It All Feels the Same, I Guess

My brother-in-law, the kids' beloved Uncle Stevie, was in for the long weekend, and left tonight on a red eye back home. After he'd gotten into PJs and brushed his teeth, N appeared by the side of my bed, looking somber, and handed me a note. It read:

Dear Mommy,

I am very sad that Uncle Steve left and that reminds me about Grampa Jack and he left us and now I'm about to cry.

Love N to Mommy or to Mommy love N*

P.S. I watched Family Guy with Uncle.

I don't know whether to laugh (because ohdeargodinheaven he met Grandpa Jack--my father, who passed away in 2007, when N was six years old--maybe four times in his life, tops, for a couple of hours at a time, and so I have no idea why he's so attached to his memory, but I guess someone ought to be) or cry or fly back East and strangle Uncle Steve for letting him watch shows I have explicitly forbidden. I also don't know how to teach him how to differentiate between different kinds of feelings of sad. "I'm sad about Grandpa Jack," is what he falls back on almost any time he starts to cry about anything, from a skinned knee to a disappointing golf game, when he's asked to explain why he's so upset.

I do know, however, that I love when he writes me notes. You just never know what's going to be inside one of those haphazardly folded missives. That boy. I say it all the time. That boy.

*This is how he signs ever letter or note or ANYTHING he ever writes to me EVER, and is the way he's done it since he was four years old. I do not know why. I do not really want it to stop.

Bravery, by N

N had to write a personal narrative tonight. This is what he wrote, on his own, without any assistance. That never happens. Ever. In fact, the insight, the independence...it's all pretty much unprecedented. I just had to share.

(Tiny bit of back story--for those who didn't live through it with me on Twitter in July--is that he went to a six-week inclusion program at a local elementary school last summer. The first day he was so terrified he was practically frozen. I was devastated by how he was--clearly and unequivocally--the most impaired kid in the room that day, despite many of the kids being "his people." I was convinced he would never go back. By the third day, he didn't want it to end. By the second week, he was not only excited to go, but excited to ride the bus home, despite the fact that he's never ridden a school bus in his life. That, too, was unprecedented. He's right. He was so brave.)

When I first went to summer school I was scared. Then after a little while I was not scared anymore. After a few days I started to make some friends even though I am scared of making friends.

I met two new friends named C and G. When we had recess I was scared to sit with C and G but, I did it anyway.

The first time I went on the bus I felt scared but, then I sat with C and I felt much better. There was a bus driver that I did not like. So they changed the bus driver called A who I like very much. That is why I am so brave.

The Half of It

He's working on a project for school right now. It's 9 pm on a Saturday, but let's put that aside. And although it was a project that was supposed to be almost completed at school and only 'enhanced' at home and we actually ended up doing more than 75% of it here, let's put that aside, too. Because he's just spent the last 15 minutes "decorating" the cover of the project, despite the fact that he doesn't ever DO that. And he's working on the cover by himself, which he doesn't ever do either. That's why I'm all about the putting of that other stuff aside.

But the reason I'm writing, and the reason I'm giggling, is that he just called up the stairs to let me know that I'm going to love it when I see it.

"I'm sure I will," I reply. "I always love things you do when you put so much hard work into them."

"Well, you'll also love it because it's like a rainbow, except with black and brown."

"That sounds lovely," I say, smiling to myself.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," he responds. With exactly the right tone. I don't know where he gets these phrases, but what I really don't know is how he learns to say them with such pitch-perfect aplomb.

And it's true, besides. I don't know the half of it. I may not even know the quarter of it. Except I was right. It is lovely.

(The IEP went fine, by the way. There was the heartbreaking moment, but it was brief, and I got past it. Mostly, there were the "we're very lucky" moments, as different members of his team began to play off of one another, getting excited by the ways they could back up each others' goals. My favorite moment was when the psychologist who works with him heard about the plans the OT has to get him to access the school cafeteria's hot lunch line, which he has never once looked at, much less used. She literally squealed at one point, saying, "Ooooh, and I could..." Even the brand-new SLP, who is very possibly one of N's people from what little I've seen of him, came up with some ways to back up his social skills goals during their speech sessions. We are, indeed, very lucky. There are things that are not happening, and may never happen, which I would like to see happen...but it won't be for lack of caring or passion for my boy. Not everyone can say that.)

Prepping

N's annual IEP meeting is Monday.

I've been prepping. Like crazy. Emphasis not on the 'like,' but very much on the 'crazy.'

I've talked to his OT, and I know what she's planning on recommending. It involves a reduction in services, but not an annihilation of them. I'm OK with it.

I've talked to his psychologist, and I know what she's planning on recommending. It involves more social-skills related goals, and no reduction in services.

I haven't talked to--or met--his SLT, though Baroy has. From his report, I'm not sure I really care what happens there. (He's not impressed.)

Neither of us has talked to his RSP teacher recently, but I know she won't be suggesting a reduction in his time with her, and that she'll be open to the ideas I want to bring up.

And I also know that his classroom teacher will bring ideas and thoughtful experience with her, having worked with him not only these past few months quite successfully, but as his classroom teacher in second grade.

I've written out a list of questions. I've printed out blog posts and emails to remind me of what I want to say. I have five days, and I'm already pretty much ready.

So why the emphasis on the crazy?

I don't know. That's why it's crazy.

But also, I do know, a little. I know that no matter how well Baroy and I prep for this meeting, something's going to blindside me, and probably not in a good way. Some comment; some thought. Maybe just the putting into words of where he is and/or isn't. That's what IEPs do. They hurt.

I also know that no matter how well Baroy and I prep for this meeting, the plan we put together won't be perfect. Not even close. What N needs doesn't exist at this school, and possibly not in this school district. I say that as if I know what he needs; I don't. But I know that whatever it is, it's not what he's getting, and he's getting pretty much the best of the best they have to offer. He's getting all sorts of services, and some of them have been exceptional, and some of them are just "the best they have to offer," but not the best thing for him.

I also ALSO know that pretty much every single word Stimey wrote here could have been and still could be written about N rather than Jack; in fact, I said so in the comments. And that makes me sad. It makes me wonder if the choices I've made, and the choices I'm about to make, are the right ones, the best ones, all things considered.

Yesterday, in a meeting with my boss that (clearly) veered very much off-topic, I was talking about this very subject. She understands; she has a nephew on the spectrum, and a niece who needs evaluating for some kind of learning difference.

"The problem," I told her, "is that I spend my working life writing about science. But this? This parenting thing? It's blind faith. No way to make a different choice, see how that would have come out. No way to explore the N-related data for various outcomes, and use that information to inform what I do going forward. I know how this particular arm of the experiment is turning out, so far. But I'll never know if he would have thrived in the special day class, or in a private school for special needs kids. I'll never know if he would have been destroyed in that setting, either. I will, simply, never know if what I did was the right thing."

And so on Monday Baroy and I will go in and make some more decisions. We'll push on some things; we'll back off on others. We'll trust, and we'll question. We'll smile, and we'll break a little inside. But we won't know the one thing I need to know. We'll never know if this is the right thing, the best thing, for N.

No matter how much I prep.

I Need You To Tell Me I'm Not Losing My Mind

Book lover. Always have been. Read voraciously as a child, voraciously as a younger adult, less voraciously after the kids were born, more voraciously as more of my time frees up.

Although, these days, there's a lot more audiobook listening than there is visual, book-or-Nook-in-hand reading. That's irrelevant, mostly, to this plea for reassurance.

Which is about the following:

The last two books I've listened to were books I would have told you--SWORN to you--I'd read before. They're books on my bookshelf. One of them is on my list of my all-time-favorite books. But here's the thing: They aren't even the vaguest, slightest bit familiar to me.

The first book, my supposed all-time favorite? Great Expectations. Twenty-some enthralling hours of audiobook goodness. And while I remembered Miss Havisham, that could have been from popular culture. None of the rest of the story was even slightly familiar.

The second? The Spectator Bird. Stegner is just incredible. I've been in love with his work since my friend Roseann introduced me to him, literally decades (gulp) ago now. Again, it's on my bookshelf. But this time, it's even worse: Not a single thing about this plot is familiar, except for the protagonist's name. I thought it was a different Stegner book, it seems, though I'm not sure which different book I thought it was.

This isn't good. This is scary. I think maybe I'm losing my mind. Or my memory. Because...how? I mean, I know I've read too many books in my life to remember their specifics. I often can't even describe the main plot line of even my all-time favorites without picking them up and flipping through them to refresh my memory. But I can always remember how they made me feel, and rereading them reinforces that feeling, brings it all flooding back as I go along. So NOTHING? At ALL? That's not good. It's bad, in fact. It's scaring me. I'm very, very scared.

Please tell me I'm not losing my mind (or, more to the point, my memory). I won't believe you, but I need to hear it anyway.

Scenes from the soccer sleepover

[I'm just going to pretend it hasn't been a month and a half almost. OK? OK. Thanks for playing along!]


Early in this AYSO soccer season, Em asked about getting the everyone together at a team sleepover and, in a moment of obvious not-so-early senility, Baroy and I suggested they do it at our house. And thus it came to pass that, on Saturday evening, seven 12-to-14-year-old-soccer players descended upon us, and I put together a taco bar, and Baroy ordered in pizzas, and Em organized a sundae bar for dessert, and there was screeching and squealing and chaos and more laughter than I thought was possible for a single house to contain.


It was crazy, but it was good. Crazy is good, right?


Anyway, so that you can get just a teensy taste of the Good Crazy, what follows is my Facebook status update stream over this weekend, with the occasional meander:


Saturday, 10:51 a.m.: Having Em's soccer team over for a sleepover tonight. WHAT WERE WE THINKING???

My favorite response: That your daughter is awesome and these will be some of her best memories of this age? Oh and you're nuts. ;)  

That was later followed by our friend D: I currently have 7 Cub Scouts spending the night that are jacked up on cake, ice cream and Transformers. Even the dogs are hiding. 

To which Baroy responded: I see your 7 cub scouts and raise you 8 teenage girls. 

Saturday, 6:11 p.m.: Overheard at the soccer sleepover, part I: I like shingles. (Pause.) Not the illness, the house part. Really...I got nothin' else to say on that one.


Saturday, 9:37 p.m.: Wish I could give you more "overheard at the soccer sleepover" reports, but all I'm overhearing now is variations on SQUEEEEEEEEEEEE and AHHHHHHHHHHHHH and HEEEHEEEHEEEEEEEE and OMIGODYOUGUYS!


Saturday, 10:32 p.m.: Things you don't WANT to overhear at the soccer sleepover: Does anybody have a lighter?

Realizing people might not understand, I added the following: To clarify: They're taking photos of themselves being "irresponsible parents" to one of Emily's American Girl dolls, and they were joking about setting it on fire. Which...now that I think about it...doesn't really make me feel much better.

Finally, the next day--after falling asleep myself at around 2 a.m. and later finding out the last of the soccer gals had hit the hay at around 5:30 a.m.(!), I posted this:


Sunday, 1:47 p.m.: I wonder if any of us is going to be able to stay up past 8 tonight...

(We did. But not by much...)

All I can say is, if there really is a Parenting Points system? We probably earned enough Saturday night  to make up for that time we accidentally forgot to pick her up from gymastics. What? Oh, don't pretend you never did that, too...


[If and when I get postable photos? I'll post 'em...]

Pasts and Predators

While the kids were in Religious School this morning, I took a walk. One of my walking partners is no longer at the synagogue on Sunday mornings; my other was tied up in all-morning meetings with various committees. I needed to move, so I gave my kisses to my friend and excuses to those trying to get me to join their meetings, and headed out.

A coffee and breakfast burrito later, I made a right turn off a main street onto a road I didn't think I'd ever been on before...until I saw the Gymboree sign, and that sign's neighbors, and realized, holy shit. I hadn't thought about this place for about a dozen years. We didn't go sososo often, and I can't even remember who we went with. But we did go for a while, Em and I, sometimes Em and her nanny, A, and Baroy even, a couple of times. When she was an infant, maybe toddler, no more, because by the time she was 'more,' I had another full-time job, and whatever various Mommy and Me programs we'd been doing were impossibilities.

It was odd, standing in my present and looking into my only dimly remembered past. It was odder still because this is a neighborhood I know almost as well as my own, now, six years into our membership at this synagogue, six years into Sunday-morning walks up and down its streets, six years into driving these streets to spend time with our chaverim from shul. And yet I'd never made this turn, onto this street, which in my mind was way south from my present location, a strip mall in the past, not the for-rent sign of today. I stood there for a long time, trying to remember, feeling a little rueful about what the passage of time has done to my ability to recall more than gut emotions, no real faces or names.

Eventually, I moved on, heading up the hill. A garage sale, a for-sale sign, a dead-end street (and that was one long uphill for no good reason, damn it). And then a left turn onto another street, looking down at my iPhone as I checked to be sure my photo of the Gymboree had posted. And looking up just in time, to see threemaybefour coyotes sitting in a perfectly spaced row, as they turned toward me and stared.

I made eye contact, then thought, "Um, no. Not a good idea." And I turned, heading down the hill away from them, quickly, quickly, looking back only to check to be sure they hadn't decided to see where I was going. Because while one coyote would be unlikely to be capable of really taking me down, three? That could have been ugly, is what I'm saying.

Now, a better writer or deeper thinker than I could probably link those two events right now, with the coyotes symbolizing...what? If I knew, I'd make the link, and wrap this post up in a pretty little significant bow. Instead, I'll leave you with this: Now that I'm home, unsnackedupon, I keep thinking that I should have grabbed an Instagram shot of those hungry, mangy-looking beasts instead of a boring old strip mall. A real artist would have.