Confession Time

The other day after our babysitter came over, I was quickly getting Joshua ready for bed. As usual, I could not find the matching sleep shirt to his pajamas pants, so I decided to leave him in his t-shirt that he had already worn all day. It was a rather hideous color and pattern combination. "When my other kids were little, this would have bothered me," I said to the sitter. "I used to be organized," I went on, and I saw the skepticism in her eyes.

If you only have known me post-third child, you would assume that I have always been "relaxed on details," which is a nice way of saying, "a disaster." It is hard now to imagine a time when I had the luxury to worry about intricate things. I think at this stage, with a 9, 5 and 2 year old, I simply get through the day. To look at the big picture or sweat the small stuff is overwhelming.

I cringe now to think that I used to judge mothers who came to the park with sippy lids that did not match the cups, or kids with hair uncombed. I am now that mom. Things rarely match, at least one child always has something unkempt-looking going on, I frequently forget drinks, snacks or wipes in our bag, and we have made more than enough scenes with public tantrums. (My secret to surviving those is to not make eye contact with anyone and get to the car fast!)

So while we are at it, here are a few other confessions. My kids watch more TV and play more Wii than they should. My 2 year old has seen shows and movies that I never would have let my other children watch at this age. We frequently eat oatmeal for dinner because I am too tired to cook. I never feel guilty when I go out and leave the kids with a sitter (a euphoria I used to think was impossible to achieve). I sometimes make up elaborate excuses for why we cannot paint (or do moon sand, or some other messy endeavor), simply because I do not feel like getting into it. I have been late to school pick up on more than one occasion, and I never bring homemade treats to the bake sales.

So there you have it. I would say overall I am still the mother I want to be, but I push the limits of what I previously would have considered acceptable. In most ways, this letting go of perfection is a positive force. I think I will continue to go with it. I am sure someday I will return to my more organized way of thinking, but I don't look forward to it as much as I thought I would. There's something quite lovely about the chaos of sweet, sticky-faced boys that surrounds me. It fills my heart the way having things "just so" never quite could.

Hardest Questions

A few days ago I took my middle child, Zachary, to see our developmental pediatrician regarding some concerns I had. While she did note that Zach is very impulsive, she basically told me that when he acts up or gets emotional it is the product of having two special needs siblings and nothing more. This made me want to cry for two reasons. One, he is stuck in a tough situation. And two, someone saying out loud that I have special needs kids, despite the fact that it is stating the obvious, always feels like a strange dose of reality.

On the drive home from the appointment, I decided to talk to Zach about his brothers. Zach, while typically developing, does have a milk allergy as his "issue," so I angled it that way at first, talking about how everyone is made differently and everyone has different things about their bodies or minds... things that they struggle with.

Regarding Ben, who has high functioning autism, we talked about how the way he looks at the world is different than the way the majority of other people view things. I told Zach that Ben cannot help it, but also that it would not change. To put it to a child's terms, I said, "You know how Ben is obsessed with his Star Wars figures and he lines them up and gets mad if anyone touches them? Well, when you and Ben are big grown ups, and you go visit him at his house, he will probably still have his things set up a certain way, and he still won't want you to touch anything." I looked at Zach via the rear-view mirror to see if he understood. He was nodding his head, but I know it is a tough concept to swallow; one that even my husband and I are still coming to terms with. Ben is brilliant and wonderful, but there are things about him that are classically autistic and those things will not change. Zach will eventually move on to easily make friends, go to the prom, drive a car and play on sports teams. Those things may not be important to Ben, or may be impossible. In time, I know Zach will have more questions, and I will be here to answer them.

Next we talked about Joshua. Joshua has a movement disorder and developmental delays that are presumed to be cerebral palsy. The jury is still out on whether there could be more to the picture. He tends to look autistic-like at times, though seems more social than Ben. Zachary wanted to know if Joshua's brain worked the same as Ben's, and I had to say that I was not sure yet. I told him what I do know, which is that Joshua loves to play with "ZaZa," (babytalk for Zachary), and that he is happy. I told Zachary that even though Joshua has to work so hard to learn things, that there is no reason to feel bad about that. When I turned around at a light to look at him and saw tears in his eyes, I knew I had struck a nerve. My heart broke a little bit. My active and sometimes frustrating but also sweet and loving 5 year old feels sympathy and maybe a little guilt over a baby brother who struggles to walk, hates eating and has to spend most his mornings at either pediatric therapies or medical appointments. Like with our Ben talk, I know there will be more things to discuss regarding Josh in the future.

These are the moments of parenting that you can't write a guide book for. Even if someone tried to tell me what to do, I would still feel like I was running in a crowded street with my eyes closed. But somehow, I got through it, and I know I will again and again. Zachary's big hug at bedtime that night assured me that I must be doing something at least half-way right. I guess that is all I can hope for.

Almost Typical... But Then Again Not Really

All three of my children have special needs of some sort. As a parent of children whose needs are mild, I cannot say I relate to the admirable strength it must take to raise severely disabled or ill children. However, I still feel closer to this situation than to that of a parent with typical kids.

Benjamin's autism is high functioning, and so slight to an untrained eye, that it gets missed often. I guess we are fortunate for that. But I know what it means to suffer for years knowing something is not right with your child. I know how it feels when doctors repeatedly dismiss your concerns, until one day you find one who agrees with you. Strangely, in that moment, you suddenly wish he would go back to disagreeing with you. But no, autism it is, and your life is forever changed. I know what it feels like when the diagnosis settles in, when you accept it, and when it feels like coming home to what you knew all along. I have had to work hard to make others understand Ben and see what he needs. I feel helpless when he has tantrums over inexplicable things. My concerns range from the short range (“Will he learn to ride his bike?”) to the long term (“Will he drive a car? Go to college? Get married?”) I feel proud when he learns something new, and when I can see something through his eyes. I hope that he can show people that autism is sometimes different than what they thought, that it is big and consuming, and a little scary, but most of all it is strangely beautiful.

Zachary is a typically developing child, but he has a milk allergy. This diagnosis did not come easily, either. As an infant he had constant gastro-intestinal issues and did not sleep well. Two blood tests and a skin test showed nothing wrong, but again, I knew something was. An endoscopy finally gave us the proper information. And so, I know what it feels like to have to panic over every birthday party or special event at school. I know how to advocate for my child. I feel proud of him when he asks about food and what is in it, or when he simply knows he cannot have it. Amazingly, we hear few complaints from him about missing out on things, but I know it must be rough at times. I fear it will only get harder as he gets older and wants to just fit in with his peers. Unlike most kids, he has been deemed unlikely to outgrow his dairy allergy. I sympathize with him not being able to partake in all the pizza parties that will come about more and more through sports, sleepovers or late nights studying in college.

Joshua was different right from the start, with a severe torticollis (wry-neck) that required physical therapy from a very young age. So we never experienced typicalness with him, and that was a challenge. I know what it feels like when your child is not doing the skills you know he or she should be, when milestones keep getting missed, and when you try and smile but know in your heart that surely something must be wrong. I know how it feels when, at the 18 month well check, you finally hear the words “cerebral palsy,” and think- wait, this cannot possibly apply to my child. But it does. I have had days of feeling sorry for myself because the other moms get to go to the gym or Starbucks while I attend pediatric therapy after therapy or to go medical appointments. We sometimes get stared at because Joshua is screaming or gagging on food or falling over in a way not typical for his age. And yes, the stares hurt. Through that, I know what it feels like to lie awake at night wondering if your child will ever eat properly, run, or jump.

Thankfully, I also know the absolute joy that one smile can bring, and that everything seems to come together in that moment. I know that I am lucky, and that our situation is so manageable. I know each day is new, and that I can handle whatever gets thrown my way. I am happy to belong to the “club” of special needs parents because through that I have a lot more sympathy for other people's struggles. I see a little of myself in their highs and lows. I am more patient with the world in general, in fact. I never expected autism, food allergy and cerebral palsy to be words that would be uttered daily in my home or swirling in my mind at all hours, but as many other parents with similar lives will tell you, I wouldn't change a thing.

Taking a Moment to Reflect

When my now nine year old graduated from preschool I told myself I would remember everything about that last bittersweet day. But of course, as with many milestones, I don't. And so today, on this last day of my five year old's preschool, I vowed to document what happened and how I feel.

This morning I took Zachary to preschool as I have countless times before. I tried not to think about the finality of it. I dropped him off at the door hoping for a nice hug, but he wanted to go running right into the classroom, one sign of many that he will be ready for kindergarten come fall.

As I walked to the car I thought about the busy, fun, sometimes frustrating days that can make up life with small children. The thing is, the days sometimes linger, but the years go faster than I ever thought possible. If you asked me now, I would tell you that Zachary surely only started his preschool journey a few days ago, and yet it has been two years. It went by in a blur but it was, of course, sprinkled with things that matter. There was the first day of letting go, and of realizing we would both survive. There were Christmas programs that made me cry, a lovely Mother's Day Tea, enough art projects to cover 45 refrigerators and a country fair to which Zachary sported an adorable cowboy hat.

Towards the end of the morning I went back to campus early to join Zachary at his school's ice cream social. I looked at him sitting with all his friends and felt so proud. True, he is wild and determined and sometimes can test my patience, but he also is caring, kind and unselfish in many ways. He is not my first to complete preschool, nor will he be my last, but for that I want to make a big production of this day even more. He has accepted with flying colors his spot in the family, sandwiched in-between two special needs brothers. And so, this is his day to shine.

We walked back to the classroom when the treat-eating was done, and too soon the teachers were saying goodbye and sending the children back to us and out into the world. I saw tears in Zachary's eyes as he hugged his teachers, and I paused in the doorway so that I could say farewell to them too. I made it short and sweet; wanting to express more about how wonderful they have been but also not wanting to turn into a sobbing disaster.

Zachary received some bubbles, and so instead of walking straight to the car, I suggested that we stop and use them. He and his little brother took turns blowing them, popping them, and giggling. I thought about how these simple joys were fleeting. I will miss the days when no one at my house delights so easily in non-complicated forms of entertainment.

Finally we ventured to the car and headed for a celebratory lunch. I got a strange feeling as we drove away, knowing Zachary would never again be a student at the preschool, but mostly what I felt was luck at knowing if this experience had helped him grow so much, then surely there are exciting things to come as well. I am ready for the next chapter, which will undoubtably go even faster than the ones preceding. I have tried before to tell time to slow down, but it never listens. All I can hope to do is savor these little moments that build ever so quickly into years of my life.