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. 

The Sad

I walked into his classroom on Monday and saw my little boy sitting by himself reading a book. I could see the dried tracks of tears on his face. I could feel, almost physically emanating from him, his sadness. He (all 60 pounds of him) wanted to be carried out to the car. My boy, my bundle of energy who lives life like it's a competition to get anywhere first, who usually sprints to the car, his beautiful head on my shoulders, slumped in defeat.

On the drive home, I asked him how he was feeling.

"Mama, I so sad." 

"Why, buddy?"

"They took the pictures off the wall. School is ending. I don't want school to end." 

While so many kids around the country are literally bouncing in their seats with anticipation of this Friday or who have already celebrated that last day all the way home in the last few weeks, there are kids like my son. 

Kids for whom school, its regularity, its comforts, its amazing teachers, its friends for the raging extrovert, is everything. Some kids have tough home lives and summer is a long, terrifying unknown. Some, like my son, have a diagnosis that means that any kind of change in his routine causes him actual neurological distress. 

All he could do on Monday was cry. And all I could do was hold him, help him understand that camp is coming next week and try to remember that it's ok. 

I am not a failure as a mom because my boy would rather be at school. It's taken me awhile to be alright with that fact that I am "at home" with my kids but that I have a 3 year-old in school five mornings a week. To know that I am not abdicating responsibility. To be comfortable in the knowledge that I am actually doing the absolute best I can to give him what he needs in all his challenges and gifts. 

On Tuesday he came home sad again. And I knew that we needed to go to his happy place. 

So, after nap, we skipped swim practice and went to Target. Yes, Target is my 3 year-old's happy place. He picked out end of year gifts for his teachers. (And those who know him well will be unsurprised to learn that he chose to give them new water bottles.) We headed to Kid-to-Kid next because he had outgrown yet another pair of shoes and really wanted some new red sneakers. That kid scored some red and white Jordans for 8 bucks. He wore them out of the store, charged home, colored his teachers some pictures and wrote them notes. His smile was back. 

All these rituals. The gifts, the notes...even the buying of new shoes for the summer. They were comforting to him. Things he could do, even at 3, to process saying goodbye. To think about what the summer will hold for him.

And that next morning when he went to school? That child sprinted in wearing his new kicks, hugged the administrators on the way and tackled his teachers with his gifts. 

And they know him so well. 

"Look at your new shoes! Those are amazing! Did you find those at Kid-to-Kid?"

"I did, I did!" 

When I left, there was a little less sadness. A little less clinging. A little less panic. 

Will the next few weeks be hard around here? 

Yep. 

It's ok, though. We are ready.

We are armed with our social story full of pictures of his camp. We have our visual calendar we will do every morning and night. We have our theri-putty and our trampoline. We have our "sensory diet" and our "no drama discipline" to meet him where he is each morning. 

Most of all, we have hugs. Tears are ok. Saying goodbye is hard. I want him to know that it's ok to be sad. That it's fine for him as a boy and one day as a man to FEEL. To be unashamedly who he is in all his chaotic and beautiful and emotional glory.

The Good

It's been a long year for our family. A really long year.

A stressful job search and decision, medical issues, an SPD diagnosis, a cross-country move, chronic insomnia for our oldest child, too many goodbyes, loneliness all around.

And now, my oldest son, who has always loved school, always thrived there and looked forward to it, has a rough teacher. I don't mean that she's tough or works them hard. I'd be alright with that. I mean that she's unkind. And grumpy. And sighs a lot. And, according to my son, makes a lot of kids in the class feel very discouraged every day.

And my son. Oh, my son. He is the kind of kid I wish I had been. The kind of kid who wants everyone to be included. Who aches when his friends hurt. Who sheds tears over a friend's parents divorce. Who invites the new kid to play with him. Who always, always, wants everyone around him to be happy.

So when he hears this woman sigh and shake her head as she hands back a bad grade and watches his new friends' shoulders hunch just a little lower, he retreats into sadness. He comes home with a heavy heart. He doesn't want to go back because he hates watching it over and over again.

And my mama heart? Man, it hurts. Hurts for him, hurts for his classmates, hurts that after a long summer of looking forward to school, a place that has always been safe and good and fun and challenging in the best ways possible, is now a place of dread.

But every morning, he gets up. He makes his bed, prepares his breakfast and packs his bag. I walk him halfway down the hill and give him a hug. (And silently rejoice that my almost 10-year-old will still let me hug him in sight of the bus stop.)

And as he walks away, I say "Find the good. Be the good. I love you."

I don't know why I started saying it.

He was really nervous his first few days. He was the new kid. The kid from another state who had never taken Spanish before and had to jump in. The kid who didn't know what SOL's are. The kid who had to look around the lunch room and hope that someone would invite him to sit down.

And those first few days, when he trudged back up the hill and tried, oh he tried, to be brave and tell me that everything was going well, I knew he was saying it for me. I knew he wanted me to be happy, to feel good about this decision we made to take him from all he knew.

But moms know. We just do.

So after a few days, we had to have the talk. The one about being bold and not caring that you are the new kid. About asking to play with the other kids and sitting down at a lunch table with an empty seat and saying hello and hoping they say it back. We talked about finding the good in each day. Finding even one moment where we could see God being God, where we could see kindness or fun or hope. And when we couldn't see it? BEING it. Making it happen. Making someone laugh or smile. Inviting someone that may already have friends to be your friend. Taking risks.

Finding the good. Being the good.

And now, over a month into school, I am so stinkin' proud of that kid because he put himself out there. He has made some good friends at school and in the neighborhood. He has worked hard at his schoolwork during a really transitional year. 4th grade is no joke, friends, and he's nailing it. NAILING it.

He should be able to look forward to school. But he doesn't.

So the conversations over the last few weeks have changed. I know he doesn't have the power to make his teacher smile or stop sighing or act kindly towards his class. When I'm telling him to be the good, I am helping him to find ways to see how she might be in need of encouragement. Make her laugh. Bring her a card or a flower. Something to show he's thinking about her. Praying for her.

Because if there is one thing I've learned about unpleasant people it's that we shouldn't rush to assume that's just who they are. Maybe something is wrong at home. Maybe she is grieving a loss in her life. Maybe she is exhausted and out of hope for our educational system. It could be any number of things.

Or maybe she is just one of those people who don't value kindness and encouragement and should likely not be an elementary school teacher.

I really don't know.

And some of you are thinking "Are you just going to let it go on like this?"

Not on your life.

Will I likely talk to her at some point? You bet.

Do I know yet what to say? Nope.

Am I aware that a number of parents in the class are already struggling with the same thoughts and dealing with their own discouraged kids and have already had conferences. Yep.

But for right now? Today? I am taking to heart what I say to my son every morning. I am trying to find some ways to be the good for her. To encourage her. To go that route first, rather than complaining. To find the things that she does well and thank her for them. To make her feel seen and appreciated.

After all, a little goodness never hurt anyone. Maybe that's what she needs most.

Mud Pies, BFF's and Kindergarten Chaos

The life of a five-year-old is a busy one, indeed. In the past week my son has had three playdates, soccer practice, a soccer game, one playgroup, a sunday school class, helped babysit a 6-month old, had a dinner with our adoption group, attended 5 mornings of school, played countless hours of legos, owl hunting and mud-pie making, read 8 Magic Treehouse books and took approximately 4,000 baths.  Or he should've had 4,000 baths. We're sometimes not so good at that around here.

In the same span of time he has been on the losing end of 4 lotteries for kindergarten.  While his friends are all talking about where they are going next year (think the last few months of HS and college where that's ALL people ask you about) he has nothing to say. He keeps asking us where he's going to kindergarten and we have to give him that most unsatisfying of parental answers: "We don't know, kid."

The thing is, I've always been a public school girl.  I thrived, I got into a good college, I didn't make horrendously awful choices in my life.  I hadn't even heard of home school until I moved to the south.  I thought there were two choices growing up; Catholic school or Mahopac High School. That's it.  And then we moved to Durham.  The town where school choice is a taunting illusion. We applied to five lotteries to get our kid into a decent school that wouldn't suck out his soul. We're 288 on the wait list for one, 22 on another and not even on the wait list for a third charter. Of the two mainstream public ones we applied to, they don't do wait lists. So, it's just a no. And so our choice is to send him to a public school in our neighborhood that assigns an HOUR of homework a night after 7 hours of straight academic instruction with only a 1/2 hour of recess and does frequent evaluative testing (which they admit stresses out the kids), pay for a private kindergarten or home school.

Here's the deal. I love that my child loves to get muddy. I think it's great that we spent an hour making mud pies this afternoon and that I had to wash every piece of clothing he had on and hose him off as well. I love that he has a smile on his face because school has been fun and that he's made some great BFF's (he calls most of his friends best friends) at school, church and our neighborhood because they've had so much time to play together.  I love that he's bonded with some kids over legos others through his soccer team and still others over Cars cars. (Moms of young boys, you know what I mean there.)  I love that lunch takes an hour when his friend Damian comes over because they can't stop giggling long enough to chew their food.  And the idea of sending my five-year-old, so full of life, of energy, of joy, of spirit, of creativity to a place that is going to make him sit still from 8:30 until 3:30 every day with virtually no chance to play and then send him home with an hour of homework to keep him sitting down just tears me to bits.

 It's too soon.

Too soon to be strapped to a desk, too soon to be told that his academic life should define him, too soon to stop making mud pies and building cardboard houses for his Curious George.  Too soon to be so overwhelmed by academics that he doesn't have time for friends.  Hopefully, academics will never cause any of those things but certainly we cannot start this battle of priorities in Kindergarten.

We don't yet know what's going to happen.  We might still get into one of the charters, although it's unlikely. We might get into the private school, where we are also wait-listed. We might choose home school, a choice that I never dreamed this would come to.  One thing I do know is that kindergarten has changed since I went.  And I'm not ready for my five-year-old to be treated like a 10 year old just because he's in kindergarten.

I want another year of giggles and mud and legos and cars. I want my kid to stay a kid for at least a little while longer.