Kate

Nine years ago, I held you in my arms for the first time. 

I heard your tiny voice. 

I looked into your eyes.

I smelled your skin and held you to my heart.  

And I understood, profoundly, that my life would never, ever, be the same. 

It is ever so much better with you in it, Kate. 

Happy birthday baby girl.  I love you.

How do I love thee…

Let me count the ways…

One…

Two…

Three…

For more Wordless Wednesday photos, go here.

There is no classy name for this post.

I’m sitting here next to Ella.  Keep in mind she is two.  She actually leaned over, in order to lift her rear end(which I did not teach her), and (for lack of a better word) passed gas.  It was LOUD on that plastic seat and it totally cracked me up.  She says

“Big toot.”

“More.” 

So she leans over again.  She gets all red in the face, trying to force some gas again, in order to make me laugh.  I’m such a totally wonderful influence on her, am I not?

When nothing happens, she looks at me quizzically, as if wondering “where’d all the gas go?”

She tries again.  Again, nothing.

Then she says

“Oop…Poop.”

Classy. 

She’s gonna make a fine wife some day, yessiree.

The Sounds We Hear

They bound off the bus and over to me.  The boys still fall into me as I give them hugs and plant kisses on their tousled little boys heads.  When will that end?  I wonder when will they feel too big to hug me in front of their friends…

They run all the way home…can’t slow these boys down. 

I made brownies this afternoon…the boys cannot sit still while they eat them.  Wiggling.  Kicking their feet.  Bobbing their heads.  Giggling.  I don’t understand the need for constant motion.  But now and then I like it.  Right now, I like it. 

The house is quiet.  The normal sounds…

the washing machine…

the children playing football in the basement (even though they know they’re not allowed to)  Blue 42…

and someone crying because he was playing football in the basement (even though he’s not allowed to) and ran into a wall…

Ella, taking out all of our cups and spoons for tea…

footsteps thumping up and down the stairs and through the house on hardwood floors that echo more than I ever would have imagined possible…

Ella screeching because someone took away the DS (that she’s not allowed to play with)…

little boy whispers about spying…

and complaints from little girls about little boys who are spying on them…

and laughter.  There is a lot of laughter, too. 

Those normal sounds are hushed. 

I hear instead the dreams of a little boy.  Remember when we dreamed of what we would be? 

William says

Hey Mom…  This is what I’m going to do.  I’m going to retire from football when I’m 38 and then I’m gonna be a secret agent.

Then he slips on his secret agent sunglasses (which remind me strangely of a pair that I had when I was about 15), gives me a hug, and sits down to do his homework. 

So I write, while he writes.  And I answer questions like “Hey Mom, how do you spell nocturnal?”

I hear Henry in the basement playing with his friend.  Ella sleeps upstairs.  And Kate is at Art class. 

This is just how I thought it would be–motherhood.

My life.

What message does it send?

By writing this, I am not trying to be critical of other parents and the decisions they make in this situation.  I also want to make it known that I understand that every child is different.  And every situation is different.  And that what may be the best for one child is not necessarily so for another. 

And one other little disclaimer…what follows is my opinion based on my experience, of which I don’t have a lot.    I have only four years of experience as a mother of a child with a disability.  And we have only just entered the world of education and school and homework and projects and grades and all that comes with it.  So I reserve the right to change my opinion as my life becomes more rich with experience.  I don’t think I will.  But I never like to say never…     

Here goes…

Henry is a very smart 5 year old little boy.  He learns quickly.  He is outgoing, and confident, and happy.  And Henry is hard of hearing. I am well aware of the fact that that puts him at a disadvantage.  I don’t understand it completely.  I hear.  I don’t know what it’s like to not hear well.  I don’t fully understand what he has to do to keep up with us hearing people.  But I do know that it is a significant effort.  And I do know that he will have to work pretty darned hard to do some of the things that most of us do without even thinking. 

When I originally wrote this, I stated that teachers in our county are able to grade children with an iep on an adjusted grading scale.  What I have learned since is that children with ieps may have an adjusted curriculum.  Yes, the two are different, but in the end, they have the same effect.  And they both lead me to the same conclusion.

To be honest, I don’t even know what an adjusted curriculum is.  What is the reason for, and what are the consequences of an adjusted curriculum? I don’t know.  I don’t know which children qualify for this “adjusted curriculum.”  Does it have to be written into the iep?  I don’t know.  Are all children with ieps considered for this?  I don’t know.  (And frankly, I wonder how it is that I haven’t even heard of this before now.) 

I don’t know enough about it, clearly.  But it really got me thinking about Henry’s education, his life, his goals, and through what lens I want him to be viewed.  Yes, he has a disability, but no one should let that label cloud their view of him.  It also got me thinking about people, and how we treat each other, and how something as wonderful as compassion can evolve into something unintended.  Something that sends an unintended message to a little boy. 

I don’t know when we began trying to make everything fair.  Life isn’t fair.  Sometimes it is terribly unfair.  Is it fair that Henry doesn’t hear very well?  No.  It’s not fair.  That is his challenge.  But he has gifts, too.  We all have gifts.  And we all have challenges, granted that some are much, much greater than others.  The reality is that people are different.  Kids are different.  Some kids are athletes.  Some kids are leaders.  Some kids are social butterflies.  Some kids are smart.  Some kids are creative and artistic.  Some kids will change the world with their kindness.  I want my kids to discover their own gifts, and understand that those gifts, along with the challenges they own, are what make them who they are.  I want them to learn to live with and overcome their challenges, and I want them to use their gifts for good.  These are the ideas I believe in.

But then we do things as adults to try to make all children the same…make everything fair.  Why do we try to even everything out?  Do we make the world a better place?  Do we make things fair by doing so?  And where is the fairness for those kids that really excel as athletes or scholars or artists?  Aren’t we taking from them at the same time we are giving to others?

What message are we sending to this little boy of mine?  What message do we send to his siblings, and his peers?  I mean really, really think about this…  He has a disability.  If his curriculum is changed based on the fact that he has a disability, what does he learn from that?  Are we telling him he’ll never be on the same level, no matter how hard he tries?   

How would I explain to my son that he isn’t quite good enough, smart enough, fast enough, strong enough to do this on his own, just the way he is?  I have spent the last four years since his diagnosis telling him that he IS enough, just the way he is.  And I believe that.  And if he IS enough, just as he is, then why is there any reason to even things out?  I wonder what unintended consequences this all has.  I wonder what he learns, and what other children learn from situations like this. 

I don’t want his successes muddied.  When he succeeds, I want him to be proud of himself, and know that his accomplishments are all his own.  He will know how hard he worked for something, and he will appreciate it.

And Henry is going to have to work hard.  Harder than most other children.  Yes. 

But he will.  And he will know that he did it. 

He did it just the way he is.

A Letter to Seasonal Viruses

Dear viruses,

I hate you.

Love,

Kristen

What You Don’t See

Thirteen years ago, I woke up to the gray pattering of rain.  Yellow leaves spun and twirled to the ground.  I sipped my coffee and prayed for the rain to stop.  I had a big day ahead. 

Just a few hours later, I married The Man.  And now, I sit here, trying to think of some way to put thirteen years into a few paragraphs.  That is rather impossible, I suppose. 

I could say that a snapshot of my life looks rather what I imagined it would look like…  The house.  The kids.  Me and The Man.  But that snapshot is just a picture.  And behind that picture is a story of all that two people go through to come to the point, thirteen years later, when that picture is taken.     

It is Barbados.  Cobbler’s Cove.  Rum punch.  And nothing to do all day.

It is Coco, who really taught us how to parent. 

It is Hokie games. 

It is dreaming of our children.  And the birth of those four children. 

It is watching your toddler son recover from a stroke.  Learn to roll over again.  Learn to sit again.  Learn to walk again.  Learn to run. 

It is the special need of another son.  Helping him to hear.  To speak.  To listen.  It is watching him soar. 

It is miscarriages. 

It is losing Coco. 

It is our first home.  And leaving our first home. 

It is finding our forever home.  And trying to rid that forever home of it’s ant infestation.  

It is families.  And it is saying goodbye to some of those that we hold the most dear.

It is friends.  BBQs.  Fireworks.  Happy hours. 

Vacations at the beach.  Camping.  The cabin. 

Collecting acorns. 

Spiders in our ears. 

Carving pumpkins. 

Jumping in piles of leaves.  And being stung by bees for hours afterward.

Turkeys.  Cutting down our Christmas trees.  And decorating them.

And Christmas Eve masses. 

And paper valentines. 

And Easter egg hunts. 

And Easter Sunday bonnets and gingham bow ties.  

It is spring walks to the river.  

It is first steps.  First words.  Lost teeth.

And oh the tantrums.  And the kisses.  The hugs.  Tears.  Laughter.

The soccer games.  Baseball games.  Football games.  Basketball games.

The flu. 

It is coming to compromises.  You get your hoop in the driveway…I get my dog.

It is sipping wine on the stoop and together, watching the neighborhood nod off. 

It is all the dreams I have of a future with him. 

We are different now, thirteen years later.  Our life is different.  It is not exciting…it is not flashy and new.  It is worn, and comfortable and it fits.  It is soft.  Mostly, this life brings the greatest joys I have ever known. 

That is thirteen years.

What I want.

I can’t quite tell for sure

what is wrong.

But you are not you.

You collapse on the couch.

An unhappy lump.

I stroke your hair and your little boy back.

You shiver in your sleep

and now I know

why you have been so…

prickly.

What I want is to hold you.

But your baby sister wants Mama.

Your baby sister wants chapstick.

Your baby sister wants markers

paper

milk

snack

anything.  She wants anything other than

to let me sit

and be with you.

And your big brother needs help with his spelling.

And supper…I have to make supper.

Laundry.

Dishwasher.

Smears and spills and sticky stuff.

And all I want is to sit down

and pull you onto my lap

and kiss your forehead

and wrap my arms around you

until you feel better.

What I want is to hold you

but I can only manage a glance your way as you wake.

You are the most beautiful thing

and the most pathetic

and even now you want to help me.

Help me empty the dishwasher.

Help me set the table.

Help me get Ella in her seat.

Henry.

You make me want to be so much better.

Tonight I watched you 

feverish…sleeping…

and sadness filled me for what I couldn’t give you today.

I fail daily

to be the mother you deserve.

That all of you deserve.

I don’t know how to do this better.

But tomorrow I will try

Again.

Winner!

Here’s a funny thing.  The contest ended on Thursday at 6:32pm.  Wednesday night I figured out my winner and had this post all ready to go and nearly hit publish.  Then, I realized the contest was a good 20 hours from being over.  So I had to do the random number thingy all over again.  I clearly have it all together over here.   Anyway, here it is, correctly this time:

Random Integer Generator

Here are your random numbers:

7

Timestamp: 2009-10-08 00:20:19

That would be you, Heather of the EO!  Woohoo!  Email me and I’ll put you in touch with Rebecca to claim your prize! 

To the rest of you, thank you for entering! 

And Mom, seriously, I was hoping you’d win.  (Not that I’m not happy for you, Heather of the EO).  But Mom, wouldn’t that help make up for the fact that I am over one month late with your birthday present?  I have it.  I love it.  But of course that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have it.  And I’m late.

Cute

Kate is a cheerleader.  Can I just say it?  I.Love.Cheerleading.  The entire thing is just.stinkin.cute.  Seriously.

Cute little poms…

 

Cute little shoes…

 

Cute little crates with cute little cusions for their cute little buns to rest upon…

 

Cute little smiles…

Just.

Plain.

Cute.