Autism: The Musical

A friend recently recommended this documentary about a woman who mounted a full-scale musical production with an entirely autistic cast of kids, through an organization she founded called the Miracle Project. Wow. I ordered it right away, and Brian and I just watched it tonight. Wow. Again. Wow.

We needed this film right now, because the truth is, we are struggling. Jack is getting the best possible environment and help, but Mom and Dad need help, too. We have an amazing support network of friends and family and teachers, but we have reached our limit with each other, and it’s showing. We both have had this sort of victim mentality, like we have had this tough situation forced upon us. We love Jack dearly, but we didn’t ask for the difficulties his condition would bring, and we’re sniping and snapping at each other, which really helps no one. It reminds me of that tourist pirate t-shirt that says, “Floggings will continue until morale improves.” Nobody likes floggings. At least no one in my house.

I’ve been in three kinds of therapy for years, but Brian’s been in and out. He has recently started seeing a therapist locally, though, which I think will be a big help. We both just need people to talk to who aren’t living with us, married to us, or involved in the decisions we have to make. The priest who married us nine years ago said that he thinks everyone should be in therapy as preventive health care, not just in times of crisis. (Have I said this before?) At any rate, the longer I live, the more I agree with his statement.

We had a big talk the other day about this idea that we’re stuck, trapped in an endlessly difficult, relentless grind, and that it’s killing us. It was sort of a revelation to say to ourselves, “You know, we could leave. Nobody’s stopping us.” It happens all the time. Couples split up. Children are put up for adoption. But we haven’t been acting like we have those options and have chosen not to take them, which is in fact the case. We have chosen to stay. We have chosen to love and raise Jack the best we can. We have chosen to do this as a team. So let’s start acting like one.

The documentary followed five kids who were part of the Miracle Project, as well as their families and the struggles they have faced. One couple split up during the filming. Another had divorced years ago, and the single mom was raising her son alone, until she found a new love. In a third couple, the husband started a 16-month affair right after his son’s diagnosis. This shit is hard, people. We’re not the only ones struggling. I am sure that every parent, every couple, has had moments of crisis and difficulty, but it seems to me that when there’s a diagnosis or disability involved, those crises and difficulties come more frequently. Maybe that’s not fair, but it sure seems that way to me. I’ve been reading a blog called Mostly True Stuff written by a mom of four kids, two of whom have special needs. How she has the time, energy, and coherence to keep a blog is beyond me, but I’m so glad she does, because she’s a source of great inspiration, humor, and reassurance. We’re not the only ones.

It helped us so much to see other families struggle with autism and raising kids, if only to feel less alone in it all. One of the parents featured in the film is Stephen Stills, of Crosby, Stills, and Nash. His son has Asperger’s. And Stills admits that something genetically similar causes him to “hold a guitar between me and the rest of the world.” Watching these families, Brian and I realized that as hard as it’s been, we’re doing okay. We don’t need to measure our family or our marriage against some impossible ideal. The reality is a lot messier, and if that means there’s no magical answer, at least we’re in good company.

The last ten or so minutes of the film shows the opening night of the musical: the boy who plays “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on his cello; the girl who sings beautifully, even though in daily life, she can barely talk; the dinosaur expert who has aced all his lines and steals the show; the boy afraid of bullies who sings a number called “I’m So Sensitive.” The closing credits roll to Stevie Wonder’s “I’ll Be Loving You Always.” We had to pause it several times to cry, to laugh, to grab each other’s hands. Just to see what’s possible. It won’t be easy. But I think we’ve stopped expecting easy, at this point. We’ll settle for really, really good. Which we already have.

Bloom and Grow

At Jack’s nap time, I usually sing “Edelweiss” as his lullabye, and I recently heard of or saw a store called Bloom and Grow, from a line in that song, and it made me happy. And that’s our whole point, here, isn’t it? To help him bloom and grow.

So I really can’t remember where I left off in the school saga, but I’ll just offer a quick review, in case I’ve said this before. And if you remember because you’re not a mom and/or your brain works better than mine, just skip this part. So the deal is that Jack was first assessed and diagnosed by a local agency that does “early intervention” for kids under three. We met with them, coordinated services and therapies we wanted through them, and were good. But that was only for about two months, and then Jack turned three. At three, all of that responsibility shifts from the early intervention agency to the public schools, a division called Preschool Services. We started meeting with this new group in February to discuss his current ability levels, decide on evaluations, and draw up an IEP (individualized education plan).

At first, I just took it as a headache. I was warned that some of these people are bureaucrats and don’t really care much about the families they meet with, just stare at their computers through the meeting. But in our first meeting, which they asked us to bring Jack to, one of the women got up and moved to the back of the room to play with Jack, while the others asked us questions and got more background information on him. I got a pretty good feeling from all of these people. They seemed more friendly than I was expecting, and they seemed to genuinely like Jack. Of course, there’s the voice that says, “Who wouldn’t?” But that’s a mom’s voice. These people weren’t his mom, and they really liked him. It was touching, actually.

We had to delay our second meeting, the evaluation, due to a double ear infection and a sick mommy, but they were OK rescheduling. On the new eval date, we had to leave Jack alone in the classroom with a speech and language pathologist, a school psychologist, a special ed preschool instructor, an occupational therapist, and a physical therapist. That made us anxious, and we found out later that it was a difficult hour or so for him, but they were trying to find the edges of his abilities and sort of pushed him to find those limits. It’s a good thing I wasn’t in the room, no doubt.

On the day of the third meeting, in which we would discuss the actual IEP and the team’s recommendations, Brian and I had an argument. He stayed at home with Jack to meet our regular OT, and I went alone to the meeting. It was a small argument, more of a “I’m doing more than you no I’m doing more than you” kind of thing. But there have been many of those since Jack’s initial diagnosis, and we were both frayed and tired. And afraid, too. I went to the meeting expecting to have to fight for any help at all for Jack. I was on edge. And their recommendations tipped me over that edge.

First, I’ll say that my initial impression of their concern for Jack was only confirmed in this meeting. I could tell by their expressions and the words they used that they really loved him and wanted to help him. They also confirmed the earlier tentative diagnosis of autism and paused to make sure that was OK with me. I just shrugged. It’s what I had assumed all along. But I was still caught off guard when they recommended full-time special education schooling for him, five days a week. I balked. All along, Brian and I had said that we wanted Jack to stay where he was. We didn’t want to yank him from a place where he’s obviously happy with only two months left in the school year, only to yank him out again when we move in July. But the team argued that two months at this age is still a pretty big deal and could give him a crucial edge in his therapy.

They gave me a name, a school, an address, a phone number. They encouraged us to take a tour, gushed about the amazing teachers and great environment. I didn’t sign anything without talking to Brian, but I was swayed by their obvious concern and enthusiasm to help Jack. When I called Brian from the road to discuss it, we both cried. We didn’t realize how much help our baby needed. It was hard to face, but we also knew that we wanted all the help we could get for him, and they were offering us the maximum. He called the school and scheduled a tour for the next morning.

We toured the school and honestly, we didn’t love it. The educational director wasn’t available. She was in a meeting. The finance guy, who may have a shade or two of autism himself, was our tour guide. Despite the new, clean facility, there just seemed to be something missing. No one looked happy to be there. We didn’t see any ongoing therapy happening. In the one classroom we visited, the kids were eating lunch and no one really offered to talk to us. Then the guy took us out to a trailer classroom and told us that Jack would likely be placed there. I cringed. He tried the door. It stuck. He pulled harder, and it skidded open. It was dark inside. He said, “Oh, they must be out,” and he flipped on the lights. Groggy kids on cots raised their heads. The teachers didn’t holler, didn’t protest. They just smiled and let us stand there in the harsh fluorescent lighting, waking up their kids. It was odd and kind of creepy. And the tiny windows at the top of the vinyl walls did nothing to cheer me.

The first thing I said to Brian as we walked to the car was, “If he’s in that trailer, my answer is no.” But Brian had a different concern. “Did you see that corn they served for lunch? It was brown.”

So we were back to square one. We called the IEP coordinator. We talked to our case manager from the early intervention agency. I even checked in with our private OT. All three were pretty shocked by our impressions. Apparently this place has a great reputation. We must have gotten them on a bad day. But I don’t ignore my gut, bad day or not. Jack wouldn’t be happy there, and we wouldn’t want to leave him there. It helped us make our decision more fully when we got to his current preschool to pick him up and the halls were overflowing with happy kids and parents and teachers, so much more lively and joyful than the place we’d just left. When we checked in with his teachers about his day, they were beside themselves. “Guess what Jack did today! Look!” One of his teachers held out her phone with a photo on it of Jack patting a baby doll in a crib. Whoa.

This may not seem like a big deal, but for Jack, this is major. Major. Because he has never, ever, ever pretended. Ever. It’s actually one of the hallmarks/symptoms of autism. Kids don’t engage in pretend play, like their peers do. But they told us that he put the baby in the little toy cradle, put a blanket on it, and patted it. Tears stung my eyes. I should’ve kept my mouth shut, maybe, but I couldn’t. Not after seeing that dreary trailer classroom and the groggy kids. “Do you think we could have Jack stay here five days a week?” I asked the teacher. Her face lit up. She told the other teacher. They both urged me to talk to the preschool director, but that they’d be fine with that. They would love that. You see, they love Jack, too.

We had to wait to hear back from the IEP team. Chances were they would say take it or leave it. If you depart from our recommendations, you’re on  your own. They had done their work, and there was no reason to expect more from them now. But we gave it a shot. While we waited, I stewed. What if we take him to a different school, another similar facility elsewhere in the county? We knew a friend who was very happy with her son’s placement at an Easter Seals school. I had divided my options into two possible camps: either Jack would get to stay where he was, and we’d be on our own for therapy, or he would get more intensive help at a different place. I never considered we could have both.

When the IEP director finally got back to us, it was really only a few days later, but it felt like years. He said that if we were willing to have Jack attend his current school five days a week, they could bring the intensive therapy to him there. They would have to revise the IEP and have us sign the new copy. And he was sticking by his recommendation of the school we didn’t like for the fall. That last part doesn’t matter to us because we’re leaving, but we didn’t tell him that. We were just so relieved and so thrilled that Jack could stay where he is, where he’s happy and loved and making progress, but also get more help than we can offer on our own. It’s hard to be a parent, to realize that you need help to raise your kid. But that’s the whole point, right? To watch them bloom and grow.

Message in a Bottle

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and a lot is going on, so I may just do a bunch of posts at once, instead of one long litany of events. I also cannot currently speak, so writing is my only means of expression. So get ready.

On Jack’s three-year checkup with our beloved pediatrician, we finally got the thumbs down on continuing the bottle with Jack. OK, now, judge me if you will. Yes, the kid is three. But he can drink water and juice just fine from a cup. Not even a sippy cup. He doesn’t even like those things. He can drink out of my big water glass, uses both hands, usually adds some backwash, sometimes spills a few drops, but it’s all good. But he *would not* drink milk from anything but the same type of bottle we used while I was nursing him. And honestly, the bottle got us through many a tantrum during the infamous “terrible twos.” But our doc pointed out that sucking on the bottle can misshape his teeth and can also cause worse tooth decay, with the milk sugars building up behind those front teeth. Unlike other people, however, our doctor had a plan. He told us to offer Jack nothing but milk in a cup. No water, no juice. For a day, maybe two. “He’ll be mad,” he said. “But eventually, thirst will win out, and he’ll start drinking from the cup.”

Jack started drinking milk from the cup at the first meal. He was thirsty. But he took a teeny, tiny, painful sip and made a horrible face, as though the lack of old sour milk from the bottle’s crevices detracted horribly from the milk’s bouquet. But whatever. He drank it. Even so, I got worried after the first day that he would get dehydrated, so I introduced water back in. He will still take tiny, painful sips of the milk, pursing his lips together and maybe getting three drops on his lips before putting the cup down. But the benefits have been a hundredfold. Let me tell you, I seriously wish I’d done it sooner.

Here’s why. Jack started *eating.* We never starved the kid, but getting him to eat meals was usually a nightmare, and we’ve been feeding him ourselves since he was five months old, because he refused to feed himself. He turned down any new flavor or texture. We specifically asked for an OT who could help us with feeding issues (common among kids with autism) because every meal time became a battle. Several people had said that if we got him off the bottle, those problems might just go away, but we were like, “Oh, yeah, let’s hold our breath.” But they were RIGHT. Jack had been getting probably four bottles a day. That’s a lot of calories. Once we got him off the bottle, he was suddenly *hungry.* Really hungry. Ravenous. He started *asking* to sit at the kitchen table and have “lunch” (regardless of the actual meal time). Now he’ll eat fish, broccoli, chicken, stuff he wouldn’t eat a month ago.

AND…. Now he’ll actually feed himself. Because he’s hungry! Big heaping spoonfuls of yogurt and applesauce teeter precariously on his kiddie spoon, and almost all of it makes it into his mouth almost every time. He’ll stab grapes and cubes of chicken with his little fork and bring them to his mouth. I know this may sound like “duh” to a lot of people. But I’ve been watching other people’s children eating enthusiastically with a kind of envy I can’t even describe. “You mean your kid actually, you know, eats? That’s amazing!” Jack has always been a slow eater, even when I was nursing him. We would sit down to watch a movie, I’d put him on his little boppy and start feeding him, and about… oh… halfway through the movie, I’d switch sides. The boy takes his time. And such is still the case. But oh, it’s so worth the time, now that he’s willing to sit in that chair and have a meal. Halle-freakin’-lujah!

I’m not sure if this is related, but I suspect it is: Jack is also *sleeping* better at nights. He goes to bed and usually stays asleep through the night. He used to wake up at 3am and party for an hour or two before going back to sleep. I don’t know if it was because his bladder was fuller, or the milk sugar revved him up, or it was something completely unrelated. But aside from a recent illness, he’s been doing great on sleep, too. His diapers are also a lot less full, and we’ve had fewer explosions in the night, fewer loads of peepee sheets to wash, etc. I’ll say it again: Halle-freakin’-lujah!

So this post is a pretty literal interpretation of “feed the baby,” but that’s how this whole thing got started. Rock on.

February Is Almost Over. And I’m Not.

OK, if you’ve been on Facebook with any regularity, you have probably recently read my post telling the month of February to go fuck itself. I was surprised by the range of responses to this post. A lot of people laughed, some were offended, some were concerned for my well-being, and possibly my sanity. At first, my little Rebel perked up and said, “What? I can’t tell February to fuck itself? Watch me. I am 41 years old. I can do whatever I want to.” Sounds mature, no? But it had more to say: “I am actually a real human being and possess the full range of human emotion and am not, as some may think, dying of terminal cheerfulness.” This is the rebel who’s been a nice girl for far too long. She needs to be heard. I am allowed to bitch. I am allowed to kvetch. I am allowed to complain about a month that for twelve years now has held me captive.

Since my mother’s death in 2001, on February 7, I have dreaded this month, which is also the month of my birth. In addition, because it’s a birthday month, there are always expectations that are sometimes met and sometimes not. Then there’s Valentine’s Day, which is a mind-fuck for a lot of us. And then on the 22nd, there’s Washington’s Birthday, which my parents both called “Birthington’s Wash Day.” This date is the anniversary of my parents’ engagement, in 1969. It is also the anniversary of my dear Uncle Jack’s death, in 2001, fifteen days after his kid sister’s (my mom’s). OK, so going in, it’s already a loaded gun. Then add Jack’s fever, my fever and sinus infection (on the aforementioned birthday), meetings with the school system to determine autism services for Jack after his third birthday (on Valentine’s Day), Brian’s dear grandmother’s death and funeral, all followed by a double ear infection and a mighty attack of the antibiotic shits in our little man. Brian said it reminds him of surfing on a really bad day, when you just come up for air and get hit on the head by another wave, or the board. Amen.

I am tempted here to escape from my tirade and count my blessings. It is true. I have many, and they are big. Big. I’m married to the biggest. I gave birth to the second biggest, who’s really more of a tie. But I feel that the old saw to “count your blessings” denies any difficulties at all, and that’s not the way life works. At least not my life. Life isn’t a subtractive game, where a good thing or easy thing or joyful thing cancels out the difficult stuff, the ugly stuff. It’s additive. Both exist. And – deep breath — both are needed. We look at these big life events like they should be made out of cardboard, two-dimensional. You’re just happy or just sad. But my experience has been a lot more complex than that. Yes, I was sad that my mother was dying. I was devastated. I wanted anything in the world but that to be happening. I wanted to be anyone else but who I was, the girl losing her mother. I felt helpless and rageful and exhausted and terrified. And in the midst of that, we laughed. There was tenderness and beauty, even when it wasn’t pretty.

When I had Jack, of course I was thrilled to meet him, smell him, touch him, hear his tiny newborn voice. And — nothing would ever be the same again. Like with my mother’s death, I went through a very real period of grief. I felt helpless and rageful and exhausted and terrified in totally new ways. In the shadow of Jack’s birth, Brian had a severe episode of mental illness, and my father was dying of lung cancer, which is what killed my mother. Jack was only six months old when we lost my dad. There was so much going on at once. It was overwhelming, yes. But it was also a very rich time, very thick with real emotion and caring.

When I was single, I used to think of finding a life partner as a treat, like an ice cream sundae–a reward for getting all fixed. You can ask my husband of nine years how that worked out. There really is no finish line, no end point where you’re finally “there.” You’re only, ever, eternally, here. If you let yourself be. And here is messy and complicated and many-layered. Relationships are hard work, and joyful children are difficult to raise. I am anything but “all fixed.” Most days, I feel like I’m falling apart. And maybe — deep breath — that’s a good thing.

Two nights ago, Jack woke up several times in the night crying. The antibiotics had really done a number on his tummy, and he was in obvious pain. I could hear the gas twisting and moaning in his little body. I sat with him–helpless and rageful and exhausted and terrified. I didn’t know what to do or how to help him. We called the on-call doctor, and luckily it was our favorite man who called us back. He told us that we couldn’t use an anti-diarrheal medicine, that the gas and pain would have to work itself out. All we could do was sit with him, rub his back, say “shhh-shhh” over and over. It made me think of Atticus Finch, at the end of To Kill a Mockingbird, where Scout says that he sat up with Jem, “and he would still be there when Jem waked up in the morning.” Watching the movie, I never considered how exhausted and terrified he must have been. He’d almost lost his boy! Maybe it was just Gregory Peck looking debonaire and stoic, but I sure felt a lot less noble and considerably more whiny as Jack writhed and cried in his little bed, clutching at his pillows. There are all kinds of helpless, and there are all kinds of hard.

Today was better. We got clearance to stop the wicked antibiotics. His ear infections have cleared up. He even ate some dinner. It’s amazing what a happy boy can do to change your outlook on life. And I’m reminded of the old wisdom: “This too shall pass.” Even gas. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) So February is ending, and I look into March with some trepidation. There’s no guarantee it will be any easier. But I have found sustenance in the things that helped me during my mom’s illness, during labor: deep breaths, small sparks of color, the sound of cardinals singing in the backyard, raindrops on the new plants from good friends. And the realization that I’ve made it this far. February will end. I won’t.

Taming My Inner Pigeon

Jack has a lot of books. One of them is Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, by Mo Willems. In the book, the bus driver leaves you, the reader, in charge of the bus for a little while. As he departs, he gives very clear instructions. Three guesses what they are. (See above title.) Then the rest of the book details the ways in which this wily bird tries to fool you, the reader, into letting him drive the bus. Honestly, it annoyed me at first. But it is really a work of brilliance, in part because it’s interactive. The kid reading is supposed to keep yelling, “No!” to the pesky pigeon. Brian and I actually have a pretty good time trying to out-shout each other. We’re always laughing by the end. Jack just sort of rolls his eyes at us. I think he’s practicing to be a teenager.

So, this may seem like a strange segue, but this book reminds me of healing school, where my teacher told us (among many other things) that all parts of our selves, including the little itty bitty annoying parts, are allowed to have a seat on the bus. We let everyone ride. But not everyone can drive. The four-year-old part of you who feels abandoned and cheated because he has a new sibling has a place and must be heard. But he can’t be in charge. That’s your job. The grown-up you. The integrated you. The one who can reach the pedals and steer at the same time.

A dear friend of mine and I were talking on Saturday about the inner voice that tells you that you’ll never get married, never have children, never finish writing that book, never lose that weight. And we talked about how we need to tell that inner voice to fuck the hell off. In Buddhism, they call it “monkey mind” (as opposed to “Big Mind”). My life coach (Yes, I have a life coach. Don’t judge me. She totally rocks.) calls this voice the Saboteur. It may be true that you don’t get married, decide not to have children, drop the book for a different project, or decide you’re fine at your current weight. But the Saboteur makes you feel shitty about it. You won’t lose the weight, and you’re a horrible person, too. The writer and Zen teacher Natalie Goldberg says that her monkey mind says basically three things: “You’re stupid! You’re ugly! I hate you!” Over and over again.

That seems to be the signature of the Saboteur: repetition. It’s like the pigeon from the book, trying every angle to make you cave to its will. From the study I’ve done, I believe it’s a structure in our ego that’s trying to help us, trying to keep us from failure or hurt or danger. But it’s a stupid little bird, and it doesn’t need to be in charge of anything. So I’ve learned a little trick that helps me actually go into my studio, pick up the phone and call my old friend, sit down and write the next chapter, take a walk or go to yoga. And yes, I learned it from my life coach. So there.

Every day, I sit down and set a timer for five minutes. I take on the persona of my Saboteur/Monkey Mind/Pigeon, and I write out all of those horrible things I hear it shouting in my head. Before I begin, I say something like, “OK, you’ve got five minutes. Say it.” Then I start writing. It’s always variations on Natalie Goldberg’s example. You suck. Nobody likes you. Blah fucking blah. But I let it speak, and I write down everything it says. Usually in a five-minute span, it will repeat itself at least two or three times. It has a very limited repertoire. Then at the end of the five minutes, I stop writing. I tear out the sheet of paper and rip it into tiny pieces, and then I throw all of the pieces into the trash. Then I say something like, “OK, you’ve had your say. Now fuck off and get out of my way.” And I walk into the studio and get to work.

That voice has gotten stronger since Jack’s autism diagnosis. It gets stronger when I’m about to do anything scary or exciting or new. But I get stronger, too. And I’m finding that when someone on the outside triggers that nasty little pigeon voice, I can shut it down pretty quickly. Not every time. But more and more often, as I keep practicing, I’ve found that I can stop internalizing that critical voice and tell it to fuck off. Of course, we don’t use the F word when reading Jack’s book, but I think the glee with which we shout “No!” is good for something.

Dispatch From the Clay People

We are covered in dust. Our hair is matted and gray. Our feet and ankles stained permanently white, cracked and dry. When we walk through the neighborhood, hand in hand, my son and I send up clouds of white powder into the new autumn breeze. His thick blond hair stands on end, wild like a mad scientist. Perhaps our neighbors think we’re practicing for Halloween: Charlie Brown’s Pigpen and Friends.

Halloween gives me a good segue, because it all started with a black cat. Two years ago, we adopted a long-haired black cat from friends who had rescued him from Hurricane Alex in 2005. He was five at the time, and now seven years old, named Alex after his eponymous storm. Alex did not get along well with the other cat in our friends’ household, which I understand now is an understatement of monumental proportions. He regularly attacked his sister cat at the litter box, causing fear as well as manifest physical problems for her. Our friends needed to find a home with no other pets. My father had just died, and two years earlier, we had lost our beloved cat, Izzie. So Alex became ours, and until recently, all was well.

Then Alex escaped. He was gone for most of a day and returned like Odysseus, victorious and filthy. We thought little of it, kept him inside from then on and guarded the doors more carefully. Then he began to itch. Again, I thought little of it at first. I let it go far too long. Our old cat, Izzie, had itchy skin, an atopic dermatitis. But then Alex started hiding, sleeping in corners and behind open doors. I should call the vet, I thought, more than once. And didn’t. By the time I saw the first flea, Alex had been scratching for weeks. You can send my Pet Owner of the Year Award to my home address.

So, Alex had fleas. Which means so did we. Thanks to Facebook, we had a wealth of advice to choose from, but a good friend who had tried the traditional exterminator route with no success recommended a combination of diatomaceous earth and live nematodes to kill the living adult fleas, as well as the larvae and eggs around the house. Neither the earth (food grade) nor the nematodes are dangerous or poisonous for us, thankfully. My son is two and getting his molars, his fingers almost constantly dug into the back of his mouth. I didn’t want to risk poisoning his little body, but honestly, it was the jerky exterminator who really blew that plan. “I’ll just give this invoice to the husband,” he said to me. Oh, please do. All of those big numbers just make my pretty little head swim.

So diatomaceous earth and nematodes it was. It is. We are still in the process of ridding our home and lives of the tiny menace that is a flea infestation. They are tiny but many, and it is far past time to get rid of them. Sprinkling what feels and smells like chalk dust around my house, I yelled gleefully, “Die! Die! Die!” I had no idea how the dust would permeate everything, however: our clothes, our hair, our carpets. We even doused Alex, the black cat, who for a while looked almost completely white with it, our ghost cat. Even after a thorough vacuum, and maybe because of it, we’re coughing up the dust, blowing it from our noses, cleaning it from the air conditioning filter. The package of earth estimates three weeks for complete elimination of the beasts. It’s now been less than one.

A friend of mine calls us the “clay people.” We laugh. But inwardly, I just really hope this works. I hope the inconvenience and dry skin and nappy hair will be worth it, and the fleas will be gone for good. When I asked the universe to be more grounded, I wasn’t expecting this.

What Are You Feeding That Kid?

OK, now that I’ve written a post about the baby, let’s attack the other part of that title: food. Ugh.

So. Last night, we took Jack to his preschool orientation. It was sort of a disaster. We like the place, love the teachers. But Jack clung to his father and cried pretty much the whole time. I’d love to say that I was a sympathetic mother and concerned for him, but frankly, I was just embarrassed. All of the other kids were on the floor, playing together–including the little girl who had come in bawling. Jesus Christ. We tried a bottle of milk, distracting him, etc. Both of his new teachers tried endlessly to engage and comfort him. Nothing worked. Finally, we just left early.

Both teachers, as well as the preschool director, were reassuring and sort of scrambling to encourage us to bring Jack back. I had no intention of not bringing him back. If anything, the experience confirmed for me that he needs to learn to socialize with his peers. I just felt ashamed by his behavior. I wanted him to be more likeable, more… normal. Even though from the day he was born, I knew he wasn’t normal. Not that he has anything wrong with him. He’s just an unusual little guy. He’s dreamy and sweet and spacey, like a good Pisces boy. He takes for. Ever. to eat any meal and would rather sing and play with his toys. He had no interest in the Disney characters and toys they offered in that preschool classroom. I could also tell that the racket of eight other kids and their parents and nervous teachers was jangling him. It jangled me.

On the way home from that fiasco, we called Indochine and ordered takeout. I ate not only my chicken pad thai, but also two huge shrimp summer rolls, a hefty serving of coconut ice cream, and about half a pound of cake. Sugar coma, anyone?

It’s an old pattern for me, eating my feelings. It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than actually feeling them. But in the end, where does it get me? The sugar overload actually got my endometriosis all excited, so I ended up not sleeping well, when I *desperately* needed sleep and rest. So if the work I’ve been doing at the gym doesn’t get me to eat more mindfully, my uterus will. And it turns out that feeling my feelings may actually end up being more comfortable than tossing and turning and taking extra ibuprofen at four a.m.

It turns out, after some online research, that sugar is a bad idea with endometriosis. Estrogen loves sugar. And estrogen is what increases my belly pain. Sugar’s also inflammatory and causes swelling. I know that I will be happier to eat nuts, beans, whole grain pasta, and veggies. I know that in the long run, I will be happier to let my emotions run their course, instead of numbing out. I already know this stuff. But apparently, I need a lot of reminders. As my old healing teacher used to say, “We are in the lineage of people who fall down and get back up again.”

So now I’m getting up. I’ll make fish or chicken for dinner. And next week, I’ll take Jack in for his first day of preschool. It may involve a lot of crying, for Jack and Mom. But we’re allowed to be scared, both of us. I need to teach both Jack and myself that lesson. Feelings are friends, not food. They may not always be gentle friends or nice friends, but in the end, they always help me. And that is something I can swallow.

Feed the Baby

I’ve recently started a new blog about art, and it’s made me think about this blog and my original intention with it, which was to document my various struggles as a new parent. I think more often, I have vented my issues with my own parents here. But it’s what I needed to do. So now I’m asking myself, “What does it mean to feed the baby? Who is the baby? And what feeds him/her/me?”

Jack isn’t really the baby, anymore, but that’s part of my current dilemma. He starts preschool next week, three days a week, for three hours a day. He’ll be right around the corner, at a liberal church we already know about, whose people we already like. I feel in every cell that it’s the right thing for him, the best thing for him. He’s a bright boy, smart as a whip, a good talker and singer and dancer. But he’s also very shy, and he hasn’t been around other kids very often. One of the first things the preschool director told us when we met with her was that at two, they really work on social skills. Bingo. She’s also right in line with our thinking about potty training. “Oh, we don’t force that at all,” she said. “They let us know when they’re ready.” Another gold star for Wee Care. And the cost is super-affordable. We couldn’t be happier. My only hesitation has only ever been, “Can Mom handle this?”

Sure, I have my share of separation anxiety. But Jack’s had babysitters and time with grandparents. We even had him in day care for a very short, disastrous, illness-laden time. (Maybe I still feel guilty about that last one.) It’s less about the time away from him than the realization that at two-and-a-half, Jack is actually *old enough for preschool.* What happened to my baby?? I’ll tell you what happened–what is happening. He’s growing up. Two years ago, I couldn’t wait until he could crawl, until I could ween him, until he could talk. Then I blinked, and here we are. I’ve just recently acknowledged my own need to grieve.

On Tuesday, I saw the movie The Odd Life of Timothy Green. It’s a Disney movie, and if you’re looking for logical explanations, don’t watch it. But I connected to the story in such a basic, visceral way. Two parents can’t have a child, and they take one night to imagine the kid they could never have. They write down all of the attributes, put them in a box, and bury the box in their garden. Then a boy arrives who fits all of their descriptions, and he has leaves growing from his legs. I cried from the beginning of the film until the end. The story touched on the trials and failings and struggles of parenthood, but also the preciousness of raising a child into the world. To top things off, the boy’s paternal grandfather was called “Grandpa Jim” (my father’s name was Jim), and he was played by the same actor who played the father in Contact. If you know that movie, you know who I mean, and I love him.

I really got a double-whammy. All of my mommy nerves were heightened, and also all of my daughter ones. I realized watching that movie that to my parents, I was just as precious as Jack is to me, that their mistakes and failings must have plagued and haunted them as much as my own do me. And that realization broke me open. I cried for the rest of the day.

Since Tuesday, I’ve had several dreams where I’m caring for either Jack or my old cat, Izzie. In the dreams, I keep getting distracted from the task of feeding the baby. In one dream, I end up giving him small cardboard puzzle pieces to eat, thinking at least he can chew them, even though they have no nutritional content. I keep forgetting where he is, what needs to be done. In another dream, the cat is blind and dirty and too thin.

Now, no one would ever accuse me of being too thin, but the blind part got my attention. It could be that the baby and cat in my dreams are exactly what they appear to be, or they could be parts of me that need my attention. Jack is going off to school next week, because it is the best thing for him right now. But maybe, it’s also the best thing for me. Maybe this is a chance for me to look inside and make sure my own inner baby is being fed. What will that look like? More art work, probably, more writing. More sleep. Less time fretting about my fiber intake and my calorie counts. Cleaning out the garage studio so I can actually get some painting done. I don’t know if any of this will actually happen. What it means to feed the baby is changing, and it will continue to change, and I may not even be able to recognize it a year or a month or even a week from now. And of course, I do know that I need to keep feeding Jack, who is a slow and maddeningly distracted eater, just as he was as a newborn. But I commit myself to paying attention and trying my best to nourish the little ones who need me.

Good Grief!

I’ve been reading a book called Journaling Through Your Grief, by Robyn Lindsey. It’s a self-published book with not a lot of fancy bells and whistles, but some good content. I’ve been following the thirty prompts, writing to one each day or so. Well, today’s prompt was “How has the death of your loved one changed or shaped you?” Hm. This was a tough one. So here was my answer. For some reason, I feel compelled to share.

I think I can only answer this question by way of comparison. When my mom died, I felt her presence, even heard her voice sometimes—so clearly. I was sure there was an afterlife, that she loved me, that she could still “see” me somehow. Her death shaped me in that I never took another moment for granted. Of course, I forgot, and I still do take time for granted sometimes. But I stopped being afraid to live my life. Nobody could hurt or scare me. I had been through the absolute worst and had survived. I was untouchable. I stopped waiting for the “right time” and started doing what I really wanted to do, whether or not I could immediately pay for it. I did more. I took more chances. I took classes. I traveled. In so many ways, my experience of grieving over my mom made me stronger and more certain of myself in the world.

With Daddy, it’s been so different. Our relationship was so much more fraught, so many things unresolved. Since his death, I’ve noticed patterns from my relationship with him coming to the fore: unhealthy patterns. I’ve pushed myself harder than I did with my mom. I’ve had more to do. I’ve had to be tough and keep it together. I couldn’t fall apart, the way I did when Mom died. I had a kid, a husband, and graduate school. I’ve had a funeral to plan and business affairs to settle. It’s been hard in a totally different way. Maybe I’m using all of this busy-ness as an excuse not to let his death change me, not to grieve. But I think I am grieving. I’m just doing it differently this time.

I’m writing more, for one. I’m writing about our relationship and my conflicting feelings about him. One essay I’ve written about him was not only published but nominated for a prize. And even though I haven’t felt his presence like I did with Mom, he’s in my dreams almost every night. My subconscious may be his only way to reach me, since my defenses are down when I’m asleep. But also, the lack of his presence and voice after his death has made me doubt my certain beliefs about an afterlife. I was so sure I knew how things worked, and it just wasn’t like that with him. I question myself more, now. I examine my perceptions and wonder if they’re accurate or wishful thinking. My guess is they’re a combination of both, but I don’t know. And that’s really the point. I don’t know. And that’s not such a bad place to be. It’s uncomfortable, to be sure. But he always congratulated me for questioning beliefs I clung to. So maybe I was wrong, and I don’t know how things work. I don’t know if he or my mom is really there.

But maybe my uncertainty will help me get somewhere new. Hopefully, it will make me less annoying to other people who are grieving, who are having a different experience than the ones I’ve had. But other than that, I can’t even guess yet how it will change me as the years unfold.

How about that? I don’t know everything, after all.

The War of Art

OK, I’m about to step out onto dangerous ground. Two very good friends of mine, whose opinions I value and admire, encouraged me (both directly and indirectly) to get Steven Pressfield’s book The War of Art. I admit right now that I haven’t even finished it, but I have to say that I’m not really a great fan.

Pressfield makes a strong and punchy case that Resistance is the enemy of every positive endeavor. And I don’t really disagree with this statement, or with his characterizations and discussions of Resistance. But frankly, he’s not saying anything I don’t already know. Yes, when I see someone creating drama in their lives (or I’m doing it in mine), I know there’s Resistance behind the drama, a tactic to keep from doing your real work. Julia Cameron writes, “Keep the drama on the page.” And maybe that’s my point. She’s already said all of this, years ago, decades ago. So did Anne Lamott, in her book Bird by Bird. But these women haven’t gotten the attention that Pressfield (a man) is getting. So maybe I’m just a bitter feminist.

But this morning, I opened the book randomly near the end. In the passage I read, Pressfield is discussing an ancient law not to use sacred oxen for meat, from Homer’s Odyssey. He equates it to prostitution. He calls it selling out. I assume, here, that he’s referring to letting one’s creative work be sold to the highest bidder, like the Biblical prohibition from casting pearls before swine. Don’t let what’s precious to you become common trash. OK. I get that. But here’s my problem. What if your people are hungry? Do you let them starve so that the oxen of the most high Sun can be saved for a god who doesn’t eat meat? Why is using an animal for food equated to prostitution? We need food, right? Setting ethical arguments for vegetarianism aside, what’s so bad about killing the ox for meat? I mean, Homer’s not talking about eating vegetables to spare an animal’s life. He’s still killing the ox, but for Zeus, right?

Here’s my point (I think). God doesn’t need our food. We do. And if my writing or artwork is used by someone for sustenance, I’m more than OK with that. I get the idea of not letting someone demean the creative good you offer, but the analogy Pressfield uses troubles me. I understand that I need to finish the damn book, to get all he’s saying in its proper context. But I just have this one last thing to say, and I’ll shut up (for now): Kill the ox for meat, if meat is what you need.