Of Things Lost

According to my subconscious, my two youngest children died this month.

A few weeks ago, our family was swimming in a strange, stone complex of lifeguardless pools. There were lap pools and wading pools. All had stairs descending to the bottom; all were surrounded by gray, stone walls streaked with lime and rust and calcium deposits. One pool held my particular fancy. It was like a cube of water: twelve feet by twelve feet and twelve feet deep. It reminded me of the hippopotamus pool I used to stare into at Hogle Zoo when I was a kid. I couldn't see it, but like that pool at the zoo, I knew that somewhere behind me was a display of things that had been lost in the pool: false teeth, candy wrappers, sunglasses, purses... I watched my three oldest children swim confidently back and forth across the gaping green-black abyss. Then, Ammon, my youngest child waddled over from the wading pool and leapt fearlessly into the deep water. I was right by him, near the edge, and I jumped in, reached for him. I felt his soft flesh against my fingertips, but could not find a handhold, anything to grip. He slipped beyond my grasp and sunk like a lead ball to the bottom, one more addition to the collection of lost things.

Then, two nights ago, Jack and I played together at the top of a cliff. We were, in turns, at a carnival, a spectacular show, a meeting, a worship service, but always at the edge of a dizzyingly high cliff. Below us were trees and sandstone arches and white-picketed-suburban neighborhoods. At the last, we stood together in front of an audience, swinging back and forth on pine two-by-fours, holding tight to the rough and splintery rope that suspended the boards. People on the cliff above clapped and cheered, the immense scene of homes and arches and trees spread forever below us. We swung and laughed, exhilarated. Then Jack let go of the rope. "Grab the rope! Hold on tight!" I shouted, sure he was about to fall. I reached for him with one hand, caught just the seam of his shirt as he pulled away from me and plummeted to his death. The dream did not have the mercy to end there, but seemed to drag for months as it followed me through my grief. All of my days were dark, everything was inkstained black. In one scene, I had just given a powerful reading of my poetry. Then, as people asked to buy my chapbook I kept lowering the price. $4. $3. $2. It ended with me parting gladly with two copies for a handful of homemade, purple, sparkly play dough. I gave another copy away for a bowl full of noodles. 

I'm not sure if every parent feels this way, but for years I've been waiting for that proverbial shoe drop, anticipating always in the corner of my mind the day when one of my precious ones is taken from me. Each year it doesn't happen I heave a sigh of relief and brace myself anew.


So, dreams of disaster aren't uncommon for me.


These dreams, though...  They have a different feel—like my spirit, my soul, the universe, His Spirit, is trying to speak with me in the language of things that are lost.


I've felt no great sense of losing my little ones, no catch-your-breath falling feeling in my waking hours, but I have felt a slow, creeping inkling of loss.  Inch by inch, these gorgeous boys are getting away from me.  They are growing up too fast. I will not be the mother of little boys for much longer—these next few years will probably feel like a fast, fleeting dream.


But is it more than that?


Of course there is the mother-guilt.  How can I be going to school when these boys are so little???  But, the path I'm on right now was also dream-wrought, shown to me by soul-whispered and divine guidance.  And I've received powerful confirmation, even very recently, that it is the right path for me to be walking now and that I am walking it at the right pace.  

That moment I sold my poetry for so much less than I think it's worth said a lot to me, though. There are things that, soul-purpose or not, are not the most important things to me.  And am I selling myself short?  Exchanging my time and energy for the lesser things, the things that will enrich my life and the lives of those I love the least?

I only have questions right now.  No answers.  And that's ok, because that questioning, open, humble space is where I learn the best.  I know that something in my life needs to change, that it has something to do with my children, my motherhood, my priorities.  I'm praying and seeking and trusting that a whisper will come soon and show me the way.

Love and Kisses With Coco

Coco is snuggling on my lap.  We've been talking and cuddling and kissing all morning.

"Oh, Coco," I tell him, "Sometimes I love you so much I just want to burst."

He kisses me square on the lips.

"Kissing is love that comes bursting out of your body," he says.

Sigh...

Conversation With Coco

Me: How did I get so lucky to be your mom?
Coco: Because I choosed you!
Me: You did? You chose me? Why did you choose me?
Coco: Because you're the best mom ever! And you take care of me and you're nice all day!

**melt my heart**

Like when he says "I love you more than chocolate chips!"

Love this little boy! He can be sooooo challenging, but the payoff is so great!

Let Me Show You a Story of Coco's Front Teeth

They came in all cute, like this, poking pearly white through the gums. But they had a problem -- defective enamel.

Thus, the slightly pitted teeth turned into brown and crumbling teeth.

Which led to this -- major dental work under anesthesia.

His dentist armor-plated them and tried to make them look as natural as possible.

Two weeks later he was running and, you guessed it, hit his teeth.  Hard.  We thought they'd fall out, but I prayed like crazy and they stayed in.  But they never looked as good after that.  And the dentist said they'd be more prone to infection after trauma like that.

Fast forward about a year. Coco starts having big pustules above his teeth that hurt and drain when they're popped or bumped.  (You can thank me now for not posting pictures of that!) We return to the dentist.

Sure enough, all four top front teeth are abscessed. They all have to be removed.  Coco looks like this for two months. Except the gaping holes went away after a few days.

The dentist makes Coco a glued-in retainer with four new prosthetic teeth.  He looks so handsome.

Two hours later.

Three hours later.

We return to the dentist.  He saves the day by fixing and replacing the retainer. AND (bless him) does not charge us for the second visit.

Coco has a super week and a half with his new chompers.

No words.

Here they are. Waiting for repair. For Mommy to decide it's worth it to pay to fix them and try again. For now he's happily sticking his tongue out with his mouth closed and chomping from the side and not eating corn on the cob.

On Beginnings and Endings -- Peanut Turns One

One year ago, at just about this time, a child was born.  It was serene and sacred, a quiet scene, a beautiful and blissful welcoming. (You can read the story here.)

While pregnant with Peanut, I experienced the normal number of garden-variety aches and discomforts.  I had at least my fair share of anxiety.

But, in retrospect his pregnancy felt much like a deep breath, his birth a sigh.

When I first looked in his eyes I felt 31 years' urgent ache melt away.  Here was my friend, the gentle joyful spirit who had trusted me enough to wait for me to be his mother.  Until that moment I had no idea how much I'd missed him.

Now, the newborn boy whose peach fuzz head fit in the palm of my hand is one year old. 

His eyes are bright with joy and laughter. His voice tinkles and coos and squeals, playing on his throat and teeth and tongue the music of our language. Soon his words will roll into the world, announcing the thoughts that make him unique in all the universe. As he learns to walk, his feet march out the rhythm of his fierce desire for independence. He longs to step into the wide world and do what he came here to do.

Never have I mourned the passing of a baby year as I am grieving the end of this child's first year.

Oh, how I will miss him! 

Tangled up in his growing is the passage of my mother-self.  I don't yet feel the settling peace and certainty that we are done having children.  I also don't feel the yearning for a missing child, the surety that there is at least one more spirit waiting to join us. And so I know that this may be the end, that I may never again know the intimacy of being the mother of a baby.

Tonight I kissed his forehead as I put him to bed, knowing that the baby I nursed to sleep tonight will wake up tomorrow as a one year old.

The pain and joy and power of it all was far too much to keep to myself, so I had to pour it out here.


My baby, likely my very last sweet baby, is ONE YEAR OLD. 

{Awed pause here.}

He was born on a wisp of heaven and his birth restored my faith in birth.

Now, each day he restores my faith. 

He teaches and teaches and teaches me hope. Life is good -- all of it -- the beginnings and the endings and the just-keeping-ons.

With each joyful, toddling step he is reminding me. Life is meant to be lived with face turned forward, arms raised high, heart open to welcome the joy that waits ahead of us, even as it holds safe the treasure of the joys that lay behind.

On Mindfully Seeking a Label -- A Post For Mashuga

Dearest Mashuga,

Consider this a dispatch from the mother of your sparkling childhood self to the solid man I'm certain you'll become.

You came to me on a wave of bright blue winter afternoon, your right hand tucked beside your head. Your gray-blue eyes were the eyes of ancient knowing.

I felt nearer to God when you lived inside me than almost any other time and my many conversations with Him helped me understand that you were something special.

His promise that you would need a strong body to fulfill your mission here on earth has seen me faithfully through the physical challenges I've helped you face.

His assurance of the strength of your spirit is what sees me through right now.

Thirty years from now we will both heave a sigh of relief. I know that thirty years from now, I will marvel and be amazed by you.

Until then, there will be another certainty tickling at my heart. Getting there will not be easy -- for either one of us.

In March your father and I walked with you into Dr. Mumford's office, yellow evaluation papers jittering in my hands. I knew the diagnosis. I'd been reading about it for months.

Google probably logged my IP address, ready to present a thousand pages about ADHD the moment I opened a browser. I gutted the library's shelves, devouring any information that could help me with you. I read the typical how-to-manage-and-medicate books. I read the medication-is-evil books. I read the diet-is-the-answer books.

I read The Edison Gene and The Indigo Children.

My heart sang out the gift of you, my hunter child, my warrior son draped in indigo.

It was healing to know that others could see a child like you and value your (HUGE) existence in this world.

I joked that probably every member of our family could be diagnosed with some level or form of ADHD. In ways it was a badge of pride.

I didn't notice the slow creeping, the way the joking and the singing and the pride no longer made up for the tears and the yelling and the sideways glances. It took me far too long to realize how your heart was hurting, how my heart was hurting.

I love you fiercely my darling boy, but there were days I had to dig into the dark of my body to find the place where I liked you.

So we walked back out of Dr. Mumford's office with a prescription for Adderall XR, a business card for a behavioral therapist and (ick) a label.

The label gave me fuel for negotiations with your teacher.

(For the love of pete and fried chicken, please move him away from the window when he's taking his math test before you decide he's a failure at math!)

The label gave me instant inner vindication.

(This child is tough and there is a section of the DSM-IV that proves it!)

Insert crickets chirping here. Or crappy hold musak. Or your mother hitting herself on the head with a pillow.

All my good intentions are gathered in a pile on my nightstand, swimming in a gravy of guilt. I stare at them through the dark of my sleepless nights and try to close the door on them through the hair-pulling of my days.

Good heavens, I love you child. I offer that up as the excuse for my paralysis. I have been so afraid to do the wrong thing for you that I've kept us both hanging tight to the end of this tug-of-war rope and done nothing else.

The crying has reached a crescendo. Within seconds of any injury -- physical or emotional, real or imagined -- you cry like someone has amputated your arm with no anesthesia.

The stubborn refusal to listen or obey haunts our days. I can't say I blame you. I can see that it is a survival mechanism to protect you from the exasperation and sour words hurled at you far too often. You want so badly to be good. You are genuinely surprised when you get in trouble. You probably get tired of trying.

Your impulsiveness is at heart-racing, police-calling fever pitch. You slipped off to a neighbor's house yesterday without asking first. You don't usually play inside his house, so we didn't even think to knock on their door. For two hours we searched all of your usual play places, scoured our house, fretted and called for you.

Finally, I put in a call to 911. A very kind officer came to our house and commenced a thorough search of our house. (Typical practice before proceeding further. I know. This is not the first time we've had to call police to help us find you.) Five minutes after he arrived, you came skipping up the stairs, a carefree whistle of happiness on your lips, completely clueless as to why your mother was haggard, police were at our home and half the neighborhood was out searching for you.

I think we need a pause button, my dear. A stop gap. A bit of help so we can catch our breath and start over. Find new ways of being.

I'd like to change your diet to help you manage this ADHD superpower of yours. I'd like to be a brilliant mother and structure our days and your life to bring out everything that's best in you, to compel you toward success and joy.

Sadly, though, I just can't keep it together enough to do all of those things.

For right now, I'm going to take a deep breath and do the next best thing.

For your safety and self-esteem, for my sanity, it's time to have a go at the medication, I think.

Then I'm calling the therapist your doctor recommended, because it's obvious that I can't do this on my own.

And it won't be happily-ever-after and honeyed milk and rainbow skies. It won't be easy. I know that. I also know enough to understand that the challenges are the real blessings.

You may not understand that now, but maybe when you read this decades from now you will.

And maybe, when you stare into the endless eyes of your own newborn son, you'll have some idea of how I love you.

Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for being patient while we figure this out.

Love,
Mom

Poetry Tuesday Returns In Honor Of Mother's Day

So, I haven't posted any poems for a long time. I'm feeling the need to start again. And why not start for Mother's Day?

These are two poems from Carol Lynn Pearson's book "Beginnings." (You may be getting the feeling that I like Carol Lynn Pearson. Um, I really do. I love the work of many other poets too, but Carol always seems to sing the same song my heart sings.)

The first poem "Investment" is dedicated to my younger sister who will soon be giving birth to her first child. I'm so thrilled for her I could burst.

The second poem "The Unwritten Poem" is dedicated to my mother, who has given so much to her children. She loves to write and has always told me she'd love to write more. I think she should! Until then, she just keeps on encouraging and loving me and everyone else in her family. She has given me so many poems.

Investment

How enviously

I watched

The rose bush

Bear her bud --

Such an easy,

Lovely birth.

And

At that moment

I wished

The sweet myth

Were true --

That I could

Pluck you,

My child,

From some

Green vine.

But now

As you breathe,

Through flesh

That was mine

(Gently in the

Small circle

Of my arms),

I see

The wisdom

Of investment.

The easy gift

Is easy to forget.

But what is bought

With coin of pain --

Is dearly kept.

The Unwritten Poem

Sometimes --

In a sitting down moment

On a day

Of stove-heating the sad-irons

And layering newspaper between

Quilts to keep us warmer --

I heard my mother say,

"I wish I had time

To write a poem."

And then she would start

The potatoes.

When I was twelve

A thing happened that

Broke my heart --

A school thing I've forgotten now.

For hours I cried my humiliation

Into a handkerchief.

Next day my mother

Brought in in from ironing --

That handkerchief --

And gave it to me special.

"Here," she laid it in my lap.

"You've had it in happy times

And in sad.

There'll be more of both.

Keep it, and it will remind you

The better follows the bad."

She went back to ironing,

And my fingers traced

The little flowers of fading blue.

I can remember other poems

She left me, too.

I Broke the Butter Dish and Other Confessions of Late Pregnancy

Yes, I'm the one who broke the butter dish. And the last of the glasses that Derrick and Kendra gave us. And one of our few remaining IKEA stoneware bowls. I'm always clumsy during pregnancy. Well, I'm fairly clumsy all the time. Something about the hormones and the physical changes of pregnancy just exacerbates it.

But strangely, I have felt anything but clumsy this pregnancy. Being pregnant this time around has been pure bliss. I feel beautiful, divine, big, powerful, capable, joyful, grateful beyond reckoning. It may be because this is likely my last chance to experience pregnancy. It may be because I am keenly aware of so many around me who are yearning to be pregnant, or whose pregnancies are truly difficult. But somehow I have been able to abide in each moment of this experience, to cherish it for what it is, to revel in this partnership with the divine in creating a body to house a precious spirit.

I laugh at the less-than-stellar moments of pregnancy: the now cumbersome belly, the ridiculous round-ligament pain, the multiple trips to the bathroom (some coming less than 5 minutes apart), the hips that hurt in the morning and leave me walking like an old lady. And then I cherish them too. When will I ever feel this again? Even the pain and the discomfort are precious. They are teachers, reminders of how alive I am, how fortunate I am to be a mother, how worthwhile the fruits of this short season will be, how short this season truly is.

I think it is also a blessing to have a summer baby. I visit my garden in the mornings to tend and weed and water and harvest, the warmth of the sun radiating through me. The squatting and the bending and the reaching are wonderful preparation for my physical body. The widely opening flowers, soon to be ripe with fruit, are a comfort and companion to my mother-soul. The effortless green and growth are nourishment to my spirit and a gentle example of our equal needs, the garden and I, for nourishment and tender care.

In my favorite birth book, Birthing From Within, there is a powerful exercise. It is one I teach my BFW classes and doula clients. It is the process of choosing one's Deepest Question. Like affirmations, it is a way of bringing mind and body into congruence. Even more powerful, to my mind. In asking the question over and over, we invite ourselves to live the answer. And as I live the answer now and the next moment and the next moment, I can know with surety that I will still be living my answer as I give birth and learn to mother a new child.

My question through the latter half of this pregnancy has been this:

How am I opening to this moment?

Each time I ask this again, I feel myself crack open just a little wider. I feel my heart open, my mind open, my eyes open, my hands open. I feel myself opening to and embracing the joy, the humor, the aching hips, the gentle nudges of my baby each morning, the nervousness about having five children, the breaking butter dishes. I am opening to all of the possibilities this particular birthing adventure might take, to the love and kindness of friends and family and strangers who are eager to share in this experience, to the wonder in my children's eyes as they marvel over my hee-uuuge tummy, the adoration and devotion of my dear husband. I am claiming and embracing it all, without apology, with an inkling that I just might be one of the most blessed women in existence right now.

My preparation for Coco's birth was an exercise in trust, a warrior-like need for battle readiness, almost an existential crisis. (I frequently pull myself into the-chicken-or-the-egg type discussions about this. Was Coco's birth my most intense because I was so intense about preparing for it, or did my spirit know how desperately I needed that intense preparation for the phenomenal experience to come?)

This experience has been so incredibly different. It has been one of curiosity, gentleness and steady, calm assurance. Perhaps I am living the calm of the warrior. Coco's birth taught me that I am made of tougher stuff than I ever imagined. Perhaps my spirit really knows what's coming and I'm in for an easier ride this time.

Either way, I'm ready. Open. Grateful.

I'm in no hurry to part with this little one, to end this treasured experience. But I feel the end coming soon. And when it comes, I will open body, mind and spirit and let my little one come from my body to my arms.

And the opening will have only begun.

Or It Could Always Be Hot Dogs

So, Scud has always been a bit peculiar. He's bright, he's fun, he's hilarious and handsome, but also rather quirky. He has a hard time with empathy, with eye contact, with understanding social norms and acceptable behavior. This started when he was still a toddler and would invariably hit other children on the playground EVERY. TIME. WE. WENT. I always thought it was because I was a crappy mom and couldn't figure out how to teach him not to hit, or give appropriate consequences. When he could finally talk (at about 4) he told me the reason he always hit kids. "Be-duzz I am doh nerbous."

The social anxiety has continued through the years, along with other odd behaviors that make life hard for him. So, we're investigating several avenues.

I met with the school psychologist on Monday and we went over the results from the screeners we took. For the ASDS (that screens specifically for Asperger's Syndrome), he scored in the "possibly" category. There are five categories: very likely, likely, possibly, unlikely and very unlikely. Possibly, as you might have guessed, is right on the fence. Which is exactly where we've always been.

On the second screener, he measured in the "clinically significant" category for traits such as withdrawal, maladaptability, social skills and agression -- all of which are red flags for an autism spectrum disorder. But again, inconclusive.

He also scored high for hyperactivity and attention problems, which is no big surprise because I think nearly ever member of our family (JDub and I included) could probably be diagnosed with some form of ADD or ADHD. I don't mean to pooh-pooh this idea, because I'm sure that if it becomes a problem for him we will want to find resources to help. But high activity, high intensity and distractibility are all what "normal" means in our household.

Giftedness and it's attendant odd behaviors were our first thought (and still haven't been ruled out), but homeschooling him and matching his environment and academics to his needs have not resolved many of the most concerning behaviors. He is a very bright kid and definitely thinks differently that most. Our school's principal suggested that we have him tested and apply for him to go to a satellite school in our district set up specifically for gifted children. I'm researching and thinking about it, but am concerned that it might be too high-pressure for him and that, rather than flourishing, he might just wilt.

The school psychologist was very helpful and suggested that it would be a good idea to take him to someone who could give us a definitive yea or nay on an Asperger's diagnosis and help us with any other problems and needs.

My emotions and thoughts on this are all over the map. I want to know how to help this sweet kid, how to get the resources he needs to learn how to function normally and just be happy. I want what's best for him. But, I also don't want to be quick to jump on the "diagnosis bandwagon" and just try to fit him into a box to make it easier for us. And there's also the guilt that, in my years of making it "all about me" and my feelings of inadequacy to properly parent this child, I have been blinded to the fact that I was doing all I could by myself and he just needed more help than he was getting. I wonder about the future repercussions of pursuing a diagnosis, both positive and negative. But, more than anything, I just want to do what is right for Scud. The hard part is often knowing just what "right" is. We'll be working on it, praying about it, pursuing this further. Wish us luck.

And now for your listening pleasure (and mine because I'm tired of feeling crazy), I give you my happy songs. 10 songs that never fail to make me smile. Happy Wednesday!

The Joy Comes in Moments

A conversation with Scud last night as he was settling down for sleep:

Scud: Mom, I realize you and Dad do so much stuff for us. I want to thank you for that.
Me: You're welcome. I'm grateful to be your mom.
Scud: I'm grateful to be your son.

Scudenstein

Yep, we're facing school issues again. Yes, once again it's Scud.

Among other things, his teacher feels VERY strongly that he needs to be moved ahead to the next grade. (Didn't we do this last year?) I pretty much agree.

But, I'm also very concerned about some obsessive-compulsive behaviors and extreme anxiety issues he has been showing. He's always had them and I keep thinking he will grow out of them. But they're not getting better. If anything they're getting worse.

He is hating school right now. "Miserable" is the word he used. I hate to hear that from my sweet guy. His anxiety issues are keeping him unhappy at school, at home, pretty much all of the time.

So, we're looking into solutions, trying to figure out where to turn to evaluate things. I want to make decisions based on the whole picture.

Mainly it's questions right now.

Are the obsessive-compulsive behaviors and anxiety stemming from the fact that is mind is terribly under stimulated?

Or do they exist on their own?

Will changing grades mean a reprieve from current symptoms? Short-term? Long-term? Could it possibly make it worse?

Does he have obsessive compulsive disorder or another mental illness? Or is the fact that he is very intelligent and not being stimulated causing his brain to look for other things to do? Or is it both?

I want so very much to take care of this tender little guy. I want what's best for him. And I don't want to go with quick fixes and not look at the whole picture, really figure out what he needs.

We are also looking into a Montessori school, the idea of homeschooling him. There are many possible options and many questions with each option.

Wish us luck.

Updates

I realized a while ago that I've left a few loose threads hanging out around here. So, I guess it's a good time to wrap them up.

-I'll start with the most recent: Mashuga and the carseat debacle. I don't have a permanent solution, yet. But we're working on it. My sweet friend, Kristin's, comment woke me up to a very important truth. I've been spending so much time talking, cajoling, begging, pleading and yelling at Mashuga about the issue that I've completely forgotten to listen. I haven't been listening to him and to what he needs and wants. I haven't been listening to my own mother-heart and the still small voice that never leads me in the wrong direction.

So, here's what we're doing. For now, Mashuga's carseat is buckled in the passenger seat next to me. This serves many purposes. First of all, it puts him in arms reach so that I can prevent him from unbuckling at inopportune times. It also puts him more firmly into my realm of consciousness, so that I know when he's getting restless or unhappy and I can meet those immediate needs before they progress to the ultimate, desperate attempt at freedom. It also gives us the opportunity to talk, to enjoy one another. He's already given me plenty of ideas on how to help him. He'd love a more comfortable carseat. Actually, he'd like to have a booster seat, but he is still only 33 pounds dripping wet and only barely tall enough for a booster. I feel much safer with him in a carseat right for a bit longer. He'd love to have a little bag with books and toys to play with in the car. He is a wise little teacher and a wonderful boy.

Sometimes I forget what I have learned over and over as a parent. Usually my children's "bad" behaviors are just an expression of an inner need. If I take the time to listen carefully and look more closely, we can usually find the best solutions together.

-Scud's school situation has improved drastically. It's been like night and day and he is LOVING school now. What changed? His former teacher resigned because of family needs. I imagine this may have been part of the problem -- that she was simply stretched too thin. So, though I am compassionate enough to wish her well and hope she has success in her future, I admit that I did a little jig in my kitchen when I learned that Scud would be getting a new teacher.

And she has been EVERYTHING I had hoped for. First of all, she adores Scud and makes him feel so good about himself. And she is one of those teachers who is in it because she loves the children. It is more than just a job for her. Her classroom management skills are fantastic. She is challenging Scud, teaching the curriculum and working with the other 1st grade teachers to divide the children into skill-set groups for math, reading and spelling. To say I am pleased would be putting it mildly. I just want to kiss this woman every time I see her.

Now I am curious about the rest of the first grade classes at our school. Are they improving? Rynell, I'm especially curious about what you're seeing with your son's class. If there's still a problem with the rest of first grade I still want to help.

-Another Scud update, though I'm not sure I've mentioned this here before. When Scud was 2 1/2 he was diagnosed with an articulation disorder. They suspected he might have developmental apraxia of speech, which meant that he knew the words he was trying to say but his brain and mouth were not coordinating well enough for him to make the sounds he needed to make. He was basically unintelligible until he was about 3 1/2 to 4 years old and even then other people had a hard time understanding him. It was an interesting journey. He acquired language rapidly and talked A LOT. We just couldn't understand him most of the time. It was very frustrating for him. People were always asking him to repeat himself and I always had to translate for him (when I actually understood him).

But, after 2 years of speech therapy he tested at an age-appropriate level and we were told he didn't need speech therapy anymore. I walked away with a bit of trepidation, but reminded myself that even my precocious Kaitybean still pronounced her r and sh and th wrong at 4 1/2.

Well, it's been nearly 3 years and he hasn't made much, if any, progress in his speech. He still can't pronounce r, th, sh, ch and mutates a few vowel sounds. Over the last couple of years I've listened to him and his speech just sounded a little off, still. A few weeks ago I finally decided that this wasn't going to resolve on its own and called the special ed director at our school. The speech therapist evaluated him and sure enough, he has moderate articulation delays. He will be attending speech therapy once a week again and I am so, so glad. After a few years of being on the borderline of normal, people have begun asking him to repeat himself again and his speech abilities are again recognizable as delayed. I have always felt strongly that I wanted to do everything possible for him while he is young and other children are more forgiving of differences so that this does not negatively impact his self-image. So, I'm very happy about this. And sometimes it is nice to have my intuition validated by something as official-sounding as the Arizona Articulation Proficiency Scale.

One funny story that illustrates my point about Scud's speech beginning to get in his way again. In class a few weeks ago Scud's teacher asked the class what they would take with them on a long car trip. Scud told her he would take a book about sharks, to which she responded "Scud, that is not appropriate for this class." Now it is impossible to fully explain this in type (or in person really) but try to imagine the way Scud says sharks. Because it contains both an sh and an r sound it gets really mixed up and sounds just like the word "sharks" and the word "sex" perfectly morphed together so that it is VERY difficult to tell, out of context, which word he is trying to say. Scud, being the cool kid that he is, simply said "What's so inappropriate about a book about sea animals?" And his teacher said "Oh! Sharks! A book about sharks! Yes, that's a great idea." Scud later deduced that she had thought he'd said "A book about sex." and related the story to me with great glee later that afternoon. He found it very humorous, as did I. But it also clued me in to the fact that I was probably right and it was time to revisit the speech therapy idea.

-One last update -- JDub's work. I have mentioned here several times that JDub is in an interesting work situation. The last few years have been veeeeerrrry interesting. As of two months ago, we were certain that he would need to change careers by the end of this year. He was getting paid far too little for too much work, he was being kept from doing his job properly and was not allowed to hire enough help to keep his end of the business prospering. We were ready to go elsewhere, across the country if necessary. One day he felt prompted to mention this to his employer, that he was looking for work elsewhere. Oh boy! It has been like night and day since then. They bumped his income up considerably, changed him from hourly wages to salary, renegotiated his commission ratios for both websites and gave him the go-ahead to hire two more employees. Yippee! We feel so very blessed. Best of all, he is now being given the respect he deserves at his work. He is consulted on purchasing decisions and now has the authority to make all of the important decisions he needs to make to keep their profits high and their productivity at a decent level. He mentioned to me the other day that he is getting a bit "wigged out" by the lack of complaints he's had to deal with lately. They're getting everything shipped out on time. Orders are being handled in a timely manner and are done correctly. So, he is no longer running around crazy trying to put out fires and has the time to actually improve the websites, add more products, tweak systems to make things run better and sharpen the saw. Very nice. I'd say that's a good kind of "wigged out."

So, all in all, things are going well around here. Hope you don't mind reading through the long list of updates. I did go on, didn't I? Ah, well. It's a curse I have. Just let me know if there's anything else I've forgotten to update you on and I'll be happy to write another novel.

Yet Another Reason Why My Daughter is Already a Better Woman Than I...

I love this girl.

I have been dealing with some pretty intense self-loathing lately. There are some things going on with me emotionally and physically that have been difficult. I haven't shared them here yet. Partly because I'm not ready to share. Mostly because I'm still in denial.

But, this daughter of mine is so wonderful. Having her around and seeing how amazing she is makes me realize that I must not be so bad after all.

Not that I can take too much credit for her amazingness. I can be a little proud, though, right?

We were making bread a few days ago and she said, "I can't wait to have children to take care of. I want to be a good mom just like you are."

My heart melted, of course.

Then she sagely said, "I guess if I want to be like you then I should start trying to be just like you now."

Wow. Talk about the greates compliment I've ever received. I know she may feel differently in a few years, but for now my daughter wants to be just like me.

Also, before this she was watching me nurse Coco and said how cute he was when he was nursing and how she was excited to nurse her babies. Ahhh...

But here's what made me most proud of her this week. We were at the grocery store at the checkout stand. Kaitybean was looking at the magazines.

She looked at me and said, "Mom, I don't get it. All the magazines with women on them and for women all have stuff like "How to lose 20 pounds' or 'How to get flat abs' and stuff. I think it's stupid. It's like they're telling us we're not good enough. I don't like it. I think women are beautiful just the way they are."

I can't tell you how proud I was in that moment. I'm sure you can imagine. She is already noticing the ways society and Satan undermine women and she is talking back!

And she's noticing the beautiful, truly wonderful things about womanhood and committing herself to being that kind of beautiful, doing those things.

Some days I wish she had a better role model, though I am doing my best and she's obviously turning out alright. I'm just so lucky to have her as my daughter.

I worry about the days when worries about boys and peer pressure will swirl around her, but I hope that this core of who she is, this strong woman will hold steady.

The Mom Song

Thanks, Summer, for sending this to me. Hilarious!

What would you do?

This motherhood business is the hardest job imaginable.

This morning was the third time in a week that Kaitybean has glared at me from outside the van door and yelled "I hate you!" in response to my cheery "Make good choices! Have a great day! I love you!"

Scud has begged to stay home from school at least four times since school started (just over two weeks ago). And twice he has called me from school complaining of a vague stomach ache, saying he just wanted to come home.

This morning he woke up and said that his stomach hurt "Just a little, I think." and that he didn't want to go to school.

I made him go anyway. And I made him stay when he called about his stomach hurting.

Then, there's this nagging feeling that maybe there really is something wrong with his stomach and I should get him to the doctor to get it figured out. But, strangely, his stomach ache (and all memories of it) disappear magically when I pick him up from school. He feels perfectly fine enough to play.

So, this morning was particularly hellish. Scud didn't want to go to school, so refused to get dressed until about 8:15. We have to leave our home at 8:15 at the LATEST in order to make it to school on time.

Kaitybean got right up and did her math homework, got dressed and ate breakfast. Then, when we got to school, she refused to get out of the car. I cajoled and pleaded and threatened. She wouldn't budge. I asked her why she didn't want to go.

"I'm too tired," she said one minute and then, the next, "I just want to be home."

As we talked, she insisted that she LOVES school, especially her school and that she does NOT want to do homeschool again. And yet...

She sat there.

Morning meeting got over and a gaggle of fifth graders and their teachers passed by our car, all staring. Questioning. Kaitybean's best friend walked by and waved and said hello.

Still, she sat there.

Finally, after much begging (and, I'm ashamed to say, guilt-tripping), she got out of the car. I could see her eyes welling up with tears, I knew she was unhappy. I tried to reach out and hug her, caress her cheek. She jerked backward, glaring. That's one funny thing about this age. The times she most obviously needs a hug are the times she most adamantly refuses to be touched.

"Well, I love you, honey," I told her. "Try to make it a great day."

"Hmph!" she grunted. As she rounded the corner, she shouted, "I hate you!"

"Kaitybean," I responded, "if there's something real that you want to talk to me about, come back here. If not, just go to school."

At this point, I realized that not only was she 30 minutes late for school, but we were right outside the principal's office. His blinds were open. I'm not sure how much of this struggle he may have witnessed.

After waiting a few seconds, I turned back to the van, tears in my eyes. No matter how much I try to stay cheerful and loving and patient, it hurts to have my daughter tell me repeatedly how much she hates me. I made sure that Mashuga was safely restrained, then stepped back out, surprised to see Kaitybean standing right by me, tears streaming down her face.

"Kaitybean, what's wrong? What can I do to help you?" I asked her.

"I like going to school," she said. "I just miss you SO MUCH all day long. I hate being away from you. I just wish you could be my teacher. That would be perfect."

You can imagine how puzzled I am at this point. She hates me (okay I know she's probably just trying to distance herself), yet she misses me terribly all day and THAT is why she doesn't want to go to school. Also, um, we used to do homeschool which consisted of spending all day with mom, who was her teacher. Yet, she insists that she DOES NOT want to do homeschool.

I held her and comforted her. I told her I loved her and that I'd try to come up with some solutions and I wanted her to do the same. Then, I walked her into the school and got her checked in.

Then, I drove home crying.

Can I tell you how much I HATE THIS?!?

I hate driving an hour a day to take my children to a wonderful charter school that I put a lot of work into getting started, only to have them tell me that they don't want to go to school. I HATE forcing my children to go to school, or stay at school when they don't want to be there. I HATE in an inexpressible way (or at least in a way that is impossible to express politely) the politics and the stupidity of compulsory public schooling. Either I completely take my children out of school and homeschool them, or I am required by law to send them to school, whether they like it or not, whether I feel it is best for them or not. Some days (a lot of days, actually) I really feel like my children would be best served by staying home, reading, playing math games, learning at their own pace. Some days I feel like school is the best possible thing for them. It kills me that I can't just choose on a day to day basis what I feel will be best for them in the long run.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Why shouldn't I, as a parent, have that control and authority? I understand the difficulties of planning for a school and that they just couldn't survive if they never knew, from one day to the next, which students would and would not show up. I understand that, if my children weren't in school every day, they might miss out on some of the things learned in school. I understand. I accept that. But, I also know that my children learned just as much, if not more, with much less effort when we were homeschooling than they have in school.

And then there's also that part of me that LOVES having two in school all day and the freedom it gives me to go and do the things I need to do with just my little guys. I hate to give that up.

Oh, and I'm just not sure what to do about Scud's class. He is BORED SILLY. He's in first grade in a school with a fairly advanced curriculum. Yet, if the "homework" his teacher is sending home is any indication, his teacher is not following that curriculum. The math curriculum is what I am particularly concerned about. Part of the reason I signed on to this school is that I LOVE the math curriculum that they have chosen for the early grades. It is logical, smart. It promotes a visual, kinesthetic and deep understanding of the principles of math and the laws that govern it. There is an early understanding of place value, of equations as parts and whole. In short, it is fantastic. Perfectly what I want my children to be learning in their early exposure to math. And yet, Scud's teacher is sending home stupid, cutesy math. Count how many butterflies there are and such. Blech! Not what I signed on for, and not at all in line with the chosen curriculum. Counterproductive to what he's already learned, actually.

I'm not sure whether or not to confront her. Or whether or not to talk to the assistant director in charge of the curriculum. Or maybe, since I have been so closely involved in the curriculum of the school and its implementation, I should volunteer my time as to help the teachers find resources and learn how to better implement the curriculum.

Grrrr...

I intended this to be a thoughtful post about the difficulties of parenting, of choosing what's best for these sweet souls entrusted to my care, of constantly feeling inadequate and often feeling thwarted in trying to do my best for them. It has turned into a rambling complaint session, I'm afraid.

I wish I just knew what was best to do. I'm trying. Oh, how I'm trying.

And oh, how I love these sweet kids. They try my patience one minute and the next minute they are so beautiful, so wonderful that I could cry.

Funny Ebay Auction

Okay, many of you moms may have already read this. If not, you must.

I'm glad I'm not the only momwho has horror stories about grocery shopping.

Here it is.

Back to Skoo

Today was the first day of school for my kiddos. Ahhhh....

I think I was a bit more excited about it than maybe I should have been. Surely I'll be missing them in a few weeks. But, despite getting a bit nostalgic as I watched them run into school in their handsome uniforms, I am very glad that school has begun.

I'm excited for them. Kaitybean and Scud both love to learn. They love the activity and social interaction that school provides. So, they are glad to be back.

Mashuga goes to his preschool for testing today. Then he starts in a week. Just two days a week for 2 1/2 hours, but he is ready for it. I'm excited for him.

More than anything, just getting up and getting ready this morning reminded me how much I love the way school adds edges to our days. There is more rhythm and purpose built in to a school day. As you know, we've needed that.

Now...

Can I , um, dispense with the niceties and just complain for a while?

My house is a disaster. I told my SIL yesterday that it is not just messy enough that I'm embarassed to have anyone over. It's such a mess that I'm embarassed to live here.

So, I will be thoroughly gutting my house over the next few weeks. All non-essentials will either be going to charity or they will be put in storage. There is simply too much stuff around here.

Oh, and do you remember the kitchen chairs I was so excited about? The red paint and adorable yellow fabric. Well, the chairs are now officially a nightmare. The three I didn't prime will be okay. But I'm afraid I used the wrong primer for the other three because the paint just isn't looking good. Aaaaaaargh! I'll probably have to sand them down and start all over.

Add to this that Coc gives me enough time each day to finish one coat on one chair. So, approximately five coats off paint on six chairs, plus sanding. I figure I'll finish in time for Thanksgiving. Until then, we will continue eating while sitting on the piano bench, rubbermaid boxes and buckets.

I've decided that I need to have my own home decorating and maintenance show. Only instead of making you feel terrible about what your house looks like, like Martha, you can watch my show and feel muuuuuch better about yourself.

Oh, and I'm in pain. My left side stabs and hurts whenever I move. So i think I will be seeing a doctor today. Lovely.

So, I'm done complaining now.

It will all work out beautifully, as it always does. I just needed to vent. So thank you dearly, my bloggy friends. I hope you still love me.

Oh, I'm still working on my novel and sooooo excited about it. I've been researching Kentucky coal mines in 1958, Kaiser steel, Napa California, botulism. It's coming together in my mind. It will be grand.

I found one very cool little thing in my research. My grandparents used to live at 1012 Darms Lane in Napa, CA. Look at what is there now.

The little cottages that were there in the 1950s are now a lovely little B&B. Pretty cool, eh? I told JDub that we will be staying there soon.

Finding Gravity

JDub likes to use an interesting analogy about life, gravity, consistency.

As he puts it, what would life be like if, every morning when we got out of bed, we had to wonder which direction our feet would go? Will it be up today, or down, or sideways? It would be very hard to accomplish much of anything without the constance of gravity.

And so it is with our lives. If we are ever-wondering what will happen next, it is hard to accomplish much of anything, to move forward, to blossom and become better.

And so, in this stage of my life, I feel myself yearning to find gravity, to find and create some constants that can hold our family to the ground long enough to move forward.

I've never been good at routine, at consistency. Even as a teenager, when my days were pretty much planned for me -- School from 7:30-3:30, Madrigal Choir from 3:30-4:30, Soccer practice from 4:00-5:00, play practice from 5:00-9:00 -- I had no routine. I'd make it to school on time. Sometimes. Sometimes I'd go to a full soccer practice and miss part of choir, sometimes I'd skip soccer practice. Sometimes I'd go to play practice, sometimes I'd just go home and take a nap.

Now, I have learned much since those crazy days about being dependable and showing up when a team or a cast or a class is depending on me. But, I still find it difficult to rein my fickle ambitions and unruly emotions into anything that resembles order.

And if the over-scheduled life of teenage-dom didn't help me learn to pattern and plan my days, the empty canvas of motherhood and family life is certainly not bringing order to my life.

But order is something I really need to find right now. For me, for our children, for my sweet husband.

I've always thought of JDub and I as two parts to a song. He is the rhythm. I am the melody.

But, this isn't working anymore. In our nightly talks, between the time we put our kids to bed and JDub slouches into a sleepy, drooling blob because he's been awake since 4:30, we have determined that the rhythm JDub is marching our children to is a bit too strong.

Also, the relentless, maddening rhythm of his life outside our home is nearly killing him.

So, it falls to me, miss melody, miss fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, the free spirit of the family to find a better way.

Deep breaths.

So I'm searching and thinking and trying to find and create some laws that govern our family's universe.

Like eating dinner before 8pm and breakfast before 11am.

But, I also want it to be more than a marching order. I want ritual, beauty, joy and peace to fill our days.

Is this too tall an order?

So, I'm dying to know, for those of you who are so much better at this organization and routine stuff than I am, how do you do it? Any suggestions?

And for those of you who, like me, are a bit on the erratic side, have you learned any ways to channel yourself? Your family?

Please share your ideas.

How do you weave a sense of gravity, of ritual and things to depend on into your family's daily life?

Life Outside the Box

Things are less than magical at our house lately.

Life has been closing in on us rather rapidly as of late. We are all feeling the pressure.

JDub is stressed to the breaking point. Maybe past it.

Our children are languishing. They are fed, loved, taken care of. But still, so much is missing. I see it in their eyes and feel it in the way they talk, the way they interact with one another.

And me. Oh. I feel like I spend more time reading about your lives than I do living my own. I keep seeking some refuge, some friendship, something more in this vast network of souls from around the world. It has served me well -- guiding me to amazing, wonderful people, returning me to old and cherished friends. But, my real life has been calling.

And I have been feeling so lost for quite some time. Confused, discouraged, disappointed that the road I had been treading has come to a fork and I have been unsure which way to turn.

I have been paused at the crossroads for quite some time, trusting that my heart would find a way, trusting that I don't have to DO anything to make it better. I have simply to be, to trust, to listen and live for this moment.

And it turns out that this is also my answer for the road ahead. Not plunging headlong into new territory or seeking for help or answers.

My heroes journey lies close to my home, close to my heart. And my task for now is not more, not bravery or speed or motion. My call right now is less. It is quiet. It is nurturing and building the space around me, remembering how to be "just" a mom again, remembering how to love it.

I keep thinking of this period of my life as prelude to my actual, real life. I've been waiting for the time when I get to do all the things I want to do for myself -- things motherhood and wifehood and housekeeping hold me back from.

Tonight I realize that this IS my life, this IS what I want to be doing more than anything else in the world. And if I live right now with open arms and really dive into my life, I won't care whether or not I ever do anything else. Truly, if I knew that, in giving up everything, I could have my family whole and well and happy, I would give up the world and everything in it.

I keep wanting to be big, to do something great. Why not this? Why not be great at life, at now, at building the only things that last, that will never be lost to me -- my marriage, my family, my home, my heart.

I will never hug these children again. Never. They always keep growing. My four year old Mashuga will not be here to play with me in ten years when I finally "have time". I must, must, must play with him NOW. NOW is all I have any guarantee of.

So, I may return to some of my extracurricular activities. These things I "love". Birthing From Within. Doula Work. Blogging. Yahoo groups. Poetry.

But I feel that it is time to step away with an attitude of never looking back. If I never mentor another class or write another blog post or attend another birth or read another email or write another poem and I have saved my family, loved them thoroughly, I will be joyous beyond words. I will not have missed the things that really do matter.

It's funny, if I knew that by giving my life, I could save one of my children, I would do it. Without pause. Without question.

I could do anything to save my child. Why not this? Why not life? Why not living with them again, being their mother -- truly, deeply.

This is what my soul is calling out for me to do. And it feels so foreign, this deep desire, thirst for less. To do nothing extra.

I could undertake an epic journey if called to do so.

But, to sit, to live my life -- moment to moment -- this is a challenge for me.

I'm ready to take it.

You Must Read This

Written so beautifully by one of the most amazing women I have ever known. Such an achingly truthful post about the transitions she is facing and the things she is learning at this point in her life.

I hope it will make you feel as open and encouraged as it made me feel.

Here is the link:

Hecate