A few months ago, I asked to have Sweetpea tested for the district's "Highly Capable" program. The more I read about our district's approach to gifted education, the more I could see her thriving in one of their classrooms.
So we did what we could. We filled out the paperwork. We made sure she got enough sleep and ate a good breakfast on test days. We waited for the letter announcing the district's decision. We may or may not have met the mailman (purely by chance) while walking the dog, spelled our last name for him, and offered to 'take a quick peek' through his bag ourselves just to be sure he hadn't missed anything. We may or may not have been asked to stay more than 50 yards away from the mailman in the future.
Yesterday, the scores finally arrived.
My investment in the results was, like most things, complicated. I thought the program would be a good fit for Sweetpea on several levels: the emphasis on allowing kids to direct their own learning, teachers accustomed to dealing with intense and quirky kids, the chance for Sweetpea to interact with more of her peers.
I know part of me also thought that all of Sweetpea's other challenges would be so much easier to take, if only some outside authority would quantify and -- yes -- label her exceptional strengths, in addition to her challenges.
My ego simply wanted my daughter to follow in my footsteps. Being "smart" was always such a big part of who I believed I was. Even now, knowing that my identification with being "smart" was often at the expense of other, equally important traits, the less enlightened part of me still wants that for Sweetpea, too.
If her scores had topped the charts, that part would have felt validated. My kid is brilliant -- see? I am OK. If they had just missed the mark, I have to admit I would have felt disappointed.
As it turns out (I know, the suspense is killing you, right?), some of her scores were as I'd expected, well above average. Others were not. A fire alarm sounded at some point during the testing, and the person who administered the test noted Sweetpea had been "distracted and anxious" throughout the process. Because of the SPD-related challenges, and because the scores correlated neither with one another nor with her classroom performance, the district decided to test her again in a completely different environment.
Regardless, I was surprised to find that in looking at the scores I felt ... nothing. I didn't despair over the lower numbers. I wasn't even tempted to chest-bump the mailman over the high ones. They were just numbers. My experience of my daughter is so much more vast and complicated than any numbers can show.
Next time around, under more suitable testing conditions, the numbers might provide more insight into my daughter's current mastery of second-grade concepts. They might predict with more accuracy her ability to succeed in one of the district's gifted classrooms. Regardless, these numbers don't get the final say about my daughter. They're just one more piece of her incredibly complex picture.
High or low, I won't let them define her. Or me.
Showing posts with label SPD. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SPD. Show all posts
Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Being the "best"
As I was driving her to piano this week, Sweetpea suddenly cocked her head to the side and examined me with uncharacteristic scrutiny.
"Mommy, you're weird," she said. As if the thought had just occurred to her.
Within the last 10 minutes, she had also asked me to please stop pointing out the person dressed as the Statue of Liberty (before today, one of her favorite obsessions) and please stop singing along with Jason Mraz (yeah ... not gonna happen, kiddo).
In response, I made an appropriately parental, disapproving face in the rear-view mirror. OK, maybe I stuck my tongue out at her. Whatever. Stop judging -- you're missing the point.
The point is, my daughter called me "weird." And although I was working hard not to show it, I was secretly a little pleased.
Sweetpea is 8 years old, and most days she still tells me I'm her best friend. (You know, when she doesn't hate me and want to move in with the neighbors.) As much as I love it, I know our days as best friends are numbered. At least, I hope they are.
For years her teachers told me not to worry, that it was "normal" Sweetpea didn't have a best friend her own age. Even as I watched other kids pairing up, we all put faith in the fact that Sweetpea played easily with anyone and everyone. Sunny and irrepressible on a good day, she attracted plenty of friends, if not a "best friend."
But painful as it is to admit, peer relationships seem to be getting harder, not easier for her. Now in second grade, her invitations to play dates and birthday parties seem unusually few and far between.
Naturally, I blame myself. When I was working, it wasn't always possible to take the time to get to know other moms. Casual chit-chat outside the classroom or at holiday parties isn't my strong suit. But by now, even I have to admit it's probably not all my fault.
Truth is, Sweetpea doesn't always seem interested in friendships -- she's just as content to do her own thing, act out her own invented stories. I do arrange play dates, when she shows an interest, but reciprocal invitations don't always follow. Or they don't come more than once. I suspect that school-age peers are less willing than preschoolers to overlook behavior they don't understand, and every year it may get a little harder.
This year Sweetpea does seem more tuned in to social interactions. It's often a painful awareness, as she sees her friendships falling short. But a little pain might be necessary to motivate changes that will help her form more meaningful friendships.
Just like it's necessary for her to start thinking I'm a little "weird."
I'm hopeful this all means she's becoming a little less attached to my hip, and a little more identified with her peers. Believe me when I say I'm not kidding myself. I know this is just the first, tiny step in a long process, one that will often be miserable for one or both of us. But I'm willing to start letting her go.
So when we got to her piano teacher's house the other day, I said, "Do you still want me to walk you to the door? You know, since I'm so 'weird' and all?"
Sweetpea rolled her eyes. "Of course! You're not a lot weird, Mommy. You're just a little weird. You're weird like you're my best mom."
I know "best friend" is a role I can't play for much longer. But "best mom"? That one I can live with.
"Mommy, you're weird," she said. As if the thought had just occurred to her.
Within the last 10 minutes, she had also asked me to please stop pointing out the person dressed as the Statue of Liberty (before today, one of her favorite obsessions) and please stop singing along with Jason Mraz (yeah ... not gonna happen, kiddo).
In response, I made an appropriately parental, disapproving face in the rear-view mirror. OK, maybe I stuck my tongue out at her. Whatever. Stop judging -- you're missing the point.
The point is, my daughter called me "weird." And although I was working hard not to show it, I was secretly a little pleased.
Sweetpea is 8 years old, and most days she still tells me I'm her best friend. (You know, when she doesn't hate me and want to move in with the neighbors.) As much as I love it, I know our days as best friends are numbered. At least, I hope they are.
For years her teachers told me not to worry, that it was "normal" Sweetpea didn't have a best friend her own age. Even as I watched other kids pairing up, we all put faith in the fact that Sweetpea played easily with anyone and everyone. Sunny and irrepressible on a good day, she attracted plenty of friends, if not a "best friend."
But painful as it is to admit, peer relationships seem to be getting harder, not easier for her. Now in second grade, her invitations to play dates and birthday parties seem unusually few and far between.
Naturally, I blame myself. When I was working, it wasn't always possible to take the time to get to know other moms. Casual chit-chat outside the classroom or at holiday parties isn't my strong suit. But by now, even I have to admit it's probably not all my fault.
Truth is, Sweetpea doesn't always seem interested in friendships -- she's just as content to do her own thing, act out her own invented stories. I do arrange play dates, when she shows an interest, but reciprocal invitations don't always follow. Or they don't come more than once. I suspect that school-age peers are less willing than preschoolers to overlook behavior they don't understand, and every year it may get a little harder.
This year Sweetpea does seem more tuned in to social interactions. It's often a painful awareness, as she sees her friendships falling short. But a little pain might be necessary to motivate changes that will help her form more meaningful friendships.
Just like it's necessary for her to start thinking I'm a little "weird."
I'm hopeful this all means she's becoming a little less attached to my hip, and a little more identified with her peers. Believe me when I say I'm not kidding myself. I know this is just the first, tiny step in a long process, one that will often be miserable for one or both of us. But I'm willing to start letting her go.
So when we got to her piano teacher's house the other day, I said, "Do you still want me to walk you to the door? You know, since I'm so 'weird' and all?"
Sweetpea rolled her eyes. "Of course! You're not a lot weird, Mommy. You're just a little weird. You're weird like you're my best mom."
I know "best friend" is a role I can't play for much longer. But "best mom"? That one I can live with.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
"There's something wrong."
This week I watched the new NBC show, Parenthood. In addition to a great ensemble cast (featuring Lauren Graham, Monica Potter, and the guy from Six Feet Under) and some damn clever writing, the debut episode includes one storyline that particularly caught my attention: a couple in the early stages of realizing their son may have Asperger syndrome.
In the pivotal scene, the shell-shocked mother is trying to share the educational consultant's findings with her husband. The father, meanwhile, is literally talking over her to avoid hearing it, clinging to his last shred of hope that with one more small change ("He just needs a tutor!"), their son can still fit into a 'normal' school environment. It's one of those moments that goes on just a little too long and gets a little too painful.
Finally the mother, increasingly desperate to be heard, says: "It's not just the fear of fire, it's not just the biting, it's not just the tantrums ... it's everything. There's something wrong with our son."
* * *
It's not often that a TV show gets it so right. I sat there thinking, I've lived that moment. My daughter has sensory processing disorder, not Asperger's, but some of the characteristics can overlap: social 'quirkiness,' difficulties with emotional regulation, and of course, sensory defensiveness. Because these kids are often high-functioning in other areas, both syndromes can go undiagnosed until the early school years.
And I remember that moment vividly. That moment when you realize it's not just the tantrums and the maddeningly age-inappropriate biting. It's not just the obsession with tornadoes or fire drills. She's not "just hungry," or "just tired," or "just quirky," or even "just trying to control us." It's something else. Something more.
Don't get me wrong: this has nothing to do with the fact that, in the TV scene, mom was doing the talking and dad was doing the talking-over. Truth is, I did both. I spent weeks, arguably months, with two parts of my mind at odds: the part still hoping I could find the critical mistake I'd made, the right parenting book, the magic trick I was somehow missing that could make Sweetpea's behavior more 'normal.' And the part with the dawning realization that no matter what I did on my own, it wasn't going to be enough.
It's human nature not to want to see it, even when the evidence is piling up so high it can probably be seen from space. Once that veil is lifted, you can no longer harbor that image you've had, maybe since before her conception, of the 'perfect' child. You have to admit that your kid is -- and might always be -- different from other kids. Really different. That there's a name for it. A name that is long, and scary, and has the word "disorder" in it, and might mean other things you haven't even considered yet. It might mean that all the parenting manuals in the world aren't going to be enough to smooth the way for your kid or for your family. That you're going to need help -- something you're maybe not so great at asking for.
At the same time, it's a hopeful moment. Because in that realization, lies the start of healing.
You probably won't see it for weeks, or even months yet. But looking back, you'll realize that this was the moment when you started to stop blaming yourself and your child for things neither of you can control.
It's the moment you began to lay down your shield -- that one you'd been using to defend yourself from those aspects of your child you didn't want to see, and your fears about what they might mean for your child and about you. To protect yourself from those looks from other parents, the well-meaning questions, and the persistent and numbing sense of failure.
And, in setting aside the shield of self-defense, you freed up the hand you needed to start fighting for your child.
* * *
In the last scene of the episode, we see the boy's cousin singing in a church choir, with the whole extended family in attendance. We see the gruff, you-just-need-to-toughen-that-boy-up grandfather notice that the boy and his father are missing. He finds them outside, dad standing at a distance, watching his son splash in puddles.
"What's going on?" grandpa asks, with a touch of impatience. "Get back in there, Max."
"He can't go in, Dad," the boy's father replies, still watching his son.
And this is the part where I finally broke down. Because what the father says next, he says without apology, without defensiveness, without a trace of blame: "There are candles in the hallway, and he can't walk past them."
"Nonsense!" says grandpa.
And then the dad, again: "It's not that simple."
It's a sad moment, in many ways. It signals the father's resignation: "There's something wrong with my son."
But to me, it's also a beautiful moment. It's the moment the father crosses over. He drops his defenses, and he begins the difficult, heart-wrenching work of standing with, advocating for his child.
The episode ends here. As viewers, we are left with no illusions that everything is neatly wrapped up. We know it's not the end. There will be many more moments of grief, and loss, and doubt, and ... yes ... self-flagellation to come.
But, heart-wrenching as it is, we also know: Now the healing can begin.
In the pivotal scene, the shell-shocked mother is trying to share the educational consultant's findings with her husband. The father, meanwhile, is literally talking over her to avoid hearing it, clinging to his last shred of hope that with one more small change ("He just needs a tutor!"), their son can still fit into a 'normal' school environment. It's one of those moments that goes on just a little too long and gets a little too painful.
Finally the mother, increasingly desperate to be heard, says: "It's not just the fear of fire, it's not just the biting, it's not just the tantrums ... it's everything. There's something wrong with our son."
* * *
It's not often that a TV show gets it so right. I sat there thinking, I've lived that moment. My daughter has sensory processing disorder, not Asperger's, but some of the characteristics can overlap: social 'quirkiness,' difficulties with emotional regulation, and of course, sensory defensiveness. Because these kids are often high-functioning in other areas, both syndromes can go undiagnosed until the early school years.
And I remember that moment vividly. That moment when you realize it's not just the tantrums and the maddeningly age-inappropriate biting. It's not just the obsession with tornadoes or fire drills. She's not "just hungry," or "just tired," or "just quirky," or even "just trying to control us." It's something else. Something more.
Don't get me wrong: this has nothing to do with the fact that, in the TV scene, mom was doing the talking and dad was doing the talking-over. Truth is, I did both. I spent weeks, arguably months, with two parts of my mind at odds: the part still hoping I could find the critical mistake I'd made, the right parenting book, the magic trick I was somehow missing that could make Sweetpea's behavior more 'normal.' And the part with the dawning realization that no matter what I did on my own, it wasn't going to be enough.
It's human nature not to want to see it, even when the evidence is piling up so high it can probably be seen from space. Once that veil is lifted, you can no longer harbor that image you've had, maybe since before her conception, of the 'perfect' child. You have to admit that your kid is -- and might always be -- different from other kids. Really different. That there's a name for it. A name that is long, and scary, and has the word "disorder" in it, and might mean other things you haven't even considered yet. It might mean that all the parenting manuals in the world aren't going to be enough to smooth the way for your kid or for your family. That you're going to need help -- something you're maybe not so great at asking for.
At the same time, it's a hopeful moment. Because in that realization, lies the start of healing.
You probably won't see it for weeks, or even months yet. But looking back, you'll realize that this was the moment when you started to stop blaming yourself and your child for things neither of you can control.
It's the moment you began to lay down your shield -- that one you'd been using to defend yourself from those aspects of your child you didn't want to see, and your fears about what they might mean for your child and about you. To protect yourself from those looks from other parents, the well-meaning questions, and the persistent and numbing sense of failure.
And, in setting aside the shield of self-defense, you freed up the hand you needed to start fighting for your child.
* * *
In the last scene of the episode, we see the boy's cousin singing in a church choir, with the whole extended family in attendance. We see the gruff, you-just-need-to-toughen-that-boy-up grandfather notice that the boy and his father are missing. He finds them outside, dad standing at a distance, watching his son splash in puddles.
"What's going on?" grandpa asks, with a touch of impatience. "Get back in there, Max."
"He can't go in, Dad," the boy's father replies, still watching his son.
And this is the part where I finally broke down. Because what the father says next, he says without apology, without defensiveness, without a trace of blame: "There are candles in the hallway, and he can't walk past them."
"Nonsense!" says grandpa.
And then the dad, again: "It's not that simple."
It's a sad moment, in many ways. It signals the father's resignation: "There's something wrong with my son."
But to me, it's also a beautiful moment. It's the moment the father crosses over. He drops his defenses, and he begins the difficult, heart-wrenching work of standing with, advocating for his child.
The episode ends here. As viewers, we are left with no illusions that everything is neatly wrapped up. We know it's not the end. There will be many more moments of grief, and loss, and doubt, and ... yes ... self-flagellation to come.
But, heart-wrenching as it is, we also know: Now the healing can begin.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
You've come a long way, Sweetpea
Sweetpea had two teeth pulled today!
Lest you fail to cheer with sufficient enthusiasm, may I remind you that, less than two years ago, my wisp of a daughter singlehandedly held off a dentist and several of his assistants on three separate occasions, injuring at least one, for trying to take an x-ray. Because it beeped.
This morning she let a dentist (a different dentist, mind you -- our parting with the last one was, frankly, mutual and had nothing to do with that restraining order he filed) put a mask on her, numb her up, and yank two unsuspecting canines right out of her face!
I could hardly sleep last night, what with all the PTSD (post-tantrum stress disorder) flashbacks. They had prescribed us a little something to take the edge off the nerves this morning -- but frankly, it tasted funny and didn't make me feel much better at all. Maybe I needed a bigger dose. All the way to the appointment, I drove with one eye trained on my rear-view mirror, watching for signs of the storm that was surely coming.
And yet ... when her name was called, Sweetpea merely ducked her head a little, cast a doubtful glance my way, and slouched over to the dental assistant like any normal 8-year-old.
Fifteen minutes later the dentist called for me, and I thought: Ah. Here it comes. I was prepared for the sound of Sweetpea's screaming. I was prepared to apologize for any bodily harm she had inflicted. But I was not prepared for this:
Disapprovingly: "She gave us a little trouble, mom."
"She ... gave you? You mean they're out?"
"Oh yes, they're out, everything's fine. But at first she said she wasn't going to do it."
And again, more slowly, because I was obviously not fully appreciating the gravity of her words: "She said she wasn't going to. She was a bit obstinate about it."
Much to my credit, I refrained from laughing in her face.
When I brought Sweetpea in a week ago to have the teeth assessed, she told the dentist she was not going to have any teeth pulled that day. The dentist replied, "I agree. Let's not do this today."
(What she meant: "Let's do it another day." What Sweetpea heard: "I win!")
So this morning, when Sweetpea once again did not feel like having any teeth pulled, she simply repeated what worked last time, fully expecting the same result. In my house, we don't call that "obstinate." We call it "logical."
When the dentist replied firmly that no, actually she was going to pull the teeth today, Sweetpea complied without much further ado.
In my house, when a child -- our child -- capitulates after only one rebuttal, we don't call it "giving us a little trouble." We call that "progress."
Lest you fail to cheer with sufficient enthusiasm, may I remind you that, less than two years ago, my wisp of a daughter singlehandedly held off a dentist and several of his assistants on three separate occasions, injuring at least one, for trying to take an x-ray. Because it beeped.
This morning she let a dentist (a different dentist, mind you -- our parting with the last one was, frankly, mutual and had nothing to do with that restraining order he filed) put a mask on her, numb her up, and yank two unsuspecting canines right out of her face!
I could hardly sleep last night, what with all the PTSD (post-tantrum stress disorder) flashbacks. They had prescribed us a little something to take the edge off the nerves this morning -- but frankly, it tasted funny and didn't make me feel much better at all. Maybe I needed a bigger dose. All the way to the appointment, I drove with one eye trained on my rear-view mirror, watching for signs of the storm that was surely coming.
And yet ... when her name was called, Sweetpea merely ducked her head a little, cast a doubtful glance my way, and slouched over to the dental assistant like any normal 8-year-old.
Fifteen minutes later the dentist called for me, and I thought: Ah. Here it comes. I was prepared for the sound of Sweetpea's screaming. I was prepared to apologize for any bodily harm she had inflicted. But I was not prepared for this:
Disapprovingly: "She gave us a little trouble, mom."
"She ... gave you? You mean they're out?"
"Oh yes, they're out, everything's fine. But at first she said she wasn't going to do it."
And again, more slowly, because I was obviously not fully appreciating the gravity of her words: "She said she wasn't going to. She was a bit obstinate about it."
Much to my credit, I refrained from laughing in her face.
When I brought Sweetpea in a week ago to have the teeth assessed, she told the dentist she was not going to have any teeth pulled that day. The dentist replied, "I agree. Let's not do this today."
(What she meant: "Let's do it another day." What Sweetpea heard: "I win!")
So this morning, when Sweetpea once again did not feel like having any teeth pulled, she simply repeated what worked last time, fully expecting the same result. In my house, we don't call that "obstinate." We call it "logical."
When the dentist replied firmly that no, actually she was going to pull the teeth today, Sweetpea complied without much further ado.
In my house, when a child -- our child -- capitulates after only one rebuttal, we don't call it "giving us a little trouble." We call that "progress."
Friday, February 12, 2010
Nobody told me there'd be days like this
Yesterday was a good day. Sweetpea (the child formerly known as A___) was home from school for midwinter break, and we got to spend a good chunk of the day together, just the two of us.
I found myself wondering what, if anything, to write about our day. We didn't do anything particularly special -- just some errands, a little reading, a few games. I had no wry observations. There were no major meltdowns. Nothing happened that I needed to laugh-so-I-won't-cry about. Sure, we had our moments of tension, but they were far outnumbered by good moments. Nice, quiet, pleasant moments.
Eight short years ago, I might've thought "nice, quiet, pleasant" sounded a lot like "mind-numbingly dull." These days, in this family, quiet moments seem anything but boring. They are like an unexpected patch of sunshine in the middle of a Northwest winter. If you find one, you don't take it for granted or hope it passes quickly. You bask in it. You wonder how it came about, and if maybe, just maybe, you might find one again someday.
Yesterday, for once, I wasn't overwhelmed. I wasn't trying to do too much or allowing myself to be pulled in seventeen different directions. The dog was at the vet. Dinner was simple. Writing could wait. I said "no" when I needed to, but I said "yes" when I could. I enjoyed the kids for who and where they are, and I stayed present.
The chaos will be back soon enough -- I can see the clouds creeping in already. But yesterday? Yesterday was a good day.
I found myself wondering what, if anything, to write about our day. We didn't do anything particularly special -- just some errands, a little reading, a few games. I had no wry observations. There were no major meltdowns. Nothing happened that I needed to laugh-so-I-won't-cry about. Sure, we had our moments of tension, but they were far outnumbered by good moments. Nice, quiet, pleasant moments.
Eight short years ago, I might've thought "nice, quiet, pleasant" sounded a lot like "mind-numbingly dull." These days, in this family, quiet moments seem anything but boring. They are like an unexpected patch of sunshine in the middle of a Northwest winter. If you find one, you don't take it for granted or hope it passes quickly. You bask in it. You wonder how it came about, and if maybe, just maybe, you might find one again someday.
Yesterday, for once, I wasn't overwhelmed. I wasn't trying to do too much or allowing myself to be pulled in seventeen different directions. The dog was at the vet. Dinner was simple. Writing could wait. I said "no" when I needed to, but I said "yes" when I could. I enjoyed the kids for who and where they are, and I stayed present.
The chaos will be back soon enough -- I can see the clouds creeping in already. But yesterday? Yesterday was a good day.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Wherein my daughter meets a CHEERLEADER!
I do not like parenting advice, and generally I do not give it. But for those of you with children not yet of school age, I offer one tip that could spare you a lot of pain and suffering: Keep your kids home on days when there are school assemblies.
I know what you're thinking: But assemblies are fun and educational! Sadly, you are wrong. As far as I can tell, "school assembly" is now synonymous with "diabolical attempt to convince children raising money for the school district is fun."
Listen, people. I have nothing against public school systems. I have nothing against schools raising money. I vote YES on levies. I swear. Some of my best friends are levies.
However, I do object to my kid coming home looking like a brainwashed Stepford child and extolling the virtues of selling cookie dough door-to-door because someone (but most definitely not my child) somewhere (probably not even in our district) is going to win an iPod. And although she didn't know what an iPod was when she left for school this morning, there was an ASSEMBLY, with music and dancing puppets and (I suspect) crack gumballs being passed around, and now she's pretty sure her life is incomplete without one. And selling PTA cookie dough is the only way to remedy the situation.
Or, equally horrifying and more relevant to the title of this post, she comes home begging to go to Saturday morning cheer camp. Because you don't know this, Mommy, but there are CHEERLEADERS! at cheer camp. In their UNIFORMS! And if you go to cheer camp, you get to eat LUNCH with one.
Did you hear that, Mommy? Did you get that the first 50 times I said it? Because I will happily tell you again. YOU. GET. TO. EAT. LUNCH. WITH. A. CHEERLEADER.
(Cheerleaders being, as it turns out, just like princesses except they are louder and -- although I cannot confirm this -- their pockets might be filled with crack gumballs.)
So when A___ came home last week with a creepy Stepford-ish smile and a permission slip for cheer camp, I turned to my trusty library of parenting manuals, looking for the one with a chapter titled, "What to Do When Your Daughter Is Convinced Something Will Be Fun Even Though it Will Almost Certainly End in Cataclysm the Likes of Which the High School Cheer Squad Has Never Seen." Only -- this is so weird -- I can't find any chapters that cover this. I must have the wrong books.
To be fair, cheer camp is probably an innocent enough way for most kids to spend a Saturday morning. But my kid has SPD, of the auditory defensiveness variety. Loud music and shouting? They don't really work for her. Other things that don't work for her and often end in humiliating public meltdowns: dance classes, crowds, and new situations.
Sounds perfect, right? So I did what any good mother would do: I tried to manipulate her into deciding not to go, to spare both of us the embarrassment of another failed attempt at normality, while pretending not to care one way or the other.
OK, in truth it was a little more complicated than that. I described what it was going to be like and explored with her how she might handle it. I emailed the cheer coach to explain our situation, and we made sure there would be a quiet place for A___ to go if she needed a break. I let her know it was OK with us whether she decided to go or not. And it (mostly) was.
The one thing I did not do, was offer to stay and walk through it with her. My thinking was, if she wanted to do this, she needed to be able to handle it on her own. She can't always rely on me to be there holding her hand. (Plus, although I would not have admitted it at the time ... the tears and drama that ensue every time we're in one of these situations can be damned embarrassing.)
By Friday night she had decided not to go. I felt for her, I really did. She wanted to be a part of this, even though she knew it would be an unbelievable strain on her. Where does an 8-year-old find the strength to say no to what everyone else is doing, for the sake of her own well-being? When most people still can't do that at 13? Or 19? Or ... (ahem) ... 38? I went to bed thinking that, hard as it was, the right decision had been made. I was proud of her.
Naturally, I awoke a little after 8:00 this morning to my husband telling me that A___ had changed her mind and was going.
And here's the humbling part. Because I wasn't up and ready, my husband ended up taking her. My husband who (unlike me) did not feel the need to give our daughter an ultimatum (do it 100% like the other kids, or not at all). He agreed to stay with her for the entire three hours, and he let her do cheer camp her own way.
No, she wasn't out on the floor with the other girls most of the time. She quickly realized (as suspected) that it wasn't for her. Instead, she stayed in the bleachers, with her dad, where I guess the noise level was more tolerable (or at least she wasn't going to get bumped around by the other kids -- which, added to an already-stressed nervous system, spells certain disaster).
But she did get to observe all of the fun from a safe distance, learn the routines, and yes, eat lunch in the vicinity of a CHEERLEADER! On Monday, she will be among the girls who get to wear their camp T-shirts and giggle and shake their booties on the playground. In other words, it seems to have worked out just fine.
Tonight I watched my little girl perform the routines she learned today: shouting and shaking and hip-waggling for all she was worth. There was a big smile on her face and -- am I imagining it? -- just a hint more self-confidence in the tilt of her head and hips than I remember seeing there yesterday.
Assembly or no assembly, crack gumballs or no crack gumballs ... I think this one goes in the "win" column.
I know what you're thinking: But assemblies are fun and educational! Sadly, you are wrong. As far as I can tell, "school assembly" is now synonymous with "diabolical attempt to convince children raising money for the school district is fun."
Listen, people. I have nothing against public school systems. I have nothing against schools raising money. I vote YES on levies. I swear. Some of my best friends are levies.
However, I do object to my kid coming home looking like a brainwashed Stepford child and extolling the virtues of selling cookie dough door-to-door because someone (but most definitely not my child) somewhere (probably not even in our district) is going to win an iPod. And although she didn't know what an iPod was when she left for school this morning, there was an ASSEMBLY, with music and dancing puppets and (I suspect) crack gumballs being passed around, and now she's pretty sure her life is incomplete without one. And selling PTA cookie dough is the only way to remedy the situation.
Or, equally horrifying and more relevant to the title of this post, she comes home begging to go to Saturday morning cheer camp. Because you don't know this, Mommy, but there are CHEERLEADERS! at cheer camp. In their UNIFORMS! And if you go to cheer camp, you get to eat LUNCH with one.
Did you hear that, Mommy? Did you get that the first 50 times I said it? Because I will happily tell you again. YOU. GET. TO. EAT. LUNCH. WITH. A. CHEERLEADER.
(Cheerleaders being, as it turns out, just like princesses except they are louder and -- although I cannot confirm this -- their pockets might be filled with crack gumballs.)
So when A___ came home last week with a creepy Stepford-ish smile and a permission slip for cheer camp, I turned to my trusty library of parenting manuals, looking for the one with a chapter titled, "What to Do When Your Daughter Is Convinced Something Will Be Fun Even Though it Will Almost Certainly End in Cataclysm the Likes of Which the High School Cheer Squad Has Never Seen." Only -- this is so weird -- I can't find any chapters that cover this. I must have the wrong books.
To be fair, cheer camp is probably an innocent enough way for most kids to spend a Saturday morning. But my kid has SPD, of the auditory defensiveness variety. Loud music and shouting? They don't really work for her. Other things that don't work for her and often end in humiliating public meltdowns: dance classes, crowds, and new situations.
Sounds perfect, right? So I did what any good mother would do: I tried to manipulate her into deciding not to go, to spare both of us the embarrassment of another failed attempt at normality, while pretending not to care one way or the other.
OK, in truth it was a little more complicated than that. I described what it was going to be like and explored with her how she might handle it. I emailed the cheer coach to explain our situation, and we made sure there would be a quiet place for A___ to go if she needed a break. I let her know it was OK with us whether she decided to go or not. And it (mostly) was.
The one thing I did not do, was offer to stay and walk through it with her. My thinking was, if she wanted to do this, she needed to be able to handle it on her own. She can't always rely on me to be there holding her hand. (Plus, although I would not have admitted it at the time ... the tears and drama that ensue every time we're in one of these situations can be damned embarrassing.)
By Friday night she had decided not to go. I felt for her, I really did. She wanted to be a part of this, even though she knew it would be an unbelievable strain on her. Where does an 8-year-old find the strength to say no to what everyone else is doing, for the sake of her own well-being? When most people still can't do that at 13? Or 19? Or ... (ahem) ... 38? I went to bed thinking that, hard as it was, the right decision had been made. I was proud of her.
Naturally, I awoke a little after 8:00 this morning to my husband telling me that A___ had changed her mind and was going.
And here's the humbling part. Because I wasn't up and ready, my husband ended up taking her. My husband who (unlike me) did not feel the need to give our daughter an ultimatum (do it 100% like the other kids, or not at all). He agreed to stay with her for the entire three hours, and he let her do cheer camp her own way.
No, she wasn't out on the floor with the other girls most of the time. She quickly realized (as suspected) that it wasn't for her. Instead, she stayed in the bleachers, with her dad, where I guess the noise level was more tolerable (or at least she wasn't going to get bumped around by the other kids -- which, added to an already-stressed nervous system, spells certain disaster).
But she did get to observe all of the fun from a safe distance, learn the routines, and yes, eat lunch in the vicinity of a CHEERLEADER! On Monday, she will be among the girls who get to wear their camp T-shirts and giggle and shake their booties on the playground. In other words, it seems to have worked out just fine.
Tonight I watched my little girl perform the routines she learned today: shouting and shaking and hip-waggling for all she was worth. There was a big smile on her face and -- am I imagining it? -- just a hint more self-confidence in the tilt of her head and hips than I remember seeing there yesterday.
Assembly or no assembly, crack gumballs or no crack gumballs ... I think this one goes in the "win" column.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
This would be more fun if somebody's nose lit up
I had every intention of sitting down this morning to write something thoughtful or amusing about ANYTHING other than my kids. Unfortunately, I'm having a hard time seeing the keyboard through all of this mommy guilt, so instead ...
This morning A___ dragged her feet getting out the door, causing us to arrive at her school a minute or two later than usual. There's a five-minute grace period between the first and second bells, so this would not be a big deal for most kids. But I'm not parenting "most kids."
For my daughter, arriving at school is akin to a delicate game of Operation. Those bells form the boundaries of her carefully timed sprint from the van to her classroom door. A second or two on either side leaves her caught outside when a bell rings, an admittedly grating sound that rockets her nervous system into red alert.
Since it was clear the first bell had already rung when we pulled up, she refused to get out of the van until after the second, necessitating yet another trip to the office for yet another tardy slip. Some days, even knowing the reasons behind them, her rules and inflexibility get to be too much. I decided on the fly that it was time to learn a little something about responsibility.
I announced, with something resembling authority, that she could wait in the van for the second bell if she chose (not particularly relishing the thought of dragging out a kicking, screaming 8-year-old) ... but she would then walk into the office for that tardy slip on her own, without me there to excuse her. This seemed to me a reasonable way for her to take some responsibility for the morning's dawdling.
She did not see things quite the same way. In fact, to a casual onlooker, I'm sure it looked like I had just ordered her to march across broken glass in her bare feet to meet a firing squad. Oh, there was drama. There were tears. And why? Because she knows just where to find my guilt button.
Every time something doesn't go exactly right with the kids, my first instinct is to search back through a long chain of my parenting missteps, beginning at their births, for a reason to believe their behavior is all my fault. I don't usually have to look very hard.
There were some prime opportunities to blame myself for this morning's meltdown. I could have used the word "choice" instead of "fault" to describe her role in our late arrival. I could have spelled out the whole scenario for her earlier, so she could have made a different choice or at least have been better prepared for the consequence. I could have driven a little faster to get through that yellow light, said a quicker goodbye to her brother, or simply curbed my frustration when things came to a head.
But you know what? In the end, I think I parent more effectively when my guilt and I are not standing like a human shield between my children and the cold, hard world of cause and effect, choices and consequences.
I am all in favor of the perfect parenting I read about in books (oh, so many books!). Books where parents always remember to prep their kids in advance and mete out consequences (on the rare occasions it comes to that) with logic, consistency, and minimal emotion. Yes! I think. Good for you, fictional parent! Look how well that works on your made-up-to-prove-a-point child!
But things don't usually go quite that smoothly here in the real world. Most of the time, no matter how calmly and effectively I set the stage, my kids learn their lessons from experiencing consequences (multiple times), not from being warned in advance.
So here I am ... playing my own version of Operation. Delicately maneuvering my tweezers between the booby-trapped edges of "too strict" and "too lenient." "Insensitive" and "overprotective." "Overly flexible" and "Damnit sometimes you just need to suck it up and adapt to the world."
Trying hard not to be distracted by the grating sound of the guilt buzzer.
This morning A___ dragged her feet getting out the door, causing us to arrive at her school a minute or two later than usual. There's a five-minute grace period between the first and second bells, so this would not be a big deal for most kids. But I'm not parenting "most kids."
For my daughter, arriving at school is akin to a delicate game of Operation. Those bells form the boundaries of her carefully timed sprint from the van to her classroom door. A second or two on either side leaves her caught outside when a bell rings, an admittedly grating sound that rockets her nervous system into red alert.
Since it was clear the first bell had already rung when we pulled up, she refused to get out of the van until after the second, necessitating yet another trip to the office for yet another tardy slip. Some days, even knowing the reasons behind them, her rules and inflexibility get to be too much. I decided on the fly that it was time to learn a little something about responsibility.
I announced, with something resembling authority, that she could wait in the van for the second bell if she chose (not particularly relishing the thought of dragging out a kicking, screaming 8-year-old) ... but she would then walk into the office for that tardy slip on her own, without me there to excuse her. This seemed to me a reasonable way for her to take some responsibility for the morning's dawdling.
She did not see things quite the same way. In fact, to a casual onlooker, I'm sure it looked like I had just ordered her to march across broken glass in her bare feet to meet a firing squad. Oh, there was drama. There were tears. And why? Because she knows just where to find my guilt button.
Every time something doesn't go exactly right with the kids, my first instinct is to search back through a long chain of my parenting missteps, beginning at their births, for a reason to believe their behavior is all my fault. I don't usually have to look very hard.
There were some prime opportunities to blame myself for this morning's meltdown. I could have used the word "choice" instead of "fault" to describe her role in our late arrival. I could have spelled out the whole scenario for her earlier, so she could have made a different choice or at least have been better prepared for the consequence. I could have driven a little faster to get through that yellow light, said a quicker goodbye to her brother, or simply curbed my frustration when things came to a head.
But you know what? In the end, I think I parent more effectively when my guilt and I are not standing like a human shield between my children and the cold, hard world of cause and effect, choices and consequences.
I am all in favor of the perfect parenting I read about in books (oh, so many books!). Books where parents always remember to prep their kids in advance and mete out consequences (on the rare occasions it comes to that) with logic, consistency, and minimal emotion. Yes! I think. Good for you, fictional parent! Look how well that works on your made-up-to-prove-a-point child!
But things don't usually go quite that smoothly here in the real world. Most of the time, no matter how calmly and effectively I set the stage, my kids learn their lessons from experiencing consequences (multiple times), not from being warned in advance.
So here I am ... playing my own version of Operation. Delicately maneuvering my tweezers between the booby-trapped edges of "too strict" and "too lenient." "Insensitive" and "overprotective." "Overly flexible" and "Damnit sometimes you just need to suck it up and adapt to the world."
Trying hard not to be distracted by the grating sound of the guilt buzzer.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Thanks for asking
What's it like raising a kid with Sensory Processing Disorder? It's ...
Wishing you had soundproof walls every time your kid needs her toenails clipped. Then deciding she can live with obscenely long toenails for one more day, because you don't have the energy to fight about it.
Putting aside every sentence that begins, "You are getting too old to ..."
Understanding that no amount of love OR logic is going to help when (a) your kid needs to pee so badly she is screaming in pain, (b) airplane bathrooms are noisy and smelly, (c) you're somewhere over Kansas on a coast-to-coast flight, and (d) FAA rules governing emergency landings are woefully lacking in this area.
It's seriously questioning your right to operate a blender in your own home. But having an air-tight excuse for why you don't vacuum as often as you should.
Asking yourself 100 times a day whether this is one of those times you should give in or hold your ground. And once you decide, accepting that your child can't focus on what you're saying anyway, because (a) she's already too far into a meltdown, (b) the fireplace just made a funny noise only dogs and your kid can hear, or (c) there's something in the toaster.
It's learning to be flexible before you can teach your kid how to be flexible. And learning to ask for what your kid needs before you've finished learning how to ask for what you need.
Realizing no amount of pleading or threats will make your kid cooperate/fake it/behave just this once because a meltdown at that moment would be inconvenient or embarrassing for you. And finally "getting" that you don't have the luxury of worrying what anyone around you thinks of your parenting.
It's understanding that you don't have to understand everything, but you will inevitably spend a lot of time explaining things you don't understand to others.
It's making your daughter apologize for punching the inflexible, self-important dentist who won't find a way to let her plug her ears while he takes an x-ray. Even though you want to punch him, too.
It's smiling politely when another well-meaning friend recommends yet another parenting book, because telling people "Strategies that work with 'normal' kids don't usually work with mine" just sounds like an excuse, even to you.
It's being dog-tired of making excuses.
What's it like? On a good day, it feels like teaching your kid to swim with one arm tied behind her back. On a bad day, it feels like watching your kid drown, with both of your arms tied behind your back.
In other words, it's a lot like raising any other kid. Only maybe a little more so.
Wishing you had soundproof walls every time your kid needs her toenails clipped. Then deciding she can live with obscenely long toenails for one more day, because you don't have the energy to fight about it.
Putting aside every sentence that begins, "You are getting too old to ..."
Understanding that no amount of love OR logic is going to help when (a) your kid needs to pee so badly she is screaming in pain, (b) airplane bathrooms are noisy and smelly, (c) you're somewhere over Kansas on a coast-to-coast flight, and (d) FAA rules governing emergency landings are woefully lacking in this area.
It's seriously questioning your right to operate a blender in your own home. But having an air-tight excuse for why you don't vacuum as often as you should.
Asking yourself 100 times a day whether this is one of those times you should give in or hold your ground. And once you decide, accepting that your child can't focus on what you're saying anyway, because (a) she's already too far into a meltdown, (b) the fireplace just made a funny noise only dogs and your kid can hear, or (c) there's something in the toaster.
It's learning to be flexible before you can teach your kid how to be flexible. And learning to ask for what your kid needs before you've finished learning how to ask for what you need.
Realizing no amount of pleading or threats will make your kid cooperate/fake it/behave just this once because a meltdown at that moment would be inconvenient or embarrassing for you. And finally "getting" that you don't have the luxury of worrying what anyone around you thinks of your parenting.
It's understanding that you don't have to understand everything, but you will inevitably spend a lot of time explaining things you don't understand to others.
It's making your daughter apologize for punching the inflexible, self-important dentist who won't find a way to let her plug her ears while he takes an x-ray. Even though you want to punch him, too.
It's smiling politely when another well-meaning friend recommends yet another parenting book, because telling people "Strategies that work with 'normal' kids don't usually work with mine" just sounds like an excuse, even to you.
It's being dog-tired of making excuses.
What's it like? On a good day, it feels like teaching your kid to swim with one arm tied behind her back. On a bad day, it feels like watching your kid drown, with both of your arms tied behind your back.
In other words, it's a lot like raising any other kid. Only maybe a little more so.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
