Everything That Can't Be Said

The kids and all of their cousins, 2014

We sat around the table, sipping our coffee and nibbling muffins, attempting a craft while immersed in conversation. Someone was nursing a baby while another checked on a newborn blissfully sleeping in a stroller nearby. This was our moms group at church -- a combination social gathering, confessional, support group, and brief escape from the stresses of stay at home mom life. 

"I feel like Anna's NEVER going to be potty trained," I wailed in exasperation. We were debating the value of Pull-Ups and lamenting all of the things that left us frustrated and guilty. "I mean, someone told me it's not like she's going to graduate and still be in diapers, and I knew what they were saying, but in the moment, it's hard to keep that perspective." The other moms nodded in agreement. One confided that her house was a disaster because her youngest had constant colic and was driving them all out of their minds. A third confessed tearfully that she blamed herself that her kindergartener did not yet know all of her letters. 

I would walk away from those meetings in the early days of parenting and feel as if there was a calm, reassuring voice whispering, "It's okay. You're not a bad mom. Everyone struggles with this stuff."

Around that time a friend started a weekly group at her home with our babies and toddlers and lunch together. I had to force myself to go at first. You see, I was scared. I've never been great at making friends with other women. Too much comparing going on, too much sensitivity at every perceived slight. Doing these mom things, it took WORK, you see? But I went and we'd get down on the floor with our little ones and there was time to talk and laugh with and yes, even be irritated by the others around the room at times. But we kept at it. We were moms of little ones, craving connections. 

For a few years, I lived in a world of playgroups and library story times and church Bible studies with other moms. Then Ethan moved into the toddler years, and gradually some of his milestones weren't matching the other kids in the church nursery who were his age. Or he was the only one who wanted to lay on the floor and push the toy garage doors on the playhouse up and down, up and down. 

My friends wouldn't have judged my son; I was judging him against everyone else's. And so I started finding excuses not to get together with people. Comparison fed my anxiety about him, and my overall insecurity. The fact that there were suddenly all these new therapy appointments that came with his autism diagnosis at 22 months provided ample excuses to withdraw. Suddenly there were therapists in my home nearly every day or we were running off to occupational or speech therapy appointments. 

And so, looking for another outlet, I starting writing in this blog. For years it was a gift: a way to put into words my fears and insecurities and hopes and challenges with Ethan, and with Anna, and later, Chloe, too. I felt as if at least if I wasn't great at the relationship thing, I could put some of our experiences into words and maybe help or encourage someone else. That had to count for something. Although words on a screen isn't the ultimate substitute for real-life interaction. 

But here's the funny thing, the thing that everyone is always trying to tell you, but you don't really see it until you're there -- your kids start to grow up. And things get better and worse at the same time. Suddenly you can send them off to school and you have no idea what they're doing all day, and those parents you used to chat with on the floor at play groups are near-strangers once again that you say a quick hi to on Open House night. 

Beyond that, your kids aren't just these tiny creatures anymore, these little minions causing stress and frustration at times. They're, you know, actual people -- and maybe they don't want you talking about them and what they're struggling with to anyone who will listen. That's one reason I rarely write here anymore. It's not my job to tell Ethan's story to anyone and everyone. 

This is what I didn't think about, back at the table at the mom's group. This is what I didn't consider....that one day all of my kids would indeed be potty trained and would sleep through the night. but that I'd be up with other worries; ones that sometimes can't be shared around a table with coffee. That there would be a time that instead of stressing about a child not knowing letters, I'd be worried about how I prepared them for life, and replaying what I might have done differently. I didn't give much thought that my kids might turn into really cool people who were indeed, their own people, with their own strengths and opinions and yes, struggles. When they're little you are thinking about molding and shaping them; then the winds shift and it's more about letting go. 

Sometimes in school pick-up lines I look out at the silhouettes of other parents in the other cars and wonder who they really are. I wonder what's unspoken in their social media posts and what happens in the parts of their lives that aren't for public consumption. 

If only I knew back then that this was the time, maybe, that we'd most need connections. This was the time when we'd really love to hear the reassuring voice saying, "You're doing your best. Be kind to yourself." This was the time we'd most appreciate a reprieve from the loneliness you might feel even in a group of friends...the one that longs to connect with someone on the same road you're on, only you don't know who that might be, because of all the things that no one says, or can't be said. 

We Can Do Hard Things

Four-year-old Chloe on the Ferris wheel

Last month Chloe and I were starting to read a chapter from one of the Little House books before her bedtime when the deluge came. 

I knew what had triggered it -- I knew because I had felt it, too, a half-hour before as we looked with Ethan through old videos I'd taken on my phone a few years ago. At first we were laughing at the clips of Chloe's three-year-old antics and Ethan's zany behavior. But we then we would come across the videos from the fair and the Ferris wheel dazzling in the night sky. And there was VBS, a hundred kids singing and dancing and jumping and laughing, crowding the church sanctuary. Not a mask in sight. There was the kids' Christmas choir with everyone dressed in their Sunday best, Chloe on the stage, the littlest one of all. "Look at us all singing!" she had said wistfully, and I felt the pricks in my eyes. The parade marched by in another video, the one the whole town comes out for. The one that had been cancelled this year. 

"Maybe we should turn this off now," I had urged, as the three of us had grown quiet. Now we were upstairs and about to start reading when the tears came. 

"I don't want to go to school tomorrow," Chloe said in a small voice, head on the pillow, curled up as if about to hibernate. 

"Don't you like school?" I asked. "I know you have fun when you're there." 

"I know." Her face crumpled. "But everything's different! Nothing is the way it was last year! And we have to wear masks and can't sing in music and we can't play on the playground a lot of the time and nothing is as fun!" 

"I know, I know," I consoled. She kept going. "And we can't do kids choir or VBS or anything and we couldn't even do a big show for theater and I miss that! We can't even do things for Halloween! I HATE it!" Now she was all-out sobbing, and my tears were tears of both empathy and frustration in not being able to change the situation. 

I thought of the book I'd read by Mary Beth Chapman, wife of Christian music artist Steven Curtis Chapman, a story of wading through tragedy after the loss of one of her young daughters. Speaking with her other young daughter one day after she broke down, Mary Beth said, "It's not fair, I know. There are lots of things that don't seem to be fair, and they're so hard. But...God has asked us to do hard. It really stinks and I wish we didn't have to, but this is what our family has been called to. If we all stick together, we can do hard." 

We can do hard. I thought as I rolled over in my mind so many stories of struggle and waiting and patience and endurance. How could I translate for a six-year-old's understanding? 

"Chloe, remember? We just read the Long Winter. Laura and Mary had nothing but brown bread and potatoes and storms for months and months. They thought it would never end, but remember how wonderful it was for them when spring finally came?" 

I kept grasping to help her make a connection. "Do you remember hearing about World War 2? Remember in the Narnia movie when they had to send the kids to the country because they were bombing London, where they lived? Can you imagine people dropping bombs on Windsor? We can be grateful that isn't happening." Chloe was listening but still weeping. I felt inept but kept going. "And in World War 2, did you know there was no Olympics, or baseball, and they cancelled the Big E, just like it was cancelled this year? The people had to wait for years and years, but they made it through." 

Suddenly I longed to watch a World War 2 movie, one about people waiting and waiting and being brave. I thought of Judy Garland singing a mournfully about the day we would all be together, but until then "we'll have to muddle through somehow." 

As Chloe sniffed and wiped her eyes and hiccupped I realized we weren't just reading about history, but becoming it. Despite my relatively minor troubles, in the grand scheme of things, I felt connected to the people in other times in a way I never had before. Looking back and learning from what has come before us can encourage us for today.

But how to convey that to a first grader? As Chloe stopped crying I started, because I so desperately wanted to help her feel better and so desperately wanted to give her an understanding she didn't have yet. I thought of something a little more tangible. 

"Chloe, remember the story about October snowstorm here and the weeklong power outage?" She nodded. "Well, did you know Halloween was cancelled that year, too? There were tree branches and power lines all over the ground. It was too dangerous." 

"They did?" she asked as I stroked her hair and wiped my eyes, thinking back to the day when the October snow had melted and the sun turned all the leaves golden. It had only been a week, but I still remember the joy when those power guys from Georgia had shown up on our street to bring us back into the light. Everyone stood at their houses, clapping and beaming. 

The memory was sweet. Maybe someday, these memories would be, too. Because we'd realize how much we'd taken for granted, how many beautiful things there really are in this crazy world, and how wonderful it is to have them returned to us. 

Five minutes later Chloe was back to herself. I wasn't, because now I knew that despite her normally cheerful disposition and her optimistic personality, my child was hurting. As we all are. 

Sometimes there isn't much we can do in our own power to change the circumstances around us. But we can take heart in knowing other people have been there and made it to the other side. Like the bear hunt song says, you can't always go around it, sometimes you have to go THROUGH it. 

This is our time to grow -- in faith, in patience, in perseverance. It may be so darned hard, but we CAN do hard things. 

  

Wonder-full

I was walking on the river trails in town, kicking my feet through fallen leaves. The light was golden and I was thinking of many things: including a devotional I'd been reading about the value of joy, and the fact that our Bible translations often don't quite nail the word right. Joy in scripture has a meaning equivalent to the look someone has on their face when they're happy to see you (you know, when we say someone's "face lights up"). Picture looking at your small child, sleeping. Precious. 

That led me to thinking about children and why they seem so much happier than adults so much of the time. It's no secret kids laugh many, many more times in a day than adults do. It's because they still have a sense of wonder, I thought, looking up at the vast trees about me. Everything is still new. And children, I thought, are still trusting and innocent. Less jaded by disappointment. 

I kept coming back to the idea of wonder. And that led to thinking of the word wonderful. They're too very different words today, aren't they? I hear wonder and I think wide open eyes and amazement. Awe. Wonderful seems almost like a pleasantry. "The food was wonderful"..."We had a wonderful time"..."That's wonderful that you got a new job." Wonderful means we're getting what we want and what makes us happy. 

But maybe there is a better way, and maybe it's the only way to be, when this world, when our lives and circumstances in the here and now are not so wonderful. 

What about being wonder-full? 

An internet search tells me wonder means to have "a feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar or inexplicable." 

We all love wonder. We all want to be full of wonder, don't we? But when I look at that definition, I have to acknowledge what wonder is not: control. 

Wonder is not being able to tidily answer every "why?" question.

Wonder is sometimes doubt and rarely rational. 

Wonder is about something outside of and beyond us. 

Wonder is surprise at what can't be explained, but isn't that what we all want? And so wonder implies humility. If we know all, understand all, have done it all, why would anything inspire wonder?

There is that famous line in the poem Invictus the reads, "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul." Stirring words for those who do not wish for circumstances to define them, yes. 

But not the words of a child. In some ways I feel I need to stay one. The way I see to find joy and beauty in a grim and dark world is the way of wonder. Not just awe at the brilliance of a sunset or autumn leaves, but a different kind of awe that involves submission and acknowledgement of something greater than I am.  

As the story of Job recounts, after all of the heartache and a whirlwind blast of a conversation with God, after having none of his pain validated or questions answered, he responded with: "Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know." 

Could it be. He found peace not that in everything was wonderful. But in being wonder-full.

Somehow, when all we have is  not enough, it is enough. So I will choose to again and again open my hands and place the questions and unknowns into the arms of the one whose thoughts are not my thoughts, whose ways are not my ways. When I do, I am left with something not necessarily good at first sight, not necessarily safe and tidy, but something too wonderful for me to know. On this side of eternity, that can be enough. 

  

It's Okay to Miss Them

Not long after 9/11, I read an essay by a New Yorker who'd worked near the World Trade Center who was trying to adjust to the disjointedness he felt after life was turned upside down. In this account, though, rather than dwelling on the horrors of that day he saw his loss through all of the little moments and interactions he'd had each day through September 10 that were now gone. He thought about the guy who he'd bought the newspaper from or the women who'd served him coffee; the person that ran the store now buried under dust; the security guard; the window washer; receptionist. He didn't know if they were actually gone, but they were no longer a part of his life, and because of that, he was missing something, left wondering and grieving in both big and small ways.

This I think is where we are now, those of us who are not in the thick of things. We hear of health care workers risking their very lives, of working tirelessly and witnessing heartache, and we feel that we should count our blessings. We do count our blessings. But because we have more time to think, we have more time right now to grieve the small things.

This pandemic life has only been going on for about a month but somehow feels much longer. I am grateful to have extra time at home with family, for health, for my faith, for spring, for so many things.

But you know what I miss? I miss the guy down the street with the moustache who was always out in his yard or walking his dog. We'd exchanged pleasantries for years. I am sure he must be just fine (I hope) but just laying low, but it's strange to never see him anymore.

I miss people stopping to chat with each other in grocery stores instead of scurrying like rats, holding their breath and not speaking so as to not release extra germs into the atmosphere.

I miss picking up Chloe after school and seeing the hordes of laughing elementary schoolers, filled with boundless energy, racing back and forth on the sidewalk.

I miss watching the leaves spring to life while standing on the baseball fields with my kids, kicking off the Little League season. I miss the voice of Joe Castiglione on the radio, calling the Red Sox games and the memory of being surrounded by 30,000 people in Fenway Park singing "Sweet Caroline."

I'm not a hugger by any stretch of the imagination, but I miss hugs and greetings at church on Sunday mornings and the glorious sounds of a room full of people worshipping.

I was out walking the other day as the sun set; it was the kind of evening that should have invited children on bikes and people walking dogs. Yet it was quiet; doors and windows were closed; in many houses I saw only the eerie glow of TV screens. And I could only think of something I'd been reading to Chloe a few days before. We are just finishing the last book in The Chronicles of Narnia, a story about the end of the Narnia they had known and loved. It read:

All around them the wood was very quiet. Indeed it was far too quiet. On an ordinary Narnian night there ought to have been noises -- an occasional cheery "Good night" from a hedgehog, the cry of an owl overhead, perhaps a flute in the distance to tell of Fauns dancing, or some throbbing, hammering noises from Dwarfs underground. All that was silenced: gloom and fear reigned over Narnia.  

- The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis

I am an introvert. I love quiet and time alone. But even we introverts know and feel that this is not just quiet. This is gloom and fear reigning over America. And this is what breaks my heart sometimes.

After Sept. 11 I think there was a similar feeling of things getting back to normal but never really being the same again. And today I think there is some of that, but maybe it's -- we keep waiting for things to get back to the way they were, and we don't know when or if that will happen. And so we distract ourselves, or we accept it, or we waver between the two. And in the meantime, as we did when we used to look back to Sept. 10, we think about the little things that we forgot to appreciate.

I don't think this is so bad. It's part of human nature. What's that old 80's song? "Don't know what you've got, 'til it's gone..."

I am remembering the feeling of rising up in a Ferris Wheel with my kids at an amusement park and looking at miles of people without every thinking they were contagious. I'm remembering family parties and Chloe at the beach laughing at the waves, making friends with kids she's never seen before.

The waiting is like remembering someone who was special to us but is no longer with us; the warmth of memory keeps things alive. We feel sad and grateful at the same time, and that's okay. It means we more clearly see the lovely little things that grace our lives each day; each season; each year. The things we seamlessly accept without truly appreciating what they are, until they are not there.

It's okay to miss them.



 

The Greater Gift

It's easy to count up the losses. They've mounted as the days and weeks of the COVID-19 pandemic have rolled on: loss of life, loss of freedoms, a sense of safety, loss of routine and social events, and above all, loss of control. We've experienced the loss of things we love: baseball, playgrounds, travel, coffee shops.

Yes, we could go on and on about the losses.

People say this can be a time of gains. We must think of it as a GIFT, you see. I know they're right. We've been given the gift of time with our kids or to pursue a new hobby or organize the attic or spend time getting closer to God. I know this, but so far with kids home and attempting to work and everyone here, I somehow find I have less time. And all of the things that I'm not doing or could be doing threaten to pile up like tasks I haven't accomplished on my Pandemic To-Do List. I want to live grateful but not burdened.

There is one thing, though, one gift I can embrace with fully opened arms. It's the glimpse into other people's life situations that may be different than my own but point back to the same thing: we all, whether during a time of crisis in the nation or not, have struggles and pain and heartbreak. That saying about being kind because everyone is fighting some kind of battle rings true today and every single day of human existence, no matter what we see on social media.

I hate this pernicious virus that is sweeping across the world, taking lives and our economy with it. But suddenly more than ever I'm thinking about people on the front lines who consistently risk their lives to care for others. I think of them as real people with families and fears who push on because it's what they do.

I'm thinking about nursing homes and the people who fill them; about confused minds who wonder (or don't wonder) why people aren't visiting, and those who love them but can only from a distance right now. There are some nursing home residents who before the virus were already alone. Every day, just down my street, I pass them on my walks, but don't always see.

There are the cognitively disabled who may not understand why routines have changed; they can't leave their group home to go home; their work program has been cancelled; the staff person who worked with them was laid off. There are children with special needs missing therapies and schedules and the parents trying to explain things they can't fully explain themselves, and teach in ways they haven't been trained to teach.

Our children are missing their friend groups and teachers at school; other kids are missing a safe haven from a troubled home. Some kids are understandably disappointed about missing field trips and concerts and graduations. Every year some kids are in the hospital missing real life due to serious illness...only their class isn't missing out with them. They're alone in the disappointment.

There are those with addictions and mental health issues needing healthy connections and outlets more than ever during an extremely stressful time but not having them.

There are people who were already struggling to pay the bills who are now struggling that much harder.

We could throw our hands up in the air in despair, wondering how we can even hope with so much loss and heartache and pain. But I hope we won't.

We've been provided a generous gift of empathy and perspective. COVID-19 is a different lens to see the world -- as full of beautiful, broken people who we may not be able to impact on a global scale, but certainly can on an individual one.

We can think: who's life CAN I touch...not just now, but always?

We can remember: No matter the smile or Instagram photo or feigned confidence, every one of has a burden we carry.

We can ask that God keeps our eyes and hearts open, long after the virus fears have faded away, because the needs will still be there. And we are here to help meet them.

Wild and Untamed

Recently someone mentioned that some new walking trails had opened up in our town. The town purchased and converted a golf course that had been closed for years into "open space." I couldn't wait to go and check it out. I've been looking to get more exercise and have found that walking and hiking really work for me. I love the peace and quiet. I love nature.

Over the next few days, I explored the area with a friend, with my family, and by myself. On the first visit I realized immediately how much I liked this quirky patch of land. I just couldn't pinpoint why at first.

Is it scenic? In spots. But the land is right up against the highway and in many spots you can hear the cars constantly buzzing by. Power lines stretch overhead. It's not particularly organized. Paths meander and then disappear; at one time I'm sure they made more sense, when they led to different holes on the golf course. Some paths are overgrown with brush. One literally drops off and disappears -- a stream down below wore away at the concrete over time. You can see nature trying to reclaim the space, with tall weeds growing out of pavement cracks and bushes once trimmed spreading clear across the walkways. Several of the wooden bridges crossing the stream are closed due to disrepair. Those that aren't feel a little sketchy as you walk across.

There are places where you can leave the paved walkways and cross over trails that look like they've been mown in the grass. The grass trails are short cuts but also muddy and can confuse you further as far as where you're actually going. I followed one not long ago sparkling with frost. I had no idea what I was doing, because I could see a fence in the woods that marked the very edge of the entire property. I didn't turn just then, because in another moment I saw it -- a deer bounding ahead of me, deeper into the woods, leaping above branches that littered the ground.

The words came to me, as I lumbered up a hill, trying to find an actual trail once again. Wild and untamed. You see that kind of language in advertisements; brochures -- "Explore this untamed wilderness area in all of its natural wonder."

This had once been a very different place. I tried to picture it with neatly trimmed, emerald green grasses rolling on and on, and little white golf carts trolling around. I couldn't, because I hadn't seen it. The spot was a more exclusive one back then.

At one time this place was perfectly manicured. But was it beautiful?

I don't know, maybe not everyone feels this way. Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. But put together and meticulously groomed does not always equal beautiful.

Thank God.

I think I like these trails because they aren't trying so hard anymore.

I think there is something beautiful about meandering, about wandering, about things unresolved and unpredictable. Or, I'm learning to see things that way.

I see a little better as I walk over bridges with patched holes; through grasses with pricker bushes that poke my legs; past the zoom of cars and the flight of deer oblivious to the noise.

No, it's not tame, and I can't help but think of Aslan in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

But it's good.

Minding the Process

I live in New England, where it takes a little longer for spring to arrive than in some other parts of the country. Sometimes this can feel frustrating. It's a slow transition. Spring doesn't always behave the way it's supposed to. How else can you explain snowstorms in April? Mud lingers. Trees stay bare, no matter how much you will them to bloom.

This is all true, but I've found there's something exhilarating about watching spring come alive slowly.

This glorious transition is the sum of many subtle changes. First -- the sight of a few crocuses or daffodil bulbs bursting out of the soil. At night, one mild evening the peepers call for the first time from a nearby swamp. The grass shifts from brown to emerald green. Before the maples ever sprout their broad leaves the shrubs and bushes show life first. It's a bottom up process. The ground thaws and wormholes finally burst through, evidence of life below.

Like a child in the womb, life begins, change begins before we see it.

Some people hate New England winters, but there is something about them to embrace. There is something about each season to love; to learn from.

There is a stark beauty in bare branches and snow that sparkles. There is always beauty somewhere, even in the bleak seasons. I love how in our darkest, coldest January days, the light is already returning to us before we notice.

Conversely when summer is at its peak the days are shortening, as much as the thought saddens us. But this is the way it has to be.

I love how the seasons are cyclical, how there is a constant ebb and flow like the waves. The is the story of our very lives. How perfect that God would make all of nature to comfort and remind us: there will be peaks and there will be valleys. There will be a time to plant and a time to harvest.

There will be times of great change that feel as if nothing at all is changing or ever will change. Yet the process has been set in motion, and in a time not so very far away, we will see. Like the leaves that unfold after the warm spring rains overnight, making us wonder how we had forgotten what they look like.

Autism Awareness

"Oh look, autism awareness month is coming up," I mentioned to Ethan while rifling through his backpack. There was a flyer. The school was doing a lot -- asking people to wear blue; sponsoring a door decorating contest; displaying puzzle piece posters.

Ethan barely registered interest. "So," I asked him. "Do you think you're going to say anything this year?"

Back in second or third grade, or maybe both, during class discussion on autism awareness day, Ethan had volunteered that he was on the autism spectrum. Kids at that age either said that was cool -- or that they were, too. I didn't consider these moments earth-shattering breakthroughs, but was impressed that he'd spoken up. Ethan's always been pretty reserved.

But that was then. "Eh," he said in response to my question. "I don't think I'm going to."

"Why not?" I wondered if it was because we were easing our way into THAT AGE...the one of embarrassment and peer pressure and not wanting to stand out.

"I just don't think my autism affects me that much anymore," he replied. "Not the way it did when I was little. I don't think I need to talk about it." He ambled off to do something -- probably read his coding book.

I stood there looking at the flyer and feeling a swirl of things:

Elation, because he was right. Ethan has learned to manage the more difficult aspects of his type of autism well, particularly at school.

Trepidation, because he wasn't completely right. His autism still affects him in subtle ways, ways that a typical person might pick up on when he might not.

Gratitude, that he was even able to sit before me and voice his feelings about the whole thing so articulately.

Wistfulness, because my role as parent is changing. It's his decision to share this information with others. It's his decision not to. These are the wee baby steps of self-advocacy. But his version of self-advocacy may look different than mine. I'm Mamma Bear. I will err on the side of making excuses to everyone so people will be less likely to make fun of my child. Or to think he's just "weird."

Shame, because those kind of thoughts of wanting to protect my son also reveal my own lifelong struggles of caring too much what others think.

April 2 is Autism Awareness Day. Ethan's autism has made ME so much more aware of so many things in the nearly 10 years now (can it be?!) since his diagnosis.

I'm aware of how a child's special needs can both expose your own ugliness and also shape you into something much more beautiful. It can reveal our ultimate lack of control and beg the question: who do you trust? For those with a faith walk it prods you to ask: is God still good and do I love like Jesus? It asks you to reconsider what we really want for our children, our lives, our selves, and what gives someone value.

Today a big stack of papers came in the mail. Results of Ethan's tri-annual testing, this time in preparation for (can you believe it??) middle school. There was a whole ream of assessments with multiple acronyms. I came to the last result. It was a repeat of the first test they ever performed on Ethan. He's taken it about five times over the years. For the first time ever, he scored just one point below the cut-off for being labeled "officially autistic." Whatever that means.

Because that is yet one more thing I've learned through all of this: the amazing, widely varying spectrum that autism is. Ethan and my brother are about as far apart on it as one can get. Yet thanks to the ways Ethan thinks and acts, the perspectives he shares, I understand more about Andy than I ever could have. I also see some of the beautiful things about autism that are harder to recognize when someone is very significantly impacted.

People with autism have an incredibly different way of perceiving and processing the world around them. It's amazing and baffling and funny and painful all rolled into one.

Ethan says autism doesn't impact him that much anymore. I don't how true that is. Time will tell.

I do know that it has always and will always deeply impact me. And I'm incredibly thankful for that.

Just Do the Right Thing

Back when I was in grade school I started subscribing to the belief that I was a victim of what I called "The Goody Two-Shoes Curse." What that meant was, everyone else could get away with something habitually while the ONE time I tried to bend the rules, I would get caught.

This started way back in second grade, when some older kids used to sneak across the street and get candy from a convenience store before we had to go inside the school. The one time my friend and I tried, we were busted well before we got there. Next I tried reading a book under my desk instead of paying attention and got caught first time. Acting out towards the whining neighbor kid: his mom saw me and told my parents. Punishment ensued.

This continued through high school. My best friend and I were at a golf course trying to find where the popular people were hiding and partying when who got stopped by the police but us -- while they continued blissfully partying. The officer threated to bring us back home in his cruiser.

Over time I realized that I wasn't very good at being bad anyway, would never possess much of a rebel personality, and had a screaming loud conscience, so why not just listen to it and not try to be something I wasn't? And so I never smoked a cigarette or got inebriated. Most of my bending of the rules has occurred with speed limits and red lights (and even then, I've gotten caught -- multiple times!).

I say all of this to say I should have known better, the day before Christmas break, when Ethan had a musical event at his school and the parking lot was jam-packed. Everyone was in a festive mood. I was running late because Chloe had to gather her Christmas light necklace and blinking headband. Even though we lived just around the corner we drove there and I realized there was nowhere to park, we were late, and since I didn't feel like traipsing from way in the back of the school, I was going to just park on the grass in the front as several other parents had done.

I took a deep breath and went over the curb and onto the grass, looking around slyly for anyone protesting my actions. All clear. Chloe and I booked into the school and managed to slide into some of the few remaining seats. Kids sang and holiday cheer was spread around, and then it was time to go. The school day had ended and we were left pushing through the mass chaos of hundreds of kids dismissed for their holiday break. At the car I buckled the kids in and we were off...only, we weren't.

There was something I'd forgotten when I parked on the grass. It may have been December, but we'd just had a little warm spell and a boatload of rain. The snowless ground was not frozen but very, very wet and muddy.

My tires spun. And spun. And spun. I got out of the car as other parents climbed into their properly parked cars and began driving away. I looked down at my tires. They were inches upon inches deep in mud.

"MOM? What's going on!" Ethan demanded. "I want to go home!"

I tried again. Nothing except the smell of burning rubber. "Ethan, get out of the car and help push," I hissed, exasperated. What I expected to accomplish, I don't know. The kid is as skinny as a rail. I thought of the parents getting into their cars whispering, "What is she doing, having her son try to push the car?" But I couldn't exactly ask him to get behind the wheel while I pushed.

Chloe started crying and asking, "When are we going??" I pressed the gas pedal harder, twisted the wheel back and forth. Mud was shooting up and spraying all over the van. My shoes were caked with mud. I looked out at the buses loading up kids and parents and students walking to their cars. I knew there was only one thing we could do.

"Kids," I announced. "We have to walk home." You can imagine how this went over. I ignored the wailing as we gathered backpacks, papers, and gifts from teachers. Outside it was now raining and we hunched under our hoods, trudging in our mud-covered shoes past parents who weren't dumb enough to park in the mud. There were a few other cars still parked next to us on the grass, but I'm pretty sure they had four-wheel drive.

Our walk home is literally a tenth of a mile, but it was long enough. We walked up the hill behind the school as parents in the car pick-up line looked on, curious; flung our things over the ladder attached to the fence that divides our neighborhood's property from the school; and slogged down the hill through the backyard.

"MOM GOT US STUCK IN THE MUD!" Ethan took pleasure in announcing to Dan, who'd been home with a migraine, and Anna as we got inside.

The fun was only just beginning. Anna took charge of the house while Dan and I rode back to the school in his car. He took one look at the car and how far sunk in the mud it was and asked incredulously, "What did you DO?"

After a few minutes of him attempting to get me unstuck it became obvious -- I was going to have to be towed. We drove back home and called AAA while the kids asked when we were going to have dinner. AAA called us back 15 minutes later to say they were on their way, so back we drove to the school in the quickly growing darkness. I could see the lights of the tow truck approaching just as I saw the vice principal coming out to his car to leave. Further I slunk under my coat, hoping he wouldn't recognize me. In the school I could see the lights in the principal's office were still on -- and thought I glimpsed the shadow of her head peering out the window as the truck pulled up.

"Well, well," said the driver as he examined my mess. "You got yourself stuck pretty good." I loved the way the flashing yellow lights reflected all over the school building and even onto the houses across the street. Just the attention we needed.

As he uncoiled a very long chain to connect to my car, I noticed there was a woman sitting in one of the few cars left in the parking lot. "Did you see that woman?" Dan asked a moment later. "She was sitting in her car laughing at us."

After more lights flashing and beepers beeping my van was hauled out of the mud -- 3 1/2 hours after I'd originally parked it. The janitors in the schools were sweeping the halls. The stars had started appearing.

Looking at my mud splattered car the next morning I sheepishly realized that I needed to stop going on about the Goody Two-Shoes Curse and just do the right thing. Even the little stuff. Our kids are watching. But even when no one's watching. You do what's right because it's right.

The other night we went to Ethan's school for his band concert. It was another warm, soggy kind of evening. I looked up at those risk-takers parked on the grass and eased into my "legal" parking spot. Humiliation really is one of the greatest teachers.

The (Christmas Tree) Saga Continues...

The other morning Ethan issued a big sigh -- one of many he's emitted lately. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"Why did we get this tree?" he demanded. "It's the worst Christmas tree ever." 

And truly, it is. We cut down our tree on December 1, immediately got it into a stand, and began faithfully watering it. No matter. The entire bottom of the tree is completely bare. The cat walks underneath and needles rain everywhere. The needles are so thick on the carpet I'm afraid to use the vacuum for fear of breaking it. 

"All of the needles are going to be gone before Christmas!" Ethan wailed. 

"Ethan, stop. No they're not." I heard more needles rain down. Hopefully. 

He followed me into the kitchen and I began to prepare Chloe, who happened to be jumping and dancing around the room singing "Jingle Bells," a bowl of cereal.

"Why can't we just buy a new tree?" Ethan begged. 

"Ethan we are NOT spending money on a completely different tree at this point..." I was interrupted by Chloe slamming accidentally into my arm, mid-song. The bowl went flying into the air before landing on the floor, splashing milk and Life cereal everywhere. Chloe ran into the other room, shocked at what she did. I found her sitting huddled in a rocking chair next to the tree. Needles were still raining. 

"It's okay hon, it was an accident," I tried to soothe her. 

Ethan had followed us in. "No one is allowed to go near this tree until Christmas," he announced, glaring pointedly at Chloe. 

"I can't stop the cat," I told him, heading back to the kitchen to wipe up the cereal mess. 

"That's it! You need to give these people a bad review online," he decided. I'd thought about it. But that seemed so...Grinchly. 

After breakfast, I looked up the tree place on the computer as Ethan peered over my shoulder. "Five star reviews!" Both of us were incredulous. "Why are all these people giving them freakin' five stars?" Ethan screeched. 

"Stop with the freakin'"...I said automatically. Five stars. Sheesh. Maybe it was their family members rating it or their closest friends. There were only six reviews after all. 

"Mom, you have to do it." 

"Ethan, I can't." I kept picturing the happy couple at the tree place, walking up to our car, ready to hand us a saw. They were a very small tree farm. I didn't want to put anyone out of business. 

The pestering continued until I told Ethan I wouldn't review the place online but would give them a little call to express my displeasure with the tree. As the sun came up and threw light into the room, it looked even worse. Never mind the spider webs on the star. 

Later in the afternoon, I had a chance to dial the number. You Scrooge. Who calls to complain about a Christmas tree? What did I want them to do, anyway? Refund me? Just as I was about to hang up, I heard more needles pouring down. Soldier on, I told myself, gritting my teeth. 

Only -- no one picked up the phone. The voice mail cheerily announced that the tree farm was now closed for the season, and "Merry Christmas!" My guilt momentarily disappeared. THAT figured. Maybe I SHOULD go online...only the reviews were so nice. IF they were real reviews. They talked about how kind and helpful the owners were. I couldn't do it. We were just going to have to suck it up.

I wondered about tinsel. Maybe I could buy some tinsel and wrap it around the bottom. That might make it less noticeable. Only -- putting tinsel on would mean touching the tree. And even more needles would pour down.

"Mom, I kind of was hoping I'd come home from school today and find a new tree in the living room," Ethan confided that evening. 

"Eeth. It's a week until Christmas. Do you think I have time to completely take apart this tree and set up another?" I exclaimed. 

"But this tree is sooo bad..." he whined. And there we had it. The day had come full-circle.

The next morning began with more of the same. "This tree looks like a dead man's fingers," Ethan said glumly. He had trouble motivating himself to get dressed, he was so upset.

"Look, you're going to be late for school. You HAVE to get dressed," I said through clenched teeth.

"Ethan, the tree discussion is closed," Dan added.

He lay on his bed, staring sadly at the ceiling. I was starting to lose patience.

"Listen. We can't do anything about the tree. But there are LOTS of people this Christmas who can't do anything about things that are really, really sad. Like maybe they lost a loved one. And they can't do anything to bring them back, and it's hard for them to celebrate Christmas."

"You're not helping me!" Ethan exclaimed.

"I'm trying to give you some perspective," I muttered.

That evening we sat in the dark for awhile looking at the glow of the tree.

"I see more webs," commented Chloe.

"Mom, can we put that yellow caution tape around the tree until Christmas morning?" Ethan asked, as more fell off, inexplicably. This time I saw him cracking a smile. And a little laugh. Progress.

It was time for Ethan to go to bed. "I'm just worried because I don't know what the tree is going to look like on Christmas morning," Ethan confessed. "I'm so worried about it."

"You're worried because you don't know what's going to happen. You can't predict what's going to happen," I told him. "I understand. We all have worries like that. It's one of the hardest things about life because we don't know how things are going to turn out sometimes. But we can't let that steal our joy."

"Can we pray the needles stop falling off the tree?"

"We could, but that's nature, Ethan. How about we pray instead for peace? So that no matter what happens, we can be a peace with this, and you can sleep instead of worrying about the tree, and we can still enjoy Christmas. That's what the peace that passes understanding that they talk about in the Bible is all about."

And so we did.

Today, needles are still falling. We're soldiering on towards Christmas. And Ethan was able to leave for school with a smile on his face.

We'll Always Be Broken

This year we decided to be traditionalists and cut down our own Christmas tree. It had been a few years. Dan Googled this place in town and as we turned the corner I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"I think we've been here before..." Vague memories of a scruffy, diseased tree that lost its needles way too quickly came slowly back to me. There was no turning back now. The tree farm owner had spotted us and waved, grinning happily at seeing another customer.

"Where are the big trees?" the kids were asking from the back, craning their necks.

You know it's a bad sign when they're actually advertising, with a hand-written sign, "Charlie Brown Trees."

They weren't ALL Charlie Brown trees. Just most of them. But after walking for awhile we found a big fat one. Cutting it was difficult because the needles were so sharp.

"Aren't these the needles that really cut us all up?" I asked, but the saw was already through the trunk. We were committed.

Getting the tree onto the roof of the van took a considerable amount of huffing and puffing. So did getting it off the van at home and into a tree stand. Then there it was hogging a corner of the living room until we could decorate it the next day. "Let's call her Plumpy," someone suggested.

The next afternoon we put on Christmas carols and took out our decorations.

"Mom!" Ethan called out, just as we were about to start. "There's a spider on the star." He looked more closely. "There are LOTS of spiders on the star."

Cue screeching. Someone got a broom. Chloe ran to get her little broom and started waving it around wildly. I got the vacuum, ready to attack. "It's not working!" I cried out. Those creepy critters kept crawling away and getting to the back of the star where I couldn't reach with the attachment.

Dan took down the star and he and Anna started counting the little spiders on the star ("two, three...eight, nine...twelve"). We were horrified.

"That star is NOT going back up on the tree," Anna insisted when it was washed out.

"It HAS to!" Ethan yelled. "That is our special star." After a few minutes of arguing, he started crying. I mean wailing. "We HAVE to put up that star! It's been up forever!"

"Ethan, we got it last year. It's hardly a family heirloom," I said. It took him a half-hour to calm down, and he and Dan went off to Job Lot to get a new star.

A few days later, as Ethan was glancing over at our nice, plump, scratchy tree, Ethan said: "Mom? There's another spider on the star."

Now I knew it. The tree was infested, not the star (I'd thought maybe spiders had gotten into it while it was stored in the basement). The horror.

Ethan looked at me expectantly. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," I sighed.

Two days later I was out doing a freelance job and Anna was watching Ethan and Chloe. I arrived to Ethan running out the door, barefoot and stressed.

"The tree fell over!" he shouted. "I was just trying to fix the star from being crooked and the tree fell and water went everywhere and there's ornaments all over the floor!"

Well. Welcome home.

Inside a sorry sight awaited me.

"Thank God you're home," Anna said. "He was running around crying and went outside and hid in the tree."

"I'll help, mommy!" Chloe kept saying, trying to pick the mammoth tree up while dancing around glass ornaments on the floor in her bare feet.

Ethan, Anna and I tried to push Plumpy back up, to no avail. We lay on the floor and attempted to fiddle with the screws on the tree stand. Exasperation and sweat followed, and the tree remained slumped on the floor. The lights started falling off, too.

"This tree is cursed," I decided, vowing we were going back to that simple place next year right on Route 5 where the trees had no spiders, stayed in place, and had needles that didn't cause allergic reactions on my hands. I had tiny cuts everywhere.

Eventually Dan righted the tree, but it still didn't look right. It leans...but no one dares fiddle with it. The ornaments are clumped in various places because Chloe keeps taking them off and putting them somewhere else. (She's also lost half of our stockings, at the moment.)

Our tree debacle reminds me of past ones, and there have been many: the gravy 911 a few Thanksgivings ago; the time our toilet broke while I was fighting to bake a pie crust; many cookie experiments gone awry; the bag of goodies that we gathered for homeless people that ended up being something we'd snack from in the car since we never gave it away. To this day, Chloe calls the brand of gum that was in it "homeless gum."

Those are the lighter ones. But we all know the dramas that have played out over so many holidays and family occasions that shatter us all the more because they happen at those times that are supposed to be "joyous." Missing faces and disagreements and addictions and illness and loneliness and broken promises and things not being anything like we thought they'd be.

"I can't fix this tree," I muttered to myself. "It's a mess."

Everything's always going to be broken, I heard in my head. This world. Our hearts. Our plans and dreams sometimes.

And that's the point. That's the ultimate Christmas story.

The manger and the savior. The ultimate gift. Peace, goodwill and reconciliation with God. The promise, the truth that we can't do this on our own -- and that whatever we can't fix, whatever we don't see realized, will one day fade in the light of God's glory.

Amen.


There's a better place
Where our Father waits
And every tear
He'll wipe away
The darkness will be gone
The weak shall be strong
Hold on to your faith
There will come a day
There will come a day

- Faith Hill, "There Will Come a Day"

Resilience and Persistence

Our youngest one has a personality unlike anyone else in the family. Oh, Chloe. In a family of introverts, she's the outgoing one, always looking for friends and ready for a party. She's blunt while the rest of us border on passive-aggressive. She whines (wait -- so do I and the kids, so scratch that). She will NOT take no for an answer. She's an optimist and a problem-solver (well, Dan has some of those traits, too). I tell her she should be a sales person because she will not stop needling and bartering to get what she wants. And she's four!

In stores there are times when she sucks every last bit of will out of me. It's one thing for a child to ask, "Can I have that?" several times. I'm used to that. I remember that, when Anna and Ethan were younger. But Chloe has taken this to a whole new dimension. I honestly did not know a child could ask for something as many times as she does in the space of 60 seconds, in so many varying ways. "No," is returned with "Just ask the sales people what it costs" and "What about next time?" or "What about THIS toy?" and on and on and on. I dread going into stores with her in a way I never did with the other two.

All of this feel a little old at times -- the tears, whining, sobbing, lying on the floor, complaining and begging.

She is relentless, I thought one day recently. But then in a flash the sentence came to me again. She is relentless. It was like watching the coin flip. You could call her behavior stubborn or strong-willed. But the more I watched her in action the more I saw it as an ability to not be deterred or defeated. Big deal, you might think. What's so great about someone who digs her heels in?

Well, possibly lots of things. We don't like to think about our kids being unflappable or unmovable in terms of bad choices or behavior. But what about in pursuing a dream? Overcoming obstacles? Facing discouragement? Suddenly being relentless isn't such a bad thing.

One day Chloe was trying to figure out how to do something; I think buttoning her pajamas. "I can do this," I heard her whispering to herself. "I'm going to do this." My mouth nearly dropped to the floor because I realized no one had really taught her to be this way. She hadn't tried to button her pajamas before. Dan and I hadn't constantly been cheering her on. What came out was something hard-wired. She was espousing positive self-talk without having to think about it. And as someone who has always naturally spouted out the opposite -- "I CAN'T do this" -- I found this absolutely amazing.

Somehow watching this made me ease up a little on myself. I'm not sure I've ever pep-talked myself without consciously forcing it. I'm a pessimist. That's my natural leaning. And while I don't need to stay there, there's something comforting in knowing that some people are actually born more or less confident. I always wondered why I had a hard time psyching myself up to do stuff. It's not natural to me, just the way it's not natural for Chloe to want to be alone if there are friends to play with. It's okay -- but we can all make adjustments, as necessary, in order to learn and grow.

Since Chloe was a baby she's had this uncanny ability to fall down and then laugh (unless she's in a mood to milk the incident for all it's worth). She epitomizes "bouncing back" sometimes. If we're at the store and she doesn't get the toy she wants, she'll leaving telling herself, "We'll get it next time." She thinks of something positive to end the experience on a high note.

Meanwhile, I have often reacted to disappointment or discouragement not unlike George McFly in the Back to the Future movies. You know, when he stumbles on up to Lorraine and almost gets the courage up to ask her to the Under the Sea dance, only to see the bully Biff burst into the room, and then slinks away quickly, like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Unflappable. Not perturbed. Resilient. Can I have some more of that, please?

Years ago I bought an amazing book called The Unthinkable. It's all about people placed in various tragic circumstances (9/11, a mass shooting, hostage situation, and so on) and explores why people respond the way they do. Of those who had been through something traumatic and were handling life well, a common trait was resilience.

"Resilience is a precious skill," the author writes. "People who have it tend to also have three underlying advantages: a belief they can influence life events; a tendency to find meaningful purpose in life's turmoil; and a conviction that they can learn from both positive and negative experiences."

Yes, yes, and yes. This is grit, as Ethan's first grade teacher liked to emphasize. This is perseverance. This is living like the victor rather than the victim. This is what can come out of my feisty, strong-willed daughter -- if we just keep fine-tuning and pruning. This is what I can learn, as I'm along for the ride.

Try to See it My Way

"Can't you have a little bit of empathy!" Ethan cried out, exasperated. He'd asked for gum and I'd said no, not at the moment.

At school they'd been talking about seeing things from other people's point of view. This wasn't a social skills thing. This was an everybody lesson, because really, all kids need help in this area (who are we kidding? -- adults, too). "You're supposed to understand how much I want that piece of gum," he said accusingly, and sadly.

"I do," I told him. "But you're supposed to understand that it's time for you to leave for school, not to be digging around for gum!"

This empathy thing, this trying to place one's self in the mind of another, has been big in our house lately. No more so than the way it relates to Ethan's new favorite video game. Namely, he's obsessed. And we're trying to kindly communicate that not everyone adores the game as much as he does.

It's hard to put his favorite game, Baldi's Basics in Education and Learning, into words. I say that because it's a spoof game. Baldi's Basics does not have stunning graphics or a complex story line. It's actually design to be a scary/funny take off those old "edu-tainment" games that became big in the 90s and often came on CD-ROM. You know, the whole "let's make learning fun" concept with a kindly voice talking you through the game and helping you to solve puzzles or answer questions. I just don't know what to say about a game whose main character (Baldi) looks like this:

Baldi's Basics takes place inside a school. The object of the game is to solve math problems and collect seven notebooks placed throughout the school. Only -- some of the math problems are purposely unsolvable, and when you get a problem wrong, Professor Baldi begins  begins chasing you around the school. There's a host of other characters including a principal and janitor, and the entire game is badly drawn, poorly executed and downright ridiculous -- especially when Baldi catches you with a "jump scare" and buzz-saw sound. This is, of course, what makes it absolutely entertaining to 10-year-old boys.

Or at least to Ethan. He spends most of his screen time coding his own version of Baldi games. He has been known to bring a ruler to school and slap it against his hand, Baldi-style, and chase people as if he's Baldi. We caught him up at 4 a.m. one morning; he'd been sneaking Baldi videos on YouTube for hours.

"Ethan," I confided one day when he asked me to view one of his Baldi coding projects again, "I hate to say it, but I'm getting a little tired of Baldi."

"What?" he exclaimed. "But Baldi is my heart!" My confession really bummed him out, so much so that an hour later he was still talking about how sad he was that I didn't like Baldi as much as he does.

"I don't think ANYONE likes Baldi as much as you do," I told him.

"But why? He's so great. It's so funny..." he began a detailed description of all the items you can gather in the game, Baldi's different faces, game glitches, and so on.

"Eeth, remember all that stuff you've been talking about at school about seeing things from other people's point of view?" I asked. "You have to apply that to Baldi, too. People just may not like it as much as you do, no matter how hard you try."

"But why??" he demanded. "I'm so sad."

I wracked my brain and then it came to me. "Come here," I urged him from the computer, where I was going to YouTube. I typed in the two words that had brought me so much joy, circa 1988. Growing Pains.

"You see this?" I asked. "THIS was my absolute favorite show when I was just a little older than you. I LOVED this show. I had posters. Scrapbooks. I memorized the intros. I gave every episode a GRADE. I learned the theme song on the keyboard."

Ethan's eyes were already glazing over at the theme song and then a scene in the Seaver family living room.

"But Ethan?" I continued. "I couldn't get ANYONE to like this show as much as me. No one in my family liked it. I didn't even try. They thought it was so cheesy."

"What is THIS?" he started moaning as the canned laugh track kicked in.

"You see? See, this is just what I mean," I said excitedly. "You are so bored watching this. That's just it. That's how other people feel about Baldi sometimes. I can't MAKE you be obsessed about Growing Pains. You couldn't care less. And that's okay. It's just what they were talking about at school. Can you see from my point of view?"

Ethan looked at the computer screen, unconvinced. "But Baldi is the best. I want other people to like it." He drifted away from Growing Pains. I could see we were back to square one. I wondered if this obsession would fade before most of the other kids at school tired of it. I wondered if it would ever fade for Ethan.

Then I watched Growing Pains for a minute, because when I did I remembered sitting on the floor two inches from the TV and not letting anyone speak so I could catch every bit of dialogue, and calling my friend during the commercials, and my Kirk Cameron: Dream Guy unauthorized biography, and the TV Guide article about the show I carried crumpled in my pocket in seventh grade. 'Cause yeah. Like Baldi, it was corny and predictable and no one in my family liked it like me. And yeah, Growing Pains still kind of is my heart.

Not "I should" but "I get to"...

I was at someone's house recently admiring the décor and thinking, "I should really do something like this." Then I realized that wasn't exactly what I meant. The should needed to be removed. What I was really thinking is, "This is great. How could I take some of this and make it work for me?"

There's a big difference. Let me back-track.

For all of my life, really, I've noticed that women (I guess this could relate to men as well, but I see it far more often with women) tend to go all or nothing when it comes to stacking themselves up against other women.

Very often when we look at how another women dresses, cares for her kids, decorates her house, moves up the corporate ladder, whatever -- we either want to completely disparage her choices because they are so far from what we would do...or we completely disparage ourselves for not measuring up.

And so, there are times during interactions when a silent dialogue is going on in our heads. And some could range anywhere from I would never let my kids stay up that late to I could never pull off wearing that outfit.

I feel as if for as long as I can remember, I've heard two messages. One is that we should live and let live and what other moms or women may choose to do is not our business -- we should be confident and secure about the decisions and hobbies and overall ways we decide to live our lives.

But I'm starting to think there is another path, and it's one on which I'd prefer to tread. It looks at another woman and maybe thinks, You know, that's not that way I would handle that. Without superiority, just an acknowledgment. Without approval, because it's okay to disagree with someone and still love them and value them. Somehow I feel we've fallen so far from this in our culture.

I can also, and this is what I've really enjoyed discovering, look at another person and see everything she's doing right, and make room for admiration. This can be so. darned. hard. It's so easy to swing from, Wow, this house is so beautifully decorated to I suck at of this homey stuff and always will. Comparisons will leave us dry and lifeless and they keep us self-focused. Not only that, but comparisons are about measuring up; admiration or appreciation, on the other hand, acknowledge a gift, a talent, a way a person is living that is just done well. And when I'm able to do that, I'm able to not so much think about how I could be that person, but rather how I could a take piece of that and make it my own.

We are not meant to be clones. We each have a unique calling and purpose. But rather than a clean slate I wonder if we aren't each more like a patchwork quilt. Our lives are beautiful collections of experiences, memories, failures, joys, tragedies, irritations, and interactions. We are still one of a kind even as we emulate that person who's so good at hosting or cut my hair like a friends' or make a meal for someone like a neighbor did. Even our Pinterest fails make us richer.

It's not about just letting it all hang out and letting people learn to have to deal with you. It's about being secure enough to know maybe you don't have it all figured out and there are other people who may have pieces you're missing. But they may not. It's not that we have to try improve ourselves. It's that we have an opportunity to grow, if we want to, if we so choose. If we see it less like a bad verdict on our worth, and more like having an adventure.

Longings

There are times these days, with the sticky days of summer rolling on and on and all of the kids in the house, when I feel I'm talking, but no one is listening.

With Chloe, her "selective hearing" is a matter of defiance. She often doesn't WANT to hear what I have to say, so she avoids me and keeps doing what ever she's doing.

Anna does hear what I'm saying. But these days we tend to not have much in common, and I don't think she has too much interest in what I have to say. So I would say she listens politely.

And Ethan? Ethan is literally not listening. As in, most of the time this summer he spends in his own world. It's a world of coding, video games, facts he's learned from one of his giant fact books, or quotes from Captain Underpants. I can push and prod for him to leave his world, and he will, under protest. He has to be in the right mood. He has to be the one who feels like chatting. He has to have had enough screen time to leave him not cranky but not too much as to leave him insatiably craving more.

Sometimes, I feel it's only fair to give him a break. He has to be "on" all day, every day during the school year. Thanks to good reports from his teachers I know he does jolt himself out of his inner world during school hours. His desire to be a rule follower is too strong. But at home, he's free to be Ethan. And that means the autistic side comes out a little more.

I don't mind this. I'm thankful he has the ability to articulate that he doesn't feel like talking right now because he's thinking about a coding project. I don't take it personally. But these days, with every kid off in their own direction, with each one having a strong will, strong feelings, and varying obsessions and idiosyncracies that I feel I'm always tending to, sometimes I just wonder if anything I say is sinking in. I wish I didn't have to work so hard.

As I was thinking about that, I was wondering a little bit if that's how our Creator sees all of us. He longs to have a relationship with us. He longs to speak. He is speaking.

Are we listening?

Do we set our affections elsewhere? Do we run away in our minds to safer, more commonly tread places? Do we resist?

Yet still He longs for His people to have a relationship with Him...for us to not just see Him as the man with a beard wagging a finger at us from the clouds. I don't think He cares much for communication out of guilt and appeasement and obligation. I know it's kind of deflating when Ethan sighs, "FINE!" and rolls his eyes when we ask him to chat with us.

We find so many things to fill up our days and our moments and our minds. And still He pursues...still He speaks...still He waits for that moment when we might get out of our heads and our selves and listen.

Still He loves...

...as I will always love my children, through frustrations or when I wish they'd make different choices. Still I long for that connection. And like those days when, for instance, Ethan shares for the sake of sharing, not because he is coerced....in the moments those true connections are made, well, that is something fantastically beautiful.

Letting Go of the Wheel

The other day I moved a cabinet to dust for the first time in way too long and saw something covered in dust. After brushing it off, I realized it was this:

Most people who have a child in speech therapy or with special needs will recognize immediately what this is -- a PECS (Picture Exchange Communication System) card. Children who are not yet verbal can use them to communicate. They're also helpful for creating visual schedules. This is why Ethan's speech therapist made them for him. His speech was catching up, but PECS was great for reinforcing ("first you take a bath, then you can have a snack") and showing him what was going to happen in any given day. We had a binder with a piece of Velcro attached and you could stick various cards (i.e., Library, Lunch, Computer) across in a row to show the order of things. I find it hysterical that the last of the cards to survive is "Computer" for Ethan, Lover of Screens.

This could be a post about how far Ethan has come since the days of those pictures, and that wouldn't be a bad thing. That is, really, what first came to mind when I saw the card. Those days of therapists in the home or going by a visual schedule seem like a long time ago. I am really grateful Ethan can speak and make his requests known, as well as his feelings.

But after a few seconds a whole other host of emotions came to mind. I thought of the parents out who might find something like this years and years later and have to face the reality that things hadn't changed all that much. Maybe their child is 12 and still has to use them to communicate. Maybe they are still showing these cute little pictures to their 20-year-old to indicate what's coming up next.

Then I thought about how many of us parents (and I would include Dan and I in this category) are so thankful for the amazing strides our kids have made...but with every accomplishment, new challenges present themselves. Often with autism, one obsession is overcome only to be replaced by another. One obstacle is conquered but a new one crops up. It's kind of like that whack-a-mole game. In Ethan's case -- there's no denying he's doing incredibly well. We're so proud of him. But he is getting older, and that means there's more intense emotions, more intense obsessions, and greater demands socially. He holds things together really well at school. He just saves a lot for us, I guess because it's safest with us. The way it should be. In that respect, the picture of the computer seems kind of quaint. We've had more violent outbursts about our computer these days than I would care to count.

But even beyond that -- as I looked at the picture I realized how in some respects this is something all parents deal with. The challenges that seem really insurmountable when your child is three (potty training; tantrums) don't tower so large when they get older. In part that's because they're replaced by new ones. The demands when they're little can take so much out of you physically. As they get older, I think it's our minds and emotions that are often challenged: "Did I say the right thing? Should I have let her do that? Will he remember what we've taught him about that? Will he stay on the right path?"

I'll be honest here: there are days I wouldn't mind dealing with some issues that are a little more cut and dry. And there are times it seems parenting can become heartbreakingly more difficult.

I hate to write this to sound like a downer or to scare parents of younger kids. I think one thing I've learned is nothing is wasted -- the "littler" things you go through with your kids when they are young may seem huge at the time and not so much in retrospect, but no matter what they are, it's training for what's ahead. It's training in how to make wise decisions; work together as parents; help your child as an individual.

And as the years go by you learn to balance that pressure of I-am-the-parent-and-am-utterly- responsible-for-the-outcome-of-this-little-being to letting them go to become their own person.

Sometimes this will involve a lot of pain, prayers and tears.

Sometimes it will take everything in you not to blame yourself for your mistakes.

Sometimes you'll shine with joy at the steps they're taking as they begin to walk on their own.

Sometimes your heart will be ripped out of your chest.

We will always have a part to play. Parents of those with special needs often have an even bigger role. But in the end, in some way, shape or form, we have to let them go while simultaneously hoping, praying, and loving. Let go of the futures we had planned for them, the dreams and expectations, and know that life can take all sorts of interesting twists and turns. We can believe eventually they will ride the rough waters to land on the right path -- but when they do, it won't be from everything we "made" happen.

In the end, it can never be just up to us. That's too big of a burden to bear.

When I see that little picture from a long time ago, I'm thankful for God's grace...for the progress we've seen in all of our kids, and the patience and fortitude to wait for the change we still hope to see.

There's a beautiful song by Jason Upton I used to love that he wrote to his firstborn son, Samuel when he was born. Part of the lyrics  go:

There will be days you feel like flying

There will be days you feel like crying

Never give up, never stop trying

And it struck me that while those he is singing to his child, those are words God sings over us, too, on this wild adventure that is parenting. And so we walk on, with faith, with joy, with expectation, but not so much with the control we like to think we have.

Gems with Imperfections

We were in the car and Chloe was playing with a toy the teacher had just given to her -- some kind of cute, stretchy pink bunny; kind of Gumby-like. After a few minutes, she stopped her squeals of joy and the backseat got quiet.

"Ohhhh...it's broken," she said softly.

When we stopped the car I took a look and had to squint to see the teensy-weensy little part of the pink rubber material that had come off one pink leg.

"You mean THIS?" I asked. Chloe handed the bunny to me. She didn't even want to look at it. "It's broken now. I don't want to play with it anymore," she said sadly.

This has been a somewhat infuriating theme for several months now. While Chloe is not meticulous about things like her room, her clothes, or her appearance, if a toy shows the slightest sign of defect, she's done with it.

So when she misplaces one of her toys from the "Octonauts" set...or breaks a string on her little guitar...or notices paint wearing away in one spot on one of her bath toys, that's it. She loses interest. Well, except if we turn the house up and down to find the Octonaut toy. But that's an exhausting endeavor that seems fruitless when she loses it again two days later. If not two hours.

I have tried to figure out this whole thing, wondering if it has to do with some shades of perfectionism. Again, that word doesn't seem to fit quite right because this is a girl who steps all over the books on her floor wearing red rain boots and a blue winter coat with a rainbow dress -- with dirt on her face, "ready" for school.

"Chloe, the toy has just a tiny little mark," I'll say. "Nothing is absolutely perfect. You know, we still love you and play with you even though you're not perfect."

Of course this idea is lost on her. She just shakes her head when we say that and hands the toy back.

But it got ME thinking. An inanimate toy is one thing. People are another. Especially people that aren't your own flesh and blood, that you aren't kind of obligated to do life with. People who do things like talk too loudly; are always late; have interests completely opposite to mine; interrupt; read different kinds of books. And so on.

I live in a family of introverts. I'm probably the most extraverted of the introverts, but still prefer quiet...books...a cup of coffee and a blanket on a rainy day...deep conversation with one other person. We introverts tend to be sensitive, and we tend to be idealistic and maybe, yes, lean toward perfectionism. At least some of us.

We find it easy, I couldn't help but think, to discard people not unlike the way Chloe prefers to eschew a toy once she discovers a flaw.

Oh, how we love order. The friend that is always where she says she'll be when she says she'll be. The person who speaks thoughtfully without accidentally blurting a backhanded compliment. The one who doesn't act rashly or try to draw attention to herself.

We love people who are like us, when sometimes we need people to refine us.

If I give Chloe back a toy with an obvious imperfection, I can see how much it bugs her. She'll keep stealing glances at the black mark on the doll's arm or the missing piece. It's a subtle kind of nails-on-chalkboard feeling. But I think if she would give it awhile and allow herself to see the toy as a whole, maybe, just maybe after a little while she'd stop honing in on the imperfection and start having a little more fun again.

I saw that this morning when she picked up the guitar with one string broken and started strumming it once again. She began singing the simple song that I had taught her. She could still do that, even with the broken string.

The Velveteen Rabbit has always been one of my favorite stories. It's about what a boy's love does for a toy bunny. But what does loving that ragged rabbit do for the boy? It softens him in the same way the rabbit softens with age and years of play. He loves better.

I would like Chloe to be less picky about toys, but more than that, I'd love her to love better. I'd like ME to love better. Before we can truly "love our enemies," as the Bible tells us, we need to start by practicing with the people who maybe just irritate us sometimes.

Maybe we can remember that we all, even us, have our own unique set of annoying faults. Yes, we actually do!

We will never find the perfect friend, or spouse, or social group. We're going to have to do a bit of bearing with each other. Or else our other choice is to do Alone. Alone is not so bad sometimes -- especially for us introverts. But sometimes we need to take the plunge and do life with people. Life with people can be messy and infuriating and even heartbreaking. Also beautiful.

Speech Matters

When it comes to his general use of language and residing on the autism spectrum, Ethan's done well. He's done very, very well. The child who had maybe 20 words at his 2nd birthday soared through speech therapy, including the use of pragmatic language.

Ethan's doing great. He does have some idiosyncrasies in speech that we talk openly about all the time. For example, his tendency to use the more formal version of words (so, "hurt" becomes "injured," or "throwing up" becomes "vomited"). It's very hard to explain why he should use the more casual version of the word in everyday conversation, because in reality I'm not sure why he should, except to avoid ridicule from fellow fourth graders.

He also hates relating to people with meaningless pleasantries. So if Chloe says, "Ethan, I found my blue shoe," and Ethan has no interest in that or really doesn't care, he just doesn't say anything. For a while I told him he could just say something like "that's cool" but he protested that it really wasn't, it was something silly that wasn't "cool" at all. I realized he was technically right and asked if he couldn't respond with a simple, "Oh?" that would show he had at least heard what the person said. "It's not always about you," I tried to explain. How does anyone really successfully use that argument with a kid? Nevertheless, I tried. "Sometimes you respond just to show you care about the other person even if you don't care about the information they shared." We're still working on this one.

Lately, Ethan has discovered something about the English language, and yeah, it kind of falls in with the whole "formal-speak" issue. He's realized that not only does he dislike shortened versions of more formal words, he really, really dislikes contractions.You know, like can't, won't, shouldn't, and the whole mess of them.

I don't even remember learning contractions, except when everyone would argue about how ain't wasn't really a word. I don't know when you learn them -- first grade?? Who knows. As usual, this is something I've rarely thought about, but autism has a way on shining a spotlight on many things we wouldn't otherwise have thought about.

First he shared he really prefers saying "thank you" rather than "thanks." If I told him "thanks" for something he would correct me. I responded that I understood, but it was really the purpose behind what I was saying that mattered -- the important thing was that I was thanking him. Of course he always remembers to chime in "you forgot to say you're welcome" if I do. Or maybe I should say, in his case, "you are welcome."

We will be in the car and Ethan will say that he's going to make sure he doesn't use any contractions. I'll ask him why he dislikes them and he doesn't really have a good reason.

Kind of like asking me to explain why I dislike NOT using contractions.

At church he asked to hold the door for people as they were leaving and we were still getting coats on and chatting with people. He must have stood there for 15 minutes as people streamed out. Once we got going, he confided: "Mom, 37 people thanked me for holding the door. And not one of them said 'thanks.'" He was very happy about this. Not that they thanked him...but because they said "thank you."

The next week he was holding the door again and I purposely said, "Thanks!" as loud as I could, then tousled his hair. He knew I was just kidding around.

One morning he announced, "I like the Bible."

I kind of had a hunch what was coming.

"Because God, when he talks, never uses contractions," he continued.

"You like that, huh?" I asked. "Why?"

"It just SOUNDS better," he said.

"More powerful?"

"Yeah."

That got me thinking about how God or Jesus really spoke minus the King James translation. I wondered: how DID God speak, thundering from the mountaintop? How did He speak through Jesus to a group of people? Was it ALWAYS like Gandolf in The Lord of the Rings ("YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"). Or was it a little more like Jesus Christ Superstar? Somehow I figured it was NOT a bunch of thee's and thou's. But then again...

Thanks to Ethan the speech matter momentarily becomes an existential one. I start thinking that a being that is otherworldly truly speaks the language of galaxies, of the universe, far too complex for a mere human mind to understand. However, God reaches to our level and communicates in a language we can follow. Even if it's not His natural one.

The least we can do is meet Ethan at his level. We can work to understand the translation and hear the heart of what he's saying rather than just the words. And it's what we ask him to do all the time. We meet people where they're at because we love them. That's why we ask him not to correct a friend that's using contractions, or to show interest when someone says something benign. It's a way we die to the ever-present disease of self. It's a way we show love.

When a Reward is Not a Reward

A few weeks ago Ethan came home from school with a paper. All the kids in his class who'd scored high marks for good behavior were invited to a special breakfast before the start of the school day to reward them for their exceptional behavior.

"That's so nice," I ooohed. Ethan grumbled.

The morning of the breakfast did not start well at all. He'd had trouble falling asleep the night before and wanted to sleep late rather than get up early, of all things, for the breakfast.

Then he couldn't find his homework. And he realized he had health that day and really, really didn't want to go to school at all. (He hates health. Who can blame him?). He wanted to play with his circuits. Lately he's loved doing his circuits. School was an interruption.

"We need to get going," I urged.

"But what about my bagel?" Ethan's favorite breakfast is a bagel with butter. He'd eat it just about every day if I let him.

"Eeth, you can't have a bagel today. They said it's a pancake breakfast."

"But I want my bagel!" I could feel his anxiety rising.

"Look," I said, deciding to bargain. "If you get ready, I'll make you a bagel too, since you hardly ever eat at these school breakfasts."

He liked this idea, but didn't want to get ready. Today the world was against him. This Tuesday was like a Monday. I tried to tell him so many people feel the same way, getting up not wanting to go to work or school. Or health class. It was part of life. You just had to push through.

The pushing was feeling like slogging through mud. By the time he had stopped shooting baskets in his room and doing other fiddling around, there was no time for a bagel.

"WHY?? Why do we have to do this?? Why can't I just have my bagel and relax!!??" he wailed.

"Ethan, this is supposed to be a REWARD, you know, not torture."

"Well it's NOT a reward for me!" he shot back.

Sigh.

I knew he was right. It wasn't a reward for him. This special pancake breakfast was an interruption to his schedule; a disruption of the norm.

Getting to school early, having a different breakfast, being forced to make conversation with peers and teachers in an unfamiliar setting...these were scary propositions.

I knew it wasn't his two teachers' fault. They were doing something commendable in making sure to recognize this group. It's just...for Ethan, it was more like facing a punishment. Or at least a difficult homework assignment.

It reminded me of the time my reward for high honors in my small private school was going out to lunch. Everyone else at the lunch turned out to be older than me. Torture. Then there was the perfect attendance dinner in 9th grade in which I was assigned to sit at a table with a girl who hated me. I still shudder.

We got to the school and followed the smells of pancakes down to his math/science teacher's classroom. The kids were sitting around a table. Ethan lurked at the door, pacing and staring intently at a bulletin board. "Don't make me go in," he pleaded.

I felt simultaneously bad while knowing I had to give him that gentle shove in. It might be harder for him than any other kid, and we were compassionate about that, but -- he's a not quite typical kid in a typical world. He will face these situations again. We have to keep encouraging to take another step, to make the harder choice.

It's not just him. It's all of us. It's learning how to do something less instantly gratifying now to help us gain something much greater for the future. I have so much to learn, when it comes to this lesson.

That afternoon Ethan came home gushing. "The pancakes were CHOCOLATE CHIP!' he announced. "They were so good! I loved that breakfast!"

For a moment, I felt a little smug. "Now aren't you glad you went?" I asked.

"Well...kind of. But I still didn't really like it," he said. "Can I PLEASE have my bagel tomorrow?" he pleaded.

The reward really hadn't been a reward. Yet it was -- one a little less tangible but rather part of a very long process of laying building blocks for life.