In the Immortal Words of Chumbawumba

There are a lot of songs that instantly remind me of late high school and early college. They come on the radio and I find myself with an instant urge to put on hiking boots, loose jeans, a plaid shirt and a tight belt. (Oh wait, I actually still dress like that 20+ years later.)

Anyway.

The words to one of those songs came into my head yesterday as I was pondering this beautiful moment of which I had been a part. Every six months my son is involved in a drum recital. And every six months he dreads said drum recital. He is not a big fan, to say the least, of being the center of attention or of performing in front of people. (Something already tells me this will be a non-issue with my middle child but I digress...)

Yesterday, we roll up to the recital, my son pale and quiet. I have done the mom thing. Given the pep talks. Prayed for him. Reminded him that messing up in a recital is OK. That recitals at this age aren't about perfection. Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, mom, I know, mom.

"But what if I FAIL? I can't fail!"

And my own inner voice was coming out of my 11 year-old. Because that is the constant, marauding question that underlies everything I do. What if I fail? What if this isn't perfect? What if it's not good enough? What if I cannot literally solve every single problem that comes my way with deep finesse and joy and wisdom and all the things I cannot possibly have at once? WHAT IF? You can see that my mind goes down a pretty chaotic rabbit trail, there. It's not pretty friends.

And I know my boy. I know his inner voice says a lot of the same junk to him. About perfection and grace and failure.

And so every time I have to say the words "it's ok if you fail" I feel like a big, fat, hypocritical failure for telling my son something I cannot myself believe. You can see how much progress I am making here.

So, here we are, two people who are emotionally confused by the thought of failing even the teensiest bit, attempting to enjoy the hour and a half that will go by while we watch other children perform. Because, of course, he was slated to go last. 13 other kids would be performing first. Anticipation is good, right?

So, he took his place with his fellow drummers and I took my place with my fellow nervous parents and waited.

And the second boy, a boy whose family we happen to know, got up to perform for his very first time.

He looked terrified.

And sick to his stomach.

And he got about halfway through his song and froze. And then panicked. And then left the stage in tears.

And there were three things that could have happened right then.

(1) The room could have remained totally silent and awkward and moved with unspoken agreement on to the next drummer.
(2) We all could have stared at his parents and judged them for their son's failure. (Maybe we would not have done it verbally since, let's be honest, we're in the south, kingdom of passive aggressive confrontation, but we would have thought it.)
(3) Someone could have addressed it and risked saying the wrong thing (or the right thing) in a tough moment.

And friends, what happened next is stuck in my head.

As that boy was walking out with his head sunk in shame and embarrassment, one woman called out his name in encouragement and we all started clapping and cheering. That drum teacher got up onstage and reminded every single one of us that failure happens. That this boy had got up and he had tried. And that it's not easy after only a few months of lessons to get up in front of a bunch of people you don't know on a set with which you are unfamiliar and just play a song to perfection. The teacher chose option three and, I believe, changed the trajectory of the conversation.

We nodded, we agreed. The next two kids got up and did their thing. And if anyone is like me, we were wondering if that sweet boy was ok. If he would recover. Most importantly, how would this moment sit in his head and heart for the rest of his life?

He walked back in his with dad after a little bit and sat back down to watch the other kids.

After a few more performances their teacher got back up, looked him in the eye and said "Do you want a second chance?"

And friends, oh my word.

That courageous boy didn't even hesitate. He said yes, stood up and walked right back up on that stage. In front of people who had seen him fail. Who had seen him cry. Who had watched him leave in embarrassment.

Then, there was this moment of utter silence as we waited and the music started. And this kid, he just drummed his heart out. He played that thing into the ground.

The place erupted in cheers.

And, I'm gonna get southern here for a moment because I know no other way to put it, but I like to cried my eyes out, friends.

His teacher made him stand up and looked every kid in that place in the eye. And drove home a lesson I won't soon forget.

He said to them:

(1) We are all going to fail but we have to get back up again. (Enter Tubthumping by Chumbawumba into loop in my brain because of this wording. Thank you, 90's.)

(2) We can't let that failure keep us so low that we can't try again.

Guys, I don't know if I would have gotten back on that stage. Just after it was done and I had congratulated him and hugged my own kid and took all the required pictures, I asked my son about it. And he said the same thing. "Mom, I don't know if I could have tried again like he did." I asked him if watching the courage this boy had had and the way their teacher had responded had helped him to play his piece with less fear.

And it had, of course it had. He had seen in that moment that failure wasn't the end of his friend's story. That that kid had been embarrassed and ashamed. But those paralyzing emotions hadn't dictated his next moves. I don't know what he and his dad talked about out in the hall. I don't know if they prayed or cried or if he gave him a pep talk or just hugged him. You better believe I'm going to ask the next chance I have. But they walked back in together when it would have been easier to disappear. And that drum teacher in his wisdom offered him what we most often do actually get - a second chance. He took it, unwaveringly. Maybe because he knew it didn't matter since he'd already messed up or maybe he just zoned in to what he was doing or maybe he screwed up the most courage he ever has had to have in his life and just held his breath, but he made a room full of grown people cry because he played his heart out.

And THAT is the story he's going to remember some day. The whole thing. The failing and what it felt like. The conquering and what it felt like. Friends, the conquering didn't negate or erase the failure. That's still a part of the story.

But the failure gave that victory a much deeper hold.

The beautiful thing is that it won't just be his story. His whole family was there. I was there, my son was there. 13 other kids were able to see what it looks like to do something that looks unrecoverable and then to take the biggest risk of your life and do it again. They got to see a teacher choose deep encouragement and truth over disappointment and shame. They got to see adults cheer for a kid and weep over his victory.

That is a lesson, I hope, that will hold.

The next time that pesky inner voice starts screaming at me or my son, we're going to remember this boy. We're going to remember that failure isn't the end of the story. That it can, in fact, be a beautiful piece of the story. And we're going to sing a few words of Chumbawumba because they sang the dang truth: "I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never gonna keep me down." Seriously, it's on repeat in my head in only a semi-helpful way at this point.  

So to our friend and his family, let me just say this final thing: We love you guys. What you did yesterday was nothing short of miraculous. We are grateful for a lesson that might stick better than so many that have come before. And we are grateful for the beautiful courage of a boy who got back up and tried again.

Five

The first time I heard the term "spirited" to describe my son was at his 1 year-old check-up. The pediatrician looked me in the eye and said "Listen...this is a good thing. Some day he will be a leader, he will do amazing things. But the toddler years? They are going to be impossible."

SHE. WASN'T. LYING.

If you know anything about our story, you know we have been through some ups and downs over the past number of years. That we have been on this endless search for answers to how to best love and help our child who lives life bigger than most people around him can handle. Who feels hard and expresses it. Who is loud and chaotic and huge and never, ever for one minute of being awake stops moving or talking or emoting. Who has a list of food issues that prevents us from really ever going anywhere social. Who needs a certain intense amount of tactile and auditory input to function well but if he gets too much flies over the edge on a dime. It's been exhausting to learn and fail and learn and fail and learn and fail again.

But one other thing she said to us and that has been repeated by a number of professionals over the years is that things might change at the age of five. That maybe some of the allergies and sensitivities will lessen or go away. That some of the chaotic struggle that defines a large portion of our interactions will become milder. That we will have, in a sense, come through. That things will be on the upswing. Not easy or solved, but manageable. (Until the teen years, of course. No one ever promises you anything positive about the teen years.)

And so for 3 and a half years I have had that number in my head. FIVE. We can make it to five. Even on those worst of days...when there have been hours of meltdowns and tantrums, when we have had to pull him from school and church is impossible and our other kids are being affected and we are feeling like failures...and we wonder if the next public meltdown will result in some well-meaning person calling CPS on us...FIVE.

We can get there.

And then over a period of a few days, we get some new diagnoses.

And suddenly, five doesn't mean anything. In fact, there is no new number. There is just reality.

The reality that this will likely always be hard. There might always be therapy. People will suggest meds and judge you for doing them while others judge you for not doing them. IEPs and 504s will now be a part of your life. School will not come easy. And the fighting and learning you have been doing for almost 4 years will continue. Possibly right up until he moves out as an adult. And, because you are a parent, even at that point, you will worry. How will these things affect college? Or his career? Or his relationships? (And today I cannot even get into the side of this that is further complicated by his beautiful black skin and how he will never be given second chances at anything in a world that will start to, any day now, fear him. That's a WHOLE other blog post that my heart can't do today.)

When "spirit" turns to something more and you have been holding on to the promise and hope of relief, it feels like a sucker punch, friends.

Many of my blogs end with some hopeful plan I have devised. Some way I have realized or seen God in the midst of things. But right now, friends? Right now, I really don't have much more to say. We got the diagnoses and then family visited and then my husband traveled and this is the first moment, almost two weeks later, that I have even had to wonder what I am thinking or feeling. To ask what's next. To figure out from where the fight is going to come when I feel so worn down.

As he melted down this morning and I slumped against a wall in exhaustion before 8 am had even hit, I remembered a bracelet that my dear friend gave to me a few months back. It says "We can do hard things." I ran to my room and put it on and read the words and shot her a quick text with those words and asked her to pray. I repeated "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" over and over and over until I believed it.

And I realized that I had to sit down and write today - to say the words out loud that I can do this, even though I don't know how and don't have a plan. I had to let go of "FIVE" and mourn its loss, even though there isn't anything with which to replace it.

I suspect in the coming days, God will point me to something. He will use a friend to speak life. I might permanently glue that bracelet to my arm, for goodness' sake.

But today, I come in honesty and say that I am sad and tired and hurting. I want so much for my son to have a good life, a life that is full of love and laughter and joy and hope.

And I don't, at least today, how how to give it to him.