I write in my head now more than on paper, forming sentences as I trim back my tomato plants or walk through the woods.
My practice of capturing words often dissipates in the summer, with our long light-filled days and all the frenzy of outdoor activities us Alaskans try to cram in before the darkness returns.
The days grow shorter now, and I hope enough warmth remains to turn all my green tomatoes red.
Its harvest time, with dill to dry, greens to freeze, zucchini to turn to fritters, pickles and bread.
A few of my flowers still delight with new blooms—Cosmos and sunflowers finally opening— but most of my perennials dropped seeds weeks ago and seem ready for bed.
Transitions—those winds of change I both resist and embrace depending on the weight of my pack, the flex in my knees.
It seems all our backpacks overflow with boulders these days.
We just finished the first week of school amidst the Corona Virus pandemic. Our district gave parents the choice of remote learning or in-person, which requires teachers to deliver both methods. Since Nick and I both work away from home, we did not really have the privilege to choose-- but luckily both kids told us they wanted to return to school.
With me moving down to the elementary school, as the new Counselor, this meant Olive and I reporting to work together, with her in her final year as a 5th grader and Elias returning to high school on his own as a 10th grader.
Elias smiled at the thought of returning to school all summer long, until the week before school actually started. This is when his anxiety kicked in, like it did for most of us, but without any filters to funnel it into submission.
The start of school is always nerve-wracking, add the need to wear masks and social distance and the fear of death and well, apprehension among students and educators is on the rise worldwide. Add this whirlwind of angst to a kid on the autism spectrum, with lung damage, who likes routines and dislikes things on his face and well, lets just say its been a rough week.
It starts in the evenings, with Elias refusing to help make his lunch because if it doesn't happen then maybe he won't have to go to school. He has even un-packed his lunch bag after I made it because if he puts the protein bar back on the shelf and the grapes back in the fridge then perhaps time will stop. He takes his chrome book out of his backpack and puts it back on his desk where it lived for the summer.
As a colleague said to me: He chooses to reject reality and create his own
Elias ignores us when we talk to him, especially if we are asking him to do a task such as check his supplies, change into his pajamas, or brush his teeth. He sticks his elbow in the air, rubs his eyes, and heaves a big exaggerated sigh: “Why do I have to do this.”
I want to ask him the same question.
In the morning he pulls his covers over his head. If I turn his light on he gets up to turn it back off then returns to his bed.
“There's too much to do at home,” he tells me.
“Like what?”
“Like make my bed.”
“I’m just use to being at home,” he says.
“Yep and now you’ll get use to being at school like you have every fall for the past thirteen years.”
“Its too dark to go to school,” he says.
“It's already light out Elias.”
“But Anchorage is doing remote learning,” he says.
“True, but we haven't had any cases for over a week.”
“But I liked it better when you were there, ” he says.
Oh my heart.
“But I though Ms. Gal doesn't want me at school.”
“No, in fact she sent a text saying she is excited to see you.”
“But that room is so hot and I don't like being in the same room all day.”
This one is hard to refute. Instead of integration and inclusion, Elias and the other intensive need kids remain isolated to protect their health during Covid. My safety mind supports this decision. My heart hurts for my social kiddo who loves interacting with a variety of teachers, staff and students and enjoys walking all over the high school with his drunken gait saying hi to everyone he passes.
I understand his resistance to a school experience that looks and feels nothing like last year, that sits amidst a wave of uncertainty, with everyone wondering how long we can keep those big red doors open.
I get it—but I have to go.
Every morning Olive and I leave without him.
“You can stay home Elias. Make sure to give love to Lola and Spruce Tip. Love you Bud!”
Luckily, Nick doesn't have to be at work till 8:30, so he can wait him out and call his bluff. Nick leaves Elias a list of chores to do and then leaves to get in his truck, only to have an angry awkward 16-year-old kid come running out of the house.
Sometimes I wish he could stay home, join his class via zoom, make his own lunch, take the dog for a walk. If only he could be this independent.
If he keeps this up, one of these days we will both leave him--only to return a little later to pick him up.
Oh man, transitions are so hard.
This just might be the hardest start of the school year since kindergarten, back when we both sobbed on either side of the school house door.
It's Saturday today and after a relatively smooth morning, with the kids even working together to operate the log splitter, Elias found his rage mode this afternoon.
He often pushes our laundry over to David's in a cart, a chore he enjoys, and Olive just wanted to continue doing things with her brother.
(Despite her knowing that laundry and pushing the cart can be a trigger from previous experiences of trying to help.)
Elias obviously didn't see cleaning clothes as a joint activity. When I stepped between them, he smacked me in the face with an open hand, catching my earring. In response I pushed him to the ground as he growled: "Don't you ever do that!"
He stood up and came after me again so I picked up an empty garbage can and held it our like a shield, or a sword. A few pieces of paper fell to the ground and I said, "Now look you're littering."
This caused him to stop, look at the ground and say, "Oh, I didn't know those were in there."
I thought we were in the clear but he revved up again towards Olive. I told her to run and so here we were on a Saturday afternoon, Olive and me sprinting down the driveway, with a laundry basket, smiling at the absurdity of it all, as Elias stumbled after us.
At the intersection of our driveway and David's we slowed and I pointed down the hill. "Look Elias there's the guys with the backhoe. Go say Hi."
And so he did.
After Olive and I started the laundry and snuck chocolate from David's cupboard--that he buys as much for us as for him-- we walked back down the driveway where the rest of our family stood by the root vegetable garden.
"Mom will you show me a carrot," Elias asked as if nothing happened.
Not yet ready to be the bigger person, I replied, "I don't really feel like showing you a carrot Elias. When you smack me in the face it makes me not want to interact with you."
Nick offered Elias a ride in the backhoe, as Olive and I pulled a few carrots, parsnip and rutabaga.
Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.
Maybe someday Elias will find a way to release his anxiety that doesn't hurt, anger, and frustrate those of us who love and care for him.
Maybe next week he will resist school a little less.
And maybe, just maybe, before the first frost, more of my tomatoes will turn red.
I am wiping my tears and snot in to my over washed t-shirt, it hides the mascara and snot easily. Your posts catch me so off guard and yet I devour your words. I could have so easily complained about the endless laundry, sweeping and cooking but now as I wind down for the day, I am so thankful for what I have to complain about. Hugs momma, it is so obvious that Elias chose you as his mom, unconditional love. 💕 💗 🍅
Posted by: Sarah Spanos | 08/29/2020 at 07:08 PM
I wish I had a magic wand! I’d like to give you a hug that Elias feels.
Posted by: Cindy Ecklund | 08/29/2020 at 08:34 PM
Cindy and Sarah, you both made me smile--thank you for your love and support!!!
Posted by: Christy | 09/01/2020 at 07:13 PM