I almost hate to write this, because most of the day was so perfectly lovely.
I mean that with all of my heart. There we were at Ethan's school. Second to last day. We walked in his kindergarten classroom to little blue plastic chairs set up for all the parents and family members. The kids sat, squirmed and squiggled excitedly, wearing hats they'd made. Mrs. B. got everyone's attention and the show began.
When all was said and done, we'd relished as the nearly 20 five- and six-year-olds sang three songs, recited a poem, read and acted out "The Three Little Pigs," and (this had to be the highlight) danced and shook their bodies around to "What Does the Fox Say?," "Happy," and "Despicable Me."
Watching Ethan dance to the music with the rest of his classmates was priceless. So was witnessing him act (with two other boys) in the role of the Big Bad Wolf. He even used a mean wolf voice. The kid sounded downright menacing.
I wanted to laugh at the sheer cuteness of the kids, to wrap up their innocence in a way so that it would never leave, to cry at the sweetness when a little girl threw her arms unabashedly around her teacher and gave the kind of hug that allows little room to breathe.
The performance ended with certificates for each student, popsicles for kids and adults alike, and an impromptu conga line that involved a good chunk of the class.
What I'm about to write can't diminish all of that. I loved it. I love Ethan's teacher. I'm so proud of him and how well he's coped this year. I love of all of those other little faces. There is something so precious about this age. Having an older child reminds me that these days are fleeting indeed.
That was what I wanted to think about, to sit with, as we walked away from the school, as I was climbing back into the car. Then I saw one of the special ed. teachers. She and another had come into the classroom to watch the kids. I'd seen their smiles and applause. Their faces had shined with pride not unlike a parents'.
"Wasn't that great?" she said, all smiles. I agreed. She continued. "He did so well. And you wouldn't know. You wouldn't even be able to distinguish him from any of the other kids." I politely nodded. Maybe she wanted me to further comment, but I couldn't find any words. I felt as if I were a balloon with a slow leak. "Yeah," I managed with a weak smile, then rummaged through my things. She went on her way.
You couldn't distinguish him from the other kids.
Is that what we were working toward here? Was that the end goal? To make my child blend in; that he not exhibit behaviors that call attention to the fact that he is, in fact, different?
I was proud that Ethan had held his own in the class. That he participated. That he was having fun. That he had learned so much over the past nine months. I was grinning and clapping because he had worked hard. That he was overcoming his anxiety and shyness and doing things out of his comfort zone.
I wasn't marveling that he looked like a regular kid; that maybe his diagnosis wasn't apparent to anyone.
I don't think they realize, when they talk sometimes. I don't think they understand the false hopes they build, the expectations they raise when they tell parents what they think they want to hear. There is a very big difference between not looking typical and not being typical. Modifying a child's behaviors, working to squelch more obvious signs of autism leaves you with just an autistic child who can adapt in public. It doesn't leave you with a typical child.
Ethan can read like the other kids and sing and do the hand motions and even carry on conversations but it doesn't mean he doesn't prefer the inner world of his mind and that people really tire him out after a bit and sometimes he takes comfort in the quiet sameness of patterns and numbers.
When, I wondered, did blending in become the truest marker of success?
I realized then why that one little exchange with the teacher had struck an especially deep nerve. It was because I've always been one pulled by the teasing security that comes from not standing out from anyone else. Don't rock the boat. Wear what everyone is wearing. Behave. Don't ever offend. Fade safely into the background. I would've fit in really well in the group-think 1950s, I'm sure.
Blending in felt so comfortable. Over the course of many years, I began to realize that finding solace in not being an individual is a sure sign of insecurity. And then I'd remember messages I'd heard at church...those verses about God's people being peculiar. Yeah, that's the word used. Peculiar. Strange. Odd. Unusual. While I've always hated sticking out, being a person of faith is supposed to mean being very much set apart. It's an extension of who I am; of who I choose to be.
There is nothing very brave or noteworthy about being exactly like everyone else. And emulating everyone around me is somehow acknowledging that I don't have anything to offer...
...that he doesn't have anything in him that's wonderful, in the way he's set apart.
I refuse to believe that.
And so I will let that comment roll off my shoulders rather than linger. I know what she was trying to say. She was impressed with how well Ethan has adjusted. I am too.
I also know that he will always be different. That we can't just play a game of keeping up appearances. Any of us. We were made for more than that.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Less is More
We went out as a family to eat for Father's Day. This is big news at our house these days. Starting a business means Dan is working long hours and money is sometimes tight. Sometimes we've done take-out but since Chloe was born in January we had yet to all go out somewhere.
Dan picked this dingy Italian place in the center of town, and I almost had to laugh since I had promised not to nag because it was his choice. Several slightly intoxicated older people were seated in metal chairs outside, rambling loudly as we headed through the doors. Inside the place was empty and smelled of smoke. I was reminded of several friends' houses in childhood, where the shades were always drawn, ashtrays brimmed with cigarette butts, and soap operas blared from the TV.
The food came and the sauce tasted as if it'd come straight from a jar (I'm picky that way, thanks to my Italian grandmother's legendary sauce recipe). The waitress was barely attentive and we had to ask for bread. Yet as we sat there chewing away, Ethan got the biggest grin on his face. "I love this place!" he announced. "I love eating dinner with my family!"
When I was a kid, we didn't have much money. I didn't do summer camp or gymnastics or dance. We rarely went out to eat unless my grandmother took us to McDonalds the next town over. If we went to the movies we never got popcorn or candy, although the smell of the popcorn and butter used to leave me salivating. I never felt that deprived, though (except for the day my grandmother clucked about how sad it was that we weren't going to Disney World the way our cousins were). Still, we had vacations in Maine. I had my Cabbage Patch kids. Life was pretty good.
Once I became I supposed grown-up and started making some money I realized how much I liked spending it. Dan, who came from a similar background, did the same. No, we didn't care about splurging on clothes (just look at us -- it's still obvious!) or decorating our home, but we really, really liked to travel, and we really, really liked eating out. And I liked books. Lots of books. So we did a lot of that, the first years we were married. And when the kids came along, we kept it up. While we haven't yet done the Disney thing, there were trips to indoor waterparks and New York and Boston and theme parks. There was the Bronx Zoo and the aquariums and fairs and festivals.
And none of these things were bad. We had fun. I'm just not sure how much we appreciated our little adventures.
When I was growing up, I thought rich people were shallow while simultaneously envying them. It's taken me more than 20 years to realize that people who are well-off are unfairly swept into the same pile in the exact way a more snobbish type might make assumptions about poor people.
I've learned to see people first, not their spotless house that dwarfs mine; not their exotic vacations or the rocks they wear on their hands.
At the same time more recently I've learned that while being financially comfortable is not a terrible thing, there are very real pitfalls. They point back to that word, comfortable. We all want that kind of lifestyle. We all want our kids to not feel deprived. Yet there seems to be a slippery slope that leads from comfortable to ungrateful. Ungrateful doesn't always mean a sulky attitude or a spoiled demeanor. I think sometimes it's just when we lose that sense of wonder and thankfulness. It's when a meal becomes just another time out and we start bickering on where to go or getting snide when the service is too slow. Sometimes it means, simply, boredom.
It's like that old song by Dave Matthews that sometimes runs through my head (It's a typical situation/In these typical times/Too many choices...). Less can be more. Fewer nights out, fewer trips to Six Flags, fewer goodies purchased on the fly at Target can be very good indeed. The leaner times are well worth it if it means seeing my little boy's eyes light up in a smelly little restaurant just at the treat of eating some gooey pizza while sitting next to dad. Infinitely worth it.
Dan picked this dingy Italian place in the center of town, and I almost had to laugh since I had promised not to nag because it was his choice. Several slightly intoxicated older people were seated in metal chairs outside, rambling loudly as we headed through the doors. Inside the place was empty and smelled of smoke. I was reminded of several friends' houses in childhood, where the shades were always drawn, ashtrays brimmed with cigarette butts, and soap operas blared from the TV.
The food came and the sauce tasted as if it'd come straight from a jar (I'm picky that way, thanks to my Italian grandmother's legendary sauce recipe). The waitress was barely attentive and we had to ask for bread. Yet as we sat there chewing away, Ethan got the biggest grin on his face. "I love this place!" he announced. "I love eating dinner with my family!"
When I was a kid, we didn't have much money. I didn't do summer camp or gymnastics or dance. We rarely went out to eat unless my grandmother took us to McDonalds the next town over. If we went to the movies we never got popcorn or candy, although the smell of the popcorn and butter used to leave me salivating. I never felt that deprived, though (except for the day my grandmother clucked about how sad it was that we weren't going to Disney World the way our cousins were). Still, we had vacations in Maine. I had my Cabbage Patch kids. Life was pretty good.
Once I became I supposed grown-up and started making some money I realized how much I liked spending it. Dan, who came from a similar background, did the same. No, we didn't care about splurging on clothes (just look at us -- it's still obvious!) or decorating our home, but we really, really liked to travel, and we really, really liked eating out. And I liked books. Lots of books. So we did a lot of that, the first years we were married. And when the kids came along, we kept it up. While we haven't yet done the Disney thing, there were trips to indoor waterparks and New York and Boston and theme parks. There was the Bronx Zoo and the aquariums and fairs and festivals.
And none of these things were bad. We had fun. I'm just not sure how much we appreciated our little adventures.
When I was growing up, I thought rich people were shallow while simultaneously envying them. It's taken me more than 20 years to realize that people who are well-off are unfairly swept into the same pile in the exact way a more snobbish type might make assumptions about poor people.
I've learned to see people first, not their spotless house that dwarfs mine; not their exotic vacations or the rocks they wear on their hands.
At the same time more recently I've learned that while being financially comfortable is not a terrible thing, there are very real pitfalls. They point back to that word, comfortable. We all want that kind of lifestyle. We all want our kids to not feel deprived. Yet there seems to be a slippery slope that leads from comfortable to ungrateful. Ungrateful doesn't always mean a sulky attitude or a spoiled demeanor. I think sometimes it's just when we lose that sense of wonder and thankfulness. It's when a meal becomes just another time out and we start bickering on where to go or getting snide when the service is too slow. Sometimes it means, simply, boredom.
It's like that old song by Dave Matthews that sometimes runs through my head (It's a typical situation/In these typical times/Too many choices...). Less can be more. Fewer nights out, fewer trips to Six Flags, fewer goodies purchased on the fly at Target can be very good indeed. The leaner times are well worth it if it means seeing my little boy's eyes light up in a smelly little restaurant just at the treat of eating some gooey pizza while sitting next to dad. Infinitely worth it.
Friday, June 13, 2014
The Boy Next Door
Look outside our home on any given afternoon, and there's a good chance you'll see Ethan standing at the old white picket fence that marks the border between our house and the one next door. You'll see him standing...looking...waiting. He's ready to play.
About three years ago our neighbors, who have an older son now in middle school, adopted a little boy from Russia who's about a year younger than Ethan. At first Ethan had no interest in him whatsoever. After a while I'd see him steal glances sometimes when he'd be outside, but then winter would come, we wouldn't see him for months, and the little guy, who I'll call "A.," would be forgotten.
Then Ethan started really getting into basketball, and the neighbors have a basketball hoop (never mind a really cool swing in their backyard), and all bets were off. Ethan started to ask if he could go over there to play. Or he'd invite A. over to our side.
Watching them play from the start has been really sweet and just a tiny bit sad. Sad because there are times I see how completely focused Ethan can be on his own wants, on his needs or interests, and I know that in time this can grow tiresome. There aren't too many kids who will ALWAYS play what the other child wants to play. But much more than that their playtime brings smiles to my heart. I love listening to their chatter. I love looking next door and seeing them hanging from the branches of trees. And yes, they play a LOT of basketball. Or at least Ethan and the big brother do, while A. looks on.
Of course, as with many of Ethan's interests, playing with his neighbor has morphed into a bit of an obsession. This is why often, when he comes home after school, the first thing he does is hop out of the car and head over towards the vicinity of the fence to watch for A., even though Ethan knows he doesn't get home from preschool until after 4:30 (he also leaves for preschool at 7:50 a.m., Ethan has informed me, in case anyone's wondering).
Ethan will stand there at the fence, and if I encourage him to go play somewhere else (and attempt to explain that it's kind of rude to sit there and stare), he will somehow find a way to get back to the fence within minutes. He'll offer random reports on activity within the house, despite my pleadings not to ("I think they're making dinner now!" "Someone just turned off a light upstairs!"). If A.'s parents or grandparents (one lives with them, and two are currently visiting from out of the country) head into the backyard, this is especially unnerving. This is when I'll discreetly (outright) beg him to do something else. I imagine trying to sit out on my deck and read a book in the summer shade while two big six-year-old eyes are constantly trained on me.
A.'s parents are so sweet and understanding about Ethan, I could hug them. I'm sure it helps that the mom is a special needs teacher in a nearby town. They don't bat an eye at Ethan and his constant presence. They'll do their best to chat with him if A. doesn't feel like playing outside. One time A.'s dad even invited him over to practice baseball. Another time, on the day of a huge family party, they asked Ethan along to play softball over the hill at the school.
Side note: That invitation involved one of my most mortifying moments of the year. Ethan came inside saying that A's dad "wanted to talk to me." I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that this was because he'd done something wrong like not playing nicely with A., and as I was stressed and in the midst of nursing a screaming baby I blurted out "What does he want?!" Of course Mr. Literal had to open the back door and yell over to him, "She wants to know what you want?!" What he wanted was just to ask if Ethan could go with them to play. Thanks, Ethe.
Lately we haven't seen A. outside as much. Ethan misses him. I'm not sure if it's the busyness of the year, or if he's found interest in other indoor activities, or that he's a bit tired of playing with Ethan. Oh, I hope that's not it. I hope and pray not, because, despite the one-sided interaction and the obsession with his basketball hoop, Ethan genuinely likes his little friend. And that is a such a beautiful six-letter word. Friend.
About three years ago our neighbors, who have an older son now in middle school, adopted a little boy from Russia who's about a year younger than Ethan. At first Ethan had no interest in him whatsoever. After a while I'd see him steal glances sometimes when he'd be outside, but then winter would come, we wouldn't see him for months, and the little guy, who I'll call "A.," would be forgotten.
Then Ethan started really getting into basketball, and the neighbors have a basketball hoop (never mind a really cool swing in their backyard), and all bets were off. Ethan started to ask if he could go over there to play. Or he'd invite A. over to our side.
Watching them play from the start has been really sweet and just a tiny bit sad. Sad because there are times I see how completely focused Ethan can be on his own wants, on his needs or interests, and I know that in time this can grow tiresome. There aren't too many kids who will ALWAYS play what the other child wants to play. But much more than that their playtime brings smiles to my heart. I love listening to their chatter. I love looking next door and seeing them hanging from the branches of trees. And yes, they play a LOT of basketball. Or at least Ethan and the big brother do, while A. looks on.
Of course, as with many of Ethan's interests, playing with his neighbor has morphed into a bit of an obsession. This is why often, when he comes home after school, the first thing he does is hop out of the car and head over towards the vicinity of the fence to watch for A., even though Ethan knows he doesn't get home from preschool until after 4:30 (he also leaves for preschool at 7:50 a.m., Ethan has informed me, in case anyone's wondering).
Ethan will stand there at the fence, and if I encourage him to go play somewhere else (and attempt to explain that it's kind of rude to sit there and stare), he will somehow find a way to get back to the fence within minutes. He'll offer random reports on activity within the house, despite my pleadings not to ("I think they're making dinner now!" "Someone just turned off a light upstairs!"). If A.'s parents or grandparents (one lives with them, and two are currently visiting from out of the country) head into the backyard, this is especially unnerving. This is when I'll discreetly (outright) beg him to do something else. I imagine trying to sit out on my deck and read a book in the summer shade while two big six-year-old eyes are constantly trained on me.
A.'s parents are so sweet and understanding about Ethan, I could hug them. I'm sure it helps that the mom is a special needs teacher in a nearby town. They don't bat an eye at Ethan and his constant presence. They'll do their best to chat with him if A. doesn't feel like playing outside. One time A.'s dad even invited him over to practice baseball. Another time, on the day of a huge family party, they asked Ethan along to play softball over the hill at the school.
Side note: That invitation involved one of my most mortifying moments of the year. Ethan came inside saying that A's dad "wanted to talk to me." I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that this was because he'd done something wrong like not playing nicely with A., and as I was stressed and in the midst of nursing a screaming baby I blurted out "What does he want?!" Of course Mr. Literal had to open the back door and yell over to him, "She wants to know what you want?!" What he wanted was just to ask if Ethan could go with them to play. Thanks, Ethe.
Lately we haven't seen A. outside as much. Ethan misses him. I'm not sure if it's the busyness of the year, or if he's found interest in other indoor activities, or that he's a bit tired of playing with Ethan. Oh, I hope that's not it. I hope and pray not, because, despite the one-sided interaction and the obsession with his basketball hoop, Ethan genuinely likes his little friend. And that is a such a beautiful six-letter word. Friend.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Nothing Is Impossible
My love affair with the piano started young. We had an old one in our house. I have no idea where we got it. I loved playing and singing. I loved making up songs. There are pictures of me at two and three years old, singing into a toy microphone, or banging on the keys.
When I was a bit older, my parents gave the piano away. They gave it to the pastor of one of several dysfunctional churches we attended when I was young, a man who basically guilted them into giving it to his family.
I missed the piano. In time I even wondered, Would I have followed a path in music if we had kept it? but over the years and even as an adult I always enjoyed sitting down at a simple electronic keyboard (Dan's gift, way early in our marriage) and figuring out songs. I'm no prodigy but I can find simple melodies and harmonies quickly by ear. And so recently when Ethan announced he loved a song from church called "Nothing is Impossible" and I asked if he wanted to figure it out on the piano, I watched intently. I could see the wheels in his head turning. I started singing:
Through you I can do anything
I can do all things
I am living by faith
Nothing is impossible
It took him a few tries. I showed him when he got stuck. But he was doing it! He was so focused on the keys he never saw the look on my face. He wouldn't have understood, anyway. He wouldn't have understood my sheer joy at being able to share playing music by ear with my son. He wouldn't have understood that four years ago, we would not have known if this was possible. Never mind the playing -- even that he would be able to use the words to ask to play. When your son is not-yet-two and you get an autism diagnosis, you just don't know.
The leader of our worship team heard about Ethan's love for the song and kindly offered to put it on the set list the next time our group sang at church. I had no idea, until he shared at rehearsal, that he had a similar story about the same song. He told us about singing that song at church several years before, and looking over at his adopted daughter, who has some special needs and was really struggling with reading and writing at the time; about seeing her singing the song with all her might with outstretched arms. He told about his fears and worries ebbing away as he realize God had things under control; and about the sweet little love notes his reading and writing daughter sends him today. Like Ethan, she has come so far.
On Sunday, he told that story from the stage. On Sunday, we sang this song that no one knew a little six-year-old had asked for:
I'm not gonna live by what I see
I'm not gonna live by what I feel
Deep down I know that you're here with me
I know that you can do anything
When I sing a song like this, I have to admit the cynic tries to have its say. Oh really? it sneers. God can do anything? He sure didn't heal your friend, the one that just lost her fight with cancer.
And I think I know now that it's okay to ask such questions, but it's all about where I choose to fix my gaze.
Close your eyes and stretch out your hands, Chris the worship leader was saying. What if we choose, what if we ask for, a little more faith?
I believe, I believe
I believe I believe in you
We sang softly yet with all of our hearts. I thought about seeing through the lens of belief. Sometimes, I think, the impossible could mean witnessing one of those actual, Biblical-style miracles. Who am I to say God couldn't heal someone?
Sometimes, "I can do anything" can mean going through the fiercest of battles with unshakeable faith and a peace and a strength only God could give.
Or maybe, I thought as I sang, the impossible is that I'm still here after all these years and singing and believing, that I haven't shut the door on God and on church, after many years of seeing all sorts of ridiculous things done by Christians purportedly in the name of God. Like that long-ago pastor who shamed the piano out of us. He may have taken the piano, but he could never take the music away.
The rest of the day, I saw. I saw that nothing is impossible when I looked down at my four-month-old precious gift that we never anticipated we'd have.
I saw nothing is impossible when we gathered with relatives we thought we'd lost due to a heartbreaking rift in the family that spans back 20 years.
God didn't say He'd tie everything up for us neatly into perfect packages. But everything is possible.
Tucking Ethan into bed, he was smiling about his song.
"I believe, I believe," I sang to him and stopped. "Ethan? What does it mean, to believe God?"
"To trust Him," he answered. He didn't even have to think about it. Then he rolled over on the pillow, and began to fall asleep.
When I was a bit older, my parents gave the piano away. They gave it to the pastor of one of several dysfunctional churches we attended when I was young, a man who basically guilted them into giving it to his family.
I missed the piano. In time I even wondered, Would I have followed a path in music if we had kept it? but over the years and even as an adult I always enjoyed sitting down at a simple electronic keyboard (Dan's gift, way early in our marriage) and figuring out songs. I'm no prodigy but I can find simple melodies and harmonies quickly by ear. And so recently when Ethan announced he loved a song from church called "Nothing is Impossible" and I asked if he wanted to figure it out on the piano, I watched intently. I could see the wheels in his head turning. I started singing:
Through you I can do anything
I can do all things
I am living by faith
Nothing is impossible
It took him a few tries. I showed him when he got stuck. But he was doing it! He was so focused on the keys he never saw the look on my face. He wouldn't have understood, anyway. He wouldn't have understood my sheer joy at being able to share playing music by ear with my son. He wouldn't have understood that four years ago, we would not have known if this was possible. Never mind the playing -- even that he would be able to use the words to ask to play. When your son is not-yet-two and you get an autism diagnosis, you just don't know.
The leader of our worship team heard about Ethan's love for the song and kindly offered to put it on the set list the next time our group sang at church. I had no idea, until he shared at rehearsal, that he had a similar story about the same song. He told us about singing that song at church several years before, and looking over at his adopted daughter, who has some special needs and was really struggling with reading and writing at the time; about seeing her singing the song with all her might with outstretched arms. He told about his fears and worries ebbing away as he realize God had things under control; and about the sweet little love notes his reading and writing daughter sends him today. Like Ethan, she has come so far.
On Sunday, he told that story from the stage. On Sunday, we sang this song that no one knew a little six-year-old had asked for:
I'm not gonna live by what I see
I'm not gonna live by what I feel
Deep down I know that you're here with me
I know that you can do anything
When I sing a song like this, I have to admit the cynic tries to have its say. Oh really? it sneers. God can do anything? He sure didn't heal your friend, the one that just lost her fight with cancer.
And I think I know now that it's okay to ask such questions, but it's all about where I choose to fix my gaze.
Close your eyes and stretch out your hands, Chris the worship leader was saying. What if we choose, what if we ask for, a little more faith?
I believe, I believe
I believe I believe in you
We sang softly yet with all of our hearts. I thought about seeing through the lens of belief. Sometimes, I think, the impossible could mean witnessing one of those actual, Biblical-style miracles. Who am I to say God couldn't heal someone?
Sometimes, "I can do anything" can mean going through the fiercest of battles with unshakeable faith and a peace and a strength only God could give.
Or maybe, I thought as I sang, the impossible is that I'm still here after all these years and singing and believing, that I haven't shut the door on God and on church, after many years of seeing all sorts of ridiculous things done by Christians purportedly in the name of God. Like that long-ago pastor who shamed the piano out of us. He may have taken the piano, but he could never take the music away.
The rest of the day, I saw. I saw that nothing is impossible when I looked down at my four-month-old precious gift that we never anticipated we'd have.
I saw nothing is impossible when we gathered with relatives we thought we'd lost due to a heartbreaking rift in the family that spans back 20 years.
God didn't say He'd tie everything up for us neatly into perfect packages. But everything is possible.
Tucking Ethan into bed, he was smiling about his song.
"I believe, I believe," I sang to him and stopped. "Ethan? What does it mean, to believe God?"
"To trust Him," he answered. He didn't even have to think about it. Then he rolled over on the pillow, and began to fall asleep.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
The (Big) Little Things
We've come a long way from the first days of school, when I would walk him through the front doors and deliver him to a paraprofessional (he no longer needs). After a few months I'd walk him halfway to the school's entrance, then just part of the way, and now we've graduated to me just pulling the car over, sending love and goodbyes, and watching him race on his own to get inside.
For the past month or so, Mrs. O. has been out there on the sidewalk greeting the drop-off kids each morning. Mrs. O. knows Ethan well; she's another paraprofessional who was there back at the other school from the first day Ethan came through the doors as a three-year-old.
Every morning, she holds out her arm so Ethan can slap her a high-five as he runs by. Every day, he waits for it. Every day, when he sees her there, the grin widens across his face. She's always ready for him, with a smile and a comment I can't hear from the distance.
I know she knows. I know she knows this kind of routine, this friendly ritual, is exactly what a kid like Ethan needs to start his day.
His own classroom teacher, Mrs. B., came trudging through the rain last week to watch Ethan's t-ball game. I'm not quite sure why they were playing in the deluge, but the kids were having a blast. Mrs. B. stood under her umbrella and cheered on Ethan and another boy from his class. He became simultaneously shy and happy when he saw her. In the car as we attempted to dry out and lick ice cream cones he coyly announced how glad he was that his teacher had come to see him.
Last week Ethan was looking at some of the ribbons Anna has won and was lamenting he didn't have one. I'd told him he'd win a ribbon at some point, but that didn't cheer him up much.
The very next afternoon after school Ethan came running up to me with a trophy in his hands. "Look what I have!" he exclaimed, bursting with excitement. Apparently his gym teacher, Mr. C., has a special trophy he "customizes" for kids to take home for a few days if they've really impressed him during class. Ethan's basketball obsession has paid off -- the way he tells it, he threw a ball over the back of the basketball backboard and got it in, leaving his teacher stunned.
As Ethan sat in the back, kissing his trophy, bursting with pride, I wished I could have taken his teachers and enveloped them in a bear hug.
For a moment, I remembered my own favorite teacher memory. Summer after fifth grade. I was moving away, and my friend held a going-away pool party. The festivities were just getting started when I saw her. My teacher, my favorite teacher ever (and still to this day), Mrs. Paul, the one who inspired me in both writing and music, had come. She came to a party for me. During the summer, when she didn't have to. Every time I think of the moment, I still smile.
Sometimes they may have no idea. Teachers may not realize the big impact they are making with the smallest (or sometimes not so small) gesture. This year they have made my little boy want to jump out of the car and run into school. They haven't heaped on false praise, yet have done their unique part to help him see that he is special, and cared for during the six or so hours he is there.
With every high-five and makeshift trophy, they are making precious memories. And so, to each one, I say, with all my heart, thank you.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Fractals
"I'm looking for answers from the great beyond..." - R.E.M.
I'm sitting on the couch, there but not there.
She's filling my mind, this friend I haven't seen in several years. This friend who is about to lose her fight with cancer.
For a few moments, all I can see is her face seated at the table across from me in Bible study, and her kids. Her kids. Three of them, all in elementary school. She is younger than me. She has been fighting for quite some time.
A sigh of helplessness escapes me. I look up at the television and for the first time start listening. I see that Dan has fallen asleep in the middle of what he was watching with Anna before she was tucked into bed not long ago. I remember hearing them from the other room. She was singing "Let It Go" and Dan was asking if she'd ever heard of fractals (as in "my soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around," one of the lines in the song).
I see the man on the television, from a YouTube video actually, is talking about fractals. He's making a presentation at what appears to be a church; on the screen are amazing images that look like art. Only they're math.
The best I can understand, fractals are infinite, complex, never-ending patterns that reveal greater complexity when they are repeated. They can go on forever. And you'll find them not just in math, but throughout nature. The genius of computers helps us to see the infinite patterns play out. They look like art, and order.
This man shows the layers within the layers of looping spirals that forever loop into tinier and tinier versions of themselves. Can you see it? he asks. Can you see the order woven even into mathematical patterns? A website I delve into later (whatis.com) concurs: "Science continues to discover," it says, "an amazingly consistent order behind the universe's most seemingly chaotic phenomena."
I sit there for a few minutes, my eyes burning tired, lost in the beauty. It was like that day, the day after 9/11, when I sat at my cubicle while the TV in the conference room nearby blared the horror, played the buildings turning to ash again and again and again. That day, there were roses on my desk, and as I sat and stared at the petals, suddenly lost in the sweetness, awed by the beauty, everything else momentarily faded away.
****
A few days later, a friend and I go to visit. On the drive there I realize the last time I visited this hospital was to have Chloe, that frosty Saturday morning in the dark. This Saturday there is sun and green everywhere. Fathers carry empty baby carriers through the hospital entrance to soon take home their newborns. We walk down that endlessly long hallway where I prayed the contractions would let up four months ago; we turn the other way, toward the Oncology unit.
We visit, and there is family and laughter and hugs and tears. How do you say goodbye when you know it truly is goodbye? Maybe, it's like my brother said, when we were visiting my grandmother that last time in the ICU. Maybe it's not so bad to say "see you soon." In the grand scheme of things, this world, this life, is a wisp.
In the car, driving away, I try to think of the fractals. I see the swirling images dance in my mind's eye. I wonder: can I trust to believe there is something beautiful in this; some order behind the chaos of this world where kind mothers with big hearts die far too soon?
I think of the way I'm always wondering.
Sometimes I think I need to take a break from asking, and focus on being, and doing. What can I do to make sense of the chaos? What is my part in the design? I can plead in prayer to a God I can never fully understand. I can help rather than standing immobile, frozen by resentment and offense.
I can stop wondering for a moment and just sit with the wonder.
And so I do, and then I feel it, spreading slowly like a trickle, momentarily lapping away the tears and everything I will never know.
Peace.
"For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."
- 1 Corinthians 13:12
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."
- 1 Corinthians 13:12
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Love and Marriage
"Mama?" Ethan asked one evening as we were driving in the car. "When I grow up, me and Anna be Chloe's mom and dad, and every time she disobeys she will get in trouble."
I tried to explain that he was not going to become Chloe's dad, but he wasn't having any of that.
"Hon, Anna is going to marry a different man when she grows up; not her brother. And you can get married too, if you want," I told him.
"But if I get married, does that mean I have to leave my family?" His voice sounded panicked and scared.
"Well, when you grow up and if you get married, you start a new family," I said gently. "But your parents will always be your parents." He sat for a while with that, quiet in the back in the dark.
I wonder a lot about Ethan and relationships.
I can see him growing up and graduating high school, maybe college.
I can almost picture him learning to drive a car.
I can envision him finding some kind of job (preferably, I would think, one involving facts, numbers, computers, and predictable activity).
But can I envision him in a romantic relationship; married? I just don't know.
Not long ago, I would ask him about where he was going to live when he grew up. He said in a little house next door to us, where he would play video games. Sounds like most 30-year-olds these days.
Every once in awhile, I'd ask which he liked better, being with people or being alone. Nine times out of 10, he'd say alone. But that's starting to change. "I think I just slightly better like being with people," he told me not long ago.
Side note: One of his class vocabulary words awhile back was "solitude." Well, Ethan's always one to try valiantly to use his vocabulary words in everyday speech. Many nights when I ask him to get ready for bed, he complains, "No! I can't because then I will be all solitude upstairs." Our apparently scary upstairs at night is one place where Ethan definitely does NOT prefer to be alone.
Apparently, there's at least one little girl in Ethan's class who appears to be enamored with him. I heard through the grapevine that she spends a lot of time trying to get his attention. Ethan is completely oblivious. Well, I take that back. One day, he announced at breakfast that this certain girl was his "girlfriend."
"Really?" I asked, surprised.
"Yeah," he answered. "Because that's what my friends said at lunch."
Ethan doesn't have to get married, of course. He may very well be a person who, after all, really does prefer "to be solitude."
But who knows? I asked him, the other day, out of the blue, if he thought he'd get married someday.
"I don't know," he answered slowly. "Maybe."
"Maybe someday," I said all of the sudden, "you will find a nice woman just like you who loves power lines and storm drains." His eyes lit up. "I will?" he asked.
"Oh, she's out there," I said with all of my heart. "Ethan, she's out there."
I tried to explain that he was not going to become Chloe's dad, but he wasn't having any of that.
"Hon, Anna is going to marry a different man when she grows up; not her brother. And you can get married too, if you want," I told him.
"But if I get married, does that mean I have to leave my family?" His voice sounded panicked and scared.
"Well, when you grow up and if you get married, you start a new family," I said gently. "But your parents will always be your parents." He sat for a while with that, quiet in the back in the dark.
I wonder a lot about Ethan and relationships.
I can see him growing up and graduating high school, maybe college.
I can almost picture him learning to drive a car.
I can envision him finding some kind of job (preferably, I would think, one involving facts, numbers, computers, and predictable activity).
But can I envision him in a romantic relationship; married? I just don't know.
Not long ago, I would ask him about where he was going to live when he grew up. He said in a little house next door to us, where he would play video games. Sounds like most 30-year-olds these days.
Every once in awhile, I'd ask which he liked better, being with people or being alone. Nine times out of 10, he'd say alone. But that's starting to change. "I think I just slightly better like being with people," he told me not long ago.
Side note: One of his class vocabulary words awhile back was "solitude." Well, Ethan's always one to try valiantly to use his vocabulary words in everyday speech. Many nights when I ask him to get ready for bed, he complains, "No! I can't because then I will be all solitude upstairs." Our apparently scary upstairs at night is one place where Ethan definitely does NOT prefer to be alone.
Apparently, there's at least one little girl in Ethan's class who appears to be enamored with him. I heard through the grapevine that she spends a lot of time trying to get his attention. Ethan is completely oblivious. Well, I take that back. One day, he announced at breakfast that this certain girl was his "girlfriend."
"Really?" I asked, surprised.
"Yeah," he answered. "Because that's what my friends said at lunch."
Ethan doesn't have to get married, of course. He may very well be a person who, after all, really does prefer "to be solitude."
But who knows? I asked him, the other day, out of the blue, if he thought he'd get married someday.
"I don't know," he answered slowly. "Maybe."
"Maybe someday," I said all of the sudden, "you will find a nice woman just like you who loves power lines and storm drains." His eyes lit up. "I will?" he asked.
"Oh, she's out there," I said with all of my heart. "Ethan, she's out there."
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