the rabbit hole

**

We are on the ferry on our way to Nantucket. The sun is shining. Kids are everywhere.

They move around the boat’s deck in clumps – chasing each other down or playing games of Hide and Seek.

Brooke has taken notice of the three girls who have congregated right behind us. They are giggling, half-hidden behind a wall. They are obviously attempting to hide from a fourth girl who is making her way across the deck, peeking behind every large object that she passes.

Brooke gets up from her chair and walks over to the girls. She stretches out an arm and points a slender little finger in their direction. “What’s your names?” she asks.

Her voice is a little too loud. Her tone is a little too flat.

The girls stand stock-still. They stare right at her, but not one of them speaks.

Brooke takes a step forward, obviously thinking they must not have heard her. So she asks a little more loudly this time.

“What’s your names?” she nearly yells.

This is my girl reaching out.

She wants to be heard.

She wants to make friends.

She wants to say, “Nice to meet you.”

No one answers. Not one of the girls so much as acknowledges the question. They simply stare at her.

“What’s your names?” she asks yet again.

They stand shoulder to shoulder together, creating an impenetrable wall.

I finally interject.

“Girls,” I say, “she’s just asking you what your names are. Can any of you tell her what your name is?”

I’m trying to sound friendly, but I can’t help but wonder how hard it is to answer a simple question from a girl their own age. I worry that there’s an edge in my voice. I hope they don’t hear it, but I do.

One of them quietly answers. Her name is Ashley.

Neither of the others says a word. They are still stuck to one another, looking at Brooke as though she’s just stepped out of an intergalactic transport.

She retreats. As she walks back to her chair, she mumbles into her chest, “It’s nice to meet you.”

She slumps into her chair and stares out into the water. I put my arm around her and squeeze her gently.

I whisper to her the words that we worked on over the summer, “Remember baby, when you walk up to a group of kids, you can say, ‘Hey, what are you guys doing?’”

She responds with a quiet, “Yeah.” It floats out over the water.

I leave it at that. It’s not the time to push.

I watch her, trying not to read too much into her body language. I pray that she doesn’t feel the sting, but I am terrified that she does.

For so long she (seemed to) have the luxury of oblivion. Burgeoning awareness is a double-edged sword.

I kiss the top of her head, wishing that loving her enough could somehow make this all easier.

Luau nudges me from three seats down. “Stay out of the rabbit hole, babe,” he says. “It’s O.K.”

I nod. “I hear ya, hon,” I respond. “I’m fine’.

We both know I’m lying.

Sometimes this stuff is just hard.

a much needed laugh – with apologies to texas

*

Do you remember me telling you about the friend that Brooke made at camp this summer?

Wait, I can’t possibly just let this go as if I’m honestly this casual about it.

Let’s try this …

AHEM.

EXCUSE ME, FOLKS.

IS THIS THING ON?

MY DAUGHTER MADE A NEW FRIEND, PEOPLE. AT CAMP. AND THEY’VE HAD THREE – COUNT EM – THREE PLAY DATES TOGETHER. AND THEY WANT TO HAVE MORE. AND WHEN WE LEFT THE LAST ONE (AT S’S GRANDMA’S HOUSE), SHE ASKED IF SHE COULD COME BACK HOME WITH US AND HAVE DINNER TOGETHER THAT VERY SECOND BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T WANT US TO HAVE TO LEAVE. AND SHE TOLD ME THAT SHE CAN’T WAIT FOR BROOKE TO COME TO HER HOUSE SO THAT SHE CAN MEET HER DOG, BUFFY. AND BROOKE CAN’T WAIT TO GO TO HER HOUSE TO MEET HER DOG, BUFFY. AND, UM .. Oh, sorry. Didn’t expect to be yelling for quite that long. But um, MY KID MADE A FRIEND AT CAMP!

**

The other night, Katie’s friend, Lila was at the house for a sleep-over. Brooke was apparently inspired. Just before bed, she brought a doll into the center of her room. She laid a bunch of stuffed animals on the floor next to the doll, then gently covered her with a small blanket.

“I’m having a sleep-over with a big girl,” she said as she patted the blanket before padding off to her own bed.

I thought of S and wondered. Why not? I tried to remember when that stuff typically starts. Second grade seemed about right. I sent an e-mail to S’s mother, Anne to see if S might be interested in coming to our house for a sleep-over sometime.

She called me the next day. She began tentatively, wanting to share a story, but not entirely certain that I’d find it funny. I told her not to worry. These can be tough waters to navigate from the outside. Hell, these can be tough waters to navigate from the inside.

She explained that at dinner that night, she had asked S if she’d like to have a sleep-over at Brooke’s house. She said that S was very enthusiastic and the biggest problem was explaining to her little brother why he couldn’t come too. (Say it with me ~ Awwwww.) They talked about it for a while, and somehow the conversation got around to S telling her brother that Brooke was a little different.

Anne asked what she meant by that and S said, “Well, she needs help starting her sentences sometimes.”

Anne asked her why she thought that was.

And apparently S has figured it all out.

She shrugged and said, “Cause she’s from Texas.”

And yes, with apologies to my many friends in the Lone Star state, I told Anne that I found it EXTREMELY funny.

If only I’d know earlier.

touching a nerve

**

Dear Readers,

Where to begin?

Yesterday’s post obviously hit a lot of nerves. I sincerely apologize to those who felt belittled or dismissed by my words. You have a point. A significant one in fact. And as I said last night, I am grateful to those who took the time to respectfully educate me.

In many ways, I hate moments like yesterday. I can’t stand feeling as if I’ve done or said something that in no way fits in with the way that I want to live my life. For a couple of minutes at the end of the day, I was tempted to take the post down and run for the hills. However, that’s not my style. And importantly, I have found that it’s those moments in my life in which I learn something. Growing out of our long-held perceptions isn’t always easy. But it’s what I ask others to do every day. I can imagine nothing more hypocritical than refusing to do the same.

Until yesterday, I could not have begun to understand the full scope of challenge that are faced by some academically advanced kids. Until we are shown anything different, we have no other way to look at life than through the filter of our own experiences. My experience with ‘gifted’ kids was apparently pretty limited. Which is somewhat ironic, because I was one. But in reading your comments yesterday, it became painfully obvious that my experience was not representative of – well, much more than my own experience.

Like some of you who commented, (and undoubtedly many of you who are reading now) I was labeled ‘gifted’ at a young age. The school system in which I spent my early education wasn’t quite sure how to handle my academic appetite, beginning with my demands to be taught to read at age four. Ultimately, the solution that they settled on was to take me out of kindergarten and to put me into first grade. I was five years old throughout the entirety of my first grade year.

Despite being a year and a half to two years younger than my peers, for the most part I remained bored and easily distracted in school. I remember dramatically failing a basic aptitude test in third grade. When the school called my parents in to discuss it, they asked to see the test. What had happened was immediately obvious to everyone involved – the computerized answer key was filled out in an interlocking pattern of swirls. When my parents came home and questioned me, I said simply, “I thought it was pretty. I was bored.”

I was quickly taught that there were certain things in life that we simply have to slog through, boring or not. But I will tell you that to this day, EVERY single time I fill in those computerized dots, I’m awfully tempted.

I tell you this to try to explain where I was coming from yesterday. For me – and ONLY me – no generalizations here – being ‘gifted’ simply meant being younger than my peers and a little bored. It meant that I read a lot and was able to slide by with a minimum of effort (which was, much to my parents’ dismay, precisely what I did.)

It had it’s downside, of course, mostly in terms of my age. Add in my height (or pretty dramatic lack thereof), and I certainly stood out. In many ways I was behind my peers socially. I certainly didn’t start ‘dating’ – even in the strictly euphemistic sense – until long after my friends.

Heading off to college at sixteen turned out to be mildly disastrous. That tale was told by a trail of unpaid credit card bills, totaled cars, academic probation and – eventually, a two-and-a-half year hiatus to get myself together before returning to graduate. The bottom line was that, while I may have been academically ready, I was nowhere near emotionally ready for life beyond high school.

However, I have never looked back on my experience and felt that being ‘gifted’ had in and of itself been a source of challenge for me. I do remember being teased, but as I remember it, it was always good-natured and it always came from friends. It is altogether possible that I am fully delusional and the people around me were cruel, but my memory’s all I got, and my memory is pretty rosy.

And so, this brings me to yesterday’s post. When the woman with whom I had the conversation about the Inclusion Committee asked me about the ‘Gifted and Talented’ kids, I looked at the question through the filter of my experience as a ‘gifted’ kid. Gifted and Talented meant no more to me than ‘being a little bored in class’.

Apparently, there’s a LOT more to it for a lot of kids, and I sincerely apologize for having been so dismissive. I can assure you that I will be far more sensitive to it in the future, particularly in the context of inclusion and the need to ensure that no one feels left out. All of you who pointed out that my attitude was anything but inclusionary were absolutely justified, and I appreciate your honesty.

That said, I stand by my right to bristle at the terminology.

Not liking the label does NOT mean that I don’t support the kids. Even yesterday, long before having being hit headlong by the sensitivity train, I tried to be clear about that. Some of you seemed to miss the part of the post that said,

Now, let me be clear. I’m all for ensuring that education is tailored to the individual student as much as possible. I whole-heartedly believe that a kid who’s development and skills are advanced beyond their grade level needs appropriate enrichment and stimulation just as much as a kid who is struggling to keep up needs help.

And the part that said,

Hopefully I’ve gotten the point across that I absolutely do not have a problem with the concept of special programming for kids who need it. If there’s a kid out there who may very well find the cure for cancer or unlock the mysteries of the autism epidemic, by all means, we must foster his or her talents and do everything in our power to support his or her intellectual curiosity. My problem is not ideological. My problem is in what we choose to call it.

To those of you who suggested that I thought that my child’s needs were more pressing than any other, I would direct you to the second sentence of the first quote above. “I whole-heartedly believe that a kid who’s development and skills are advanced beyond their grade level needs appropriate enrichment and stimulation just as much as a kid who is struggling to keep up needs help.”

The point that I was attempting to make in the second story yesterday about the mom who told me that her son with autism was also gifted was exactly that one. Looking through what I repeatedly explained was an oversensitive lens, I heard it as something akin to one-upmanship. I heard it as, ‘You think YOU’VE got challenges? Try THIS.’

And you know what? That might have been exactly what she meant. Or maybe not. It might just have been the way that I heard it. Either way, she was most likely just seeking a sympathetic ear. The good news is that as far as she knew, she’d found one. (No, that’s not meant to be flip. I’ll get back to this.)

One of you said yesterday, “Ask yourself it this was about Brooke today, or if was about your injured heart and the pain of your fears about what autism means for Brooke’s future.”

I would answer that OF COURSE it’s about my ‘injured heart’ and my fears for my child. I thought I’d said as much in the post when I said,

Perhaps I’m oversensitive. Hell, I know full well that I’m a walking nerve ending some days. I know too that some of the wounds simply haven’t healed yet. Acknowledging the distinct possibility that my hackles might have raised far too easily, I did my best to nod and smile and look sympathetic to her plight.

In the meantime, I actually am now more sensitive to her plight. After hearing from so many of you, both publicly and privately, I do now understand that there is absolutely an added dimension of challenge when you have a twice-exceptional child. (Speaking of ‘twice-exceptional’, one of you suggested yesterday that it would be “another term which will likely ruffle [my] feathers.” I actually LOVE the term twice-exceptional. In fact, I think it’s downright perfect. It connotes difference (exception) without judgement, which is precisely what I would like to be able to do in the case of ‘gifted and talented.’

I do still have to add that I wonder how many of our kids would fit into that category if we could peel back the layers of their challenges, but I’ll leave it at that in the interest of avoiding a twenty-page post.

Another reader asked me to “offer alternatives [to the term Gifted and Talented] … as [I had] for ‘normal’ and ‘regular.’”

I’m not sure that I know what the alternatives would be. Maybe it would help to use words like ‘accelerated’ or ‘enrichment’ or ‘academically advanced’. Even simply specifying ‘academically gifted’ rather than just gifted might help. Perhaps others have ideas they’d like to share. The same reader asked,

Who are you to say that one kid’s ‘different’ needs are more important than another’s? Why is it that people are so much more accepting now of inclusion for kids with challenges, but there’s a big hue and cry whenever a district tries to provide anything “extra” to meet the needs of a child who learns ten times faster than anyone else in the class?

She asked the question within the context of being admittedly oversensitive too. I appreciate and respect her asking for some leeway based on that, just as I had when titling my post, ‘an admittedly oversensitive rant.’ Despite the fact that another commenter had said “Life is hard enough without reading our own issues into other people’s words,” I think it’s the only way that we hear each other – through the filter of our own experiences. The reader who owned up to her own sensitivity had a very hard time as a kid because of her educational needs. I appreciate her sharing her story and sensitizing me as well. In answer to her query, I would respectfully ask her to direct her attention to the sections of yesterday’s post that I quoted above. In fact, I’ll reprint the words again.

I’m all for ensuring that education is tailored to the individual student as much as possible. I whole-heartedly believe that a kid who’s development and skills are advanced beyond their grade level needs appropriate enrichment and stimulation just as much as a kid who is struggling to keep up needs help.

[...]

Hopefully I’ve gotten the point across that I absolutely do not have a problem with the concept of special programming for kids who need it. If there’s a kid out there who may very well find the cure for cancer or unlock the mysteries of the autism epidemic, by all means, we must foster his or her talents and do everything in our power to support his or her intellectual curiosity. My problem is not ideological. My problem is in what we choose to call it.

Hopefully without sounding overly defensive, I do want to remind my readers that this blog is a diary. That’s why it’s called Diary of a Mom. I’m not writing a how-to manual. I’m not claiming to have all the answers. I’m sharing pieces of my world as I see them, through my filter, from my perspective. The way that I acted at the time that both of the stories occurred was very different from the thoughts that were racing through my head. There was a reason for that. As I said, I knew that I may well be off the mark. I knew that my ‘injured heart and the pain of [my] fears’ could very likely be leading me to a misinterpretation of either person’s meaning or intent. I got that part. And I acted accordingly in both cases.

But here, on the blog, I felt the freedom to process it all. To work through how I FELT at that moment and to write about the way in which my visceral, emotional reactions differed in many ways from my rational ones. I shared it all in the hopes of finding some understanding. That’s what I do here.

I appreciate you all taking the time to share your stories and your perspectives. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to become educated and far more sensitive to a whole host of issues. Growth isn’t easy, but it’s always worthwhile.

Thank you.

Respectfully,

Jess

P.S. One commenter yesterday recommended the book Genius Denied by Jan & Bob Davidson, available on their website, http://www.geniusdenied.com/. I thought it worth highlighting in case others were interested.

gifted and talented – the admittedly oversensitive rant of an autism mom

*

Certain words are universally troublesome. Some trigger strong emotion, particularly when used outside of the very narrow context in which they might be deemed acceptable. Just ask Laura Schlessinger.

And so we work to strike certain words from our lexicon. Take for example the Special Olympics’ Spread the Word to End the Word Campaign, whose stated goal is to get people to stop and think about their hurtful and disparaging use of the word “retard” and to pledge to stop using it. (Which happens to be one of my stated goals as well.)

Some words simply have to go.

But then there are the others. The words that seem benign, that may even be used with the best of intentions, yet that cut to the quick when sensitivities are raised. Words like ‘normal’ and ‘regular’ – as in ‘is she able to do the class work like the regular kids?’ or ‘God, I hear ya, even raising normal kids is hard.’ Yup, straight to the heart.

So we offer up substitutes – words that essentially say the same damn thing, but that do so without the hurtful implications of their history. We replace ‘normal’ with ‘typically developing’ and ‘regular’ with ‘non-Sped or even ‘Regular Ed’. It may seem absurd to think that those two little letters can somehow soften the tone of the distinction, but for me they do.

Earlier in the summer, I was chatting with someone from another district about our school’s Inclusion Committee. She had a number of insightful questions and was very supportive of what we had done. I explained that although the bulk of our efforts last year revolved around understanding and celebrating learning differences, the Inclusion Committee was established with a much broader scope in mind. I told her that our goal was to ensure that no individual or group of people ever felt left out of the larger community.

We talked about our hopes to expand sensitivities around the dramatic socioeconomic disparities in our town. I told her that we ultimately want to create a community that doesn’t just tolerate, but celebrates its racial, religious, ethnic and cultural differences. We talked too about the need to address differences in family constellation.

As I listed off some of our target areas, she asked a question.

“What about the Gifted and Talented kids?”

I am not often at a loss for words, but I had nothing. The who? The Gifted and Talented kids? Seriously?

OK, listen, I know this may seem like a dramatic overreaction, but here’s what was in my head.

*

Yeah, Jerry Lewis. As in, Oh, OK, so we now need to hold a telethon for those poor Gifted and Talented kids? The ones with all those debilitating gifts and awful talents? I mean, for God’s sake people, where’s your compassion? Don’t you see how hard it is to be Gifted and Talented in today’s society? Sheesh. Send your donations TODAY. Operators are standing by.

But then I stopped.

Because my next thought overwhelmed the first. Isn’t EVERY kid gifted and talented? You gonna tell me that MY kid is not gifted? Or talented? I dare you.

Cause, well, she happens to be one of the most gifted human beings I’ve ever encountered. Her tenacity alone is a gift beyond my understanding, but add in her delicious humor and her boundless energy and her love – God the love that this child leaves in her wake changes everything it touches. And talent? Ha, you want to talk talent? How many kids do you know who can recite entire movies, shows and books from memory? Or who have a nearly perfect accent in just about any language because they can replicate anything they hear? Or how about – and this one is the kicker – how about being able to communicate and interact with the world around you with barely ANY spontaneous language AT ALL? Try it – using nothing but a limited number of lines from the scripts that you have at your disposal, create a conversation. THAT, my friend takes TALENT.

I shook my head as calmly and as slowly as I could and said, “Actually, that really hasn’t come up.”

Now, let me be clear. I’m all for ensuring that education is tailored to the individual student as much as possible. I whole-heartedly believe that a kid who’s development and skills are advanced beyond their grade level needs appropriate enrichment and stimulation just as much as a kid who is struggling to keep up needs help. Katie happens to be one of those kids. She tends to need more to chew on than the typical curriculum provides. Her teachers have been great in offering her suggestions for further study. She often reads the source books that are cited in her classwork. We try to find ways for her to delve a little more deeply into the subject matter. And that’s great. But does it make her any more gifted or talented than her sister? (Please tell me you’re shaking your head.)

What was it that Temple Grandin’s mother so famously said to the school administrator? “Different, not less.”

Conversely I’d add, “Different, not more.”

Hopefully I’ve gotten the point across that I absolutely do not have a problem with the concept of special programming for kids who need it. If there’s a kid out there who may very well find the cure for cancer or unlock the mysteries of the autism epidemic, by all means, we must foster his or her talents and do everything in our power to support his or her intellectual curiosity. My problem is not ideological. My problem is in what we choose to call it. I can’t abide by the obvious implication in the label. If only one group of academically elite kids is Gifted and Talented, then the rest by exclusion are NOT.

I recently met a woman whose child has autism. We were chatting about schools and different types of educational programs when she stage-whispered like the mom in St Elmo’s Fire, “Well, my son is also GIFTED, so you can imagine how hard that is.” She was serious. As in, “My poor kid is SMART too. Whoa is me.” I was trying really hard not to be judgmental, but I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

Perhaps I’m oversensitive. Hell, I know full well that I’m a walking nerve ending some days. I know too that some of the wounds simply haven’t healed yet. Acknowledging the distinct possibility that my hackles might have raised far too easily, I did my best to nod and smile and look sympathetic to her plight. But all I could think of was this.

*

*

Yeah, an onion.

Because when we manage to pull back some of the layers of our kids – ALL of our kids – we find talents. Sometimes mind-blowing, incredible talents. We find children who can name a car by its ignition sound and children who put Houdini’s escape artistry to shame. We find natural performers, and music aficionados and gamers with boundless creativity. We find window dancers as graceful as any aerial acrobat; we find innovative artists and even inventors of entirely new species.

And by God, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. (Or, the outer layer of the onion for those of you who are squeamish about mixing your metaphors.) When we peel further, we find children who intuitively know how to comfort, children whose compassion for others runs so deep that we simply know they will change our world. We even find some who already have, simply by gracing it with their presence, no matter how long they were here.

And so many of our children are just beginning to peel the onion, revealing the wonder and boundless potential that lies beneath the layers.

I can’t possibly fathom that THOSE kinds of gifts are any less impactful than the kind that we’d find in the ‘Gifted and Talented‘ classroom. One might even argue to the contrary.

So, by all means, crow all you want about your child’s gifts and talents. I plan on doing the same. But please, do me the favor of not applying the blanket term Gifted and Talented. And for heaven’s sake, whatever you do, don’t ask me to come to the telethon.

ed note ~ Please forgive me for the woefully short list of children above. I could have gone on for days, but well, I don’t have days, so the best I could offer was a small sampling of our wondrous kids. So please, please, please – if you are a parent (or grandparent or aunt or uncle or caregiver or professional) add YOUR child’s gifts in the comments! By no means do I intend to leave them out!!

Amended at 10pm EST to add: ** All – We JUST walked in the door after a LONG day of traveling and I am bleary eyed. It’s so important to me to give your comments the time, energy and focus that they deserve. Since I’m barely capable of brushing my teeth before bed right now, I’m thinking it best to come back to this after a night’s sleep. I’m grateful to those of you who have taken the time to respectfully educate me today. More in the morning. – Jess **

stories for another day

*

I have a LOT to tell you. My Draft box is littered with half-finished posts and tentatively titled reminders. Some are stories to share and some are rants to rave.

I want to tell you about words – specifically the ones that I’ve found stuck smack in my craw this week (hint – they rhyme with bifted and balented).

I want to tell you how desperately I wish that the DSM could just individually label all of the myriad disorders (and dramatically different levels of impairment) that currently fall under the three word diagnostic umbrella of Autism Spectrum Disorders. I want to tell you that since they don’t, this community HAS to figure out how to share the umbrella without either dismissing those who are less disabled by the disorder or God-forbid, ignoring the exigency of addressing the needs of those who are most severely affected.

I want to quote my friend, Judith and tell you that human suffering is not a competitive sport. That when we work TOGETHER, we can help one another. That we have too much heavy lifting to do (both in our own homes and as a community) to spend our time drowning in negative energy.

I want to tell you that I’m sick and tired of the sniping and name calling and discord among our ranks. That I’m tired of hearing from politicians and others who can actually HELP US that they are confused about what we want from them or to whom they should be listening.

I want to tell you about Brooke’s quest for Periwinkle, how I finally gave in and ordered a new one and then how she insisted on checking the mailbox at the moment that I hit ‘enter’ on the computer screen.

I want to tell you that one in eighty-eight military children has autism and that our level of care for them is often nothing short of disgraceful. I want to ask you to support an organization that is trying hard to rectify that and to get those kids and their families the support that they need.

I want to tell you about our conversation in the car on Friday – how Brooke asked me where Staples was and then told me that she needs to go there ‘when she’s nine.’

I want to tell you about Katie’s play yesterday – how I sat in the dark with tears streaming down my cheeks because Brooke loved it, but simply couldn’t handle it in a way that I thought was acceptable and how Luau finally had to take her out in tears. I want to tell you that life with autism so often feels like a high wire act – balancing the need for reasonable public decorum and respect for those around us with a desperate desire to let my kid be who she is and enjoy and experience the world on HER terms. I want to tell you that sometimes I feel like I can’t step on that flippin’ wire even ONE MORE TIME.

I’d be telling you all of that – or at least some of that – today. But you see yesterday, I found out that my friend, Kim Stagliano’s daughter had been (allegedly) repeatedly and apparently systematically abused by the bus driver on her Special Needs bus.

The story is here.

And here.

This makes me nauseous. It is one of our community’s greatest fears come to pass.

HOW DO WE PROTECT OUR PRECIOUS CHILDREN FROM MONSTERS WHO WOULD HURT THEM SIMPLY BECAUSE THEY CAN?

As you may know, Kim is a leader in the vaccine crusade. She is an original autism warrior and the managing editor of the activist site, Age of Autism.

I don’t care if you believe that vaccines are the devil incarnate or if you’ve got a shrine to Paul Offit in your bedroom. I couldn’t care less if you think that the autism epidemic is entirely man-made or if you are convinced that autism is as genetic as hair color. I beg you to stand up and support Kim, her husband, Mark and their beautiful girls. Let them know that they are not alone as they face the unthinkable. Let them know that when you wake one Mama Bear, she comes with an army behind her.

Kim’s story is on Huffington Post. If enough of us read it (and comment on it!), we’ll get that damned thing to the front page. In so doing, we’ll shine a light on the desperate need to safeguard these vulnerable kids. We’ll make a public statement that we WILL NOT ABIDE by the abuse of our precious babies – whether our babies are two or forty-two. We will declare this atrocity quite simply INTOLERABLE.

The rest will wait. I’ll get back to the stories and rants and raves another day. For today, PLEASE – stand up, stand together, be heard.

Kim’s daughter deserves better. ALL of our children do.

CLICK HERE

holding hands

*

Me and my girl at the beach

Aug 13, 2010

*

Hands

Touching hands

Reaching out

Touching me

Touching you

~ Neil Diamond, Sweet Caroline

***

We step out of the car and into the parking lot. I instinctively extend my hand to Brooke as we walk around the back of the car.

She takes it and we walk hand in hand across the lot.

To anyone passing by, we look just like any mother and daughter walking into a store.

Well, almost any.

If they look closely enough, they’ll see that THIS mom is beaming.

The smile just happens.

There’s no way I can suppress the thrill that comes each and every time that my daughter takes my hand – my whole hand – and holds it without complaint.

It’s been eight months now since the first time that she took my hand like this.

And in those eight months, we’ve walked through an awful lot of parking lots.

Yet still, it feels new and novel and wonderful EVERY SINGLE TIME.

I am incapable of taking this moment for granted.

Holding hands with my girl.

A simple act.

That isn’t really so simple.

At all.

look out for the crims

*

I lean against the pool wall, taking in the scenery while I watch Brooke’s long, lean body move dolphin-like through the water. Since discovering the complete lack of sound under water, she doesn’t come up to the surface much these days.

It’s 90 degrees, which in Mid-August New England has the added benefit of Amazonian humidity. Together, the heat and heavy air translate into something around ‘hot as hell’. Since many of the local camps – like Brooke’s – have finished for the summer, an army of nannies and their charges have migrated to our usually quiet haven.

Early twenty-somethings dot the pool deck, creating a pattern worthy of Team Umizoomi -

Tankini clad mom, bikini bare twenty something, mom with a swim skirt over the last fifteen pounds, bikini bare twenty something, mom in a ruffly one-piece fooling no one … C’mon, kids – say it with me … ‘Bikini bare twenty something!’

I involuntarily tug at the top of my bathing suit. The back pulls ever so slightly. A terrifying image of cinched back fat flashes through my head. It ain’t pretty. In an effort to shake it, I look around. Big mistake.

I’m immediately assaulted by a ludicrously flat midriff. Not even flat, but gorgeously, lusciously, infuriatingly concave. This particular midriff happens to be between two completely mis-matched bathing suit pieces. They’re not even remotely related to one another. They’re not even pretending to be. I guess when you’ve got concavity on your side, top to bottom coordination is optional. I grudgingly concede that she looks adorable. B-tch.

But wait. Hold the phone. I look more closely. I tried on that exact same top! OK, not in the same SIZE, but the same top. And then took it off as if it had bitten me. I looked like a train wreck in that top. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that my boobs still haven’t completely forgiven me for subjecting them to that particular indignity. (Sorry, Dad.) But damn, on Concave Midriff B-tch it looks really cute.

Kill me now.

I will myself to look in another direction. Brooke floats by, declaring that she’s jumping crims. I have no idea what ‘crims’ are, but they are apparently all over the pool and need to be avoided at all costs. I give her an absent-minded smile and go through the motions of saying, ‘Jump!’ when she shouts, ‘Crim!’ but my heart’s not in it.

I pull the bottom of my swimsuit into place for the hundredth time that morning. I try to arrange it just so, remembering from the fight I’d had with it in front of the mirror that the most comfortable arrangement was decidedly NOT the most flattering. I opt for flattering, obviously. I mean, it IS common knowledge that comfort has no place at a pool. Duh.

I continue to fidget with the suit bottom, despite the fact that the entire bottom half of my body is under water. Don’t look for logic. There is none.

I look around again, hoping for a distraction. I find one.

I spend the next couple of minutes trying to make sense of the improbable ratio of breasts to rest-of-body that is currently floating in front of me. I idly wonder if the poor dear ever tips over when she tries to stand up. I find myself humming the Weebles theme song – Weebles wobble! Weebles wobble! Weebles Wobble but they don’t fall down. I spend a brief moment trying to discern whether she’d opted for silicone or saline. I stop just shy of having to face the fact that I’m far shallower than I think I am. Three cheers for denial!

Improbable Ratio gets out of the pool, mercifully leaving my dance space. As she climbs the ladder, I notice that her thighs are riding the cellulite train. Since I have a commuter pass on that particular train, I do an internal happy dance. No, I’m not proud.

Brooke floats by again. This time she surfaces just long enough to say, “Watch me flow, Mom!” (She means ‘float’, but she prefers the sound of ‘flow’. Just go with it. It’s Brooke’s world and we all learn to translate.)

I chide myself. I’m at a pool, damn it. Alone with my girl. In the middle of the week. My girl, who for a very, VERY long time would NEVER have said, “Watch me!” Hell, I remember the very first time she said, “Look, Mama.“ She had been just shy of six years old. So for heaven’s sake, this is not to be taken for granted.

We have nowhere to be. Nothing we have to do but enjoy the day. And each other. And what am I spending that time doing? Obsessing over twenty somethings with flat midriffs and overzealous boob jobs? Well, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I decide it is a LUDICROUS use of my time. And Brooke’s. I watch my baby ‘flowing’ in the water. What matters to her about her body is how it works and how it feels. She couldn’t care less how it looks. I choose to follow her lead. I seem to do that a lot.

I tug on my suit one last time – What, you thought I’d go cold turkey? I reach out to my beautiful girl. As soon as I get her attention, I shout, “Crim!”

i disagree (at hopeful parents)

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I’m at Hopeful Parents today, sharing a little disagreement that I had with my daughter.

Please click on over!

-> CLICK HERE <-

a day in pictures

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On Saturday, we decided to stray from the norm. Not always a good idea around these parts, but sometimes you’ve just got to give it a shot. With some help from good old Dr Google, we discovered a nature preserve that, while just miles from our home, turned out to be an entire world away.

Once there, we found a breathtaking array of flowers – and let Brooke stop to smell nearly every one. We climbed trees – well, two of us did at least. We ran through wide open fields and the girls rolled down the gently sloping hills. We made our way up and down and around the winding paths that traced the nearby river’s edge. We found a delightful children’s garden and fell head over heels in love with a two-story tangled wood playhouse. We laid down beneath a tree, looked straight up and marveled at nature’s work. The girls fished along the riverbed with sticks they’d found along the way – proudly displaying the algae they’d caught in wet, gooey clumps. Luau taught Katie how to skip stones. We laughed.

And finally, for the first time in ages – I had my camera with me.

So here it is.

The day in pictures …

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(Note ~ Those are katie’s shoes in the air above her head!)

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I don’t know if there will ever come a day that my girls do not take my breath away.

I do know that today is not that day.

forty (or, bermuda can kiss my —)

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On Friday, I will be forty.

The fact that it will be Friday the thirteenth is not lost on me.

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I’ve been hearing that the forties are the best decade ever.

That women feel empowered in their forties.

That they are old enough to have found out what really matters and young enough to be able to live what they’ve learned.

That they find comfort in their own skin, finally learning that they are not defined by the shape of their bodies nor the size of their clothing, but by who they are and how they live their lives.

And I don’t mean to be rolling my eyes like a bratty thirteen year old as I type this; I swear.

It all sounds great, really.

And I think under different circumstances, I’d probably be kicking up my heels, dancing and laughing my way into this next decade.

But well, I am where I am.

And if I’m being honest, where I am lately doesn’t include a whole lot of dancing.

I am unsettled.

I am anxious.

I am under tremendous pressure to figure out just what the hell comes next.

I have three other human beings (and a dog) depending on me to figure it out sooner than later.

And one of them needs a whole lot more than the average bear, so it ain’t really the run-of-the-mill kind of ‘figuring it out’.

So, this isn’t quite what forty was supposed to look like.

Forty was supposed to be, well, different.

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Thinner.

Richer.

Lighter.

Sexier.

Happier.

Just plain easier.

Know what else?

Forty was supposed to happen in Bermuda.

I never told anyone that. (Except for my friend, Drama the other day just for the hell of it.) No point, really.

But that was where I had long ago decided that my fortieth birthday would be.

Toes in the sand, drink in my hand, Luau by my side.

We would be there with friends.

There would be at least six of us, maybe eight.

We’d spend a weekend laughing until our cheeks hurt.

We’d tell embarrassing old stories as we created new ones.

We’d linger over drinks after dinner and walk the beach at sunset.

We’d laugh some more as I bid my thirties farewell – watching the waves sweep the entire decade out to sea.

Of course there’s no Bermuda.

There’s no group of three or four couples who can fly off for the weekend just for the hell of it.

No three or four couples at all really.

That’s no longer the world that I inhabit.

On so very many levels.

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So I will ring in forty at home.

I will be surrounded by my family.

We will say grace – the same grace that we say every night before dinner.

“Thank you for the food we are about to receive and the precious gift of each other. Amen.”

I will look around the table and see what really matters.

These people – these incredible people with whom I am so blessed to share my life and whom I love with a ferocity I never could have imagined.

I will decide the rest is crap.

I will blow out the candles on my homemade cake.

I will make a wish.

I will try not to cry when I do, but I probably will anyway.

I will resolutely tell myself that Bermuda can kiss my ass.

I’ll even declare a boycott on their stupid shorts. Yeah, that’ll show em.

I will realize how lucky I am.

I will be overwhelmed by gratitude.

I will take a bite of cake and savor it. I will not sweat the fact that it will go straight to my thighs.

Screw it.

I will take another bite.

I will hold my girls close.

I will decide that maybe forty ain’t the end of the world.

Maybe.

So take that, Bermuda.