Uncomfortably Numb

~A. L. Tennyson

I wish they warned me about this in Psychology class. I think there should be at least a whole semester devoted to how depression makes you unfit and unable to handle being a mother. Because that’s how I feel.

I remember watching a video a few years ago about a high school track athlete with Multiple Sclerosis. She was explaining that after intense exertion, the MS causes her to lose all the feeling in her extremities, even while her body keeps going through the motions. Besides feeling completely in awe of her perseverance in spite of her diagnosis, I thought that was such a similar description to what I feel like, parenting with depression. When it takes all the energy and motivation you have to simply get up and get out of bed in the morning, I feel like I spend the rest of my day numb - going through the motions. There is just nothing left for when the day doesn’t go as planned, or the kids are being especially cruel. And they’re kids. For the most part, they shouldn’t be to blame for expressing themselves when they’re frustrated and confused and unsure of how to show it meaningfully. But at the same time, it hurts. It hurts so much when they yell at you and tell you that they think you don’t care about them. Because - unbeknownst to them - the fear that you’re not able to care enough plays on repeat in your own head all day. When all of the daylight hours feel like you’re running a track race completely numb, using every amount of effort you have just to make sure your kids are content, and fed, and washed, and dressed. When you’re foregoing eating, and drinks, and the rest you so desperately crave, just to make sure that you are there, and present, and engaging with them so you don’t lie in bed later agonizing over all the wasted minutes and hours that slipped away when you were so lost and struggling with your own body and mind - just to have them turn around and scream at you that all your best effort isn’t worth it...
Not worth it, and not worthy. Their words repeat what your depression is telling you, every day. When the message echoes around you in stereo, its so hard to tune out the noise. But your one job as a parent is that you must not give up. Sometimes I wonder if the pain is my blessing in life, just so I know that the numbness isn’t all there is.

Bitter Pill

Notice the difference between what happens when a man says to himself, "I have failed three times," and what happens when he says, "I am a failure." ~S.I. Hayakawa

As parents, we all have our most challenging child. The one who frustrates us, pushes us, and makes us redefine our limits, our strengths, and ultimately plays on our weaknesses. We may love them all, but it's not easy to love them all the same.

Monkey is my most challenging. My enigma. Always changing and mercurial with her likes and her temperament. At times I think I can catch a glimpse of the little girl I knew and bonded with in the first 7 years, other times I think she's a changeling. But the hardest facet of her personality is that she will rarely ask for help. My Monkey will push ahead blindly, or hide and cry, but hardly ever will she ask for assistance. So most times it falls to me to judge when she has met her limit, and needs someone to step in. This can be met with resignation and acceptance, or it can be met with fierce denial and resentment. One can never tell. Whichever the case, I try to impress upon her that having help is an advantage, not something to be embarrassed about. But now what do I tell her when I can't get her the help she needs?

This school year has been a long and challenging uphill battle. We have tried tutoring, therapy, counseling, bribery, and punishment. Finally, in March, I thought we had scored by the school district agreeing to evaluate Monkey. But now it has all come to naught. Our request for an IEP was denied. Again. Instead of feeling relieved that my daughter will finally be able to get some individualized help in Math, I got a note at the bottom of the evaluation that read “We suggest flash cards or other methods of practice to help her retain basic concepts.” Really? My daughter has a 64 average in a subject, and you don’t think I’ve tried something as simple as flash cards?

I still can’t wrap my head around it. They promoted her to the next grade, but with an F. An F. Failure, flunkie, fan-freaking-tastic. I feel like I get an F for failing too. Because I failed my daughter. I told her all this year that she needs to learn to ask for help, because doing it solo while you’re struggling is not the way to do things. Yet, here I go asking for help, and we’re denied. I am at such a loss as to what to tell her. She already has internalized that her effort doesn’t matter because she “just fails it anyway.” What kind of example do I give her when my efforts fall short as well? What message is she left with?

We will be spending the summer blocking this entire episode out of our minds doing flash cards. And hoping for a miracle regarding her placement come September.

Five Little Words

"There was once a boy named Pierre, who only would say,"I don't care!"

Read his story, my friend, for you'll find at the end, that a suitable moral lies there." ~M. Sendak

Mommy lost her shit yesterday. I feel like it was inevitable, with how much stress I have been under, and how little release I have been finding time for. And of course, since Monkey has the shortcut menu to my hot buttons, she was the one to set me off. Just five little words that apparently blow my temper like an atom bomb. “You don’t care about me.”

Oh, my darling, how wrong you are.

I realize mothering is the most thankless of jobs. The day to day minutiae that actually makes a household run is something always expected, but never appreciated. I have yet to have one of my children thank me for the hours spent making them complete their homework, or hounding them about project deadlines, or telling them to turn off the video games, and go outside. The most feedback I get about dinner, and breakfast, and lunch is how horrible it is, and that they refuse to eat it. And I know the last thing they’re thinking about while they’re off doing their thing at dance, or sports practice, or a game, is what Mommy is thinking about on the bench while she’s waiting for them. About how she skipped dinner to make sure they were fed, or is cold because their sibling insisted they didn’t need a coat so she gave them her own, or how she wished she could be off doing the million other errands that need to be done, but she doesn’t have time for. Because she is with them, always. In mind, in thought, in action.
Most times I can take a step back from my anger and remind myself that they are blessed that they are truly unaware of what it is to experience someone not caring about them. That their hurt feelings and animosity are temporary and fleeting, unlike the scars some children carry from the burden of being neglected or alone. But every once in awhile, they witness the human side of me. The side that is just as hurt and resentful as they are about how unfair I feel I’m being treated. And as guilty as I feel about it now, as horrible and childish I myself acted, in a way I’m glad they saw me as raw as I was. I hope they remember that was Mommy caring so much about you that she was crying.

In Wonderland

“My dear, here we must run as fast as we can, just to stay in place. And if you wish to go anywhere you must run twice as fast as that.”

Most days, I still feel like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole. It has been two long years to get to this point. Two years of doubting myself, second guessing myself, and losing every ounce of confidence I had about being a good mother. About being a mother who could help her kids, guide them in the right direction. Help them learn and grow. Its two years later and I feel that I have none of these qualities anymore. And still I have no answers.

After a personality change, a near complete withdrawal from extra curricular activities, and an academic freefall, my wish for an evaluation for Monkey was finally granted. But even if we get a diagnosis that deviates from simple ADHD, I still feel like it will get us nowhere. It's almost May already. The white rabbit would agree that we are late in every sense of the word. Even with an IEP, there is no magical cure that will create passing scores in her two suffering subjects before June. No magical drinks or edible mushrooms that will instantly make her ready to be promoted. I'm trying not to fixate on a future of summer school or a repeated grade, but the possibility looms over my head every day. And still no progress report from the school. I just get to sit and wonder what is going on in the otherwordly dimension of the Upper Elementary. It's frustrating to go from such open communication in her last school, to having none whatsoever in the next. My imagination does me no favors filling in the blanks in lieu of actual information.

So I drift in this stagnant ocean of helplessness and anxiety. Wanting to know, but dreading what they have to tell me. Fearful that I won't be strong enough to help my child navigate the next chapters of her life with my sanity intact. And on and on we cycle through the same repeated behaviors and conflicts, just like being stuck at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party with no escape. With the depression in the background calling me like a siren, trying to seduce me into its arms.

My only solace is to keep distracting myself with other things. Keep pushing, and living, and moving forward, to distance myself from my own mind. Doing anything I can not to go through the looking glass in my mind to the other side.

Shadowboxer

"Defeat is not final when one falls down...it is final when one refuses to get back up and fight."

Proof that mind over matter is real….I have barely been able to get out of bed in the last three days. There is nothing physically wrong with me, except that my mind won’t let me go. I try not to think about the fact that my mother would be turning 65 in less than three weeks, a big milestone for her if she were still here (since she always said she could never imagine herself as a “little old lady”). But surprise, surprise, my mind remembers. And has been holding my body hostage accordingly.

Its a little exhausting when your biggest opponent is yourself. Everything is a fight, from getting up in the morning to going to sleep at night, and all the little tasks that need to get done in between. Nothing seems so hopeless as battling an invisible opponent who is beside you and around you every moment of the day. Most days, I wish my depression could take on a physical form so I could give it one good crack to the face. I am so tired of its bonds restricting me. I am so exhausted from trying to push past it so I can get on with my life and plans and daily duties. There is no motivation in the world that will work if the mind doesn't want to. And right now, my mind is dictating that we don't get out of bed for a few days. It is body-achingly exhausting to even think about getting up and going about a normal routine. Thank goodness for an understanding husband who doesn't question my inability to function and simply picks up the slack. A man who just congratulated me for getting dressed and downstairs, because he knows its not what I felt like doing.

I will get back to myself. And this too shall pass. Slowly but surely. I just need to keep fighting my way out of bed in the morning.

Open Letter to the Peanut Gallery

au·ton·o·my - (n) freedom from external control or influence; independence.

synonyms: self-government, self-rule, home rule, self-determination, independence, sovereignty, freedom

 I have always tried to be the loudest advocate for my child. All three of them. But within that philosophy was always the understanding between my husband and myself that we would raise them to advocate for themselves. Speak for themselves, ask their own questions, make their own decisions, and suffer the related consequences. For Scootch, this was easy. Him having food allergies makes teaching points a simple requirement of everyday life. Asking questions about food, sharing with adults that he has allergies, asking for help from others to check about the safety of what he was eating...I have to say in some ways he is the most confident of the three in regards of his own body. This is a more complicated hurdle with Monkey. Having to explain the subtle double standards expected of her is not an easy task. Nor is it pleasant to deal with her response to such conversations. She’s as loud spoken as her Mom, in that respect. But most important, we hope that the message they take away is that their body is their own. Not only does that mean that they are responsible for their body in terms of how it affects others, but also that no other person should be affecting their own body in an unwanted way if it doesn’t feel right to them. Whether its about how they dress, or the colors they like, how they paint their nails, or wear their hair, I'm hoping that giving them the freedom of body autonomy from an early age will strengthen their defenses against the poisonous influence of peer pressure and bullying in the future.

The most surprising effect of this process is not the reactions from my children’s peers, but from the adults. Although I’m sure I probably shouldn’t be surprised. Parenthood is nothing but opening yourself to be a target of criticism, it seems. I see this more and more as my sons go to school with their nails painted, and my daughter brings in bugs she dug up in the garden - to the delight of their peers, and the horror of the parents. No one could believe I never got my daughter’s ears pierced until she let me know she wanted them done at age eight. And similarly, I’ve discussed with Scootch and Little Bear that they have the same option, but both are sincerely not interested. In my thinking its simple; their bodies, their choice.

Over Christmas, my husband decided he wanted to color his hair again. Not a rare occurrence in this household, but novel just the same because of the proposed colors involved. Monkey caught wind of this and announced she wanted to color her hair too. Just the ends, and red for Christmas. The ensuing Daddy/daughter bonding was sweet to see. The two of them combing the beauty supply store for supplies, negotiating about the perfect color, and the excitement and elation of the actual process. And when the first attempt didn’t work out, I was happy to see Monkey discussing that she wanted to try again, but different this time. Maybe doing the under part of her hair instead of the ends. And more prep work involved so the color would actually stick. We are now the proud parents of a nine year old with a swath of magenta hair at the nape of her neck. And the backlash is ridiculous.

I will never understand how other adults feel their opinion is something that is worth pushing on others if there is no harm being done. In a year or two, the pink will be long gone, and probably cut off. Maybe replaced by purple polka dots, or maybe by a pixie cut. We are teaching our daughter, our children, to love their bodies. Push the boundaries of what they can do, and how they go about it. To express themselves, and feel secure in doing it. The whispered comments, and vitriol are not helpful, and not needed. Monkey and Scootch and Little Bear do not require your approval to feel good about themselves. Neither should they ever feel cowed or ashamed of not living by the so called “acceptable” standards because it makes YOU nervous or uncomfortable. As adults, you should know better, and as a fellow parent, you should be ashamed of trying to bruise the feelings of a child. Over hair. Something that is transient, ever changing, and not even guaranteed to be present throughout your entire life. 

In the future, if you have a comment regarding our children’s journey of self discovery, please remember that if you have nothing nice to say, it is better to respect my children's decisions about their own bodies, and say nothing at all.

Five Years Long

The baby is 5 today!! I guess that means he's all grown up now. Happy Birthday to our funny, pint sized, littlest man with the biggest personality! Even when you grow to be 6 feet tall, you'll still be my baby boy! We love you always, Little Bear!

Birthday Princess

Where does the time go?? I can't believe Monkey is 9 years old today!! The last year before double digits!! You are our biggest kid with the biggest dreams!! We hope you make them all come true someday!!

The Middle

Happiest of birthdays to my biggest boy! I can't believe on my birthday 7 years ago I went into labor with you, and had to wait three whole days until you'd come out and meet us! To this day you insist on doing things on your own time, but you achieve everything you set your mind on! You are happy, funny, and smart. I love your smile and your effort to make everyone else around you smile too! Happy 7th Birthday, Scootch!!

Gone Girl

“There are only seven days in the week and ‘someday’ isn’t one of them.” ~R. Chand

These past weeks may have been the hardest few months of my life. I am not, by nature, one who can sit back and let things just play out if there is a problem. And there have been so many problems.

Monkey was an Honor Roll Student last year. Four marking periods in a row, she came home with that bright piece of paper tucked in with her report card. And she was proud of herself. Glowing. So unafraid to try new things, or jump in headfirst. This September came and it was like we were given a changeling. Our bright, funny Monkey was sullen, and upset. Then brooding and depressed. We thought it was just back to school blues. Then we thought it might just be the fact that she was changing classes for the first time this year. Or that it was just the change in curriculum, the change in the class, the change in her peers. And we met with her teachers. We brought last year’s teachers in to commiserate with this year’s teachers to compare her behavior from year to year. We implemented some stopgaps to try and get her through the adjustment period. But nothing we did seemed to help her. Just like with Scootch, the refrain was just to wait and see. Someday she would come around. Eventually, in early December, she started to give up. And all the doubts I had been having, all the instances I kept listening to everyone else assuring me she was just adjusting to third grade, and all the insecurity I had about having her undergo testing to try to get to the bottom of what she was going through went right out the window at that point. It was my sign. ‘Someday’ was finally here.

Monkey had announced to me when she was four years old that she wanted to be a ballerina. She loved the costumes, the tutus, and the pretty pink slippers. She was fascinated with pointe shoes, and loved watching her Barbie and the Twelve Dancing Princesses DVD over and over and over again. When I signed her up for her first dance class, she was so upset with me that she had to take tap lessons too. And resented the fact that every child at her age had to waste precious ballet time learning something else. I remember last year she had said she didn’t want to continue dance, but I triple and quadruple checked before signing her back up this year, and she assured me she still loved ballet. So, imagine my confusion and panic when she turned around one day and told me she hated dance and didn’t want to go anymore. It was a huge fight getting her to actually go to class that night (because she made the announcement only 1 hour before class started, of course). But I made her go and stick through the last class, and then tell her teacher directly that she wasn’t continuing and why. She told her instructor that dance “wasn’t fun anymore” and that she couldn’t do it “because it was just too hard.”

If that wasn’t disheartening enough, she has continued with the same trend in every other avenue of activity. My little girl who constantly sings around the house and in the car with me, decided she didn’t want to sing in chorus anymore. Last year she was so thrilled to participate in the chorus event at the local minor league baseball park, and this year she wasn’t even interested in signing up to learn the music. In September, she was so crushed to learn that street hockey practice was the same night as her ballet class, so she couldn’t play on the league like her brother. This month, now that sign ups for Spring session are here, she says she’s not the least bit interested in playing. Its scary, and sad, and quite frankly, put me in momma bear mode. Something was definitely wrong, and needed to be fixed. Now. Before she started to backslide somewhere else.

I finally got a meeting with the Child Study Team at her school. But the group that had been so helpful and proactive with Scootch, seemed more dismissive and challenging with my Monkey. The one team member even told me that she didn’t think my daughter had an issue, but that she was just jealous and manipulating me. Needless to say, they denied the proposal to give her an evaluation. Not really what I wanted to hear. So I set up an appointment with Scootch’s neurologist to have Monkey evaluated independently. We went in on Christmas Eve to have her tested, and it was the best Christmas present ever when the practitioner told me that number 1 - I wasn’t crazy, and number 2 - Monkey definitely met all the criteria for ADHD.

Not that it fixed anything. Diagnosis in hand, it has still been a long month of forms, and emails, and waiting, waiting, waiting. After submitting the paperwork there was the wait for them to review it. Then another wait while they forwarded it to the guidance counselor for her review. Then the counselor and Child Study Team had to meet with the teachers to discuss it. Meanwhile, I was given weekly emails that let me know what was going on, and asked additional questions when they needed clarifications. And I was getting nervous because the email correspondence wasn’t sounding promising. But finally, the day arrived when we got to meet with the school to have a determination hearing.

To say the meeting was suspenseful was an understatement. We went in there with the feeling that they were going to deny us accommodations for Monkey just from the feedback we were getting from the email replies. Then the actual meeting was another complete rehash of everything we had addressed and they had discussed. They left their findings and determination for the very end, but, ultimately, we prevailed. Monkey now has 504 Accommodations added to her education plan, and we can all take a deep breath and step back to see if this helps her thrive. I’m sure that there are still plenty of obstacles and adjustments to come, but we are halfway through the year and I’m finally feeling somewhat at peace with her school situation. Along with her counseling sessions, I’m hoping that the Monkey from last August will find her way back to us. I really miss seeing her glow.

Eight is Great

A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip. ~Author Unknown

I cannot believe it has been eight glorious years since we welcomed you to this Earth! Right now you are crazy about animals, especially horses and cats! Your favorite toys are your Calico Critters, and your Legos. You love to create, and construct, and craft. You make pictures, and cards, and jewelry, and suncatchers. You also love to read, and one of my happiest memories was sharing my old books with you over the summer, and having you enjoy them as much as I did.

You are spontaneous, inquisitive, and passionate. Even though we are working through some challenges right now, you still take the time to be kind and giving to others - considerate and caring, like a good Girl Scout should be. I hope you stay like that always. Your mind is constantly going, going, going, and sometimes I fear there will come a time when I can no longer teach you something you don't already know. I wish that thrill of discovery stays alive in you for years to come.

I believe in you, even and especially when you don't believe in yourself. I have seen you learn and accomplish so many things in such a short time, and I know in my heart there is nothing you cannot master. It may take a little longer than planned, but we will get there. Hopefully together.

We love you, Monkey! Happiest of birthdays my sweet!

The Wisdom to Know the Difference

“Good decisions come from experience, and experience comes from bad decisions.” ~Author Unknown

Its been six months since the day I cried after meeting with Scootch’s teacher - the day she told me she wanted to hold him back and repeat a year. But I remember having a purpose after I dried my eyes. I knew that her solution wasn’t what was best for Scootch, and I knew what needed to be done to get him in the best place possible. And since school has been underway and going so extremely well for him, I was thinking it would be great to breathe a nice deep sigh of relief and relax for a little while while things went back to what passes for normal around here.

And then the homework drama started. But not with who you would expect.

Monkey came home one day with a blank assignment pad. I asked her if she had any homework, and she said, “Yes. But I forgot to write it down.” Its happened to all of us, so I let it slide. But the next night she forgot to bring home the list of her new spelling words. The night after we had a bout of tears before we would even attempt to do our spelling homework, and the math homework induced a temper tantrum.

I was thinking it was just her being tired. We tried to keep the kids close to their normal schedule over the summer, but seriously, it was still daylight out at 8pm. There was no way those kids were going to lay down and go to sleep with sunshine coming through the window. And the first two weeks back to school are always a harsh adjustment. But the problems persisted. Every night was a different issue. She left the paper in her desk, forgot her assignment pad, didn’t hear her teacher say they had any homework. The excuses were piling up as fast as the laundry, and I was getting annoyed. Plus, she got her first note sent home from the teacher stapled to a stack of assignments. “Homework incomplete. Please have her finish and hand in.” So we sat down to try and have a chat, and that didn’t end well either. It turned into Monkey yelling and crying and fleeing to her room to calm down. (And ultimately, escape into a book.)

But what startled me was a couple days later. I was (as usual) trying to supervise her doing her homework while I was starting dinner when she just laid her head down on the table and started to cry. And when I asked her what was wrong she told me “I’m just too stupid to do math.”

That floored me.

My kids are not stupid. We don’t call them that, we never have, and no one I have ever met has ever used that adjective to describe my children. My first reaction was my gender-equality-feminist-temper bristling at the thought of someone telling my daughter that she was the “s-word.” So when I immediately asked her who told her that, I felt sick when she told me, “No one. I just know I’m too dumb.”

I don’t think there are words for the feeling you get as a parent when your kids stop believing in themselves. Its a special kind of frustration and pain that splits you apart because they don’t see themselves as the beautiful, well-rounded, human being that they are. But furthermore, this was not my child. This sullen, bad tempered, obstinate little girl who was so shrunk into herself, was not the same laughing, imaginative, Monkey I sent to school on the bus four weeks ago. And after spending the entire summer getting Scootch evaluated, reading literature for Attention Deficit Disorder, and answering the same questionnaires and Vanderbuilt assessments in triplicate, of course my first thought was, “Does she need to be evaluated for ADHD, too? Maybe we’ve missed something.”

And I don’t know what to do. My instinct, which was so absolutely right with Scootch, is telling me this is not just growing pains, or the need to give her more time to adjust to third grade. Its telling me something is wrong. But at the same time, I don’t know if maybe this is just backlash from giving her brother so much special attention over the summer. Or stemming from the fact that she was in an inclusion class last year, and this year is her first experience with changing classes for subjects. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions with her needing to go through an evaluation because it is literally just fresh on my brain and I am seeing it everywhere. And at this point, since her grades aren’t slipping yet, I don’t know if she would even qualify for one. We’ve written to her teachers to ask if there is anything else they are noticing that we are missing, and have somewhat agreed to just let it ride as a ‘wait and see’ period. Meanwhile, we had a temper tantrum, missing homework assignments AND Monkey staying up past 9pm to finish her homework last night. So what is the tipping point? Where is the line in the sand that tells us we have spent enough time waiting? As I stand here watching my brightest flower wither and languish while her self esteem drains away, I don’t know how much longer I can endure seeing her suffer. Not when I know how much change you can create by simply standing up and saying “enough.” Scootch is evidence of that. I just need to know whether its the right direction to go with Monkey as well.

Our Own Personal V-Day

The finish line is sometimes merely the symbol of victory. All sorts of personal triumphs take place before that point, 

and the outcome of the race may actually be decided long before the end. ~L. Malone

Today was the eligibility placement hearing for Scootch with his school - otherwise known as the culmination of our entire summer of testing. This poor kid has had a test almost every other week since May; speech testing, psychological testing, social skills testing, motor skills testing, learning evaluations, physicals, neurological exams....you name it, he probably had it. It was a pretty big test for Mommy too, having to weather all the stress and anxiety. Was I doing this for the right reasons? Would it be worth it subjecting him to all of this? It was hard not to over analyze everything he was doing now, or sit there and criticize myself for deciding to take this route instead of just leaving him back to repeat a year and trying to let him fend for himself. But over and over again, as the testing results were trickling in, they were reaffirming the same things we were worried about - lack of focus, poor impulse control, and immature fine motor skills.
The hearing today was with hubby and I, the child study team, and Scootch's Kindergarten teacher. They reviewed all of the evaluations that were done through the school and summarized the findings for us. Best part of the day was hearing three different evaluators tell us what a bright, wonderful boy Scootch was, and what a pleasure it was to meet with him. They also all agreed that he presented with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, a diagnosis that was likewise found by his private neurodevelopmental assessment we had done. So with the diagnosis comes his eligibility for special services. He is now qualified for an IEP - Individualized Education Program, and will be moving up to first grade with the help of an inclusion class, where there is an extra aide in the classroom to help keep him and a few other qualifying students with their weaknesses. He will also be attending Occupational Therapy twice a week during school hours to hopefully get his fine motor skills stronger and more up to par with his age level.
Overall, it sounds like he'll be getting everything we hoped for him! Hubby and I shared a high five on our way out of the school, and it truly felt so good to feel like we won a battle for our child. Hopefully this upcoming year of first grade will be just as rewarding for Scootch as today was for us. Even the fears I have of him having a stigma, or being labeled, were almost completely overridden by the relief I felt that he will be getting the extra assistance he needs to learn and grow. I know he is capable of great things, and hopefully this will set him up with the skills to achieve everything he sets his mind to!

My Daughter, Myself

"And thou shalt in thy daughter see, this picture, once, resembled thee." ~A. Philips

Monkey and her classmates waiting in the wings during recital

I always wanted my daughter to be her own person, I just never realized how much it would hurt. Being so similar is a double edged sword; on one hand, you always know you can find things you'll have fun doing with her. But on the other hand, when she rejects doing something you treasure so much, it feels more like she's rejecting part of yourself.
Monkey has talked about being a ballerina ever since she was four years old and watched "Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses." When I signed her up for classes a year later, she was very put out that she was required to take tap as well, because all she wanted to do was be a ballerina. It took a year and a half, but she was finally in an all ballet class this year. Since this should have been a glorified accomplishment for her, to say I was taken aback by all her complaining was an understatement. She complained about the stretching, she complained about the pointing, she complained about having to repeat the routine over, and over, and over again, to get it right. The final blow came a week before recital - she calmly informed me as I was reading over the summer schedule that she didn't think she wanted to take dance anymore. I think my heart might have actually stuttered as I tried not to cry. 
What I would give to go back to ballet class. To feel that warm limbed exhaustion from working every muscle group you weren't aware you even had, or reveling in that in weightless feeling when you're flying through a grand jeté. I even miss the blisters and missing toenails displayed in old flip flops in November, because you put in six extra hours of practice in a week so you could join in a special production of The Nutcracker as a snowflake. But I had to remind myself that she wasn't me. I didn't want to heap all these memories on her to guilt her to keep going just so I could live vicariously through her.
So her second recital this year became a bittersweet one. I sat in the audience through the first show to try and soak up all the dancing I could, and then volunteered as the class mom with her and her classmates through the second show in the afternoon. Recitals were always my favorite growing up, with the anticipation and adrenaline mixing with makeup and costumes. And as I sat "backstage" in the freezing cold high school lunchroom, watching the girls playing tag, reapplying makeup, or doing one last run through of their routine, I tried to take it all in. The realization that this might be my last time experiencing this made a little lump in my throat. Lining Monkey up to go on with her classmates, I watched them as they sat in the wings wide eyed watching the older girls before them perform their routine and I was transported back in time to my own girlhood. The smell of rosin and gaffer tape and hairspray all mixed together in my mind, and I just sat there for a moment savoring the memories. And after her number, when she rushed out of the doors and into my arms all breathless and exhilarated from performing she hugged me tight and looked up at me and said, "Mommy? I think I still want to do just one more year of dance."
Maybe that means I'll get one more year of memories too.

6 Years of Wisdom

"While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about." -A. Schwindt

I can't believe our Scootch is six! He is truly my big boy and my baby all at once. Insistent on doing things on his own, but not too big yet to still want a cuddle or to be held. I think his birthday this year was more bittersweet for me because of all the trials we're trying to weather together with his evaluations for school. As much as its hard as a parent for your child to have to be "labeled," its also heartwarming to know that your instincts are justified, and that other people can see the good qualities and things you love about your child too. 

I think the most amazing thing about our journey together these last 6 years is how much he really has taught me. Being the second child, I went into his pregnancy thinking I had this in the bag, only to be blindsided with so many postpartum issues and complications. Trying to find yourself all over again is doubly difficult when you're doing the balancing act of new motherhood. Throw in the health issues with his feeding and food allergies, and sometimes I feel like I never was able to get off the roller coaster. With these last challenges at school, I am fully seeing what a gift Scootch is to our family, and especially to me. His attitude and happy nature are a constant reality check, especially when I'm stressed or anxious. This little boy reminds me to live life in spite of fear, and to love life despite restrictions. If he can get through his day with all his daily challenges still smiling and upbeat, then really, who am I to be throwing myself a pity party?

Happy birthday to our silly, smiley, lovable, Scootch! I hope you always find a reason to keep smiling, now and forever!

Pants on Fire

Liar, liar, pants on fire, hang them up on telephone wire.

Monkey used to sneak food when she was a toddler. She learned how to open the refrigerator while she was still in her walker, so being fully mobile opened up a whole new avenue of pantry raiding when Scootch was born. Instead of requesting a snack, she just felt it would be easier to liberate the food herself while I was usually otherwise occupied with a feeding or a diaper change. The denial was amusing  when she was three and vehemently denied she stole granola bars while the melted chocolate chips were still smeared all over her mouth. Now that she's the ripe old age of seven and a half with an attitude to match, the denial isn't cute anymore.
Its partially my fault, to be honest. We fight over so many things during the course of the day, taking her to task for the daily petty offences is usually one of the battles I choose to just not engage in. I tell her I think she's lying, she denies it, and I just leave it lie, hoping she'll at least acknowledge to herself she is in the wrong. She's not really adept at hiding the evidence, either. Which is something else I fail to point out to her because, truthfully, I don't want her improving on that particular life skill. My tipping point, however, came while Daddy was away for a few days on business. The second time that week she came downstairs dressed for school wearing my good 14K gold jewelry I pretty much flipped my lid. To which she just insisted she "found it" in her jewelry box. No. Way. In. Hades. my jewelry spontaneously traveled space and time into the little box in her bedroom!
When Daddy came home, I was more than happy to hand off the disciplinary reins to him when it came to refereeing a dinner fiasco. Monkey refused to eat her dinner the entire meal, then when everyone else left the table, she came prancing into the living room two minutes later claiming to have finished every last bite. It didn't take much investigating for Daddy to find her entire meal stuffed into the garbage can. That evening's bedtime routine became one long talk about truth and dishonesty. And in some ways I'm so thankful he's here to get through to her. Monkey listens and opens up to Daddy in so many other ways than we communicate with each other. He can get to the root of her behaviors and actions so much quicker than I ever seem to be able to. On the other hand, its positively maddening to deal with a child who is so righteous and fastidious about preaching right and wrong about other's behavior, but never seems to hold herself to the same measure. Especially when I'm the one at home usually stuck holding the ruler. I'm just hoping we're working through this phase, and she has finally learned a valuable lesson.

Don't Hold Back

Learning is like rowing upstream: not to advance is to drop back. ~Chinese Proverb

Carefree Scootch blowing bubbles at the park

School has proved to be a struggle for Scootch. I noticed the social differences in him as young as age three when I was taking him to story time in the library. He usually refused to participate, or insisted on sitting on the outside of the circle rug so he could just observe or limit his interaction. Comparing him to Monkey at that age or to Little Bear at his current age is like a study in opposites. And even though everyone tells you not to compare your children, it has always been something that niggled at the back of my mind. Preschool repeated the same process, but as the year progressed, Scootch really grew up and spread his wings. I was so emotional at the end of the year at his preschool graduation seeing this bright, social, bubbly little boy. The complete opposite of the sullen withdrawn child that started the school year.

When Kindergarten rolled around, Scootch was nothing but pumped to get started. I saw no nerves or hesitation. I was so hopeful that he had left his withdrawn behavior behind. Little did I know what awaited. From his very first report card, his teacher has been concerned with his listening skills, social skills, motor skills, and work habits. The repeating themes of "self control" and "focus" came up every week when I stopped to chat with her on the days I volunteered at the school. The "comments" section of his report card has gotten more and more crowded every marking period with the list of things he's having difficulties with - even as his grades have steadily improved.

Last Friday I went in to meet with Scootch's teacher before the day started. Third period report cards were being sent home that day, and I figured I would go in to talk to her about the challenges she was having with him instead of making her write everything down. The good news was that his grades were the highest they've ever been - all "Progressing Towards Mastery" or above. The bad news is that she still felt he would benefit by being held back to repeat Kindergarten next year until he could get his behavior under control, and that that would probably be her recommendation for him at the end of the year.

I don't think there are words to describe the feeling you get when a teacher tells you those words about your kid. Especially when academically speaking, he's bright, and smart, and mastering everything they have been learning. To you, your child is just your child. Loud or quiet, hyper or calm, funny or serious. But it seems the time has come that I need to look beyond his behavior as just Scootch being Scootch. This behavior needs to be analyzed and most likely identified. My feeling right now is that if we don't seek help for Scootch now, we will be creating a larger problem down the road. And as much as my heart breaks that getting help has a high possibility of earning him a "label" for the rest of his academic career, maybe that dreaded mark might actually make his emotional load easier to bear. Perhaps a diagnosis will yield assistance in school, so his frustration levels cease to push him to the point of tears multiple times a day.

The next few weeks, and most likely months, promise to be challenging and stressful. I've already lined up requests, and meetings, and consults, and appointments. The list of people we need to see range from school staff to therapists and neurologists. Its daunting. And scary. And I previously had a good cry about it. This is not another challenge I want my son to bear. But in some ways, I already know Scootch has the strength to get through it. With all the issues and shortcomings we've dealt with concerning his food allergies, I've come to admire the way he can so easily bounce back from a setback. The way he never fails to keep racing forward after an obstacle, usually laughing the entire way. I think I need to just take a page from his book and keep moving forward, no matter what. Because I don't want anything to dim that bright light in his eyes. The flame of his intelligent spirit just waiting to burst free. I never want to have to hold him back from being the best he can be.

Testing, Testing, 1 2 3

The test of courage comes when we are in the minority. The test of tolerance comes when we are in the majority. ~R. W. Sockman

Scootch not impressed during his allergy testing

Growing up hurts. I think its an evil system that most parents are hardwired to do anything to relieve their kids' suffering, but true growth involves your children surviving pain.

We've been so lucky this year so far with the food allergy issues (knock on wood). I am was petrified every day Scootch headed off to school to the big scary world of Kindergarten. Fortunately, I think we were blessed with a very empathetic teacher for him this year. She wasn't scared to grow and learn along with us. There have been plenty of near misses involved with the school snacks and food projects, but she has never hesitated to act, or pick up the phone to call me whenever she has a question. I am happy to say the Epi Pen has not made its debut as of yet.

But the necessary evil of growing older for Scootch is the allergy testing. And re-testing. And testing some more. His allergist and I discussed his falling IgE scores on his last blood test and decided that his egg allergies seemed to be down low enough to warrant a scratch test on his skin to see if there still was a reaction. Just hearing that made my head spin off in the direction of baking with real ingredients again. Instead of visions of sugarplums, it was more like visions of leavened cakes, fluffy pancakes, and cookies that didn't resemble chocolate chip crepes. But before I could get ahead of myself (again), we needed to actually accomplish the test.

We trudged in today in full force. Daddy even took off early from work, because I wasn't sure if easygoing Scootch would morph into the full fledged kicking demon he sometimes impersonates in the doctor's office, and if so I needed all the extra arms I could get. But it turned out only mildly difficult. After hanging out in the waiting room making friends with an 11 month old, we were called back to start the skin test. Scootch only needed a little bit of encouragement and restraint as the nurse marked the numbers on his skin and applied the allergens with the scratch applicator. (I think he really thought the pen was a needle, he was screaming so loud). Then we got to watch a Thomas the Tank video for 20 minutes while we waited for the results.

In number order, they show the 1. histamine control to represent what an allergic reaction would look like, 4. egg white protein, 5. egg yolk protein, and 8. saline control. The egg yolk shows almost no difference to the saline, so as far as the allergist is concerned, he's not considered allergic to egg yolk anymore! The egg whites show a very mild reaction, so the consensus is that for now, he is allowed to have egg products if they're baked for an extended period of time. His allergist feels that the small amounts of proteins present in foods that are baked would be low enough to boost his tolerance without triggering a reaction. But still no omelettes or hard boiled eggs for Scootch just yet.

However, I'm extremely hopeful that I can enjoy some homemade pound cake for dessert in my near future!

Go For Gold

Olympic Fever has struck at our house. Little Bear is currently competing in the Living Room Free Skate Program. :-)

Go Team USA!

Oh How They Grow!

I love these little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us. ~C. Dickens

This is happening.  

And this

And this

Someone stop feeding them Miracle Grow! They’re getting way too big way too fast!