The Truth About Miracles

There is a certain absence these days.

It's one of those things that you don't notice at first.

It's something that was so very present for so very long, that you can't actually imagine it not being a part of who you are.

It's this feeling...the feeling that used to take over my body as I was driving to preschool pickup. It was a cross between dread and hopefulness and stress and utter exhaustion.

If we had even made it all the way to pickup, I knew it couldn't have been a truly awful day, because those were the days I got a phone call. A request for early pickup. A warning.

But it could still have been a day that required a report.

With my first son, I didn't really know there was such a thing as a bad report from school. I think there was one time ever in his whole preschool experience where his teacher mentioned he might have done something that wasn't in perfect keeping with the rules.

But he is a firstborn, perfectionistic, rule-follower who has always been harder on himself than we could ever be. We had no idea how rare that is.

But those who get the daily reports know - they can have an affect on everything.

And when we hit February last year and hit a new low of having to make the decision to pull one of our sons from school to try to avoid an expulsion and to try to get him functionally back on track, it was at the end of months of tough reports. And phone calls. And early pickups. Of tightening chests and dread and holding my breath when I would walk in and try to glance unconcernedly at the teacher's face to try to ascertain what she was about to tell me so I could brace myself and keep the tears from falling.

BUT.

After four months home, after behavioral therapy and OT and a therapist who helped him acclimate to a camp by showing up every morning for his toughest time of day, we started to see change.

And then came a successful swim season. Full of smiles and races and newly earned independence and pride. Of ribbons on his wall and following around teenage heroes. Of joy.

But that was the summer. Anyone can have a good summer.

The school year started and I held my breath.

I didn't even know I was doing it.

Each day I would  drive to pick him up. And my heart would start to pound. My stomach would clench.

What kind of day did he have? Was school going to continue to be an option? Would we be home, again, doing hours of therapy a week and panicking about what options might be open to him for kindergarten?

I think I've mentioned before the constant ticker tape that happens in the head of someone parenting a child with special challenges: Have I done enough? Is this the best med? Do we need a new kind of therapy? Is this teacher going to "get" him and stand by him? What about OT? Or CBT? Or ABA? Or diet changes? The list goes on. It's always there, scrolling through in a way that has never been true for my thoughts towards my other two kids.

And it's utterly exhausting.

But today.

Today I was driving to pick him up. I had just finished a test for my class and NAILED IT and I was feeling good. And as I approached the school, it hit me. My body felt calm. Normal. Like I was just another mom heading to pick up a fully functioning child. I didn't assume the day had been hard. I didn't wonder all morning if the phone was going to ring. I took my test, threw in a load of laundry, packed up his lunch and hopped in the car.

And when I walked in, he looked up and smiled and ran and gave me a hug. And his teacher, a substitute he hadn't planned on, came over and told me he had had a wonderful day.

Guys.

That was his fifth good report this week.

Five out of five.

To some people, that's normal life.

To us, to him, that's a miracle. And it's a miracle that we have worked hard for.

You see, that's the truth about miracles. They take time and investment. They take hope and joy and failure. They take giving up and trying again. They take prayers and tears and hours upon hours of research and risk-taking. They take more than just a mom or a dad caring, they take friends and neighbors and church and teachers and swim coaches and family.

They take believing that someone has been made to be in the image of God and claiming it to be truth against all odds, against all evidence, against all experience and then gut-wrenchingly loving that truth into being.

And you know what the coolest thing is about this?

It's not just that I can be a full time student. It's not just that our house is a little calmer (and let's be honest, it's never going to be CALM, and that's ok). It's not just that my mental health is improving or that his brothers are seeing good in him or that we are all smiling more.

It's that he is proud of himself. He is happy. He is making choices that show us we can trust him and he LOVES that feeling. He is writing his name and making people drawings and notes. He is apologizing for tough days and asking God to help him grow.

Have we arrived at some perfect place that will always be good? Doubtful. Kids change. People change. There will be new challenges. He starts kindergarten this fall - the chances of that being a perfectly smooth transition are slim. But the fact that he can start kindergarten is huge. And don't even get me started on what I KNOW will be true when puberty hits for him.

But, friends, today I rejoice. I am ever so grateful for all who have come beside us as we have charted such unknown and challenging waters.

And I know some of you reading this are deep in the hard days. The days we had last winter and spring. Of hours of meltdowns and tantrums or unknowns with medical issues. Of despair and exhaustion and hopelessness.

I DO know what that feels like. Please reach out. Even to vent. Truly. I can't solve it. But I can walk it beside you.

I know our life won't stay this way forever...but I also know it feels good to be grateful and hopeful TODAY.

To rejoice in the sweet miracles we are seeing right now. 

Top 10 Signs You Might Be At a Preschool Sporting Event

Any human who has ever sat through, watched, coached or even glanced at children aged five and under attempting the mechanics and self-control of organized sports knows one fundamental truth:

 It sure as heck ain't real sports, but it sure as heck is entertaining.

As I covertly giggled my way through my son's gymnastics class this past weekend, it occurred to me that, aside from that core truth, there are several things that are almost always happening when you get tiny humans together and force them to work collaboratively and reasonably.

This is, primarily, because tiny humans have no discernible reason and lack the ability to collaborate.

So, without further ado, here are the top ten signs you might be at a preschool sporting event:

10. Someone is in his mother's lap, sobbing as though he has actually had an appendage amputated. (The true grievance is likely snack related or because aforementioned child has been asked to do something. Anything, really. Breathe. Not hit someone. Actually participate. Parents can be very unreasonable at these events, you know.)

9. If there are any live animals within sight, there are a minimum of two children who have (a) noticed this fact, (b) diverted their attention and body away from the pursuit of sport and towards said animals and (c) may or may not actually now be in the process of being chased by an angry goose.

8. There is one kid who talks the entire time. Most of what he or she shares is completely irrelevant to soccer, basketball or gymastics, but instead is a steady stream of non-sequitors, anatomical or physiological inquiries, "did you know" questions or urgent interruptions that are, again, irrelevent but said with such earnestness that the coach can't help but answer.

7. A parent who is red-faced. Facial flushing caused by one of the following phenomena: anger at child who has attacked other child, anger at child who will not participate but who begged to come, anger at ancillary child on the sideline who won't sit still for older sibling "sport" participation and has sat on neighboring friend's child and/or deep, deep embarrassment due to all of the aforementioned situations happening simultaneously.

6. A parent on the sideline is unashamedly and loudly bribing his or her child to do something, anything, to show he or she gives a rip out on the field. One might hear "I'll give you a pony if you just KICK the ball" or "you're up to $1, keep running!" Judgment of said parent may or may not be happening by other sideline parents.

5. There are one or two coaches involved in what is going on. At any given moment, they have a look that suggests they thought signing up for coaching youth sports would be full of adorable moments during which their kids would overcome deep and profound struggles and they would receive hugs and accolades for their patient and courageous coaching of the tiny angels but in reality they have been kicked in the shins at least three times, that one kid won't stop talking, those other two kids are chasing geese again and little Susie just wants to carry her purple purse around and flinches anytime someone attempts to kick the ball in her direction.

4. Snack is provided at the end. We know this because most of the children ask on their way into the gym, several times while the sport is being played and immediately afterwards. There is always at least one kid who can't have the snack due to allergies so the parent who brought the snack apologizes but is secretly irritated that food allergies exist and the parent whose child has the allergy already anticipated the drama and brought a special celebratory snack for the excluded child.

3. There is at least one parent taking the whole thing way too seriously. Calm down, Derek. He's three. He doesn't need to learn to slide tackle yet.

2. One kid on the field has literally no idea what she is doing, but she will happily run back and forth with a big smile on her face, occasionally stopping to pick a dandelion, which she will excitedly give to the coach or her mother, upon which the coach or mother has to act delighted that she has been given a flower but is secretly wondering why the child thinks it is appropriate to pick flowers in the middle of rugby.

And the top sign you might be at a preschool sporting event is:

1. You are the coach. You don't know how you became the coach. You hadn't actually even heard of this sport until your spouse signed your child up. But here you are. In charge of 12-17 hyper-energetic tiny humans who now want to know how to play pickleball and whether or not pickles will be the actual snack at the end of pickleball. You consistently have to ask other parents what the rules are, you have no prior cat herding abilities, you kind of want to quit halfway through each practice but, at the end of the day, you stick with it because you like your kid enough that you don't want him telling his therapist some day that his mom stopped coaching him and he could never play pickleball again because of the emotional trauma of her sports abandonment when he was 4.