixer and have noted that though she is not the center of the socializing, she handles herself well and is available for socialization if it were to come up. In other words, she's appropriate and not calling attention to herself, polite but not forthcoming. You know?

There was one teensy incident the other day, where it sort of shocked me into remembering that oh yes, there is this little neurological difference that doesn't go away sometimes -hmm, what was it? Oh yes.

Autism.

My bad.

Anyway.

In typical Drama fashion, I hauled tail to her school, so I could make the pick up and drop off to chorus in one swoop. I was a few minutes late, but making good time (she'd have plenty of cool down time in the car before rehearsal) and at least 10 minutes to pee or snack at rehearsal before it started.

I parked in the tiny parking lot at her school. I made a brief call, leaving a message for work, and proceeded to walk across the lot. Miss M was looking mildly distressed, the passive after-care teacher whispering something meaningful in her ear.

As I got closer, I reminded myself not to bound, not to make any "hard" faces so as not to ramp up whatever was going on.

"Hey," I called, all fake cheeriness, "What's going on?". Miss M sat on the bench, softly stomping her foot and slapping her hand lightly on the bench. Her face was squinched up, but not crying. Passive Aftercare Teacher flatly intoned, "Miss M is trying to calm down."

Which.

Is.

A.

Big.

No-No.

You see, in Miss M land, the worst thing you can do if she's ramping up is to tell her to calm down.

In her head, she's already trying.

And she doesn't really like to be told what to do.

Passive After Care Teacher means well, and likes M a lot, and there is never really an issue. I decided to model appropriate M-management skills for Passive After Care Teacher.

"So, M. Just tell me what happened. The facts only, please."

Apparently, what happened was that Miss M was anticipating my arrival for chorus; not wanting to be late, she stood like a Meerkat in the yard, ramrod posture, backpack already perched.

She stood for ten minutes, eyes scanning the parking lot for me.

When I pulled in, then stopped for a moment to call in a message, she thought that I was waiting for her to jump in the car. (Since we do a hell a lot of pulling up and jumping in/out these days)

Forgetting to inform the teacher, she started making her way across the yard.

The teacher stopped her, lambasted her, and M, confused, snapped at her. (Something like "OK! I heard you!" with a foot stomp)

Passive After Care Teacher, in her same monotone, kept telling her to calm down.

Further accelerating the tension.

Enter the Mama Bear.

I heard the story. "Okay, M. Sounds like it was a simple mistake - you were excited to get to rehearsal, yes?"

She nodded. Jiggling her leg. I could tell that she was worried about being late to rehearsal.

I continued. "Dude. You totally were responsible about getting to the car, and to me, and to rehearsal, but it slipped your mind that we have to sign out. I so get that."

I took a breath.

"BUT," I continued, looking meaningfully at Passive After Care Teacher.

"No matter what, there are things that we simply cannot do in the world, no matter how frustrated you are, or misunderstood the situation must be. And we do not speak like that to a teacher. Under no circumstances. Ever. So if you'd apologize, we can talk about this after you've relaxed, and we can get on the road."

Miss M stomped slightly again. "I'm sorry, OKAY?!" she said, the whine still in place.

Passive After Care started in again. "Well, you just needed to calm do-"

I cut her off.

"Let's try that again, M. And let's use the right intonation for an apology."

She softly and sweetly said, "I'm sorry, Miss B. It was a mistake."

Passive After Care started in again, "Okay...you are usually a really good student, and when you get - "

"Oooookay," I said fake-cheerily, pulling M with me in a fake hug, "We'll see you tomorrow and thank you for working this through with us."

Miss M smiled and gave a little wave.

We got in the car.

I know better.

I buckled my seat belt and turned to Miss M. "We have exactly 25 minutes before rehearsal. What do you need to chill out? I do suggest you get on that snack."

Miss M dug in her bag. "Mother, if you don't mind, I just need to turn on Madonna and practice vocal silence. I just want to eat my soy chips right now, and we can talk about this debacle later."

"You got it."

Miss M deplaned the car 20 minutes later, smiling and waving.

She had a good rehearsal.

We talked later, before bed.

It was a simple, forgetful mistake.

She's doing it. Managing her stress.

Of course, the rest of the world doesn't understand our way of managing stress (I mean, Madonna? Soy chips? Driving in silence?) If Miss M can continue to know what works for her? More power to her.

I spoke to a friend that evening. "I don't know about you, but when I'm upset? The worst thing to say to me is 'Don't be upset' - makes perfect sense."

I forget, sometimes, that Miss M is ten years old, and her regulatory skills are far beyond those of most adults. Considering what she has to manage? Extraordinary.

And for that, I report to you: It's going well.

One sleep over last night, two birthday parties this weekend, and now a play date.
She came home in her tie-dyed tee shirt, hippie bracelets, and Uggs, her skinny legs making her look all at once so old, and still, so young.

She walked in the front door, threw down her sleeping bag. She paused at the bottom of the stairs. Thinking.

She held up her hand, partied out. "I'm going upstairs for some peace and quiet," she said, "I do hope that's okay?"

It wasn't really a question.

"I bought you some books last night for that very reason, M...All non-fiction. Ghosts. History. Okay?" I kept making coffee, not looking at her, no pressure for her to like anything that I picked out.

"Perfect," she said, putting her fingers together in a perfect O.

Yep. It's going well. We know what exactly what to do.

independent leave

2009-09-08T20:53:00.000-07:00

To my teammates...my sisters in parenthood...I felt you with me every moment of this very long day. Thank you. I think our girl did it for us.

I spent most of the day in knots, looking at the clock.

I haven't done that in a long, long time.

When I picked up Miss M at school, I nervously made my way across the yard, telling myself to keep calm at all costs. I knew that we would have a brief ride to her chorus rehearsal, and I couldn't get her worked up.

Her teacher stopped me. "Drama?" she started, as my heart began to sink, "Miss M is having a hard time focusing back to school. I know it's only been five days, but I don't know? Maybe it's having so many new kids in her class, hormones - and she mentioned some rehearsal today?"

Of all days, I was gonna get one of those talks?

One of those talks I hardly ever, ever get anymore?

I thanked the teacher, made an appointment, and hauled ass across the yard to the parking lot.

Had to keep my focus. Had to keep Miss M's focus.

We got to the rehearsal studios, teeming with girls of all ages. I walked her to her studio and kissed her goodbye.

I didn't want to linger.

As I got upstairs, I found myself smack dab in the middle of a two hour orientation for new parents.

Why God, why?

Luckily, one of my very best autie mommy friends kept me company on my Blackberry.

She texted me pep talks. We played punny word games. We joked. Like a good friend, she diverted my attention.

At the end, the docent let us tour the building. I peeked in Miss M's rehearsal room, only for a moment, I told myself. I didn't want to hurt my heart.

The kid, who, according to her teacher, is having focus issues with math, was attentive and smiling, watching the teacher intently. She saw me out of the corner of her eye, and gave me a short wave and sly smile.

I made myself scarce.

At the day's end, she came bounding out of the building to the sidewalk, where I waited. She flashed her ID to the security agent.

I signed her out for "independent leave", which means that she can walk herself out to me. No need for me to fetch her from the studio.

She's a big girl.

Her smile was huge, her eyes sparkling.

"That was AWESOME," she said, unusually effusive.

She never stopped talking.

She talked about alignment and posture, oh , and did I know that she'd have music theory on Thursday?

Hey, a lot of the girls are a year or two younger- so that's really easy for me, she said.

She told me how she and a few girls spied on the advanced level at the break. Strictly as motivation, she assured me.

Oh, and she'd be singing at the symphony hall at Christmas. She named the piece of music.

I asked her to sing it for me.

"Mother? No offense, but um, when you and Daddy hear me sing, sometimes, you praise me too much, and it embarrasses me. If you would, can we just keep your compliments inside our home? I don't want you to stop them, just, you know, keep it modest." She looked at her choral binder, smiling at her independent leave ID.

As usual, I wore my big, huge black sunglasses. I've done that for most of her childhood, so that my tears go unnoticed.

But it wasn't really working too well.

She saw my tears, paused, then said nothing.

But her chatter got intentionally more animated, more cheery, more chatty. She was trying to shake me out of it.

She said she felt energized. When we got home, she did all of her homework in her room, by herself.

At bedtime, she said, "I'm thinking....I'm thinking that someday I'd like a solo. When the maestro called on Elizabeth and she sang, I had this feeling...it was like...I can do that, too."

Our plan exactly.

okay, so i'm begging

2009-09-07T20:00:00.001-07:00

I know what you're thinking.

So I hardly ever call. I post rarely.

But I'm positively begging for your help.

You see, tomorrow? Miss M becomes the member of a world-class chorus. She will run with some of the most talented and typical girls in the city.

She auditioned. She was accepted.

She waited for a soprano slot to open.

She starts tomorrow.

Listen.

I hear you. Don't think I can't hear you over here.

I know she's been working her ass off. She controls herself, she regulates herself, she is appropriate.

I know all this.

On Saturday, Roxie started her first day at a world-class ballet school. Again, we had to prove ourselves to get in.

On arrival, she strutted in with a winning smile and a tight bun.

As the class dispersed, she hugged her new best friend goodbye.

Yes, I hear you. They are two entirely different people.

But sometimes?

Sometimes?

I wish God had given Miss M a tenth of the ease and confidence her sister was born with.

At dinner, I gently brought up the subject of tomorrow's rehearsal. Miss M paused thoughtfully over her salad. "Yah. I'm nervous," she said, "but I gotta do what I gotta do." She sighed as if she were representing a small country in the Olympics.

In a small way, I think she is.

Her successes speak to the determination and capability of all of our children. If M can do it, anyone can.

I think she'll be just fine.

Old habits -er-anxieties die hard.

But just this once? I'm asking. Can you please throw in a thought or prayer for the mama? 4 o'clock, Pacific time?

I'll be the one face down in the waiting room, hand clutching my heart.

My daughter. She's doing it for the team.

deeeeep thoughts.

2009-08-30T09:23:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you, but one of the things that has been hardest to accept as a parent of a special needs kid has been the silence.

It's like being a comedian and working to the worst audience ever.

I used to pick my daughter up after school. I made the grave error of asking how her day was? What did you do? Who did you play with?

Nada. Zip. Zero. No response.

It drove me batty. I would sometimes reply for her, under my breath. (Oh, I had a great day, Mommy! I played with six girls on the monkey bars!)

I later concluded that Miss M was DONE, that her temporary check-out was merely her way of re-charging, of decompressing from a day spent conforming to the rules and regulations of a Big Huge Loud Public School.

It's been years since we've had those one-sided conversations in the car. She's quite forthcoming these days, and is a pleasant car companion.

She sits in the passenger seat, commandeering the DVD player, punching the buttons and adjusting the volume.

We have been listening to the soundtrack from HAIR. Miss M likes to lean back, eyes closed. She likes me to describe scenes, to explain what is going on in the story.

We were listening to I Got Life the other day.

I got life, mother
I got laughs, sister
I got freedom, brother
I got good times, man

I got crazy ways, daughter
I got million-dollar charm, cousin
I got headaches and toothaches
And bad times too
Like you

I got my hair
I got my head
I got my brains
I got my ears
I got my eyes
I got my nose
I got my mouth
I got my teeth
I got my tongue
I got my chin
I got my neck
I got my tits
I got my heart
I got my soul
I got my back
I got my ass
I got my arms
I got my hands
I got my fingers
Got my legs
I got my feet
I got my toes
I got my liver
Got my blood

I got my guts (I got my guts)
I got my muscles (muscles)
I got life (life)
Life (life)
Life (life)
LIFE!
Miss M sang along in her perfect voice. I asked her what she thought it meant. She paused a moment, turning the volume down on the stereo.

"Well, Mother," she said, "he's describing the parts of his body and sort of being glad that he is here, that he is living life, that he is in his body." She pushed her glasses up her nose.

Impressed, I nodded. A few songs later, Where Do I Go? came on.

Where is the something
Where is the someone
That tells me why I live and die

Where do I go
Follow the children
Where do I go
Follow their smiles

Is there an answer
In their sweet faces
That tells me why I live and die

She held her hand to her heart and sang along earnestly. Again, I asked her what the song meant. Again, she turned the volume off.

"I could be wrong, but I think it's about questioning why we are here? What are we put on this earth for? It is sort of bittersweet - sort of happy and sad - and I think that's what life is sort of about." She turned the music back on.

I turned the music down. "That's pretty damned deep for ten years old, M. Pretty deep, man."

She didn't look at me, but smiled.

Then she turned to look at me.

"Oh Mother. You don't even know how deep I am."

I sucked my breath in. "How deep are you?" I asked.

"Sometimes, Mom? My thoughts are so deep that I can't even explain them to you. You know when you think I space out? It's because I'm thinking so hard. No offense, but I don't think you'd understand."

She thought for a moment. "For example? Like I have these thoughts - I think about whether or not we are really here or not. That people might be illusions. I mean, our interaction right now might just be something we're projecting."

We sat on that for a moment.

I drove.

"Another one is that I think a lot about the forms God takes. I like to wonder whether God comes to earth as different people, or animals, or situations, to test us. Or teach us lessons. Like, I mean, God could be someone we might see in Safeway today. And FYI, I don't believe in Heaven. Or Hell. That's just something people made up."

I kept driving. Nodding. Trying desperately not to look dumb.

She turned the volume back up. "Well, I can try to explain this again another time. It might be too much for you right now."

I used to think my daughter "went away" sometimes. That we were too much for her.

Now I realize that we weren't enough.

sister, can you lend a hand?

2009-08-24T21:41:00.001-07:00

Hello, Beautiful You.

Here am I, on the eve of another tumultuous year of teen-wrangling, life-saving, pimple-medication buying (yes, I did, for one student who could not afford it) teacherdom.

I'm sort of excited.

I'm sharing the reigns with a trusted, dear professional friend, who will, I believe, at last, help me administer to my students the way I deem fit. In other words, someone who is worthy of my students.

So I will collaborate.

Ducky.

This means, my friends, that this is Phase Two of Drama's Plan to Take Care of Drama.

Miss M, it seems, is well on her path, and is cooking right along, needing me for things like rides and pocket money, and the occasional warm cookie, but really, is now a fully actualized person. She has interests and friends and a social life that is no longer of my creation.

I've been putting a lot of thought to this - this what? - this transition that I wish to happen.

I'm feeling like myself again. (Shhhh. Don't tell anyone)

I don't feel guilty if I'm not engaging my daughter 24 hours a day; I don't cry guilty tears if I happen to cook dinner or talk on the phone without directing my every energy wave to my daughter. I do, however, pause for a moment and get confused and check to see if she's still with us, or maybe hover a little too long in the doorway of Miss M's room, and then her friend ever so gently closes the door and says, "Um, excuse me, Mrs. Drama, but this is private girl talk," and I walk away elated and sad and missing Floortime just a little bit.

There are nights, my friends, where I still wonder.

Today, when I picked Miss M up from her friend's house, she pouted at the door and breathed an audible Aw crap when she saw my face. It would seem that it was far more pleasurable to talk about You Tube and boys and eat rice crackers in her friend's tent in her backyard.

Of course it is. To borrow a phrase from the lady herself, Duh, Mom.

I sort of sit nimbly by, waiting to be of service, but then also, thinking, hmmm...now is the time for me to do __________. (you fill in the space)

The other day, I ran into a friend. She is the mother of a special needs kid; I knew her at the previous school Miss M attended.

Whilst catching up, we launched into Special Needs Talk in about 2.5 minutes, after the cursory hellos and how is your husband-oh-really-and-where-did-you-go-on-vacation-I-like-your-hair niceties.

I noticed that she had purple bags under her eyes, and that she had a good inch and a half of grey hair that needed covering. She wore baggy everything, and spouted IEP talk to me in a language that only we understood, standing there in that coffee shop.

She is still in the thick of it. I imagine that she still worries at night, and admittedly, even she says that she gets that pit-sinking feeling whenever she thinks of the school year that is to come.

I wanted to ask her what was on her personal IEP; what goals did she want for herself, what was her baseline?

And more importantly, how would we get her the services?

Without stirring up a shitstorm - yes, I know how impossible it is for special needs parents to get a break - I'd like to brainstorm with you. How do we care for ourselves without sacrificing precious care for our loved ones?

How do we help our friends in need without sapping our own personal resources?

I am thrilled to begin to enter my next phase of development. I feel a responsibility to reach out to those around me who are walking around in Starbuck's with stained clothing, clutching a Spec Ed file, with sunken, hollow eyes.

What can I do?

What can we do, as a village of multi-tasking parents?

Not to be all Kumbaya about it, but dammit, our people need help. Our parents need the proverbial oxygen on the plane, as Oprah says in her mighty Oprah way, so that we can help the people around us who are not as strong.

How do you care for yourself? Please. Tell me. I'd love to know what we, in this kingdom of non-stop, can do for ourselves and each other so that we can feel...well, like ourselves. Not just the "parent self" - (though that is what we have embraced and become) but as the person who, independent of our children, has a whole other inner life going on?

I offered to watch the child of my friend, the Half-Crazed with Exhaustion Starbuck's Woman, so that she could get a manicure, go for a coffee, a yoga class, get some sleep.

She smiled wanly and said that she'd think about it.

I'm waiting for the call.

What would you do?

I'm thinking maybe I should make the first move.

Not to be all Kumbaya about it or anything.

one small step for humankind

2009-08-04T20:24:00.001-07:00

I know I'm preaching to the choir when I say that for those of us with special needs kids, summers are hard. By about February, I am trolling camps on the internet, sweaty palmed, looking for key words on sites that indicate even the slightest bit of inclusive spirit.

Most have disclaimers about "behaviors", which makes me immediately give my screen the finger.

Miss M has always attended NT camps, with no aide or support, and has generally done fine. No outbursts, incidents, or (ugh - there's that word) "behaviors".

My mark of success has always been her engagement level. Early on, in K and 1st grade, she was able to make a friend or two. In 2nd and 3rd grade, she mostly went through the day with polite but minimal engagement with other campers. She ate lunch alone. Counselors gave me sad smiles at pick up. I think they felt a little sorry for my kid.

Summer is my personal benchmark for Miss M. It's not school, where there is great deal of support, and socialization is encouraged and facilitated when necessary.

At camp, she's flying solo. Running with the big (NT) dogs.

This year, we put her in a high cost, low-student-to-counselor camp. She has taken nature walks, cooked, played lots of field games, gone swimming - typical camp things. On the second week, the flyer said, there would be an overnight camping trip. Drama Daddy and I sort of filed this information away, telling Miss M that that would be a decision that she could make later.

She made the decision. Tonight, she is sleeping under the stars.

Can you hear the diarrhea rumbling in my gut?

Yes. My daughter opted in.

She has been uncharacteristically gung-ho, bopping into the car at pick up, telling me about her day, how she is a "team player" and is "really, really playing the games. Even the competitive ones."

I have ever-so-slightly tried to get her engagement level out of her. She says that she talks to the other girls, and "tries to get in there" when she can. She's cited a few of the topics she's talked about with the girls. She took extra trail mix for her fellow campers.

I'm thinking that she is a polite and engaged camper. I don't think that she's the belle of the ball, but I don't think she's on the outside anymore. I think she is, as she says, a member of the team.

I had to call in the calvary today. Mama got a little spilkes thinking about the trip, and got a little clingy this morning, asking if I could comb her hair, and tearily insisting that she take my chapstick (she wouldn't take my Clarins apres-sun lotion, however).

Once friends talked me off my ledge, I decided to treat Roxie to a special day swimming. The really good pool complex is 35 miles away, in the suburbs. You have to take a very busy freeway to get there.

Did I mention something?

I have a terrible, terrible phobia about driving freeways and bridges. I can't and don't drive them, save for the Golden Gate bridge and the little freeway to the mall. I city drive like a champ.

I was in a car accident in my mid-20's, and, since then, I've not been able to vanquish this fear. (Don't judge me or feel sorry. I have a lot of other things going for me).

I took a cue from Miss M today.

I did something out of my comfort zone.

I got on the freeway.

I found myself at the first merge, heart pounding, hands slick with sweat, dripping on the steering wheel. I had to wipe my hands on my skirt. I hummed to myself, sang softly to The Who, prayed the Hail Mary. Roxie sat in the back. I could see her through the rearview mirror. "Take your time, Mama, " she said, "calm down." I kept thinking about the word anxiety, that this is what it was, and goddamit, how hard must it be for my kid to do things. Miss M was camping today, for crissakes. I could do this.

Admittedly, I had to get off. Drive alongside the freeway for a bit. Got back on. I did this for the 35 miles. Off and on.

It took me almost an hour and a half.

I got lost in the maze of suburb. I don't do well in suburbs. It all looks the same to me. I squinted at the rows of neat Fisher Price houses, at cul-de-sacs, and marveled at a kid playing in a sprinkler. He could have had two heads, for the intensity of my stare.

Roxie politely asked when we were gonna get there. I remained fake and cheerful, finally steering us into the parking lot.

We entered the pool area. I looked around.

One of these things was not like the other.

Mothers were tanned and leathery, wearing simple J. Crew shorts and utilitarian flip flops. They brandished huge tubs of sunblock, and rubbed their kids down in 30 seconds flat.

I showed up in Jackie O shades and a fabulous neon coverup - very Valley-of-the-Dolls/Sharon Tate-circa-1969 (though on me more like Bea Arthur in Maude). Roxie and I came in, city pale, with our Starbuck's iced coffees (hers an iced cocoa) and lounge chairs. Our sunblock had shimmer in it. Our snacks were not homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but ridiculous tiny baguettes avec fromage from the overpriced bistro in our neighborhood.

I felt like a shitty mother.

A stranger in a strange land.

We sat on our chairs, me finishing the last of Roxie's swim braids. She hugged me. "You look fierce, Mama," she said, picking up immediately on the fish-out-of-waterness of the whole situation.

Once in the water, we had a great time. Roxie is learning to swim, and her little face screwed up in determination makes me positively liquefy. She was jumping in and swimming to me, and I did the mom trick, you know, backing up a little more each time, fooling her into swimming longer and longer distances.

Pretty soon, she was swimming the length of the pool. She clung to my front. "We did it!" she crowed.

Roxie, exhausted, slept on the way back, while I hopped on and off the freeway, this time, staying on longer than I stayed off. I owed at least that much to Miss M's courage.

I thought about what I'd told Jess earlier in the morning. I told her that I was blown away by Miss M's progress; that this summer marked a whole new standard for the summer benchmark. I told her that suddenly, I looked up, and there she was, shockingly more advanced. It had seemed like we had been in an interminable holding pattern.

And here we were.

I thought about how Roxie and I took it in the pool, inch by inch, me cheering her on, ever ready to pull her out of the water should she get fatigued or crampy. We'd made progress.

I drove the freeway today. It wasn't perfect. It was on-off, and I hugged the far right lane. My biceps hurt from gripping the steering wheel.

But I'd made progress.

I'm looking up, eyes open. None of us are remotely in any sort of holding pattern.

We did it.

the mother of re-invention

2009-07-30T10:26:00.000-07:00

A loooong time ago, when my daughter was first identified as being on the spectrum, I crumbled. Went Cuckoo's Nest. Wore socks with sandals, maniacally laughed and cried - I really lost my cookies. We all know this. I've talked about it ad nauseam.

At this point, you're rolling your eyes and reaching for another Wheat Thin. Yes, Drama, we've heard this before.

Bear with me.

My sister, who is an expert in the field of Early Childhood Development (what are the chances, really?) was talking me out of my tree one night.

"What do you want for Miss M?" she sighed, sort of starting to lose her patience.

"I just-just-want-her-to-be happy!" I sputtered, not knowing what I meant.

"She is happy," she said, settling back for the inevitable A-ha! moment.

I was having none of it.

"No she's not! She- she-"

"She's different," my sister said gently. "No less happy."

It took me awhile (oh, like five years) to understand what she was saying.

That my happy perhaps did not equal Miss M's happy. That while I set about my work remediating my daughter and helping her find comfort with the things that set her off, I had to remember to keep the happy, the joy that was and is intrinsically so Miss M - present.

Don't get me wrong. In the world of where I stand, Neurodiversity versus Recovery, Biomeds versus Medication - I say this: Whatever works for you and your family. Truly. Only you and your family know the end-point, the desired effect, as it were. I believe in remediation and helping my child be the best, most authentic version of herself there is. There is no one magic bullet, no miracle cure.

There is this, however.

Choosing happiness. Seeing things from your child's perspective. Perhaps a sprinkler makes your child giddy with delight. Maybe it's garage doors, or trains, or YouTube. Let 'em have their happy. And revel with them.

I've been seeing this awesome therapist, this tough little Jewish lady (ah, my favorite!) who tells it like it is and takes no prisoners. She is alternately hard as nails and as sweet and bosomy as the mother I always wanted.

I was going on about guilt and "doing the right thing" and obligation, blah, blah, blah. Abuse and Catholicism will do that to a girl.

She looked at me, clicking her pen and crossed her short little legs, her brutally white Reeboks resting on her knee. She wears pom-pom half-socks, and that momentarily amused me. She took a long inhalation of breath and looked at me sternly/lovingly.

"Darling," she said (insert Long Island accent here) "life is to be enjoyed. Don't waste your time."

I was given permission to be happy?

What a mind-blowing concept.

I can say YES?

I can say NO?

I have the power to decide?!

I know. I know you're over there, crunching your Wheat Thins, saying under your breath, Oooooh boooy, Drama, don't waste your money on any more therapy.

Keep crunching your crackers, friends.

It has opened doors for me. At 43, I don't have to do anything I don't want to do.
(I mean, I have to floss and take out the garbage and work, for crissakes, but you know what I mean)

Let's practice, shall we?

Drama, can you make 5 dozen cupcakes for the ballet recital? Uhh, let's see. Hmmm. Uh, that would be a NO.

Drama, would you care for another champagne cocktail? YES.

See how easy that is? It's like deleting emails from your boss. It feels so good.

This time of year is always sort of exciting for me, as it marks the beginning of a new school year, measurable growth. I, too, get to join the fun as I, too, work in a school, and my students do a pretty good job ensuring that I learn as much, if not more, than they do.

This year, I'm employing my new technique. YES. NO.

And how 'bout my own lil' addition? MORE.

What does this have to do with my kid, autism, and the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?

Well. It's sort of a stretch, but I'll try.

Don't accept what people say about your child as truth. It's their truth. Not yours.

You'll work your little fingers to the bone to help your child. I know you will. You're good like that. Just keep your focus on your front yard, and tell everyone else to watch their own, if you know what I mean. You know exactly what your grass needs to grow (okay, I'm talking about your kid, but I'm lousy at metaphors. Sue me.)

Say yes to the happy. You don't have to love the elevators, the repetitive toilet-flushing, or the trains, but oh man, do love the smiles and laughter that they bring. That's the really good stuff.

And the thing I really want to bring home is YOU. ME. Preserve the sacred happy that is yours. Accept things or don't, but please - not for a second - do things that you don't feel absolutely good about (remember the champagne cocktail versus the bake sale). Don't let anyone or anything rain on your personal parade.

I'm going to save you thousands of dollars worth of therapy and give you what I've gleaned from hours on the couch.

Life is meant to be enjoyed. Don't waste your time.

we are family

2009-07-23T09:34:00.000-07:00

Kyra nailed it.

"Sometimes, you know, you feel their separateness. And you ache for them."

It was a spectacular visit. The Drama family visited the Wilsons. This Mom came down to cheer, lend her vivacity and love, and truly, the roof could have blown off Jess' gorgeous home with the outpouring of love. Trust me.

My kids, in particular, were met with open arms. I could feel Jess quaking to hug Miss M, waiting for the right moment to embrace her. She didn't want to overwhelm. She's good that way. What struck me is how sensitive we mothers are; we've learned to watch signals, give space, give pressure, give hugs, give cues. Give snacks.

I watched my friend Jess, who is a force. I should tell you that upon meeting Jess, you might be intimidated by first glance. She's the cool blonde with the expensive hair and the fabulous car, well-appointed and impeccably styled.

That lasts for about a minute.

She's warm. Literally and figuratively. She wants to welcome, to feed, to connect. She laughs big. Teases hard. Loves gently.

We were thrilled to get the kids together, these kids whom we've been talking about for ages via email and blog. They are just as incredible as we've described. Strong, smart, equipped with coping skills beyond reproach.

And yet.

There were moments.

Moments when I still well up when I realize that Miss M is still engaged 8 hours into the day. When I see her effortlessly play soccer in the yard with the rest of the kids even though we tried her delicate system with a nerve-frying day in the middle of Quincy Market on a hot, humid Friday. "She's still at it," I kept murmuring, as Jess or Kyra nodded knowingly.

I saw it in Jess' face. Her Kendall needed a break from the input (oh, and there was input). Jess would keep a close eye, as we all do. Sometimes, I sensed a sadness if she felt that Kendall was missing out of a particular activity. Her beautiful face would crumple for a millisecond. She wanted her in all the photo shots. I know this. You know this feeling, don't you? It is not unfamiliar to any of us, I'm thinking.

When you feel their separateness.

I don't mean to sound like everything was deep and meaningful and sad. It so wasn't.

But the moments. I think about them a lot.

What makes me remember that life is comprised of all kinds of moments is that with every moment that gave me (sad) pause, there were moments of joy. And the realization that my kid has her people.

There was no doubt at any point that weekend that Miss M was completely safe in that environment. That Kyra, with her yoga cards and her unbridaled joy at every utterance from the girls, got them. That Jess nearly burst from love and restrained herself from devouring the children whole. Our kids have fans. They have the people who get them.

After our Lovefest, we returned back to the Conservative Inlaw Compound. We were met with stodgy indifference, or worse, subtle judgment.

Suddenly, Miss M retreated into herself a bit. She engaged, but was going through the motions, as I am saavy enough to discern at this point.

I asked her if she'd like me to help her socialize a bit more with the family.

"Mom," she sighed. "Some people...some people are harder. Jess and Darby and everybody over there were easy. It's like you just have to get through other people."

I understand getting through and around people who don't love you, get you, revere you.

Our kids know their people. Who to trust. Kindred spirits.

A little after leaving, Miss M quietly sidled up to me. "Mom," she said, her eyes locked on mine. "Mom. Was I like Kendall when I was little?"

My heart nearly pounded out of my chest.

"Yes, honey. Yes, you were."

"Sometimes I had a hard time. I'm okay, though. She's going to be okay."

She said it as if she were convincing herself of her own well-being, as much as her new friend's.

Our kids know their people.

Our job is to be their people, ever-ready with a safe place and loving space to be who they are.

The love. The love space demands.

magical thinking

2009-07-09T21:18:00.000-07:00

We were at the local Tokyo desert shop near our house. They serve Pinkberry yogurt, bubble teas, Teriyaki chicken on a stick. They have bubble machines filled with Pokemon figures that you can buy for a dollar, and, best of all, a huge claw-grabber stuffed animal machine gleaming in the corner. The girls and I stop by for tea, or a yogurt, and I read the paper while they agonize what to spend their dollar on, or simply watch Sailor Moon on the huge flat-screen TV in the sitting area.

It's a pretty cool place.

One warmish evening, the group trudged down to the Tokyo Stop en famille, with strict instructions that each child would be given $2 each spending money. The girls immediately blew $1 on Pokemon eraser tops. Roxie buzzed around the claw machine, looking longingly at the stuffed animals (the one item that will fell that child quicker than Samson and his damned hair). Sitting at the table, sipping on my coffee, I offhandedly tossed over my shoulder that "those darned machines just eat your money" and discouraged her from spending her last dollar on a wasted turn.

Roxie set her plump little lips in a determined line. "No. I'm pretty sure I'll get it." She stood before the machine, feet shoulder width apart, standing as if she were going the throw a discus. "Daddy," she said, all business. She held out her dollar. "You do this for me." My husband told her that he didn't want to take responsibility if she didn't get anything. "Nope," she said, "I'm pretty sure that I'll get something really good."

My husband took the joystick and concentrated. One the first descent, he went for a smallish animal on the top of the heap. It slipped through the claws like a grain of sand. Roxie stood by, watching intently. On the second descent, the claw went for a large heap. And miraculously clung on to a large Winnie the Pooh in an inner tube, conspicuously the largest toy in the case.

It hung on until it hit the exit chute, and slid easily down. Roxie calmly opened the door, took her toy, and smiled at me.

She came over, her cheeks pink. "Mommy," she said, "See? It's like this: Whatever I want to happen, I think like it already is true, and it just comes to me."

I was confused. A little nervous.

I didn't want to crush her confidence. Didn't want her to think that life hands her things on a silver platter. I made some noises about not presuming things, and patted her on the head.

A week later, we were at a county fair. Again, we found ourselves in the god-forsaken game galley. She surveyed each booth carefully, taking in the toothlessness of the carnies, the difficulty of the games, and of course, the quality of the prizes. She settled on a booth with 5 foot plush animals. It was the booth with the nicest merchandise, and again, the most difficult skill level.

She nodded at her father. "Okay. This is the one. Do your stuff." She handed him her bill from her clutched group of five. He again opened his mouth to prepare her for disappointment.

She held up her tiny, cotton-candied hand. "Don't worry about it. Just do it."

My husband tossed a red ring towards the impossibly arranged milk bottles. The ring centered on one, then skittered off. He turned his back and started walking away. "WINNER WINNER WINNER!" the carnie yelled, as we turned to see the ring still spinning and ultimately land on a neighbor milk bottle. The move, my friends, was near impossible.

Because the disc was red, it was the highest level of prize. She won a 5 foot soft and elegant Bassett Hound. (I know, right? What are the chances of the toys being any good?)

Roxie threw the dog over her shoulders like a miniature gladiator and walked around proudly. She would be the sole winner of that caliber that day. She smiled and gave nodding passerby the thumbs up.

It would be easy to say that Roxie is spoiled, or feels entitled.

But in true Drama fashion, my kids ain't easy.

She isn't spoiled (well, I mean no more than other kids her age. We do have our penchant for pretty dresses and yummy deserts). She doesn't presume things. She gives as good as she gets.

She's a magical thinker.

Roxie sees things as absolute. There is no black or white. Do or do not. There is no try. (Okay, that's not Roxie, but Yoda. But still good, right?)

She performed at summer camp last week. She was in the youngest group. Watching her, she possessed a calm and maturity unlike any other kid onstage. She knew all of her steps and spoke in a loud, clear voice. She cued the kids around her who began to crumble. She nodded encouragement and gave them thumbs up. She beamed, and threw her head back, pink cheeks like creamy cupcakes.

Afterward, I asked her how she felt. "Well," she said, chewing thoughtfully on her spaghetti, " I was nervous and had butterflies in my tummy...but I figured that we worked so hard on the play that I should just go for it. Otherwise, why bother?"

I've been thinking about Roxie a lot lately. She fully experiences everything. "Wow! Cheerios!" she'll crow in the morning.
"Yessssss!," she'll say, pumping her fists. She high fives. She remembers people's names, and makes it a point to personally address them. She makes pictures and projects for the neighbors, and compliments the mail carrier on her new haircut. She has dance parties for one after school. She sees experiences as opportunities to connect. Where her sister surveys the world and makes discerning choices, Roxie embraces it all, sucking joy out of the marrow of life. She drinks it down to the last drop. She's good natured about it. "Hey, that's your pierogi," she'll say, bastardizing my use of the word prerogative, but somehow, charmingly, making it all her own. Her brain doesn't have time for doubt. She is too busy thinking good thoughts, expending good, even, happy energy.

The world responds in kind. People gravitate to her. The universe yields.

Today, I took my first formal voice lesson. It was expensive, and I wrestled inwardly about whether I should spend the money at this late stage of my career. As a kid, I wanted voice and piano lessons, but my mother told me that my ballet classes cost money, and that I could have one thing that I was good at.

I was trained to be limited.

I sang, wobbly at first. As the hour wore on, I worried that I was wasting my money as I visualized and employed my diaphragm. Then Roxie came to me. I should just go for it. Otherwise, why bother?

I finished the lesson with marked improvements. I wasn't perfect, but better.

It seems that my children are constantly and tirelessly teaching me. It looks like authenticity has two different faces in this family.

And that magic comes in many forms.

authentic

2009-06-24T08:27:00.000-07:00

Hello, you.

You're looking good. Lose some weight? Change your hair?

I know what you're thinking. Slacker, Drama Mama. Nice of you to show up.

Thanks for scooting over on the sofa.

I could bore you with the details of this last semester; how I am working on setting boundaries with my family, friends, students, and work - how I am learning to say NO, how I can't save the world, how I am seriously overworked, and because of that, see prior statements regarding boundaries.

So. Yeah. Whatever. It's been miserable.

What I DO want to tell you about are my kids. You've met them, haven't you? Miss M, who continues to grow at a quantum pace, who is so elegant and self-possessed that I'm starting to feel like a schlub around her. Roxie, who is taller, stronger, and smarter than I'd ever realized.

So even though I've sort of been neglecting my garden, my flowers bloom. I think I set a good foundation.

Or use good fertilizer.

So. I know you autie mommies want to know about, you know. The one. The one who is not neurotypical.

I'm asked frequently - especially from moms whose kids are younger - what to expect. What does ten look like? What do you see ahead?

It's been unbelievably easy. Occasionally rough.

The day that she was blown off by her best friend from early childhood had me palpitating in the car. Let me explain.

Miss M had a sleepover at her best friend's house. She came home at noon, exhausted, and retreated straight to her room. They'd been up all night. I took Rox and her friend to see UP, a charming but otherwise quasi-depressing animated film. We stood in line. I noticed a gaggle of girls about ten, and recognized a few from Miss M's old school. And there, in the center, her former best friend. I'd been calling her mom, trying to set up playdates, but our schedules didn't align. This kid has a lot of extra curricular activities. Or so it would seem.

I realized, by a quick calculation, that it was Emma's birthday. We were witnessing her birthday party. The first one that Miss M was not invited to. It didn't really register with me. Until her mother saw me and turned beet red. She stammered. "Oh, uh, hiiiiii," she said. "Uh, you guys seeing UP?" she said, forgetting that it was the sole feature at this landmark theatre. "Uh, uh, I wanted to invite you to our 4th of July thing - I , uh - " I nodded politely, told her to enjoy the movie, and sat the girls down.

It wasn't that Miss M was excluded. It was the reaction. Did she pity my daughter? Did she realize that Miss M had had a sleepover, a totally normal thing to do - with her friend?

I sat in the theatre, thinking. No matter. No matter how I rationalized it, how it really didn't matter, it still hurt. Her embarrassment became my own.

The movie started. I started to sob. Huge, wracking sobs. I didn't realize they were audible. Roxie peered at me. "You okay, Mama?" she said, her tiny hand in mine. "Oh, this movie," I said, "I feel so sorry for the old man. He's lonely," I lied. She didn't buy it. She climbed into my lap and rubbed my belly.

I had a hard day. I had to call people. I needed intervention. It wasn't about doubting Miss M; it was the rest of the world. We're a cool, inclusive group - but everyone else? Not so much.

The storm passed. It always does.

A week later, Miss M came down the stairs in her new skinny jeans. She is tall. Coltish. A knockout. She wore a sort of mod t-shirt with the jeans, and I scarcely hid my shock at her burgeoning maturity.

Her waistband pooched out. Her waist was too small for the pants.

"Here, M. I got you a new belt for the pants," I proffered the plain, brown thing that I had to scour around for. Miss M does not like a lot of ornamentation.

"Ugh. Mother. Not to offend you, but I find your taste somewhat -er - gaudy," she stage-whispered. "Please don't buy my clothes anymore."

A small voice yelled from inside the bathroom. "I LOVE the gaudy clothes you buy me!" she said, keeping the flow of sparkles and pink coming her way.

So I sit on my hands. And true to Miss M's way, she's paraded down in tasteful ensembles each day, each quietly elegant and muted. She likes neutral colors, soft, organic fabrics, and clean lines.

I step back, getting out of her way. Choices are all hers. I love the way she chooses fruit over desert, classics over trendy books. The way she likes no excess. How she has to pack waste-free lunches for herself every day.

On Father's Day, Drama Daddy had a work emergency, so I took the girls here, with our new membership. We hadn't all been there at the same time together, but Miss M had been there with a friend before. (Did you catch how casually I put that? Friend? Yup. And it wasn't Penelope, either. Another friend.)

Miss M lit up. She expertly got the map and checked for lectures. She demonstrated all the exhibits to her sister, and read the postings. Other parents around us complimented me on such a smart and friendly girl. "She's amazing," one mother noted, nodding toward Miss M explaining tide pools to a group of young children. We passed the teen interns, in their orange baseball caps. "Someday, mark this, I will work here," she said, determination in her eyes.

I nearly burst with pride watching her. I remembered how she used to run in circles as a child. How crowds were too much. How I had to hold her in my arms to explain about the penguins, so that she'd focus. Here was a tall girl, with glasses perched on her nose, her "Going Green" canvas bag slung on her shoulder, looking, for all the world, like an extremely cool preteen.

At lunch, I spied some other girls close to Miss M's age. They were eating burgers and fries. I asked my two if they were hungry. "I packed some trail mix and apples, but let's see what they have," Miss M consented gingerly. In true San Francisco fashion, the food court offered gourmet international foods at different steaming stations.

A huge smile broke on Miss M's face. "Pho Noodles! Banana leaf tamales!" she hurriedly went from station to station. "Mother," she said slowly, "I realize how expensive each entree is, but I'd like to know if I may try these dishes. They are irresistible," she said, studying my face. She doesn't like to ask for things.

"Rock out," I said, hefting a tray. She filled up on Pozole, Tamales, Pho Noodles. Guacamole. Spring rolls. She waved off the deserts, claiming that they were "empty calories".

I noted one thing. She asked the staffer at the Mexican station if the food was authentic. He smiled, showing his gold teeth. "Pos si," he said, ladling extra soup into her bowl. "Su hija es muy preciosa," he said to me, and I nodded.

She asked the Vietnamese staffer if the broth was meat-based, or vegetarian.

She is discerning, my girl. Knows what she wants.

We sat down to her feast, and she ate everything. Got her sister trying things, too.

At the gift shop, she spied a black yoga shirt with the galaxy emblazoned with (subtle) sparkles on it. She lingered there for a moment. I knew she wouldn't ask.

"I'd like to get this for you, if you want it," I said.

"Oh yes," she said. "It's extraordinary."

On our way out, the three of us stood on the sustainable, solarized roof of the museum. Miss M looked out at the expanse of Golden Gate park. "I'd like to see the King Tut exhibit next week, if I may," she said, looking at the posters waving in the breeze.

"Of course," I said.

We walked slowly back to the car, holding hands. All three of us. The girls chattered about the Rainforest.

I realized something. That my crystal-ball predictions have been useless. That the IEPs are done, the special services are done. Nothing left to do.

What does ten look like? What to expect?

She is one incredible, thoughtful and brilliant girl. She has far more going on that I can fathom. I need to step back and enjoy.

Authentic.

That's what she is.

decompression

2009-06-01T21:02:00.001-07:00

In case you've been wondering where I've been, I've been doing two things, well, three, really.

Working.

Parenting.

Getting therapy.

And not necessarily in that order.

Here, on the precipice of the final true workweek of the year (well, that's sort of false, because teachers never really stop), I emerge, sort of like The Swamp Thing, out of the earth, dripping with uncorrected exams and lame excuses, needy parents, and sleazy school officials who want to squeeze that one last thing out of you that's not really in your job description, but they need you to do it anyway, and, with, well, sweat.

I've had students pelt their vitriol, love, hate, resentment, and utter apathy against my office door.

I've endured lame assistants, a fabulous gay best friend, and a whole lot of people that I'd otherwise have nothing to do with, other than we work in the same building.

I know I say this every year, but this time I mean it: I am done. DONE.

Cannot look at or help one more nascent, pimply adolescent one more day.

I know you'd like to think that teachers are immune to challenging or hard-to-love students. I'd like to.

But we're not.

I'm not talking about our kids - you know -the ones who have good reason to be challenging. The ones, you know, with the interesting wiring? I could never, EVER, not love those kids.

It's the ones who feel entitled, the ones who think that I was hired just for them - the ones whose parents call me up and insist that I must make Binky's graduation party - because he loves you so - even though I've explained it's the first Saturday my family has had me to themselves in two months.

The ones who don't say thank you.

Or try when I go out of my way to help them.

But I digress.

It's about time management, really, and feeding the soul of the mother, the teacher, the worker - the creative side, the quiet side, even the side who needs her toes did and hair streaked.

My therapist looked at me today, in her neutral-yet-slightly-passively-judgemental-way and said, You don't have the time because you are not making the time for yourself. You don't want it badly enough.

I wanted to slug her.

It was like some Kung-Fu episode gone bad. Little Grasshopper, in all earnestness, is working her ass off trying to get better, feel better, be her authentic self with what resources she's got...and to be told that she doesn't want it enough?

Bullshit.

It was insensitive, and a little ill-informed of my well-intentioned, but no-kids-no-spouse therapist.

You know what I'm saying.

My therapist helpfully suggested that I quit my job - you know, the one that pays half the bills? - and get this:

Land a national commercial. Or two. That'd pay the bills for a year.

Um. I think that a few people have had that idea?

Like three million? I mean, really. Where do you think waiters come from?

I'd like to do my suggested one hour of meditation a day, my half hour work out, my hour of reading and hour of "connecting" with my spouse.

I would.

I would like to avoid collapsing in front of the TV at nine o'clock, after the school prep, girls' homework, dinner, and bath are over, but gee, I'm too busy drooling on the sofa, watching Jon and whats-her-name obliterate their marriage before the cameras.

Women get a freaking bad rap. To be one with yourself. To work. To parent. To wear a bikini and groom the various hairs around that area. To not show gray, and to keep the teeth white. To eat clean. To connect with the husband. To lovingly read the books to the kids. To be thin. Tan. Smart. Be a good financial manager. To have a Girls Night Out, throwing the head back, wearing the perfect pair of expensive jeans with some sassy heels, forgetting that all you really want to do is take a long fucking nap.

Those of us with special kids know. We've been to the puppet show and we have seen the strings.

You do what you can, the best way that you can.

And frankly, our kids have schooled us on this - you can't really look over and compare yourself to the neighbors next door, because, well, that just doesn't work.

We're our own thing.

Sometimes, we don't have the luxury of picking and choosing what needs to be done.

So, this is my plan - my scale-it-down-be-your-best-self-SELF-magazine-feel-good-plan:

Take it easy.

Go easy on myself if I miss that workout. Or meditation. Or whatever.

It's okay to simply watch TV with the kids, and if Mama falls asleep during iCarly, so be it. At least I'm in the same room.

Champagne is sometimes as good as meditation.

It is okay not to monitor the engagement-meter of Miss M. At this point, I'd say we're good, thanks.

It's time to stop self-critiquing my self-critiquing, and well, just, let it be.

I'm counting on you, my village of mommies, to help me

keep

it

real.

rip van winkle

2009-04-27T21:27:00.000-07:00

When Miss M was little, and we were going through identification, diagnosis, and receiving our Scarlet A stamp, Mama was going a little Cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs.

I've written about this before. It's not news.

I was losing my bloody mind.

I was sobbing in the broom closet during the passing times at school, and then, remarkably, lecturing for 50 minutes, then as soon as the next bell rang, sobbing again in what seemed an endless cycle of tears.

I was pacing the house alone at night, talking to myself.

Calling my sister at four in the morning.

I couldn't touch books about Autism, or even google the damned word.

I threw up each time I picked her up from preschool and the teacher made a remark about her behavior.

I used to sob and say to myself, "If I could just have one day without thinking about autism...just one day where I saw Miss M for who she is."

Then, it seemed impossible.

The years seem to have slunk by, and now we are sitting happily ensconced in TEN. Puberty beckons.

Where the time went, I do not know.

How this marvelous child has developed and grown into such a beautiful and special young lady, I could not tell you.

I don't know where I was.

Going a little crazy, I guess.

Somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to raise a polite and empathetic girl with a killer sense of humor, a tremendous moral code, and goodness oozing from her every pore.

Where have I been? I often wonder.

What I marvel at, and what I gratefully thank the heavens for every day, is that I am awake now to enjoy it. My fear was that I would never retrieve myself from my pity spiral, and miss her formative years.

Somehow, suddenly, she stands before me, a fully realized person with thoughts and feelings and so much love to give -

and, thank God,

I am here to accept it and return the favor.

It's a little like A Christmas Carol, when Scrooge wakes on Christmas Day to discover that he still has time left, that there is still much love to be doled out, that life is not over.

It ain't over.

Not by a long shot.

After homework tonight, we all piled into my great fluffy pink bed and watched the end of Hook, the sappy Spielberg movie about Peter Pan. It is fraught with psychobabble metaphors, seemingly innocent story points becoming suddenly very significant and deep.

Miss M, of course, got every single one of them.

We know this about Miss M, you and I. We know that she vibrates on another plane.

That isn't what got me.

It was the way Roxie was draped around her sister, both of them entwined and smiling. Cracking jokes. Miss M explaining the psychology of the film to her sister. Miss M had her arm snaked around her sister, and she rubbed my shoulder.

Later, she rubbed my feet, smiling at me. Her eyes met mine easily, and we shared a silent moment.

I go days, even weeks, without thinking of autism now.

I just see her.

Really see her.

And it's not too late.

changed for good

2009-04-15T17:36:00.000-07:00

Who can say if I've been
Changed for the better?
I do believe I have been
Changed for the better

(Glinda)
And because I knew you...

(Elphaba)
Because I knew you...

(Both)
Because I knew you...
I have been changed for good...

From Wicked, music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz

I'm on Spring Break this week with The Fabulous Roxie, whilst poor Miss M toils away in her expensive and oh-so-perfect private school. She had break last week. Jesus had to hang on the cross before we parochial school slobs caught a break.

Anyway.

Rox and I have been hanging out - planning extravagant, educational days (the Academy of Sciences, the Exploratorium, the MOMA) only to have our plans fall away, and find ourselves, say, waxing my eyebrows or getting a pedicure, or maybe, an hour in a bookstore with a coffee and extra-large BrainQuest book for her.

Roxie is easy. Beyond easy. She is a delight and fits my agenda like a glove. I'm not saying this because she's my daughter. She has it.

It follows her every where she goes.

The Starbuck's Barista gives her a marshmallow treat because she could just "eat her in that darling school uniform."

Her ballet teacher heaps solos and praise on her because she's so "special".

I have no idea what to do with her Student of the Month, Citizen of the Month, Lighting the Way for Others, Busiest Bee and the Good Neighbor awards - they are a little excessive and I worry about how Miss M might feel with the Roxie Hall of Fame lining the hallway.

I tuck them away.

It couldn't be easy to be her sister.

Right now, we are dealing with another little girl in her class being very jealous of Roxie for these very reasons. She wants her piece of the pie. And the harder this kid tries to lash out at Roxie, karma steps in and somehow makes Roxie rise above it, to be even kinder and more lovely to this kid.

Roxie had her lower lip protruding the other day; the kid threw a marker at her eye. The teacher disciplined the kid, while her classmates gathered around Roxie, giving her attention and concern. It backfired on the kid, and it made her even more wild. Rox unfurled it all in the car. She couldn't understand why this kid has it out for her.

Miss M sighed heavily.

"Roxie, Roxie, Roxie," she said, slowly shaking her head. "You can't know what other people are going through. You can only try to put yourself in their shoes.And try to be compassionate. Who knows what her life is like?"

I suppose the Social Thinking classes are kicking in.

I've stopped worrying about the possible rancor between the two kids - because, quite simply, it won't happen.

The relationship is symbiotic.

Where Roxie can so easily become spoiled and conceited, her experience with a special needs sister keeps her genuine and true.

And having a mercurial, demanding little sister has pulled Miss M inch by inch into this world and into her born role as teacher. Aside from that, Miss M studies her sister. Inflections and intonations creep into each other's patter, and often, I forgot who started doing what when.

Miss M's friend, Penelope, was over again the other day. Penelope has Asperger's. She stutters and stammers alot, she repeats herself and whispers to herself. Admittedly, she is hard to listen to. We're used to it. The girls were doing a large puzzle in the living room. Penelope was trying valiantly to get a thought out. She went on for a long time, stuck on half of a phrase. Miss M and Roxie sat patiently, faces waiting. Miss M murmured gently, "Mmmhmmm," a learned appropriate behavior to show the other person that she is listening.

Roxie's eyes studied Penelope's face. She said gently, "Take your time, Penelope," and handed the girl a puzzle piece.

Later that day, I took the girls to the local market to pick up marshmallows for the Rice Krispy treats we would make later in the afternoon. Penelope was talking loudly in line, perseverating on Pokemon. Miss M nodded and listened, asking polite questions. At one point she said, "Uh, Penelope... (whispering) inside voice."

Two men, a couple, stood behind us in line. As Penelope yammered on, I saw one man roll his eyes at the other. The other man mouthed "Jesus Christ" to the other, as if this child were offending him. Luckily, Miss M and Penelope missed the exchange. Roxie didn't.

As Miss M and Penelope rushed ahead to look at the DVD rental kiosk, I gathered my bags. Roxie looked solemnly up at the men. "She can't help it," she said, her eyes huge and dark.

The men flushed.

I've thought long and hard about what to write about Autism Awareness. I wish that I could be an advocate, a speaker, a fundraiser. An author.

I'm just a mother.

But I am a mother who knows this: That the experience of having my daughter-on-the-spectrum makes my family far richer, far more compassionate and interesting than not having her. Because of her, our immediate surrounding community thinks differently, and if they don't, then, Miss M or Roxie lets them know.

Believe me. They let people know.

In our small way, this is Autism Awareness. See others. Treat as you would like to be treated. Let other people know.

Simple.

The girls love a certain Broadway musical about the witches of Oz. They were arguing the other day about which witch was better.

Roxie: I'm Glinda. She's popular.

Miss M: Well, it's obvious that I'm Elphaba, because she has so many hurdles to overcome. (Yes, she is ten.)

Roxie: Glinda's costumes are prettier. She has a tiara.

Miss M: That's true. I can't deny that.

Miss M thinks for a few minutes.

Miss M: It's true that everybody loves Glinda, and that she is far prettier. That's her. But Roxie? Elphaba flies. She defies gravity, like the song. So guess what? We both win.

Indeed.

my fair little lady

2009-03-22T20:41:00.000-07:00

We were snuggled on the sofa the other night, watching My Fair Lady with the transcendent Audrey Hepburn. Miss M was riveted by the film, listening intently for most of the three hours - a little too much Shaw for me, but if you're Miss M, it's pure heaven.

Henry Higgins berated Eliza Doolittle for something - her diction, a spoilt diphthong - something. Miss M slammed down her pillow in protest. "Excuse me, but he is just a sexist pig," she proclaimed, pointing at the television. Usually, I ask questions about how characters are feeling, what their faces are saying - but this time, she told me. "You know, I was with him when he wanted to help her," she started, pausing the scene, "but this stuff of having her change who she is - why, that's just wrong. Ugh. And the way he talks down to her," she shuddered, snapping the remote for more torture.

We talked a bit about the film after it was over. Miss M was aghast that someone would have to change for someone else -to not be their "authentic self". Miss M shook her head, "You know, she was an original the way she was."

I imagine that it resonates with her on a subconscious level a bit, because, in a strange way, that is what her life has been. We, along with every other teacher, therapist, and doctor, have asked her to bend for us, to go against what is natural for her and to be more, well, like us.

We ask for appropriateness. We make bids for shared attention. We jump and run and exercise to quiet the body so that she can ground herself, and attend to the myriad things we need her to attend to.

I imagine that it must be a little like Pygmalion - being rebuilt into a new iteration of oneself.

Our intentions, of course, are good. We have helped her in innumerable ways to cope with the world she was born into, given her relief with those things that gnaw at her, that make every day chores difficult.

But I've always wondered about the words. Intervention. Intervening against what? More autism? Whew - better stop now before it gets worse? Remediation? The definiton says that it is the act of correcting a fault or evil.

Huh.

I don't wish to correct my daughter. I do wish to help her be able to nimbly cross between both worlds - mine and hers - so that the bigger, noisier one is a little less jarring each time she steps foot in it. The more time she spends in it, the easier it is for her to make the transitions.

She has friends. I suspect that most of them are on the spectrum, judging from my interactions with them, but I do not know for sure. I do know that Miss M is starting to notice things. She worries about her friend who passes gas in public and seems not to notice anything wrong with it. She worries about another friend who picks her nose, and well, sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking, munches on a booger or two. ("I don't think she realizes that I can see her do it," she says, eyes wide) Just today, her friend was over and the children were snacking at the kitchen table. Roxie asked the friend a question, and when she did not get an answer, repeated the question. The friend went on and on with her topic. Miss M shifted her eyes from Roxie to the friend. "Um, Friend? My sister is trying to get your attention, " Miss M said quietly and sweetly, trying to be helpful.

Over time, unbelievably, she has started to absorb all of the gentle and not-so-gentle cues and suggestions we've given her. I see it now; I see her seeing it in other people. It is her shared experience that makes it so sweetly acceptable; that she is helping others navigate this very, very confusing world of signals, connections, planes and trains.

My hope is that she does not feel, like Eliza Doolittle, condescended upon, dissected, or examined.

I do want her to feel glorious, to wear a gown and feel free, to want to dance all night, to make connections, and, frankly, when she needs to, hang out with the things and people that make her the most comfortable.

I just want the road between the two places to be less bumpy, and more easily accessible.

And you know?

By George, I think she's got it.

golf claps all around

2009-03-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

Happy Tenth Birthday to the extraordinary Miss M.
You've surpassed all my expectations.

It's your cue, baby. Take it!

shifting

2009-03-13T08:15:00.001-07:00

I complained to my friend the other day that I was remorseful that I did not find Dream School until Grade 3 - that Miss M had to endure some grey years that did nothing to help her. The school tolerated her, with a sense of noblesse oblige which for me, was unbearably painful.

She was in Kindergarten, and she was melting down a lot. She had a para for an hour a day. (!) The teacher was tough; when M started melting down, she would firmly hold her arms and tell her to trust her.

And then she left my crying daughter at her seat and tended to the other 19 students in the class.

So yeah.

You get the picture.

We went to the K Open House, and I remember that the first activity they did was to have the kids do self-portraits, which is something that they typically do to check self-perception and development. All of the kids drew happy faces with eyelashes and colorful outfits, some with a sun shining on them - some with fully defined bodies (a mark of how developed they were). My eyes eagerly scanned the display for Miss M's. Hers was an oval with an angry scribble on top of it.

It was in the center of the display.

Sort of like a scarlet letter.

The teacher watched me as I looked at the display.

"She was having a bad day," she smiled weakly.

When we got home, I cried and asked my husband why the teacher could not have taken her aside and either helped her, or waited until a better time.

It was embarrassing. And it was prominently displayed.

Why?

Why shame my daughter? Why shame our family?

Shame, I think, plays a huge part in the lives of autism families. No one admits it, of course, but I see fellow mommies anxiously following others' eyes as their kids melt down, flap, or spin. Some don't, of course. Some of us are just plain tired.

But deep down, in some, there is shame.

Okay. I'll say it. I was ashamed.

And it had nothing to do with Miss M. It was all to do with me; historically, I have never been good enough. It has manifested in perfectionism and achievement, and impossible standards set for myself and my students. That is why, my friends, I am the perfect employee. The perfect program director. The perfect administrator.

To have a child with a blemish, a difference - well, it was too much. I saw every comment and glance as a judgment on my daughter, and by association, on me.

Over time, and with lots of professional help, I have come to realize that these are my demons; that Miss M is perfectly Miss M, and that I have been blessed with the daughter who was perfectly designed for me.

I've stopped pleasing people. I say no. I set boundaries at work, and in social settings.

And funny thing? It only makes me better. Stronger. More efficient.

Interestingly enough, as I insist that people take me, take my daughter, as we are, the skies have opened up.

Miss M is in her perfect school, with her own friends. The world not only accepts M. It loves her.

Quick story: Miss M really wanted to take a yoga class in our neighborhood. Roxie's ballet studio was starting yoga for a variety of age levels. The only interest was Miss M's - and a group of 5-6 year olds.

The teacher offered her the position of class T.A.

Miss M adores her class. She loves the leadership role, but I think, deep down, that the young children offer no challenge - just their pure, unadulterated adoration of her. Of course she loves it.

There is an upcoming recital. My husband looked at the flyer. He told me that he is not sure that he wants to subject her to public embarrassment by having her perform with little kids.

The teacher has cleverly designed a circus routine with Miss M as the ringleader, with tiny circus animals.

In spite of my husband's reservations, I have put down my pink-toenailed foot.

She will perform. She will be who she is, and damn the rest.

And the lovely part? The teacher has given her a leadership role. The world is accomodating my girl.

The world can bend. Open its arms.

Miss M turns 10 on Sunday. It's taken me eight long, hard years to figure it all out. But you know? It's not too late. It's never too late,and that, my friends, is the odd beauty of autism. It can change, it can shift.

Or it might not.

But it is never too late.

Oh. And that self-portrait? I picked up Miss M from school the other day. In the Multi-Purpose room, there is an enlarged color picture of Miss M, solo, dancing and smiling in the school play.

Right in the center.

Right where she belongs.

gleaning

2009-02-24T07:56:00.000-08:00

Life is kicking my ass right now.

Or trying to.

Let me give you the Cliff's Notes version: I am now in therapy for stuff that I should have been in therapy for about 25 years ago...and I am uncovering things in the garden that are wormy, fraught with beetles, and emitting a rancid stench. I'm a little shell-shocked, but in excellent hands, and relieved in a sort of Bell Jar sort of way that I can let 'er rip and see where the chips fall.

What I can tell you is that I am dealing with my ability to receive. Receive love. Receive compliments. Receive feedback. Anything. Funny, huh? The very public persona who can perform and work an audience in the palm of her hand is a big fat wimp when it comes to kindness or truth.

I suppose, my friends, that is why I chose to perform.

So I'm not trying to make you my therapists or anything. Just telling you what's going on.

And how the following is changing my mind.

I was talking to my friend Jess Wilson, (who is a professional when it comes to good girlfriendliness), and I was, uh, er, a bit hung over from my Oscar party the night before. My girls were snuggled in my bed watching a musical, and I snuck into Roxie's pink palace to take the call.

Soon, Miss M opened the door. "I don't mean to interrupt you, but is there anything I can do for you? Coffee?" Her face brightened as she asked, because my Tassimo pods make her feel like a Barista.

"Oh yes, yes, excellent idea!" I enthused, rambling on with Jess.

Soon, a tiny hand opened the door. Roxie said simply, "What can I do for you?" hands outstretched, a tiny replica of her sister.

I asked her to make some dry toast.

She disappeared as quickly as the Road Runner, cartoon puffs flying behind her.

My girls offered me my breakfast on plastic plate, steaming coffee sealed up in a thermal mug by Daddy, lest Miss M get shaky with the hot liquids coming up the stairs.

I fell asleep.

Later, I heard Roxie and Miss M playing in Roxie's room. They were going to town with some paper dolls, and I stretched on the bed, listening.

It was intricate role play, with Miss M playing a whole cast of characters, each with a moral code. Her tenderness and love of her sister nearly undid me. I listened to their voices and silently wept on the bed.

Yesterday, I picked up Miss M from school, who bounded up to me and hugged me so hard I nearly fell over. Her friend teasingly wouldn't let me go, because he wanted "M to stay with me forever." I watched as my daughter hugged her friend and told him that he could have her all tomorrow, at recess and at lunch.

Later, I saw my therapist as the girls stayed with my friend, who also has two girls. When I picked up the kids, my friend greeted me at the door, with wine in hand, holding a magazine.

"This was the best afternoon of my life," she said. I asked why. "M helped the girls with their homework. She had them clean up after snack and them had them upstairs playing a game. She has the patience of a saint."

I smiled and said that yes, M is doing well, she's come a long way.

My friend grabbed my wrist. "You need to hear this," she said. I could smell her Chardonnay. "She is amazing by any standards. Your daughter is simply an extraordinary little girl. Period. Now stick that in your therapy pipe and smoke it."

And with that, we ate cookies and sipped wine.

Miss M continued being her charming self, but it was at the dinner table that I really heard it. Her father asked how her Girls Social Group went at school. "Well. I had to let Ms. C know that I was upset. The boys were picking on my friend at recess - you know, saying that she was a stupid girl and stuff because she couldn't play the game - and I was upset."

We looked and each other and I asked how she handled it. "Well. I figured that the boys were behaving like typical pre-adolescents. (Yes, she said it) I managed the situation by telling my friend that she wasn't any of those things - that she is a wonderful person, and that boys were projecting something on her that had nothing to do with her."

It's taken me several sessions and a cracker jack therapist to arrive at the same advice that Miss M is freely doling out on the playground.

This child, the one whom I never thought would look up from her own world is now navigating through it with so much love, empathy and confidence that it takes my breath away. Who is creative, empathetic, loving - and smart - all of the qualities we were told, that, frankly, she'd never possess.

Miss M. How she's grown and changed and morphed into the most beautiful butterfly.

I'm taking a tip from my daughter.

If she can fly?

So can I.

love profusion

2009-02-13T17:22:00.000-08:00

I was having a hard time of it the other day. Well, to be completely frank, I've been having a very hard time of it most of the time lately.

But that's beside the point.

I was doing my daily one liner email exchanges with the inimitable Jess Wilson, she of autism advocacy fame, and wearer of tall shoes. (She made me link her and forced me to introduce her with plenty of laudatory comments. In fact, if I could, I would adorn her name with glitter effects, but alas, Blogger hates me and won't allow me to do so. So trust me when I say this chick is the bomb.)

I was boo-hooing it to Ms. Wilson when, in the midst of our exchange, she sent a flurry of emails each in a 15-second succession:

You look great! Did you lose weight?

Did I mention how much I love you?!

No - I mean it! I really love you!

Did you cut your hair?

And so on.

I laughed, shaking my head and murmuring things while I crafted my return email to her:

A 72-point font reading I LOVE YOU in curlique red letters.

I typed her name in the name bar, and under the subject line wrote:

your juicy @ss.

I hit send.

A few minutes later, I received an email from a fellow teacher. A teacher that I have never spoken to. Let's just say that he resides in the Math and Sciences part of the world, and you wouldn't really expect us to have much to say to one another.

In large, bold Times New Roman font, he wrote:

I LOVE YOU, TOO.

Confused, my eyes dropped down the email.

Apparently, I hit the wrong choice on my name bank. I hit the name of another "je" person...someone NOT Jess Wilson, and definitely NOT the owner of a juicy ass.

The next day at our faculty meeting, I saw my new friend standing in line for coffee while we assembled for our break out groups. He motioned for me to cut him in line, big goofy smile on his face. He complimented my rosy pink sweater, lingering a little on my big tits.

"Someboddddy's got a boyyyyyfriend..." crooned My Gay, as he took me by the elbow so that we could dissolve into laughter in the crevices of the school library.

It's the running joke. I can't tell you how many joke emails I've received from My Gay, or big smiles from my balding, pear-shaped, middle-aged, single, would-be lover who spends far too much time in lab.

He's happy. He feels good. I'm gracious but not sending messages; it's all very sweet and innocent.

I have a thought, though.

Just the way I felt when Jess bombarded me with her email barrage of love, I'm sure that is the way Mr. Science felt when he received an I LOVE YOU note from a distant acquaintance.

He has a pep in his step and smile on his face.

What if we all sent little love notes, little random acts of love or lust to people as a little project? Spreading the joy to people that we rarely connect with?

How about a You look fantastic today to the receptionist at your job?

I appreciate you to your kid's coach?

I love the way you cover my gray exactly right to your long-suffering hairstylist?

What would happen if you got a flurry of love in the middle of your day, for no reason? What if the country lit up at the same time on one day - lit up with nothing but LOVE sitting in inboxes instead of spam?

It'd be a new kind of stimulus package for sure.

Happy Valentine's Day.

I love you.

And you look fantastic today.

a torrent of emotions

2009-02-12T13:41:00.000-08:00

Miss M is growing up. When last we chatted, we took a look at her burgeoning social skills; her perspective taking and self-regulation.

She has a new thing.

Feelings.

Miss M is becoming expert at expressing her feelings. As a matter of fact, she can't stop talking about them.

This morning, for example. We are rushing around, packing bookbags and zipping up raincoats. I am to take Roxie in to school, Drama Daddy has Miss M.

I look up from Roxie's zipper. "Miss M," I start, pushing a strand of hair out of my face, "don't forget to comb your hair."

She turns on her heel.

"Mo-ther. Don't you think I know that I have to do my hair? I feel like you assume that I'll forget. It makes me so frustrated. I feel like you are lowering my self-esteem. As IF I'd forget, " she huffs.

Um. Well.

I mean, yeah, she does forget. Sometimes.

But I was innocent in my reminder. Swear.

She comes back in, brushing her long, full, golden hair.

"I mean it, Mom. It hurts my feelings when you say stuff like 'M, get on your homework,' or 'M, did you take a shower?' As IF, Mom. AS IF." She angrily flicks the brush onto the table.

"I mean, I USED to space out all the time. But have you noticed lately? Really looked at how together I am?"

I watch her struggle with her shoelace, but say nothing.

Roxie looks up at me, chewing her toast. She puts her finger to her lips, reminding me not to remind M about her Wednesday envelope. Better to let her discover it herself, in her new organizational state.

I put on my overcoat, Roxie at my heels. We open the front door. Miss M follows us out to the front stoop.

"I have a lot to deal with. Please consider my feelings before you blithely (yes, she said it) nag me to do something that I am already well on my way to doing."

I peck her on the cheek and start down the stairs.

She leans over the balustrade.

"Are you going to tell me you love me?"

"I love you, M. Have a great day."

Roxie blows a kiss.

"Don't forget next time," M huffs. "You might lower my self-esteem if you do."

And with that, she quite literally spins on her heel and tosses her hair, closes the door. Hard.

Roxie and I sit in the car in silence.

We defrost the window.

Roxie sighs.

"She sure has a lot of emotions now."

I sigh. "Yep," I say, exhausted from my emotional beat-down.

"Remember when she was so quiet all the time?" Roxie chews on her limp toast wrapped a soggy napkin.

"Mmmmhmmm," I say, flipping through our CD's.

"It's an improvement, I guess," Roxie says, looking out the window.

"I guess," I say, chuckling to myself.

Of course, it is an improvement. I know it, and so does the whole house. It's much more age appropriate, she is able to articulate exactly what is on her mind. And in her heart.

There's something about it, though...the two steps forward, one step back...the slamming doors, the whispers to her sister, the yelling through the door for privacy. What is it? Hmmmmm.

Ah.

Got it.

I think we've got puberty, Houston.

Strap on your seatbelts, people. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

the ship has landed

2009-02-05T09:30:00.000-08:00

This morning, it was damp, grey and drizzly, and I stood, at 7:30 am, underneath an umbrella in the cold.

But I was warm inside.

I have this new job. I am the "Traffic Parent," twice a week at Roxie's school; I open the doors of unloading cars and help the children into the schoolyard before school begins. "It's the greatest thing you've ever done for me," Roxie sighs. It makes her proud to see me smile and wave on cars.

I feel connected to people as I wave and smile, wishing them good days at work. Usually they respond in kind. Sometimes, they smile shyly. And this morning, one father grumbled, "Just close the door!"

No matter.

I am now a presence, an entity at both my children's schools. I flipped through some old posts the other day. What I read is longing, longing for community, a team, fellow parents to have my back. Last year, before Miss M moved to her small private school, she was in a large public school with no real social supports and no real need for academic help. We were screwed. Parents at that school were cliquish, and our family fell through the cracks. It broke my heart to attend school functions and watch my daughter literally be a ghost in the room. I didn't volunteer because it hurt too much.

Fast forward. Miss M strides confidently around the playground after school, waving goodbye, calling to kids, making arrangements for playdates. I volunteer for everything. I am a parent ambassador. I recruit new parents, listening to the tears, offering my number and bear hugs. The school has a funky staff, devoted to their charges. Students are kind, empathetic and helpful to one another.

At Roxie's catholic school, it's a whole different world. Diverse, working class, people are cheery and welcoming. Children are polite, opening doors and using the very formal "Mrs. Drama," when they address parents. There is an old-fashioned air - alot of cafeteria boutiques and baked goods - but it is familiar, comforting somehow.

The other morning, the two school philosophies became apparent as the girls played in Miss M's room.

Roxie: Miss M, may I color that poster with you?

Miss M: Rox, I'm almost done. I'd like to finish this myself. Here. I have an
extra that you can do by yourself.

Roxie: But I want to do yours.

Miss M: Sorry. I'm going to be firm on this.

Roxie: That's not living in the light of the Lord, M.

Miss M: Well. Perhaps you're not considering the perspective of the other person.
Did you notice that I was hard at work on this for the last half hour?
How do you think I feel.

Roxie: Well.

Thinks a moment.

Roxie: What would Jesus do?

Miss M: Jesus, Roxie, would consider the feelings and perspectives of the other
person.

I lay in bed, listening to them. Marvelling that they play together; Miss M no longer sits solo in her room, reading. I secretly high-fived the social skills teacher at Miss M's school; this program obviously rocks.

Two very different schools. Two very different philosophies.

Same message.

It's been a very rough road. We longed for a place for Miss M for a very, very long time.

Our ship landed.

Our people have come.

And the bonus? Roxie has her own damned ship. Go on with your bad self, Rox.

There are many things in this world that I covet - talents, material objects, okay, hell, I'll be blunt - I really, really like jewelery.

But to have happy, well-adjusted children who love where they go every day?

No contest.

Priceless.

Hang in there. Sometimes it takes them awhile to find you. But they come.

Oh yes.

They come.

love

2009-02-01T19:22:00.000-08:00

This made my day.

so i borrowed something from you

2009-01-18T22:23:00.000-08:00

They just left.

Remember them? The blue-blooded hardcore east-coast versions of these?

When last we visited with them, it was on their annual weekend visit to Spend Time With the Grandchildren.

You might remember that I am not allowed to divulge that my daughter speaks French, or rather, that she tipples from the spectrum nectar. My husband requested this when she was identified so many years ago, to save harassment from two individuals who surely would have never let us alone if they know this information. This was not my decision, and since we rarely see them, it is none of my business how he deals with his fractured family - I'm just doing my best dealing with my own.

Um.

It's really stressful.

I have gently alluded to Miss M's "speech issues" and her "sensitivity to things". It's like being African American and trying not to show it. You are what you are, you know?

Miss M, for her part, "blends" more and more, and it is less of an issue than say, when she was spinning in circles when she was five.

But still.

Throw into the mix the fact that these people are highly competitive New Yorkers, who hang on things like test scores and schools, and class and caste; I have a hard enough passing muster because I'm brown. Well. Beige. But you get the picture.

For those of you wondering, Miss M was brilliant. Breathtaking. She was polite and funny, conversant, and her manners are impeccable. She sat, in 5-star restaurant after 5-star restaurant upright, napkin in lap, elbows carefully off the table. She hissed to her sister that she was chewing with her mouth open, and bent over and whispered to me during dinner, "What would be an appropriate subject to discuss right now?"

Of course, as you know, I am constantly checking myself and trying not to look for things in my daughter like deficits or quirks or behaviors. I tried not to have those "screw-tin eyes" as Kyra is fond of quoting. But it's hard not to check the in-laws' faces as Miss M will say something like, "Look at how adorable that ginger-haired tyke is!" in reference to a lunching red-haired toddler one table over.

At one point, Miss M excused herself, saying that she needed "a moment of space." She disappeared into the restroom, splashed some water on her wrists, took some breaths, and returned to the table, smiling. The regulation, my friends, is expert.

Ex-pert.

My Type-A in-laws got squabbly in the car as we decided where to go for dinner. Miss M chirped from the back, "Everyone. Please. I don't mean to be rude, but please take a (air-finger gesture here) 'chill pill'. You're getting all worked up for nothing. I mean, is this a big deal, or is this a little deal? You decide," she said, using her mantra from school.

I stopped looking at my in-laws' faces and thinking about my friend Jess. Jess would kvell to see this, I thought. Jess would be so proud of her, I'd pause, as Miss M jogged along the lake with her grandparents, chatting. I thought about the fact that I thought about Jess - what she would think. This is the thing: my fellow mommies are consummate cheerleaders. You are trained to see the amazing progress, the subtle changes, recognize the brilliantly regulated choice. This was working. I used your eyes.

I hope you don't mind.

I began to look at things through Gretchen's eyes - how her son is roughly the same age, and how delighted we both are at the change in our children at their new schools; I thought about Michelle and her daughter Riley, who is Miss M's good friend, and I'd imagine Riley pumping her fist for Miss M as she effortlessly made transition after transition. I thought of Kyra and Fluffy, who know something about diplomacy and family gatherings. Of my friend Carrie, who understands quirk and drinks in its sweetness, as I do. Of Niksmom, who tearfully and faithfully cheers every kid in our little village; of Kristen, of Susan, of Osh, of all of you who send Miss M endless electronic applause and spiritual love.

I replaced the screw-tin eyes with yours.

You wouldn't believe the difference.

In me.

I was relaxed. I had a pretty good time (note: a constant flow of Veuve Clicquot helps quite a bit) and was able to get over my stuff so that I could get over their stuff.

Cause really. It's their stuff.

It has nothing to do with Miss M. Or us.

Miss M. is strong. STRONG. Roxie has a tendency to suck the attention out of a room, and that, you can imagine, is a concern of mine. I would nudge Miss M, whispering that perhaps Grandma and Grandpa would like to hear her pretty voice. Miss M rolled her eyes and turned to me. "Mo-ther. Please. That is embarrassing, and I am not a performing monkey."

On the last night, Roxie was well into Sleeping Beauty, draping in a grand reverence, when my father in law boomed, "I want to hear Miss M read."

The show stopped.

Unbelievably, Miss M popped right up and took the new book, a gift from him, and opened it up.

The title? George Washington's Rules of Civility and Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation.

You know. The kind of book you give most nine-year-olds.

Miss M read the blurbs with humor, perfect pacing, and flawless inflection.

She was laughing.

We were laughing.

She was performing.

It felt, initially, as another one of their ploys to "test" Miss M as they always do (they'll have her spell a word or solve a word problem) but this- this was different. She owned it. She got it.

That's not to say she didn't have a little fun at their expense.

As the in-laws are staunch Republicans, my husband and I avoid talking politics, as we avoid talking about many things with them.

At lunch, Miss M cut her filet mignon, arms akimbo, but nonetheless, hacking away at the tender medallion. Everyone quietly watched her, loathe to offer help. She finally dug out a bit, crossed her long legs, and forked the meat into her mouth. "I'm usually a vegetarian," she blushed, "but I just can't turn down a good cut of meat, you know," she said, for all the world a thirty-year-old woman. Everyone sort of winked in a ha-ha-kids-say-the-darndest-things-sort-of-way.

Then she leaned in.

"So," she said, folding her napkin. "How do you feel about a black president?" A Dem-o-crat?" she said, enjoying herself. She forked another slice of meat into her mouth. She chewed, a huge, shit-eating grin cracked on her face.

It was in that moment that I vowed to never, ever worry about my Miss M again.

Thank you.

Thank you for your eyes.

that's how she do

2009-01-13T21:43:00.000-08:00

Okay.

This might seem trivial to you, so really, I understand if you have better things to do, like, say surf Perez or something like that.

But this rocked my world.

Miss M, as you know, has been at her new school a little over a semester, with marked results.

She's lost 10 pounds of baby fat, which used to pad her tummy and chin due to inertia. She is now a tall and willowy girl, who likes to play at recess with other kids, who rollerblades (!) and ice skates on the weekends.

Yeah. You heard me.

She jokes. All the time. And they're pretty damned good.

Her vocal inflection before, was - well, stilted. Not scripted, not monotone. Just stilted. Still is, a bit. But now, the tweeny inflection will come out, especially when she talks about say, American Girl books like The Care and Keeping of Your Body (I need to talk to you about American Girl books and how great they are for girls who need some help with social skills) or the cute boys in her class, or say, planning her birthday party.

But this.

Now, as you know, I'm a character actress, prone of alot of high-affect - facial expression, expansive gesturing, sonorous voice.

Her sister, who is five, is a mini-stamp of me.

Imagine, if you will, growing up in a household of stereo drama queens, and you, well, you just sort of want to say your piece and be done with it. After all, that's sort of how Daddy rolls. Dinner has been, in the past, a sort of Who's On First between Drama and Roxie, while Miss M and Drama Daddy sort of quietly smile and float through dinner, talking about quantum physics, or say, offshore oil drilling.

So we were readying for bed the other night - preparing bookbags and lunchboxes, laying out uniforms, brushing teeth.
I was in the kitchen, packing Cheez-Its (don't judge me) when Miss M hurriedly ambled in for a glass of water. She got her cup, filled it, took a sip, then turned to go upstairs.

She stubbed her toe on the kitchen island.

Maybe I didn't say that loudly enough for you to hear.

SHE STUBBED HER TOE ON THE KITCHEN ISLAND.

In the past, that was good for maybe an hour of screaming, crying, and histrionics, not to mention a splash of perseveration.

Do you know what she did?

She made a funny face - a mug, if you will - and said, "Oooooh."

Then she shrugged.

And a few steps later stopped.

She thought for a moment.

Then she said,

"Whatevs."

Whatevs.

As if it's been that easy all of her life.

Whatevs.

You know.

'Cause that's how we roll.