Following Elias

Who wouldn't want to spend time with her?

Oh My Multiplied By A Million

So I wanted to follow up my "Oh My" post about Olive's first day in daycare and let you know how much I liked the two staff that will be caring for the babies, that Nick and I both saw the male care provider as a giant teddy bear--when I said:  "Oh, Olive is so sweet when she's sleeping!"  he replied in his soft voice, "She's sweet when she's not sleeping too!"; I wanted to tell you how cool it was to watch the three babies interact with each other, how they tried to taste each other when they arrived, greeting their new friends with open mouths and outstretched arms; I wanted to tell you that I walked by the Friends church one evening, where Olive's daycare, Midnight Sun Montessori, leased the basement and thought, "I love the way everything works out eventually"...

And then I arrived yesterday afternoon to drop Olive off, the day before I returned to work full time, and found out they'll be closing at the end of September. Sorry, said the kind workers, we were waiting for the owners to tell you but we couldn't wait any longer.

So to say I'm royally pissed off is a bit of an understatement. But what do I do when I'm angry?

I cry.

So yes, the tears have been flowing in this household. Excuse me, while I sob some more.

Plane Crashes, Bear Attacks, and Kindergarten Rules

Welcome to Alaska.

It seems that every other week this summer I wake to headlines of plane crashes.  Last summer it was bear attacks. Reminders that we still live in the wilderness, despite the plethora of lattes available in Anchorage.

One of our friends lost his sight to a Grizzly. His face reconstructed, he lived to tell the story, which makes him lucky.

Luck being relative, that is.

The latest plane crash will get the most press, as former Senator Ted Stevens went down with it, an Alaskan icon--  regardless of how you feel about his politics there is no disputing his influence on Alaska, known from the islands to the tundra as Uncle Ted.

We all fly out of the Ted Stevens International Airport, after-all.

And when I do, I rarely consider crashing. Maybe its the size of the jet planes that provide comfort, unlike the small puddle jumpers that tend to make the headlines when a fog bank hides a mountainside.

"We're in the deep deep woods!" Elias said this evening as I ran pushing him in a stroller along a side trail by Chester Creek. I laughed and didn't once think about bears.

We can never fully prepare for what's ahead. I know. As much as I want to protect Elias from the world, even I, his wanna-be-omnipotent mama is not that powerful.

Tonight, I'm sad for the families. One woman, Melanie Smith, whose husband was one of the four airmen killed in the Elmendorf Airforce Base plane crash two weeks ago, lost her father to this latest one.

How is that possible? Why do some people wade through garbage heaps of grief, where others seem untouched by tragedy? What happened to the kindergarten rules of fairness and sharing?

And sure, I know, its through pain that we find joy, yadda yadda...I get it, I do, but man some days it feels like some of us walk around in leaden armor while others wear silken wings.

And yet we are all expected to arrive on time, say please and thank you, and clap our hands.

Dirty Laundry

"Laaaauuundry!!!!!" Elias says whenever he hears the musical chime of our dryer or the incessant beeping of the wash. "It's laundry time!" And then he stops playing, or hanging on me, to walk to the laundry room and take care of business.

All by himself he can switch clothes from the washer to the drier, switch the drier to the correct setting, and turn it on. He can load the washer too, he only needs help pouring the soap in the top.

Forget about folding or putting away, but his enthusiasm for pushing buttons has him asking me multiple times a day: "Is it time to start the laundry?"

"Check the hampers," I say.

We use his old Radio Flier, the wagon he took his first steps with, as his laundry basket, so when its full he can push it from his room to the washing machine. Full to him now means a pair of p.j.'s and stray socks.

I love Elias's enthusiasm for laundry, as I've never been so on top of our dirty clothes. In fact, I struggle to keep up with the folding and putting away, so I often find myself dumping a basket of clean rumpled clothes on our bed so he can use the basket for the next load.

Elias may be a six-year-old in diapers who still lacks the coordination to put on his own pants, but he can wash and dry them.  And finding a chore that he not only succeeds at, but relishes makes me forget for a moment about all that he can't do.

The "can't do's" return with a vengeance at this time of year, as we prepare for the start of school, and all the measurements that follow. I work in education and yet I struggle with the concept of throwing  a bunch of children in a room together who have all been on the earth for the same number of years and expecting them to master the same left-brained concepts, as if we are all fragmented minds without bodies or hearts.

I love schools. And I dislike their narrow vision of childhood. Of humanhood. We need less conformity and more creativity in our classrooms, our communities, the world.

I return to school next week for in-service meetings, and the big kids start the following week, with kindergarteners and first graders delaying their start till the 24th.

"When do I go to school?" Elias asks me every day and so we look at the calendar and talk about the dates.

For now, he still likes school and I hope he survives the transition from Northwood to Airport Heights with new teachers, aides, therapists and the one that gets my heart racing, peer group.

Elias can't conform with his canes, his inability to communicate with his eyes, his host of quirks. Wherever he goes, he stands out. People we've met once at a gathering always remember us and its not my face they recognize but the little blond boy with adaptive equipment. His inability to easily fit has always been there, and yet as the new school year approaches, I have added concerns about Elias finding friends.

Here's the real dirty laundry:

He's not so sweet anymore. He's not my happy sociable boy who may have challenges but is always smiling. As much as I love him, I don't always like him. He's untrustworthy with small children, apt to push or squeeze without provocation. 

Last night, I found one of his school pictures from kindergarten and I suppressed tears as I looked at his younger face, back when my only worry on the playground was about something happening to him. Now I fear for his safety and for the smaller kids who happen to play near him. I worry about him melting down when it's time to leave. I just plain worry...

My plan for next week had been for him to attend a respite camp in our neighborhood but he refused to go on Friday for a couple hours so I could meet with our principal. And truthfully, as I stood in the doorway of the center with my crying boy, I  didn't want to leave him there either. He doesn't need another transition this soon before the start of the school year and something didn't feel right about the place. Maybe it was the disorganized state of the rooms when we arrived or the fact that many of the kids were twice his size but I couldn't do it. I couldn't make him stay.

Even though he is strong enough to hurt me with his grip, he's still my little baby I'll do anything to protect. Always.

So here I am four days away from starting work, without a safe place for Elias on my first day. Scared to ask my friends with young children to help because of the way he pushes his sister, oblivious to his own strength. Racking my brain. Putting it out there.

Praying before the week is done we'll be squared away--with our clothes freshly laundered, folded, and tucked away nicely in over-stuffed drawers.

Honored and Humbled

Editors from Parenting Magazine and Blogher selected my blog  as one of their Must-Read Moms for 2010.

In their words:

"Wonder how we decided on the must-read parenting blogs of the year? We turned to the experts, a panel of 20 editors and bloggers from BlogHer.com and Parenting to go out and find the year's best posts. These women took us very seriously, returning with more than 200 diverse, well-written nominees. Then we read and read and read some more, using this criteria to recommend ten blogs that we thought your year would not be complete without reading -- theirs were the most interesting, well-written, and just plain fascinating pieces."

It's only appropriate for me to thank Elias, and now Olive, for providing me with the material through their constant escapades, teachings, and reminders about what is real.

To thank Nick, who despite his more reserved nature, understands and supports my need to share.

And, of course, my readers for letting me know I'm not alone and encouraging me to keep on writing, which I would do now if I didn't need to go remove the onion skin from Olive's mouth and respond to Elias's demand that it's time to go for a walk.  Right now!

Love to all and a happy happy Friday!

Christy

P.S. And tremendous thanks to the editors of Parenting and Blogher for honoring my blog amongst so many.

Brotherly Love

Elias asks to read one of Olive's books called "Baby's Busy World". We sit together on the recliner, the chair we purchased during Olive's first months, when she cried for hours, inconsolable, and Nick and I took turns feeling inadequate as we paced and rocked and shushed and bounced and danced in collective misery with our daughter.

Elias points at the photograph on the cover of a baby, not too unlike Olive.

"Aw cute, " he says, without authenticity, just a parroting of adults reactions to babies. "I wish we had that kind of baby."

Oh my...

I just dropped Olive off at her first day of daycare; it's only for a few hours, as we transition into what will be full-time when I return to work on the 12th. It's a Montessori daycare in a church in our neighborhood, a five-minute walk from our house, and five minutes from Airport Heights Elementary where Elias and I will be at school.

Proximity helps, sure.

But oh my heart.

She watched me walk out the door, her eyes locked on mine. (A habit that still seems strange after six-years of raising a son who rarely make eye contact.) Her expression curious, not sad, making my departure easier. Elias walked her over there with me and his presence kept me from crying as we walked home.

"I'm going to miss her," I said as we walked on the sidewalk along Aleutian.

"Hopefully the workers bring her back," Elias said.

"Well, I'll have to pick her up but hopefully they take good care of her."

"Because she's just a baby," he said.

"Right."

Just a baby.

We can't do it all as women, as much as the ads want us to think we can. That we can work, parent, cook, clean, primp, work-out, shop, play, organize, all with a smudge-free lipstick smile and not a hair out of place.

We always give up something. We always compromise. And its never easy. Never as simple as a head nod or a hand shake.

I know I'll bumble my way through as best I can, we all will, but not without loss, not without pain.

"You want to put Olive down," Elias said this morning, meaning: Hold me, pay attention to me!

"No, I don't babe, but come on over, I'll make room."

And Not.

Siblings:

At seven months of age, Elias finally learned how to breathe, suck, and swallow and we were able to nurse after over half a year of pumping. He weighed about seven pounds and was just starting to lift his head from the ground when lying on his tummy. We still didn't know if he could see.  

At seven months  of age, Olive crawls with ease, pulls herself up to standing, lets go with one hand, reaches for another place to hold, says, "Ba, ba, ba," and "Da da da!"  She weighs 18.5 pounds and follows us across the room with her dark chocolate eyes.

There's no comparison, really, in terms of development. A healthy full-term baby is just so different.

Radically so.

I just found something I wrote five years ago today, August 1, 2005, when Elias was a year and a half old:

"Nick said something to me today that seemed so true. When we are home, Elias is normal--he's our beautiful happy baby boy. Its only when we are around other children his age or driving him to all his various appointments that we are reminded of all his challenges. Not many other babies have a list of over twenty doctors, therapists, educators and social workers who are involved in their care...well, many do but they are the "special" kids like Elias. The word special-- special needs, special education--doesn't really capture it all...its too vague, I guess, but disabilities or handicapped are difficult words too. Not only do we have to invent our own style of parenting, but before I'm through I'm going to have to invent new language too. But today I'm just taking it all in and borrowing words that work.

Speaking of words, we meet with our pediatrician and the pediatric neurologist this week to discuss the possibility of Elias having Cerebral Palsy. I don't expect concrete answers but I crave more specific information for working with Elias...no matter what label is used. His legs are very stiff but he can bend them. He favors his right hand but will use his left when he needs to, like when a piece of egg is slipping out of his right fist. His feet often curl and point in as he locks his knees but if you tickle them he'll flex.

We are swimming in new territory here trying to make sense of the murky waters. We don't need definitives just more support so we can continue to care for Elias as best we know how. The loving part comes easy, its all the possibilities that pile up, making a mess in our living room..."

And I guess what I want to say today is that our living room is still a mess, the possibilities remain piled high, farther than I can see. Diagnoses don't make anything concrete, they don't define a child: I can't find Elias in medical terms. Cerebral palsy, Nystagmus. Sensory Processing disorder.

Just words.

And sure, his differences often announce his entrance, leading his way into a crowd--Look at that little boy with blue canes--but aren't we all trying to make sense of the murky waters?

Aren't we all struggling with something?

So yes, radically different.

And not.

Elias leaves his canes by my Mom's old wooden chair, the one she sat on as a child, possibly to take her shoes off as Elias does. When I put Olive down she crawls right for the blue canes, drawn to her brother's forearm crutches. She  reaches out her chubby hands with indented knuckles, and pulls the canes towards her mouth.

I will learn all about these, she seems to say, I will taste them to see how they feel, how they work, what they mean...