Cup-and-ball

What do you do when your child wakes up to the sound of his pubescent brother screaming and swearing and banging things, and can't get back to sleep?

What do you do when he crawls in to bed beside you and curls up in a ball with his feet on your stomach and his nose pressed to his knees and will not look at you?

What do you do when he quietly confides in you that he had a bad dream where he left home to escape "the angry" and "waited out on the street to be adopted but no one came so I found three cardboard boxes and only lived in one to confuse anyone who wanted to find me"?

                            * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *          

You curse yourself inwardly for being the catalyst that started his brother's angry fit.

You stroke his hair and tell him that you will never let him live in a cardboard box. That you will keep looking for him, however long it takes. That you will look in every cardboard box you see and search the whole world over until you find him and that when you do, you will hold him tight and bury your face in his hair and breathe him in until he agrees to come home - at least for a bath, because living in a box has made him a bit smelly (this makes him giggle). And if he won't come home, you'll live in the cardboard box next door until he decides where he wants to be.

You make him laugh, because he knows you won't live in a cardboard box, but the image in his head is a funny one of you being too big for the box and sticking out of all the corners.

Your heart leaps when he finally looks up at you. You nod solemnly and say "thank you for telling me" when he takes pity on you and tells you to "just look for the box with my drawings on the outside"

You fall asleep, listening as his breath becomes slow and steady, breathing in the smell of his hair. A Mummy cup and a boy ball, believing ...no, knowing... it will all be better in the morning.

More Assessments

Almost two years ago, I wrote a post called Assessments. I stand by everything I wrote there because, at the time, it was true. It was an honest account of my feelings and fears as well as a declaration of the fact that I knew those feelings were irrational. But feelings are what they are and we get nowhere by pretending not to feel a certain way to make ourselves look better.

We are now half-way through these assessments. It took much longer than the projected three to six months, but in the interim we had other, more general, assessments done which provided us with an initial diagnosis of ADHD and a recommendation to pursue further assessments as there were other behaviours and difficulties not explained by this diagnosis.

My bright, funny, enthusiastic, sensitive child is still exactly that. I wouldn't change anything about him. I've come to the realisation that my feelings when his older brother was diagnosed were not grief, but were instead misplaced feelings of guilt. And very real fears for his future.

I know so much more now than I did then. I know where to find help, information and support. I have dealt with the worst of my own feelings of inadequacy, guilt, anxiety and am trying really hard to be the kind of parent my children deserve.

So. Now to the point of this update: I am not scared any more. Whatever the end result of these assessments, I will not grieve because I will have lost nothing. I will instead have gained a better understanding of my child and of how to help him become a happy, healthy and productive adult.

Assessments are great and knowledge is power. I will try to remember that in future.  

Dear Teacher

Dear Teacher,

I just wanted you to know how much we appreciate your efforts over this past year.

Our child has blossomed in your care. He is beginning to believe in himself and this new confidence has made him less anxious and more willing to try new things. You have consistently encouraged him by pointing out his strengths, while quietly working away on his weaknesses without drawing his attention to them.

I wish you could stay his teacher indefinitely, but that would be unfair on the other children in the school and besides, coping with change is an important lesson for any child.

Thank you so much for your consistent, patient approach and, most importantly, for your part in my child's growth as a person this year.

Wishing you all the best  for a wonderful summer,

A truly grateful and appreciative parent

casagrande's Rain Of Poetry

The poetry bombing on the South Bank this evening was beautiful and chaotic. As the poems fell from the helicopter, they looked at first like butterflies, then a murmuration of starlings, and finally like glittering, dancing helicopter seeds. Once they landed I felt a slight pang of disappointment as they became just paper again. Their fleeting magic lost until you read the poetry printed on them.

I found whole flocks of them on my way to get the bus home. I picked them up, read them and then tried to give them away to the people I passed as I walked along. A few of them stopped and asked what it was all about and seemed enchanted by the idea of  poems that had fallen from the sky. They walked away smiling, clutching their "sky poem"

Most people, however, were uninterested and unmoved. They looked at me as if I were mad and it was catching. I found that incredibly sad. (Mind you, I had a huge happy grin on my face and may have looked a little bright eyed and feverish. Also, it probably didn't help that I kept referring to them as "sky poems")

So now I have many tens of beautiful poems to give away. Maybe tomorrow I can raise some smiles, with their help.

Today I am happy

Today I wore a red polka dot dress, because I was feeling a bit low and red dotty things make me happy.

Today I sat in a meeting and didn't sweat, cry, feel claustrophobic or even notice that I wasn't feeling any of things.

Today a colleague told me how different I am now than I was a year ago. And that she is proud of me.

Today another colleague told me that, after seeing my journey over the last year from absolute wreck to the smiley, scatty person she remembered from years ago, she was inspired to do something about her own depression and is now in counselling.

Today I am actually feeling quite wonderful, because lovely people (who have no vested interest in my happiness) made me feel noticed and appreciated and proud of myself.

Tomorrow I am going to tell someone how brave I think she is. Hopefully I can make her feel the way I do today.

The teary confessions of an upset 8 year old

Tonight, my 11 year old had a sweary, angry fit at being told it's bedtime and that he can't watch Iron Man. His little brother, the born peace-maker, has been crying his heart out for the last half-hour, cuddled up on the sofa with me.

While we cuddled I asked him how he felt. As this is from memory, the wording is not 100% accurate, but it's basically what he said between the hiccups and the tears:

"I wish that M. wasn't like this. I wish he was like he was when he was little, when he was really generous. I wish his autism was kinder."

"I wish he didn't get so crazy. I wish when he was born he had no autism & was just a normal kid""

"I wish I had a different kind of brother, with a different name & a different personality. This isn't how he's supposed to be. My big brother should be strong and nice and look after me."

When things calmed down and I took him up to bed for a story and a goodnight kiss, he clung on so tight I struggled for breath and whispered "I didn't mean what I said about wanting a different brother. I just want to have a happy family, like we do when M's autism is quiet"

When I checked on him five minutes later, he was asleep, the tears still shining on his face.

Communication

Today, I really thought about the way my children make themselves understood. One hardly speaks except to quote films or video games and the other has an often strange, but sometimes beautiful, way of speaking: almost like poetry sometimes in that he can condense huge amounts of meaning into very few words.

An example: Not five minutes ago they both came to me separately for help opening a drink bottle. The one who hardly speaks pushed at the creases at the top of my nose (caused by narrowing my eyes in concentration or anger) and gently smoothed them out while waving the bottle at me and saying "Help me please." The other looked me in the eye, carefully composed his features into a pantomime frown and said "I don't want a lid on it. The juice is trapped."

I  love their distinct, individual ways of speaking and want to keep it forever, hold it close to me, and hug myself internally every time they speak. But how long will it last? How long can I allow it to last knowing that it is not their only obvious difference, that "otherness" is often unappreciated and our society is set up to reward conformity?

They are still children, and unwordly for their respective ages. I hope I have the strength to help them be who they really are rather than being too scared to allow them the space and encouragement to be themselves for fear of how they will "fit in."

Ring out the old...

I don't normally make New Year's resolutions. I find it difficult enough to manage things day to day, without trying to plan ahead. But this year feels different somehow.

So, my resolutions for 2012 are:

1. To be kinder to myself.
2. To spend more time with those people I love and who make me happy.
3. To eat less and exercise more.
4. To do something creative every day (even if it takes weeks or months to complete).
5. To "recycle" my possessions so that I only have what I love or need.
6. To get my home to a state where I am not ashamed to invite people over and then extend invitations so that I can grow in confidence and so that my children can get used to socialising & find ways to cope with meeting new people.
7. To help my children become more independent (this is the one that scares me most, and also the most important).
8. To do everything in my power to make life a little bit better for those around me, even if all I can manage is a smile & a kind word.

Here's to new starts, old friends and warm hearts. May 2012 bring everything you need to make you happy, healthy and productive.

"Time to die"

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die. 

I watched this film, "Until"  by Barry J Gibb, after Alom Shaha linked to it and was so happy to see such an important subject discussed so beautifully, as well as amazed at the insight shown by the children featured.

It's a conversation we don't have enough. And not talking, or avoiding thinking about something that makes us uncomfortable just makes it scarier.

I am not scared of  ageing, I am scared of pain & infirmity. 

I am not scared of dying, I am scared of living too long & losing my lust for life.

When the time comes that I can no longer create new memories, enjoy a book, film or a conversation over a cup of tea and a cake, then I feel it will have become time to go and trust that I have made enough of a positive impact on those I have met in life that I live on for a long time in their memories.

I don't want to die. I don't think I will want to die when the time comes (unless I have no quality of life). But I recognise that death is a part of life and not something to be feared or dreaded in and of itself. I feel this way, not because I believe in any kind of afterlife or reincarnation (recycling into my basic elements-yes, reincarnation-no) but because I believe that there is a time for everything and everyone. And that if we are greedy and try to take more than is allotted to us, it's as destructive to others as any other type of greed.
After all, who wants to live forever?

"But touch my tears with your lips,  Touch my world with your fingertips

 And we can have forever, And we can love forever, Forever is our today." 

"the flaw"

My sons are always asking "and where was Mum?" when going through family photos. I'm not sure that they are convinced by the answer that I was there, but either behind the camera or just out of shot. (A typical album photo: I am the green-sleeved arm).

This poem by Robin Robertson, from The Wrecking Light, made me catch my breath as I recognised myself: hiding from the camera, but always there "...a figure in the background, stepping from the frame." I don't know if he meant it so literally, or whether it was a way of expressing his feelings about his physical or emotional absence from events, or something else entirely. The only thing I am certain of is that I feel a sadness and disconnectedness reading it.

But once you release your words into the world, they become whatever the reader's experience makes them. I'd like to think he'd just be happy that his words "spoke" to me. Anyway, from now on I will try to be less vain and camera-shy so that my children have pictures of me at as many ages and in as many moods & settings as I have of them. I hope never to hear "and where was Mum?" again.

********************************************************************************

 ALBUM by Robin Robertson :


I am almost never there, in these
old photographs: a hand
or shoulder, out of focus; a figure
in the background,
stepping from the frame.
I see myself, sometimes, in the restless
blur of a child, that flinch
in the eye, or the way
sun leaks it's gold into the print;
or there, in that long white gash
across the face of the glass
on the wall behind. That 
smear of light
the sign of me, leaving.


Look closely 
at these snapshots, all this
Kodacolor going to blue, and you'll
start to notice. When you finally see me, 
you'll see me everywhere: floating
over crocuses, sandcastles, 
fallen leaves, on those
melting snowmen, their faces
drawn in coal - among all
the wedding guests,
the dinner guests, the birthday-
party guests - this smoke
in the emulsion, the flaw.
A ghost is there: the ghost gets up to go.