I believe I am in the throes of what one might call the Great Autumn Funk of ’08. Usually this hits me around February, but why put off 'til tomorrow the funk you can have today?
I've felt it coming on for a few days, that kind of low, disconnected, muddled feeling, and things around The HomeFront have suffered for it. Laundry is piling up, little projects are left undone, and the dinner attempts have been half-hearted at best. The little treats that I reserve for myself, like blogging, have lost their lustre. I haven't been commenting very often on other blogs, resorting to lurking because who the heck cares what a curmudgeon has to say anyway, right? I'm sure you all do not want me bringing this particular brand of sunshine to your com-boxes.
I am working to dispel a general feeling of dissatisfaction with . . . life. Everything I do seems to feed this malaise, and even my prayers leave something to be desired. Most of them are along the lines of, "Lord, help all the people who need help, especially the ones for whom I promised to pray. And could You send me some help while You're at it? Thanks." Fantastically lame and lukewarm, no?
Plus, the house smells like dirty hair to me, so there's always that to deal with.
I know this will pass - it always does - and I know there are many things that are conspiring to keep a girl down. Fiver's degenerating school situation and The Hell in a Handbasket Plan that both political parties seem to have espoused these days are just two of the things that are conspiring to give me an ulcer before the year is out.
I know what I need to do. I need to pull myself out of The Funk by my bootstraps. I need to focus on my children and my home and my exhausted husband. I need to find a little happy for this here blog because I can't stand it any other way.
Stay tuned.
**Bonus points to the person who can name a hit song by Grand Funk Railroad. Without Googling it like I did.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Blogging Is Educational ***
It's 11:21 pm and Rob just got paged into the hospital for a delivery. Gah.
At least I get the whole bed to myself, which, as much as I love my husband, I must admit is a treat to me. Of course, I also get all the nighttime wake-ups and the morning circus all to myself, too.
Thankfully, Laura tagged me for a meme, so I have something more than whine and cheese to offer you.
What 5 Things Have I Learned From Blogging?:
1. The sea is so big and my boat is so small: This may sound naive (and it is), but I had no idea that there were so many blogs out there. I think a blog must exist for just about every possible topic under the sun. Need to find out about a weird fungus on your left baby toe? Google it. I'm sure there's a blog. I am but a blip on the blog radar. Knowing this keeps me honest. And humble.
2. My corner of the blogosphere is the best: Mom blogs, and those who frequent them, are generally some of the nicest and most helpful blogs you'll ever stumble across. Need advice? Just ask. Need the best way to get tempura paint out of a white shirt? Check your email. Need a recipe using only two pounds of ground beef and sweet gherkins? Dinner's served. With a very few exceptions, most people just want to lend you a hand if you'll let them. It's why the bulk of my blog subscriptions are written by women/moms.
3. Humble pie: Whenever I start feeling like my blog is pretty keen, that's invariably the moment I find a blog that blows mine out of the water. Better writing, better look, better connections, tons of visits, etc. . . Blogging is my way of decompressing, of letting the steam escape before anyone at The HomeFront gets hurt. It is not a full time job for me, nor should I treat it as such.
4. Honesty is the best policy: I've learned that I can't be someone I'm not when I'm writing. I mean, I'm sure I could try to mimic another style if I tried really hard, but we all know that you can only keep that going for so long. The truth will out, especially when you are writing often, so it's best to be myself. Warts and all.
5. Everybody's got a story that will break your heart: The truth is that we've all gotten a piece of tough luck pie at some point in our lives. Some people get bigger pieces than others. Some people get the whole dang pie. It doesn't pay to ever feel sorry for myself. If I am having a craptastic day, I like to vent and move on, because it only takes about three clicks of the mouse to find someone who has it a whole lot worse.
And now I tag: T With Honey; Nothing, Really; Praying for Grace; RC Mommy; One More Equals Four
And now I'm off to sleep. Perchance to dream. But definitely to be woken up by a bathroom emergency that is not of my own making.
*** As you can see, I didn't even publish this last night because I fell asleep at the laptop. That is just straight-up sad.
At least I get the whole bed to myself, which, as much as I love my husband, I must admit is a treat to me. Of course, I also get all the nighttime wake-ups and the morning circus all to myself, too.
Thankfully, Laura tagged me for a meme, so I have something more than whine and cheese to offer you.
What 5 Things Have I Learned From Blogging?:
1. The sea is so big and my boat is so small: This may sound naive (and it is), but I had no idea that there were so many blogs out there. I think a blog must exist for just about every possible topic under the sun. Need to find out about a weird fungus on your left baby toe? Google it. I'm sure there's a blog. I am but a blip on the blog radar. Knowing this keeps me honest. And humble.
2. My corner of the blogosphere is the best: Mom blogs, and those who frequent them, are generally some of the nicest and most helpful blogs you'll ever stumble across. Need advice? Just ask. Need the best way to get tempura paint out of a white shirt? Check your email. Need a recipe using only two pounds of ground beef and sweet gherkins? Dinner's served. With a very few exceptions, most people just want to lend you a hand if you'll let them. It's why the bulk of my blog subscriptions are written by women/moms.
3. Humble pie: Whenever I start feeling like my blog is pretty keen, that's invariably the moment I find a blog that blows mine out of the water. Better writing, better look, better connections, tons of visits, etc. . . Blogging is my way of decompressing, of letting the steam escape before anyone at The HomeFront gets hurt. It is not a full time job for me, nor should I treat it as such.
4. Honesty is the best policy: I've learned that I can't be someone I'm not when I'm writing. I mean, I'm sure I could try to mimic another style if I tried really hard, but we all know that you can only keep that going for so long. The truth will out, especially when you are writing often, so it's best to be myself. Warts and all.
5. Everybody's got a story that will break your heart: The truth is that we've all gotten a piece of tough luck pie at some point in our lives. Some people get bigger pieces than others. Some people get the whole dang pie. It doesn't pay to ever feel sorry for myself. If I am having a craptastic day, I like to vent and move on, because it only takes about three clicks of the mouse to find someone who has it a whole lot worse.
And now I tag: T With Honey; Nothing, Really; Praying for Grace; RC Mommy; One More Equals Four
And now I'm off to sleep. Perchance to dream. But definitely to be woken up by a bathroom emergency that is not of my own making.
*** As you can see, I didn't even publish this last night because I fell asleep at the laptop. That is just straight-up sad.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
He's Delicious
This is why I get no work done around here.
Well, this and blogging. And Facebook.
" Nobody puts Baby in a corner". Except his mom.
But then Baby comes out of the corner gunning for her.
And he gets all up in her grill.
And he says, "Feelin' lucky, Mama?"
"Yeah. I didn't think so."Tuesday, September 23, 2008
In Which I Talk About Some Things.
Thank you for all of your kinds words, my friends. Some days, I hang on them.
(Psst -- have you all picked up your super-commenter award below? Do it. It'll make you feel good.)
I know I mentioned that I've been wanting to write a post or thirty about Fiver and school, but I've held off for two reasons:
a) you must be sick to death of hearing about it. You must be! I certainly am.
b) I don't really know what to say. All of my words are bottle necking until they form a congealed lump at the base of my throat which threatens to erupt into tears or shrieking at any moment, neither of which are considered appropriate behavior in mixed company.
All joking aside, this is a public blog, and while I love you all dearly, my friends (yes, you!), I cannot control who comes to call. At times, I feel limited in what I can divulge, out of respect to my son and the people who work with him. I love my kids' school and I feel a responsibility to be loyal to it. I won't get into any specifics, other than to say that the adjustment seems like it is equally hard on Fiver and his teacher. It is breaking my heart.
Rob and I have talked each other into a stupor every night, and we have always come back to the same thought: no one was prepared for The Real World: Fiver. And make no mistake, it can be grueling.
Fiver In Theory is an easy proposition on which to agree, because he is a winning child. He is funny, warm, bright, affable, and kind. People generally like him, they just do. When seen in short duration, more than one person has told me that they can hardly tell he has any problems. And that is true, to a certain extent. He is remarkably adept at compensating for his difficulties.
But Fiver In Theory and Fiver In Practice are two different animals. The only way to get Fiver is to be with Fiver. There is no amount of explanation that can prepare a person for him, and believe me, we've tried.
A large part of the problem is that he has neurological deficits that have no name. It is an incredibly frustrating position. Yes, we can tell people he has Sensory Based Motor Disorder, a category under the larger umbrella of Sensory Processing Disorder, but that is only part of the equation. He has other, unexplained physical problems, as well as some behavioral issues, all of which fall under the category X. SPD + X = Fiver.
(Psst -- have you all picked up your super-commenter award below? Do it. It'll make you feel good.)
I know I mentioned that I've been wanting to write a post or thirty about Fiver and school, but I've held off for two reasons:
a) you must be sick to death of hearing about it. You must be! I certainly am.
b) I don't really know what to say. All of my words are bottle necking until they form a congealed lump at the base of my throat which threatens to erupt into tears or shrieking at any moment, neither of which are considered appropriate behavior in mixed company.
All joking aside, this is a public blog, and while I love you all dearly, my friends (yes, you!), I cannot control who comes to call. At times, I feel limited in what I can divulge, out of respect to my son and the people who work with him. I love my kids' school and I feel a responsibility to be loyal to it. I won't get into any specifics, other than to say that the adjustment seems like it is equally hard on Fiver and his teacher. It is breaking my heart.
Rob and I have talked each other into a stupor every night, and we have always come back to the same thought: no one was prepared for The Real World: Fiver. And make no mistake, it can be grueling.
Fiver In Theory is an easy proposition on which to agree, because he is a winning child. He is funny, warm, bright, affable, and kind. People generally like him, they just do. When seen in short duration, more than one person has told me that they can hardly tell he has any problems. And that is true, to a certain extent. He is remarkably adept at compensating for his difficulties.
But Fiver In Theory and Fiver In Practice are two different animals. The only way to get Fiver is to be with Fiver. There is no amount of explanation that can prepare a person for him, and believe me, we've tried.
A large part of the problem is that he has neurological deficits that have no name. It is an incredibly frustrating position. Yes, we can tell people he has Sensory Based Motor Disorder, a category under the larger umbrella of Sensory Processing Disorder, but that is only part of the equation. He has other, unexplained physical problems, as well as some behavioral issues, all of which fall under the category X. SPD + X = Fiver.
His teachers, while well intentioned, are not quite on board with his needs yet. I truly believe they want to help him, but they are now faced with the reality of what it takes to help a child like Fiver. If a person is inexperienced with his conditions, spending six hours a day with Fiver can come as quite an awakening.
We have been in what seems like constant contact with his teacher, but it is quickly becoming clear that we will need to meet with an ever expanding list of professionals before we get to a place where Fiver is thriving.
I will be honest when I tell you that in my darker moments I feel eminently unqualified for this job. If my only task was to love him with every fiber of my being, then I would have no problem. I would give my own life for this child, but I cannot give him other people's acceptance. It's not in my power to make people understand him or help him, but it is in my power to be his advocate.
During one of our marathon conversations, Rob said that in many ways Fiver is one of our crosses. He requires more attention, more work, and more worry. But as much as he is our cross, he is surely one of our most precious and treasured blessings. He brings us more joy, more love, and more strength than we ever dreamed of at his birth.
It is true that in enrolling Fiver, his school has agreed to pick up our cross and help us bear it, but it is just as true that they get to carry our blessing as well. Our goal is to balance the cross with the joy. It's a tall order.
In the meantime, while I'm trying to find this balance, St. John Bosco will be hearing from me. Often.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
A Winner and A (Tooth) Loser
Fiver lost his first tooth this weekend, aided by a crisp apple at the orchard near my parents' house. Now he makes a sweet little whistling noise through a tiny hole in his bottom row of teeth.
I am appalled that I was not consulted about this acceleration in development, but what can I do? I can see the adult tooth waiting at the gum line, and I know that I am powerless to stop the juggernaut of time.
We lost the tooth at the orchard, probably still stuck in the apple core that pulled it out, but the Tooth Fairy (who is a man, according to Fiver) is magnanimous. He was willing to overlook the absence of a tooth, and in his beneficence left Fiver the ridiculous sum of $1.50. I'm no psychologist, but I think the Tooth Fairy may be trying to smooth some of the rougher edges of the school experience.
It was a glorious, golden weekend, perfect in its simplicity, but Fiver's adjustment to school still weighs heavily on my mind. I have thought of writing half a dozen posts, but they haven't come to fruition. I don't even know what to say except to say that I'm sad.
Instead, I'll show you another peice of blog bling courtesy of my friend Laura from Catholic Teacher Musings. 
I am a Super Commenter, and I'm not even going to try to lie about this or act like this is no biggie. I am proud of this, dang it!
For me, comments are like ambrosia. I love them. I yearn for them. I ponder them. I enjoy them immensely. (Unless they are from automated spam-bots telling me about medical or pharmacological enhancements. )
I know that I'm not the only one who feels this way about comments, so I try my level best to leave good ones for other people. Or at least good-ish. Thanks for noticing, Laura!
Now I get to pass it on, and since there is no limit, I'm giving it to anyone who has ever left me a supportive comment on this blog. This does not mean you, spam-bots.
I really do appreciate your thoughts. Keep 'em comin', m'kay?
Friday, September 19, 2008
Photo Finish
Oh, my friends, you are in for it now! We got a new little toy for the computer, which I am sure the rest of the world has, but, being us, we are just getting wise to it now.
I now have a scanner-copier-printer-toaster-blender-all-in-one-thingamabob, so be prepared for some interminable posts featuring scrawled, juvenile, messy art projects. And that's not even counting what the kids will want to contribute.
As a test run, I submit to you the evidence that mad scientists have perfected cloning:
Robert, circa 1972
Bun, circa 2008
I now have a scanner-copier-printer-toaster-blender-all-in-one-thingamabob, so be prepared for some interminable posts featuring scrawled, juvenile, messy art projects. And that's not even counting what the kids will want to contribute.
As a test run, I submit to you the evidence that mad scientists have perfected cloning:
Robert, circa 1972
Bun, circa 2008
They are the same, right down to their eggy little brainiac skulls. It's looks like I had nothing to do with Bun, like I was just the pod and Rob self-replicated.
The vagaries of genetics. Weird.
(Any "photo finishers" in your family? Just curious.)
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
It Could Be Worse. I Could Be Addicted to Crack.
This has been a long day. Looooooong.
Fiver had a bad day at school and I was on the phone with his teacher . . . twice.
Sally decided to forgo her nap and then took her resulting bad mood out on everyone else. (I have no idea where she gets that from!!)
Bun thinks it's a great idea to crawl over to our least stable piece of furniture, pull up on it, and then promptly fall over directly onto his face. Repeatedly.
Francie thinks she's fifteen. News flash: You're nine, sister, so get over yourself.
And Rob is logging late hours at the office tonight, so the bedtime dog and pony show is mine. And mine alone.
But this arrived in the mail today, and once the kids are in bed I fully intend to curl up in front of my latest guilty pleasure and get my geek on.
Even though it was a little expensive, I am impressed with what I have seen so far. I have all my most favorite pens and highlighters ready, and my hands are getting a little twitchy just thinking about filling in all my appointments, birthdays, and anniversaries.
Excuse me, I may have to lie down until this little head rush passes.
I know some of you have office supply addictions and you are feelin' me right now, but for those who think I am whack, I ask you:
What unusual thing calms you down or helps you unwind? What's your guilty pleasure?
(keep it clean, this is a family blog!)
Fiver had a bad day at school and I was on the phone with his teacher . . . twice.
Sally decided to forgo her nap and then took her resulting bad mood out on everyone else. (I have no idea where she gets that from!!)
Bun thinks it's a great idea to crawl over to our least stable piece of furniture, pull up on it, and then promptly fall over directly onto his face. Repeatedly.
Francie thinks she's fifteen. News flash: You're nine, sister, so get over yourself.
And Rob is logging late hours at the office tonight, so the bedtime dog and pony show is mine. And mine alone.
But this arrived in the mail today, and once the kids are in bed I fully intend to curl up in front of my latest guilty pleasure and get my geek on.
Even though it was a little expensive, I am impressed with what I have seen so far. I have all my most favorite pens and highlighters ready, and my hands are getting a little twitchy just thinking about filling in all my appointments, birthdays, and anniversaries.
Excuse me, I may have to lie down until this little head rush passes.
I know some of you have office supply addictions and you are feelin' me right now, but for those who think I am whack, I ask you:
What unusual thing calms you down or helps you unwind? What's your guilty pleasure?
(keep it clean, this is a family blog!)
Monday, September 15, 2008
Race Report
This weekend's cross country meet was held on the Face of the Sun.
At least that's what it felt like while we stood in the ninety degree heat waiting for the kids to run. I was sweating as much as some of the runners, mostly due to the lack of shade and the baby draped over my chest.
But I guess the heat agrees with Fiver, because he broke six minutes! He ran his half mile in 5:43, and he came in 61st in his group. He was still second to last, but his times have improved each week.
I can hear the theme from Rocky in my head. ("Getting strong now . . .") Next week he'll be 60th.
At least that's what it felt like while we stood in the ninety degree heat waiting for the kids to run. I was sweating as much as some of the runners, mostly due to the lack of shade and the baby draped over my chest.
But I guess the heat agrees with Fiver, because he broke six minutes! He ran his half mile in 5:43, and he came in 61st in his group. He was still second to last, but his times have improved each week.
I can hear the theme from Rocky in my head. ("Getting strong now . . .") Next week he'll be 60th.
Easy Like Monday Morning
Cheryl from Twinfatuation tagged me for the Mommy Meme, and I figured it would be a nice way to ease into a Monday morning and the weekly grind. Plus, I don't really have to do any original or critical thinking to complete this. Bonus.
1. Post a picture of you with your kids.
Well, thank God for this meme because otherwise I would have no pictures of me with my children! I am always the one hiding behind the camera.
Everyone is smiling. Except for Bun, who is irate, but at least had the decency to turn his head to the side to spare us his displeasure.
Now Bun is amazed at something on the ceiling. He's probably just aghast at the amount of dust that has gathered on our ceiling fan blades. I know I am.
" Hmm . . . what have we here? My sister Sally's silken hair which is so dangerously within my grasp. I . . . must . . . have . . .it . . ."
Consolation after the fact.
2. How many children do you have?
Four. Two girls, two boys. We pride ourselves on our symmetry.
3. What are their ages?
Nine, six, two, and seven months.
4. What do you eat for breakfast?
Francie will only eat Eggo mini waffles and Carnation Instant Breakfast every. single. morning.
Bun eats oatmeal and some kind of fruit. Fiver and Sally eat everything else. I drink coffee without fail, and usually some kind of cereal like Fiber One or oatmeal. Or leftover cake. Whatever.
5. Do they watch TV?
Yes. Francie would watch paint dry if they televised it, so I have to be vigilant about cutting her off. Fiver and Sally will watch for a bit, but they will turn it off or ignore it after a while. Bun is a total Monday night football freak.
6. What are their favorite activities?
Francie loves reading, drawing, scribbling furiously in secret journals and horseback riding. Fiver loves trains. And trains. And occasionally he will play with trains.
Sally loves her baby and anything else to do with her dolls or playing house. We don't call her "Little Mama" for nothing.
Bun loves crawling around and playing with carpet lint. And biting people.
7. Do you get a break from them during the day?
Half of them are in school during the day, and the other half are with me wherever I go. Including the bathroom.
8. How do you end your day?
After the children are in bed, Rob and I usually have some catch up time. Then Rob will hit the treadmill and I will settle down for my nightly allotment of blog time. I'm in bed by 11:30 or midnight at the very latest because the kids come calling mighty early.
9. What is your best parenting tip or advice?
This may have become a cliche for many people, but to me it is a mantra: "This too shall pass." When you are surrounded by little and dependent people, it is so easy to get bogged down in the drudgery that often accompanies their care. But, mercifully, today is not forever (as Danielle Bean would say). The days are long but the years are short. The crying, the sleeplessness, the diapering, the clinging, the draining physical demands -- there comes a time when it's all done. Really. And that's when I start to miss it.
And now for the five lucky people who will inherit this meme, if they want it:
Nothing, Really; One More Equals Four; RC Mommy; T With Honey; As Many As We're Given
Enjoy your Monday, my friends!
1. Post a picture of you with your kids.
Well, thank God for this meme because otherwise I would have no pictures of me with my children! I am always the one hiding behind the camera.
Everyone is smiling. Except for Bun, who is irate, but at least had the decency to turn his head to the side to spare us his displeasure.
Now Bun is amazed at something on the ceiling. He's probably just aghast at the amount of dust that has gathered on our ceiling fan blades. I know I am.
" Hmm . . . what have we here? My sister Sally's silken hair which is so dangerously within my grasp. I . . . must . . . have . . .it . . ."
Consolation after the fact.2. How many children do you have?
Four. Two girls, two boys. We pride ourselves on our symmetry.
3. What are their ages?
Nine, six, two, and seven months.
4. What do you eat for breakfast?
Francie will only eat Eggo mini waffles and Carnation Instant Breakfast every. single. morning.
Bun eats oatmeal and some kind of fruit. Fiver and Sally eat everything else. I drink coffee without fail, and usually some kind of cereal like Fiber One or oatmeal. Or leftover cake. Whatever.
5. Do they watch TV?
Yes. Francie would watch paint dry if they televised it, so I have to be vigilant about cutting her off. Fiver and Sally will watch for a bit, but they will turn it off or ignore it after a while. Bun is a total Monday night football freak.
6. What are their favorite activities?
Francie loves reading, drawing, scribbling furiously in secret journals and horseback riding. Fiver loves trains. And trains. And occasionally he will play with trains.
Sally loves her baby and anything else to do with her dolls or playing house. We don't call her "Little Mama" for nothing.
Bun loves crawling around and playing with carpet lint. And biting people.
7. Do you get a break from them during the day?
Half of them are in school during the day, and the other half are with me wherever I go. Including the bathroom.
8. How do you end your day?
After the children are in bed, Rob and I usually have some catch up time. Then Rob will hit the treadmill and I will settle down for my nightly allotment of blog time. I'm in bed by 11:30 or midnight at the very latest because the kids come calling mighty early.
9. What is your best parenting tip or advice?
This may have become a cliche for many people, but to me it is a mantra: "This too shall pass." When you are surrounded by little and dependent people, it is so easy to get bogged down in the drudgery that often accompanies their care. But, mercifully, today is not forever (as Danielle Bean would say). The days are long but the years are short. The crying, the sleeplessness, the diapering, the clinging, the draining physical demands -- there comes a time when it's all done. Really. And that's when I start to miss it.
And now for the five lucky people who will inherit this meme, if they want it:
Nothing, Really; One More Equals Four; RC Mommy; T With Honey; As Many As We're Given
Enjoy your Monday, my friends!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Bits and Bobs
I don't look at my blog the way you look at my blog. Deep thought, no? Um, no. I mean that literally.
I get my comments through my email, and I spend all my allotted evening blog time on my Blogger dashboard, typing and deleting, typing and deleting, until I finally say, Crap! It's eleven o'clock so I better just hit "publish" and be done with it.
And here you thought that it took such time and skill to craft the posts to which you have become accustomed.
All that feverish typing and deleting leaves me little time for clicking through to check out my blog from the front, the way the rest of the web sees it. I should really make more time to do that because I took a gander at my sidebars and I've got some things to re-jigger.
(Is that a word? Re-jigger? I feel like it's a word, but if it's not a word, then it should be.)
(I just hit spell-check and the word re-jigger passed inspection, so I think it's a word. Feel free to use it as you wish.)
So while I'm puttering around and putting the blog house in order, I need to thank Laura from Catholic Teacher Musings. She gave me an award and I am the total ingrate who never said a word of thanks here. Can blog awards be revoked? Oh, I hope not because I heart them. Thank you, Laura.
She gave me this:
It's a gold card! Woo-hoo! And I get to give away five of these babies. I feel just like Howie Mandel on "Deal or No Deal". Except with way more hair.
Rules ('cause there are always rules):
You may choose 5 awardees
Choose 4 faithful readers of your blog.
1 should be someone new or someone far away.
Choose 4 faithful readers of your blog.
1 should be someone new or someone far away.
Here are my picks:
Amy from RC Mommy, because she was the one who urged me to start this blog, and Barb from SFO Mom, who was one of my first commenters (maybe the very first?) Thanks for being here from the beginning, Ladies!
Val from Nothing, Really, and Barbara, from Praying For Grace, because they always have something nice to say and it warms the cockles of my heart. Whatever they are.
And finally, One More Equals Four is relatively new to The HomeFront, and she is definitely far away.
Enjoy all the perks a Blogging Friends Gold Card can get you, but don't max out!
Moving right along in the Random Report, we have gratuitous boy child pictures.
Here is Bun in all his seven month glory. Doesn't he look enormous? That's because he is. He is pudgy and squishy and snackable, especially his chins. Rob has decreed that we should call him Thurston Jowl III.
This is what happens when you try to take an artsy photo of a mobile baby. You get mauled by Thurston Jowl III.
Here's Skeletor Fiver with his birthday cupcakes. I feed him. Honest.
Well, hello there. Fancy meeting you here.
Gah. Just looked at the clock and it's eleven o'clock. You know what that means. Time to hit "publish," for better or for worse. Or for mediocre.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Way We Were
(Originally published September 11, 2006. I still feel the same way. God bless us.)
" . . . And to show,
I've overcome the blow,
I've learned to take it well,
I only wish my words,
Could just convince myself,
That it just wasn't real . . .
But that's not the way it feels."
-from Operator, by Jim Croce
Today has been a lovely day -- cooler, with the first intimations of Fall in the air. But the sky is nowhere near as blue as it was on this date five years ago.
I can still see that color like it is burned on my retinas; it seemed like such an incongruous backdrop for the devastation of 9-11. It should have been dark and stormy, or at least a little more overcast. But it wasn't -- those planes came out of the clear blue. Isn't that always the way it happens when your life changes dramatically? There is always that moment when you know that something tremendous and irrevocable has happened -- that moment will stay with you forever.
I remember being at home with the two year old Older Girl, who in those days was Only Girl. Rob had gone to work at the hospital and I was doing laundry with the "Today Show" in the background. When the first plane hit, I thought: What a terrible, tragic accident. Of course it couldn't be anything more than an accident -- but how can a pilot not see the World Trade Center for God's sake?
And then there was another plane heading for the second tower, and I still couldn't connect the dots until someone on TV said, "a presumed terrorist attack." And then the phone was ringing. It was my brother-in-law, and together we watched, in breathless, horrified silence, as the towers fell on our television screens.
I talked to many people that day, most of them wanting to know what was going on at our place. We lived in base housing on Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station at the time. We always joked that we could leave the doors wide open because we had the best security system in town -- armed Marines at the gates. But the eerie thing was that nothing was happening. It was so, so still.
All my neighbors were pilots and I was used to having military aircraft of all kinds flying so close that I could wave to the guy next door. There were Harriers, Prowlers, C-130's, and the all the kids' favorite, Pedro, the rescue helicopter. But on that day there was nothing but silence.
There is distance now, and maybe that makes it easier for people to talk about. I don't know. I did not personally know anyone who died that day, but it's all kind of like six degrees of separation. I think most people know of someone who knew someone who was there -- it was everyone's tragedy.
In the car, on the way home from school, Older Girl said, "Mom, why does everyone keep talking about September 11th? What does that mean? What happened?" And I realize that she doesn't know, a thought that is startling to me. Doesn't everyone know what happened? But of course not, she was only two.
So we talked about it and I tried to explain the unexplainable, the unthinkable. She asked many questions I was prepared for, and some that I was not. And I know that by telling her truth of that day, I have opened her consciousness to so many possible impossibilities. Planes crash, children lose their parents, parents lose their children, not everyone gets out of a burning building.
But that knowledge is like Pandora's Box; deep down at the bottom, after every horrible thing has come to the light of day, there is still hope; there is still something honest and true; there are still the people who will struggle to help. Like Anne Frank said, "Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart."
" . . . And to show,I've overcome the blow,
I've learned to take it well,
I only wish my words,
Could just convince myself,
That it just wasn't real . . .
But that's not the way it feels."
-from Operator, by Jim Croce
Today has been a lovely day -- cooler, with the first intimations of Fall in the air. But the sky is nowhere near as blue as it was on this date five years ago.
I can still see that color like it is burned on my retinas; it seemed like such an incongruous backdrop for the devastation of 9-11. It should have been dark and stormy, or at least a little more overcast. But it wasn't -- those planes came out of the clear blue. Isn't that always the way it happens when your life changes dramatically? There is always that moment when you know that something tremendous and irrevocable has happened -- that moment will stay with you forever.
I remember being at home with the two year old Older Girl, who in those days was Only Girl. Rob had gone to work at the hospital and I was doing laundry with the "Today Show" in the background. When the first plane hit, I thought: What a terrible, tragic accident. Of course it couldn't be anything more than an accident -- but how can a pilot not see the World Trade Center for God's sake?
And then there was another plane heading for the second tower, and I still couldn't connect the dots until someone on TV said, "a presumed terrorist attack." And then the phone was ringing. It was my brother-in-law, and together we watched, in breathless, horrified silence, as the towers fell on our television screens.
I talked to many people that day, most of them wanting to know what was going on at our place. We lived in base housing on Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station at the time. We always joked that we could leave the doors wide open because we had the best security system in town -- armed Marines at the gates. But the eerie thing was that nothing was happening. It was so, so still.
All my neighbors were pilots and I was used to having military aircraft of all kinds flying so close that I could wave to the guy next door. There were Harriers, Prowlers, C-130's, and the all the kids' favorite, Pedro, the rescue helicopter. But on that day there was nothing but silence.
There is distance now, and maybe that makes it easier for people to talk about. I don't know. I did not personally know anyone who died that day, but it's all kind of like six degrees of separation. I think most people know of someone who knew someone who was there -- it was everyone's tragedy.
In the car, on the way home from school, Older Girl said, "Mom, why does everyone keep talking about September 11th? What does that mean? What happened?" And I realize that she doesn't know, a thought that is startling to me. Doesn't everyone know what happened? But of course not, she was only two.
So we talked about it and I tried to explain the unexplainable, the unthinkable. She asked many questions I was prepared for, and some that I was not. And I know that by telling her truth of that day, I have opened her consciousness to so many possible impossibilities. Planes crash, children lose their parents, parents lose their children, not everyone gets out of a burning building.
But that knowledge is like Pandora's Box; deep down at the bottom, after every horrible thing has come to the light of day, there is still hope; there is still something honest and true; there are still the people who will struggle to help. Like Anne Frank said, "Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart."
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
What I Don't Do
I must be firing on all cylinders lately, because I have had a few people tell me that they don't know how I manage to make everything look so easy. They "don't know how I do it."
After looking around to make sure they were speaking to me, I quelled the urge to laugh. It never reflects well on your sanity when you meet a compliment with hysterics. I wanted to say: Oh honey, you just caught me in a good hour! There's no way I could maintain this level of organization without some live-in help or some serious pharmacological intervention. I'm a total path-of-least resistance gal on the inside!
Instead, I just said: Thank you! Please keep this moment in mind when you see me dragging one of my screaming children to the back of the church.
Over at Faith and Family Live!, Danielle Bean talks about dispelling the super-mom myth. Let's be honest, we all know that no one does it all. We try, but in the long run, something's got to give. And everyone's something is different. Danielle 'fessed up to hers, and I started thinking about my own shortcuts.
Here's what I don't do while I'm busy projecting the image of doing it all:
After looking around to make sure they were speaking to me, I quelled the urge to laugh. It never reflects well on your sanity when you meet a compliment with hysterics. I wanted to say: Oh honey, you just caught me in a good hour! There's no way I could maintain this level of organization without some live-in help or some serious pharmacological intervention. I'm a total path-of-least resistance gal on the inside!
Instead, I just said: Thank you! Please keep this moment in mind when you see me dragging one of my screaming children to the back of the church.
Over at Faith and Family Live!, Danielle Bean talks about dispelling the super-mom myth. Let's be honest, we all know that no one does it all. We try, but in the long run, something's got to give. And everyone's something is different. Danielle 'fessed up to hers, and I started thinking about my own shortcuts.
Here's what I don't do while I'm busy projecting the image of doing it all:
- I don't do bath time. I mean, I bathe myself, but I don't do the whole evening wash-up routine with the children. I abdicated that responsibility to Rob and I have never looked back. It's not that I don't enjoy it, but I am so tired in the evenings that the thought of one more hoop before bed is enough to send me around the bend. I do bathe Bun during the day, but I'm thinking his days are numbered.
- I don't do outside. The mowing and trimming are anathema to me. I enjoy flowers and I'll plant and pull weeds, but I'll run over the lawnmower before I succumb to using it. I also don't do anything with the big rolling trashcan. Rob has that job until one of the children is big enough to maneuver the cart.
- I don't do crafts. Or art projects. Or scrapbooking. Or anything that involves glitter. I have come a long way in my aversion to crafty messes with the children, but I have come to embrace the fact that I am not the glue stick kind of mom.
- I don't do any needle-work. I don't knit, crochet, sew, tat, embroider, crewel, make lace, nada. I can make small repairs to clothes but that's the extent of my prowess with a needle.
- Like Danielle, I don't iron. I admit it, I wait for the dryer to buzz and then hang the clothes to avoid the iron. I've been known to steam, spray, smooth, stretch, put the whammy on it, whatever it takes to make something wearable without having to resort to the iron. Somewhere, my mother is weeping. I readily admit that this is the one area in which I feel like I am somehow failing. I should iron more, but the truth is that I just don't.
- I don't always wear a clean shirt. Sometimes, if we've had a quiet day and my shirt doesn't have any noticeable stains, I will lay it over the chair in my room and then wear it again. I do, however, wear clean underwear every day.
- I don't clean under my refrigerator or oven. It's scary. Don't go there.
There's more, so much more, that I skip, but I don't have all day for this kind of thing. I have to go wait for the dryer.
How about it? Anything you skip?
Monday, September 08, 2008
Reading Between the Lines
I think Fiver had a hard day, but I can't be sure because talking to him can be difficult. It's hard to explain, but we very rarely have a linear conversation with a natural progression in topics. Our conversations are circular, with us asking the same question about twelve different ways. We rarely get a complete answer.
He came out of school grumpy, which is unusual, and he was whining that he was thirsty. While we rode home, he complained about the minor scratch on his hand like he had lost the entire limb. I know that he feels things more intensely when he is tired, so I figured he would forget about it once I got him home and watered.
At home, I noticed some extra stimming, which is another big clue to his state of mind. He has a hand-held video game with a pause button, and he must have spent a solid five minutes pushing and releasing the pause button. I know, five minutes doesn't sound all that long. But set a timer for five minutes and then do nothing but push one button over and over for the duration and you'll see how long five minutes can be.
Of course, he also went straight down to his trains and watched them go around the track for a while. He needed to escape to his own world and I let him go.
While going through his folder, I found two letters that helped shed some more light on the day.
The first was a note from his teacher saying that Fiver has pushed some children at recess. He had a brief timeout, and his teacher sent home the note just to keep us informed. Since pushing people is very out of character for Fiver, I wanted to find out more.
Fiver rarely touches other people with his arms. For a long time, he didn't have the strength to hug people, so he would simply lean his head on a person as a sign of affection. He will give weak hugs now, but pushing, real down and dirty pushing, still requires more strength than Fiver can usually muster.
He admitted that he had pushed someone and that he had timeout, but from his explanation I couldn't understand what he actually did. Finally, I asked him to demonstrate. Without using his arms, he pushed his body against mine until he could get past me. Sort of like a weak headbutt.
Rob spoke with him about it later, and we eventually pieced together what is a common reaction from Fiver. He becomes so focused on doing one certain thing in one certain way that he manages to become oblivious to everyone around him. During cross country, he will run without watching out for the other runners. We routinely have to say, "Fiver! Watch out!" before he even realizes he's about to run into someone.
In this case, he was trying to get somewhere on the playground, and rather than deviate from his perceived course, he pushed past another child. The child was fine, but that doesn't matter. The principle of the matter is that he needs to be aware, and he needs to learn that it's all right to alter your original plan of action.
The second letter in his folder was from the speech pathologist who comes to the school from the local intermediate unit. She performs routine screenings of the children to see if any of them might qualify for further evaluation.
Hey, guess who requires further evaluation?
She indicated that she wanted to test him for auditory processing issues, and I cannot say that I am surprised. In fact, this is the area that his neurologist red-flagged the last time he was there.
Many auditory processing problems do not become apparent until the child gets into a full-time school setting, so we had even alerted his teacher and principal that these issues may be on the his horizon.
Fiver, who has been in therapy for half his life, is no dummy when it comes to these kinds of tests. Other kids may think it's like school or a fun game, but he knows the deal and he really dislikes taking them. I guess I can't blame him; I might be more than a little weary of them myself. I think by the time recess rolled around he was at his limit of carefully controlled behavior.
And this may sound strange, but I was a little bummed to read the letter from the therapist. I certainly knew that this may happen. In fact, I may have even expected it on some level, but in other ways I guess I fooled myself into thinking that Fiver would be able to meet a milestone without some kind of difficulty.
It's tiring to always focus on what he can't do, so we celebrate what he can do and what he has learned to do and how far he has come. We insulate ourselves with our loving families and our close knit group of friends and therapists. To them, Fiver is just Fiver. We don't have all the constant explaining.
When we get letters like this, from someone who has no knowledge of Fiver's background, it just brings it all back to me: This is really real and other people notice. It's jarring. Is that dumb? Probably yes. Definitely yes.
I'm sure everything will settle down for him, and we will see what this "further evaluation" brings our way. But until then, I think we may be in for some more bumpy days. For both of us.
He came out of school grumpy, which is unusual, and he was whining that he was thirsty. While we rode home, he complained about the minor scratch on his hand like he had lost the entire limb. I know that he feels things more intensely when he is tired, so I figured he would forget about it once I got him home and watered.
At home, I noticed some extra stimming, which is another big clue to his state of mind. He has a hand-held video game with a pause button, and he must have spent a solid five minutes pushing and releasing the pause button. I know, five minutes doesn't sound all that long. But set a timer for five minutes and then do nothing but push one button over and over for the duration and you'll see how long five minutes can be.
Of course, he also went straight down to his trains and watched them go around the track for a while. He needed to escape to his own world and I let him go.
While going through his folder, I found two letters that helped shed some more light on the day.
The first was a note from his teacher saying that Fiver has pushed some children at recess. He had a brief timeout, and his teacher sent home the note just to keep us informed. Since pushing people is very out of character for Fiver, I wanted to find out more.
Fiver rarely touches other people with his arms. For a long time, he didn't have the strength to hug people, so he would simply lean his head on a person as a sign of affection. He will give weak hugs now, but pushing, real down and dirty pushing, still requires more strength than Fiver can usually muster.
He admitted that he had pushed someone and that he had timeout, but from his explanation I couldn't understand what he actually did. Finally, I asked him to demonstrate. Without using his arms, he pushed his body against mine until he could get past me. Sort of like a weak headbutt.
Rob spoke with him about it later, and we eventually pieced together what is a common reaction from Fiver. He becomes so focused on doing one certain thing in one certain way that he manages to become oblivious to everyone around him. During cross country, he will run without watching out for the other runners. We routinely have to say, "Fiver! Watch out!" before he even realizes he's about to run into someone.
In this case, he was trying to get somewhere on the playground, and rather than deviate from his perceived course, he pushed past another child. The child was fine, but that doesn't matter. The principle of the matter is that he needs to be aware, and he needs to learn that it's all right to alter your original plan of action.
The second letter in his folder was from the speech pathologist who comes to the school from the local intermediate unit. She performs routine screenings of the children to see if any of them might qualify for further evaluation.
Hey, guess who requires further evaluation?
She indicated that she wanted to test him for auditory processing issues, and I cannot say that I am surprised. In fact, this is the area that his neurologist red-flagged the last time he was there.
Many auditory processing problems do not become apparent until the child gets into a full-time school setting, so we had even alerted his teacher and principal that these issues may be on the his horizon.
Fiver, who has been in therapy for half his life, is no dummy when it comes to these kinds of tests. Other kids may think it's like school or a fun game, but he knows the deal and he really dislikes taking them. I guess I can't blame him; I might be more than a little weary of them myself. I think by the time recess rolled around he was at his limit of carefully controlled behavior.
And this may sound strange, but I was a little bummed to read the letter from the therapist. I certainly knew that this may happen. In fact, I may have even expected it on some level, but in other ways I guess I fooled myself into thinking that Fiver would be able to meet a milestone without some kind of difficulty.
It's tiring to always focus on what he can't do, so we celebrate what he can do and what he has learned to do and how far he has come. We insulate ourselves with our loving families and our close knit group of friends and therapists. To them, Fiver is just Fiver. We don't have all the constant explaining.
When we get letters like this, from someone who has no knowledge of Fiver's background, it just brings it all back to me: This is really real and other people notice. It's jarring. Is that dumb? Probably yes. Definitely yes.
I'm sure everything will settle down for him, and we will see what this "further evaluation" brings our way. But until then, I think we may be in for some more bumpy days. For both of us.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Sunday Race Report
This just in:
Fiver was not last!
He did it again and ran a half mile in the blazing sun, but this time he was second to last. He also made it in under seven minutes again.
As a reward, we let him cool off by hanging out in his underwear for the rest of the day.
We are hi-klass all the way.
Fiver was not last!
He did it again and ran a half mile in the blazing sun, but this time he was second to last. He also made it in under seven minutes again.
As a reward, we let him cool off by hanging out in his underwear for the rest of the day.
We are hi-klass all the way.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Where Has The Week Gone?
I woke up and realized today is Friday*, and that I have very little recollection of the week that has passed.
And there weren't even any fun party drinks involved. Sheesh.
The week started with what was supposed to be a quick home improvement project, but anyone who has tried to improve a home knows that there is no such thing. There are frustrating projects, there are rip-your-hair-out projects, there are let's-just-burn-the-whole-place-down-and-start-over projects, but quick projects are an urban legend.
Rob and I have been wanting to paint the hall bathroom, also known as the Lair of Dirty Children, for years, mostly just to distract ourselves from the alarmingly fleshy color of the counter tops. They are seriously peachy. And marbled. And, in the words of Gollom, we hates them! hates them!
We will be replacing the counter tops some day, but until that some day arrives (probably sometime after all the children have graduated and we no longer need a "kids" bathroom) we wanted to look at something other than flat white paint and dirty hand smudges on the walls.
Rob diligently taped and then we took turns priming since we still had to, you know, parent the children and all. They get cranky when lunch doesn't appear promptly by noon. By the time we were ready to get the painting party started, it was nearly six o'clock at night. We were still hoping that we could really knock it out once the kids were in bed and we could double team the painting.
I know, I know. You would think that this was our first HIP, what with all the optimism floating around. You would think that the lessons of the eleventy jillion other projects that took three times as long as we estimated would have sunk in by now. Heh.
I washerding cats getting the kids ready for bed, when Rob called me to the bathroom. I don't care what you're doing or who you are, that's never a good sign.
Does this paint look right to you? It's really thin.
How thin?
I don't know. Really thin. Thin thin. Like watercolor thin.
It can't be that thin. Why would it be that thin?
I don't know, but it is just running down the wall.
Did you mix it?
Nope. Didn't mix it at all. Not one little stir. Of course I mixed it!
Let me see. Wow. That's thin.
I think I heard that somewhere before.
And on and on we went until we discovered that the other can of paint was normal and thick and that the first can was a dud. Rob decided to take it back and get a new can of paint, even though we were now pushing seven o'clock and there was no paint on the walls.
He called me from the big box home improvement store that rhymes with KNOWS. As in, "who KNOWS if you will be able to find anyone who can provide an ounce of customer service?"
Rob sure didn't.
They refused to replace the can of paint because it was a custom color, even though he opened the can and showed them the colored water contained therein. The paint chief was called in and the manager was called in and they all insisted that "that was how paint was supposed to look". If you were doing an impressionist watercolor maybe.
Seeing he would get no satisfaction, my unfailingly polite husband pushed the can across the desk and calmly told them that they could dispose of it since it was of no use to him. They are so lucky I was not there because someone may have ended up wearing Apple Green #4.
Long story long, we managed to finish painting the first coat that night, and I kept going back to it through the week, touching up here and there while the big kids were at school and the little kids napped.
I'm still not finished, since we have to put up the towel hooks and the obligatory framed pictures of a bathtub and toilet. In case you forget where you are. Oh, I kid. I might as well just put up a picture of the bathroom floor for as many times as my kids have used that as the toilet.
What I don't have the energy or the heart to tell Rob is that I really think the paint is a little too yellow for the room and that maybe we should have gone one shade deeper.
I can't afford to have him stroke out before we have to paint the hallway above the stairs.
*And by the time I publish this, it very well may have morphed into Saturday already.
And there weren't even any fun party drinks involved. Sheesh.
The week started with what was supposed to be a quick home improvement project, but anyone who has tried to improve a home knows that there is no such thing. There are frustrating projects, there are rip-your-hair-out projects, there are let's-just-burn-the-whole-place-down-and-start-over projects, but quick projects are an urban legend.
Rob and I have been wanting to paint the hall bathroom, also known as the Lair of Dirty Children, for years, mostly just to distract ourselves from the alarmingly fleshy color of the counter tops. They are seriously peachy. And marbled. And, in the words of Gollom, we hates them! hates them!
We will be replacing the counter tops some day, but until that some day arrives (probably sometime after all the children have graduated and we no longer need a "kids" bathroom) we wanted to look at something other than flat white paint and dirty hand smudges on the walls.
Rob diligently taped and then we took turns priming since we still had to, you know, parent the children and all. They get cranky when lunch doesn't appear promptly by noon. By the time we were ready to get the painting party started, it was nearly six o'clock at night. We were still hoping that we could really knock it out once the kids were in bed and we could double team the painting.
I know, I know. You would think that this was our first HIP, what with all the optimism floating around. You would think that the lessons of the eleventy jillion other projects that took three times as long as we estimated would have sunk in by now. Heh.
I was
Does this paint look right to you? It's really thin.
How thin?
I don't know. Really thin. Thin thin. Like watercolor thin.
It can't be that thin. Why would it be that thin?
I don't know, but it is just running down the wall.
Did you mix it?
Nope. Didn't mix it at all. Not one little stir. Of course I mixed it!
Let me see. Wow. That's thin.
I think I heard that somewhere before.
And on and on we went until we discovered that the other can of paint was normal and thick and that the first can was a dud. Rob decided to take it back and get a new can of paint, even though we were now pushing seven o'clock and there was no paint on the walls.
He called me from the big box home improvement store that rhymes with KNOWS. As in, "who KNOWS if you will be able to find anyone who can provide an ounce of customer service?"
Rob sure didn't.
They refused to replace the can of paint because it was a custom color, even though he opened the can and showed them the colored water contained therein. The paint chief was called in and the manager was called in and they all insisted that "that was how paint was supposed to look". If you were doing an impressionist watercolor maybe.
Seeing he would get no satisfaction, my unfailingly polite husband pushed the can across the desk and calmly told them that they could dispose of it since it was of no use to him. They are so lucky I was not there because someone may have ended up wearing Apple Green #4.
Long story long, we managed to finish painting the first coat that night, and I kept going back to it through the week, touching up here and there while the big kids were at school and the little kids napped.
I'm still not finished, since we have to put up the towel hooks and the obligatory framed pictures of a bathtub and toilet. In case you forget where you are. Oh, I kid. I might as well just put up a picture of the bathroom floor for as many times as my kids have used that as the toilet.
What I don't have the energy or the heart to tell Rob is that I really think the paint is a little too yellow for the room and that maybe we should have gone one shade deeper.
I can't afford to have him stroke out before we have to paint the hallway above the stairs.
*And by the time I publish this, it very well may have morphed into Saturday already.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The Last Shall Be First
We signed Fiver up for his school's CYO cross country team this year, and every Monday and Thursday evening he has been going to practice with Rob and running his little heart out.
Fiver wanted to be on "a team", and we thought that cross country might be the perfect fit for him. It's a team sport with individual participation. No one is counting on him to catch a ball, or kick a ball, or throw a ball. No one is going to miss a play because his arms and legs aren't strong enough.
It's hard to tell if he likes it, because Fiver is not a big talker, but he goes to practice happily and doesn't ask us if he can quit. We take that as an endorsement on his part. Rob enjoys running with him because Rob used to run cross country, and he is one of those people who likes to "run for fun and exercise." (A genetic defect, I think.)
Fiver's first meet was this weekend, and I didn't know what to expect. Kindergartners run a half mile, and Fiver had done it at practice in 6:08. But there were so many variables at the meet -- unfamiliar field, his first meet, his first year on the team -- I wasn't even sure if he would finish the course.
I knew he was nervous because all his quirks were coming to the surface. The head shaking, the repetition of other's people's speech, the low, atonal humming, all of it was displayed at some point. I looked around at the other kids and their parents, stretching, laughing, sipping water, and I just prayed that Fiver could finish. That's all.
While my mom and my sister kept the other kids, Rob took Fiver over to the starting line, and I stood behind the fence to watch him go. All the kids took off in group, and I saw Fiver near the back of the pack, running his head shaking, arms and legs flying kind of run with a smile on his face.
After he passed me, I turned and ran up the hill so I could cheer him on when he passed. One by one all the other kids came jogging by, and there, at the very end, was Fiver. He was half running, half walking next to the eighth grade boy who was at the back to make sure no one got left behind. He wasn't smiling anymore.
I called out to him and when he looked up, I waved and shouted and clapped. He smiled, and then he cried out, "Mommy! Mommy! Where is Daddy? I don't see him!" And he started to cry. He was so used to Rob running with him in practice that he was sort of lost without him.
The eighth grade boy, God bless his heart, was gently encouraging and jogged right along with him, but Fiver wanted his dad.
I started jogging with him and stayed with him until we met up with Rob, who took him through the middle part of the course. Meanwhile, I ran down the hill so that I could see him finish. If he finished at all.
I stood by the chute with all the other parents. Again, I watched the other children run past and heard the parents cheering. I clapped as the stragglers came in, but there was no sign of Fiver. I started to think that maybe he didn't have enough steam to finish and that Rob had taken him off the course.
Figuring that the kids were done, many people stopped clapping and started to drift away to watch the next race. I wondered if I would be the only one left when Fiver finally made it through the chute. I wondered if he was even going to make it.
Then I saw him. Red faced, but running, he and Rob came around the corner. I yelled out his name and started clapping. When they realized that there was one more runner, the other parents and fans started cheering wildly. As Fiver passed me, he was beaming.
And that's when I started to cry. He was dead last, but he finished the whole course. He had given it everything he had, and he was greeted like a conquering hero. I wanted to hug every person who cheered him on.
There were very few people at the race who know how far Fiver has come, but for those who do, the difference cannot be denied.
Two years ago he couldn't put on his own shoes, he didn't look people in the eye or speak to them, he couldn't jump, and he didn't have the strength to hold a pencil.
This weekend he ran half a mile in under seven minutes.
Thank you, God, for this child who shows me that being first is the least important goal. Thank you, God, for this child who has a smile about three sizes too big for his face. Thank you, God, for this child who works ten times as hard for things that come as easily as breathing to most people.
He finished the course, my prayer was answered, and my heart is full.
Fiver wanted to be on "a team", and we thought that cross country might be the perfect fit for him. It's a team sport with individual participation. No one is counting on him to catch a ball, or kick a ball, or throw a ball. No one is going to miss a play because his arms and legs aren't strong enough.
It's hard to tell if he likes it, because Fiver is not a big talker, but he goes to practice happily and doesn't ask us if he can quit. We take that as an endorsement on his part. Rob enjoys running with him because Rob used to run cross country, and he is one of those people who likes to "run for fun and exercise." (A genetic defect, I think.)
Fiver's first meet was this weekend, and I didn't know what to expect. Kindergartners run a half mile, and Fiver had done it at practice in 6:08. But there were so many variables at the meet -- unfamiliar field, his first meet, his first year on the team -- I wasn't even sure if he would finish the course.
I knew he was nervous because all his quirks were coming to the surface. The head shaking, the repetition of other's people's speech, the low, atonal humming, all of it was displayed at some point. I looked around at the other kids and their parents, stretching, laughing, sipping water, and I just prayed that Fiver could finish. That's all.
While my mom and my sister kept the other kids, Rob took Fiver over to the starting line, and I stood behind the fence to watch him go. All the kids took off in group, and I saw Fiver near the back of the pack, running his head shaking, arms and legs flying kind of run with a smile on his face.
After he passed me, I turned and ran up the hill so I could cheer him on when he passed. One by one all the other kids came jogging by, and there, at the very end, was Fiver. He was half running, half walking next to the eighth grade boy who was at the back to make sure no one got left behind. He wasn't smiling anymore.
I called out to him and when he looked up, I waved and shouted and clapped. He smiled, and then he cried out, "Mommy! Mommy! Where is Daddy? I don't see him!" And he started to cry. He was so used to Rob running with him in practice that he was sort of lost without him.
The eighth grade boy, God bless his heart, was gently encouraging and jogged right along with him, but Fiver wanted his dad.
I started jogging with him and stayed with him until we met up with Rob, who took him through the middle part of the course. Meanwhile, I ran down the hill so that I could see him finish. If he finished at all.
I stood by the chute with all the other parents. Again, I watched the other children run past and heard the parents cheering. I clapped as the stragglers came in, but there was no sign of Fiver. I started to think that maybe he didn't have enough steam to finish and that Rob had taken him off the course.
Figuring that the kids were done, many people stopped clapping and started to drift away to watch the next race. I wondered if I would be the only one left when Fiver finally made it through the chute. I wondered if he was even going to make it.
Then I saw him. Red faced, but running, he and Rob came around the corner. I yelled out his name and started clapping. When they realized that there was one more runner, the other parents and fans started cheering wildly. As Fiver passed me, he was beaming.
And that's when I started to cry. He was dead last, but he finished the whole course. He had given it everything he had, and he was greeted like a conquering hero. I wanted to hug every person who cheered him on.
There were very few people at the race who know how far Fiver has come, but for those who do, the difference cannot be denied.
Two years ago he couldn't put on his own shoes, he didn't look people in the eye or speak to them, he couldn't jump, and he didn't have the strength to hold a pencil.
This weekend he ran half a mile in under seven minutes.
Thank you, God, for this child who shows me that being first is the least important goal. Thank you, God, for this child who has a smile about three sizes too big for his face. Thank you, God, for this child who works ten times as hard for things that come as easily as breathing to most people.
He finished the course, my prayer was answered, and my heart is full.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Off Duty
Francie (upon seeing Bun playing on the sofa with Rob nearby): Daddy! Be careful! He fell off the couch one time and his guardian angel caught him, but I don't know where she'll be this time.
Got it. Daddy is good, but not as good as a guardian angel. Even if she's on break.
PS: Yes, Bun did fall off the sofa. On my watch. But although he started to fall headfirst, he landed on his cushily diapered bottom. That was the guardian angel action right there.
Got it. Daddy is good, but not as good as a guardian angel. Even if she's on break.
PS: Yes, Bun did fall off the sofa. On my watch. But although he started to fall headfirst, he landed on his cushily diapered bottom. That was the guardian angel action right there.
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