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.

Not Another Resolution

I haven't really been one for New Year's Resolutions in awhile. Possibly, that's because I tend to be a doer- so setting up a list of things to do doesn't actually seem that daunting. Or perhaps it's because I have learned that when you have young children, it's really best to just take things one day at a time. And because I am that aforementioned doer, I set myself up for disappointment if I set some big goals or changes that I can't meet because of, well, how life might unexpectedly shake out with those tiny humans.

But some time during the last five years, the five years, incidentally, that I have stayed home with my kids, I have morphed into a doer without purpose. It's one thing to make a list, check it, complete it and wake up the next day to do it again. It's fine, it keeps things moving, helps a family function. But it's quite another to wake up on purpose- to look forward to what the day brings, for one's first thought to go deeper than looking forward to when she can next lay back down.

Friends, that's pretty much where I am, here at the end of 2018.

Exhausted. When my alarm goes off in the morning, my first thought is not what is coming that day, it's almost always of how soon I can get back in my bed.

One step, the next step...and all day long just dreaming of the moment I can lay down again. Be alone. Make the worry go away, stop being anxious and wondering what I've missed in my quest to help my son, to pray that maybe this will be the night after which I wake up rested and hopeful and ready. For something. Anything.

This is about to get raw. But it needs to be said.

Staying home with my children for the past five years has been the absolute hardest thing I have ever done. It has brought me to the very edge of myself. I have developed PTSD from parenting a special needs child (gasp) but you CANNOT say that out loud in polite company. And on top of my PMDD, my friends, that pretty much means I am always one step away from falling apart.

Two weeks ago, it caught up with me. I woke up one day and I thought, "I can't do this. I don't know who I have become. What has happened to me?"

To be honest, it was probably the scariest moment of my life.

But because I have an awesome husband and some amazing friends who stepped in when I couldn't stop crying, I managed to get to the doctor for a checkup. That day. And to the counselor for a session. That day. And came home with a new "routine" and some medicine for my PMDD and the teensiest bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change with some really hard work and the ability to ask for help.

For two weeks now, we have tried our best to stick to my prescription. I was told to get a two hour break from parenting every single day. To get at least 30 minutes of exercise every day. To practice mindfulness and prayer when I start to panic. To breathe deeply multiple times a day. Never to skip my medicine.

I might have scoffed at this a month ago. Thought it wasn't possible with our chaotic life and our "divide and conquer" style parenting.

But when you are as low as you ever remember getting, even lower than the miscarriage and the ensuing years of infertility and the adoptions that fell through, you are willing to do whatever someone tells you to do. Or at least, I am. That rule-following thing. It was honestly nice to be looked straight in the eye and told in no uncertain terms that something had to change and that it was OK that I needed it to change. That there is no actual way to carry the burden of this parenting challenge alone day after day. And that it was acceptable that being a stay at home parent just wasn't really enough right now.

There. I said it out loud.

Being a stay at home parent isn't enough for me.

I need more. And I've always known I needed more. When I chose to stay home five years ago, I imagined it to be temporary. But no one plans on a kid with special needs. No one plans on pulling him from school or spending hours of your life researching treatments and options and fighting with insurance companies. You just do it.

But somewhere along the way, I lost my purpose. My joy. My hope.

And friends, I really miss those things.

So, as 2019 approaches, I am not filling it up with resolutions. I am not making a huge to-do list.

I am focusing on one phrase: "new life."

A sweet friend of mine gave me a bracelet this summer after her trip to Hawaii. It's gorgeous. And the symbol on it means "new life." When she gave it to me, I knew it meant something, but I wasn't there yet. I couldn't see through the bog yet.

But as I have slowly emerged over the past two weeks that have been full of exercise, parenting breaks, enjoying my new calming corner, lots of deep breaths and long runs and an unexpectedly joyful Christmas, I feel like it's time.

With my new classes starting in less than two weeks, with some new boundaries in place, I am going to focus in on that.

New life.

It's something promised to us by God. It's something offered, no questions asked. Second chances. New beginnings. No matter how low we have sunk, how far we have strayed, how much we have despaired. We can always claim this hope.

Anyone else with me?

On Infertility and the Church

Just last year a friend asked me if it was alright for her to talk about her pregnancy. My youngest was about a year and a half at the time. Presumably the pain of infertility is enough in the past that I should be able to have these conversations without holding myself back.

I appreciated the question.

Was it time? Could I do it?

Or would it, like so many conversations that happened during our years of infertility, throw me into emotional chaos?

It only took a few seconds for me to take stock and realize I was ready. This was a friend who had prayed for me, cared for me, loved me, who was now on her third pregnancy and hadn't really felt free to talk about the first two with me because we were still waiting and hoping and experiencing the pain of loss over and over and over again. And she knew it was too much.

It's funny, you know. Looking back on the years of that struggle, there are a few very stark memories that define it for me.

Sitting in a pew at church while pregnant woman after pregnant woman walked by, bellies right at my eye level, and fighting ever so hard to be happy for them, to pray for their unborn children and, honestly, fighting hard not to flee down the aisle and sob in the car.

I didn't always win that fight.

Listening to sermon after sermon wherein the person shared a similar struggle and how God eventually "blessed" him or her with that long-awaited biological child.  Because (a) they finally stopped asking or (b) they let God teach them something they were stubbornly unwilling to learn and so God answered them or (c) they prayed without doubt or (d) they prayed in tongues or (e) they chose holiness in their life and so God rewarded them. It really goes on and on. And not one time did I hear a sermon in which God didn't answer that prayer in exactly the way the person wanted. And yet I know couple after couple for whom a biological child was not "the answer."

Being told that to "be fruitful and multiply" was still God's mandate for how I should family plan. Just trust him, if children are indeed a blessing, then you will have more.

There was no language for what we were going through. There were only stories of victory. Hang in there, I know someone who waited 10 years! Oh, well, you are going to adopt? You know the second you do, you'll get pregnant. That's how God works. Stop asking. Once you don't want it, he'll give it to you.

Friends, come on.

Really?

Can we not do better for one another, here? Can we stop misrepresenting God as a capricious, malicious being who only gives kids to those who pray the right way? Are we really going to tell people there is a way to earn kids? What is that?

I realize that there is no comfortable way for us to talk about infertility. It DOESN'T make sense. In our case, the medical community called it "unexplained." There was no biological reason for it. There was nothing we could "fix." Maybe that's why all the spiritual fixes felt even more unhelpful. Even though we knew we disagreed with the theology of so many of them, we would latch onto the hope they offered. Ok, maybe I am NOT praying hard enough. OK, maybe I AM really being disobedient in some way. What can I change? What can I do so God will stop punishing me?

Maybe it's my fault. I caused it, I perpetuate it, I am guilty, somehow.

Rather than sitting with each other, lamenting the losses, the miscarriages, the unwanted periods...we struggle to find an explanation. And inadvertently heap guilt on one another when we do.

Look, I don't have any answers here. I don't know why it happens. I don't know exactly what God is up to in anyone's journey of infertility. I know the literature says that it can be as emotionally painful as a cancer diagnosis and I know that felt true. It was literally debilitating at times. And it sure as heck was isolating.

And I know the church, where babies are celebrated, longed for, baptized, dedicated and cherished can be the hardest place in the world for an infertile woman to thrive. Sometimes the way motherhood is communicated, the way pregnancy is communicated, can even threaten the very woman-ness of someone going through this. She feels less than. Like who she was created to be cannot fully be.

Can I be honest?

This is nonsense. Utter, damaging nonsense.

I was created to be a daughter of a loving God. That's it. Whether I can produce a baby or not doesn't change who I am or my status before God. Let's cut this out now. 

It's Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

What if we talked about that IN THE CHURCH?

What if we started to have a language for women to understand that it isn't about their spiritual effort?

What if we mourned with those who mourn in this particular area?

What if we shared stories from the pulpit that DIDN'T result in a biological child?

What if we talked about adoption not just as the "solution to abortion" in our churches but as a complex and traumatic choice and not the simplistic, unicorns and rainbows, way that we currently do?

What if we didn't talk about adoption as the "backup" plan?

What if we could truly be the church and embrace those couples who feel alienated from a culture that equates blessing with family size?

What if, like Jesus did, we could just sit with a woman in pain and offer her love?

Man, that would be a beautiful thing.

Friend, if you are going through this silent pain, please know that I'm safe. I would be happy to listen, to cry, to lament, to yell.

And I promise not to offer you any solutions. Just love.

Cue the Balloons

I don't know if it's one person's job or whether it's some kind of magical, automated thing, but you know that moment after a huge victory? When people are cheering and balloons drop from the sky as if from heaven and everyone is smiling and laughing and existing in a sea of delighted chaos?

How fun would it be to be the person who makes that happen?

Who waits for the cue and releases celebration into the world.

Today was my middle son's last day of camp. It started 3 days into summer and ended 3 days before the new school year.

Camp, my friends, was a risk. Last year came with a lot of curveballs. A lot of failures. New diagnoses. New therapists. New medicines and supplements. LOTS of new grey hairs. And heading into the summer, my son hadn't had a lot of successes to tuck into his belt. It had been a very hard spring.

His therapist, however, had insisted he was ready for camp. That he could DO this. And not just do or survive it, but love it.

And friends?

Today, I am seizing that job that sounds oh-so-fun and releasing a storm of metaphorical balloons into our lives.

Today, he celebrated the last day of camp with a party. He brought in his own safe cake and special chips and lime juice so he could partake of the kona ice truck fun. He smiled. He laughed. He said goodbye at the door to his dad without screaming or panicking.

And when I picked him up three hours later, he ran into my arms and told me all about the party. He hugged his teacher goodbye and thanked her. And she told me he had been a delight. A DELIGHT. In fact, we had not one phone call home the whole summer. Not only did he survive, he thrived.

I handed him a little gift to celebrate - a pack of water balloons - and we talked the whole way home about how much fun he had had. About the friends he had made. And the beautiful women who had taught him and laughed with him and sang and danced with him. Who had helped him have success after success.

And later on, he filled every one of those balloons and had his own little party.

And it wasn't just camp. As a sweet little four year old, he joined the swim team again this season and worked up to racing. He earned ribbons. His amazing coaches pushed him and loved on him. He had the large majority of the team and not a few parents waiting at the end of the lane in his very first 25 meter freestyle race cheering their heads off to make sure he made it. He felt like he was a part of something bigger and it made him so very happy. We even made him a swim team corkboard just like his big brother and he is so very proud of it and can't wait to fill it with more next season. He loves for me to read him his little awards that his coaches wrote for him and we laugh together about how true they are.

Cue the balloons.

We fight hard for victories around here. They don't always come often and they don't ever come easy. But my beautiful boy who had one of the hardest years of his life had his best summer yet.

I am so stinking proud of him.

He has worked his little patootie off with his therapists. And he is ready and excited for school next week. Turns out his amazing teacher this summer will be his teacher this fall so his transition (and MAN are transitions rough for him) is almost nonexistent this Tuesday. Look at God, friends.

We don't know how this fall will go. We have a lot of hope that his successes will continue. We know there will be good days and really hard ones.

But today, as his mama, I get to be the one who releases the celebration. And what a joy it is!

Sanity Savers #2: The Routine Checklists

About a month ago, I wrote a very well-intentioned post about my intentions to write a series on some Sanity Savers around here. 

Then, you know, life. End of school. More appointments. Etc. 

I did manage to get that first one written about the visual timer but my hope is that now we are setting into a (so far) successful summer rhythm, I can finish the job I started.

In that spirit, here is entry two: the Routine Checklists.

When you have a bunch of kids and one of them has a LOT to keep track of, you need a way to make sure you don't forget any part of the routine. I am sure there are amazing apps or programs that can do it- but I am a visual person and I love paper and am addicted to my laminater- so I make lists. And display them prominently. 

It seems so silly and simple. But it honestly works for us.

I write a checklist with boxes to check, print it, laminate it and display it on the side of our refrigerator because the kitchen is most definitely the hub of our family activity.

Refrigerator 

My oldest son is 11 and has increasing levels of responsibility around here. We believe strongly in kids having a sense of ownership in their home and family - a deep sense that they are supposed to joyfully contribute to the functionality of the household. He will be ready for college when the time comes, we hope, because he has learned he has a role in keeping not just himself functioning, but his family, too. (And yes, he wants to go to college and he's working towards that. That is not just his crazy mom assuming that future for him.) 

This is his morning list (and he has a separate evening list) and he can handle it:

My middle son needs a number of things to happen in the first hour of his awake time in the day to give him the best shot at a successful morning. And yes, his list includes chores, too. Giving kids responsibility is a positive thing and for my incredibly independent four year-old, it is a way for us to give him trust, independence and a positive sense of accomplishment. 

Here's his list:

I also just enjoy having a to-do list that I can erase and start over each day. Saves paper and again, I know I could do this on a phone, but I LOVE using markers to make those satisfying check marks. Call me a nerd. I embrace it. 

Looks like this:

Does this save my sanity? Yep. Saves the time of wondering if I have done everything I needed to do for my boys in the morning. Gives them a clear expectation of what needs to happen before they leave the house for school or camp. Do we tweak the lists in different seasons? Of course! Does the laminater get used all the time? Happily! 

It's a simple system but it works for us. 

What kind of system could help YOU stay on top of that morning routine?

The Full Time Job

At some point this spring, I remember a moment when my husband looked me dead in the eye and told me "you have a full time job right now, you know that?"

He wasn't referring to motherhood.

He was referring to advocacy.

To the hours upon hours of research and phone calls and office visits and emails and texts and thoughts and strategies and desperate prayers that go into trying to find answers for a special needs child.

And as my son sleeps upstairs right now, I have spent the entirety of his naptime, yet again, on the phone fighting with doctors. Cursing insurance companies and how little they give a rip about kids like mine. Trying not to lose hope that someone, anyone might be able to actually help us.

I am just trying to get him from one day to the next knowing that there is no hotline to call when your child is destroying his room. When he's been screaming for five hours straight. Again. When your husband can't even go to work because you have more than one child and your other kids need to be parented while the other child needs one-on-one parenting every waking hour. And the other kids need not just to be supervised but reassured of your love, that this will get better somehow. To be given quiet and peace and fun opportunities that the other child simple cannot handle.

Friends, the life of a special needs parent is completely exhausting. We can't just "call a babysitter" and take a break. Self care? Really? The next person who tells me to take care of myself needs to offer to figure out a way to watch my son so I can actually do it. So my husband can actually do it. Right now the only way we can is after he's in bed at night. And by 8 pm, WE HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO CARE FOR. Really, it's just bedtime. But oh wait...there is the house to clean and the laundry to do and the bills to pay because nothing else can get done during the day.

Friends, I don't write this to ask for sympathy or advice or answers. I am literally turning over every stone I can imagine to get answers and help and I have fellow warrior mamas cheering me on. Our mental health system is deeply broken. Our insurance system is deeply broken. I honestly don't know if we'll ever find the right answers but I also can't stop fighting.

I am writing this because there is probably a parent in your life who is drowning. Who spends all day, every day searching, praying, pleading for answers and help and ending the day exhausted and alone again. And, most likely, consumed by guilt for what they can't give their other children.

Can you help? Can you drop off a meal for them? Can you take the other kids somewhere fun? Or figure out a way to watch their struggling child, even if it means it might be incredibly unpleasant and risky for you?

I had literally no idea how hard parenting could be until I had a child who didn't fit the "norms." I had no idea how all-consuming it could be, the strain it could put on a marriage, the ways it could reduce you to hopeless despair. I wish I had done more for my friends who were IN IT before I was but I just didn't know what or how to do it and I didn't fully understand how exhausted they were.

Friends, will you take a risk this week and ask a mom who is crying in her car what you can do to help? Or just surprise that dad who is totally overwhelmed with his favorite treat to eat once those kids are finally in bed?

This is a deeply lonely struggle, and every little reminder that someone sees, cares and isn't judging us is an extra heartbeat for our day.