A Magic Feather

 Yesterday I was explaining to a sweet mother why her baby girl needed to learn to roll before she could crawl or walk.  I haven't had a parent yet tell me that it is their ultimate goal that their child learn to roll.  No, the goal is for them to walk, of course.  But, as I told this mom, it is not the skill of rolling that we are so concerned with her learning, it is a concept.  She needs to know she can get from point A to point B on her own.  If she doesn't believe she can do that, she won't even try to crawl or walk.  Those skills will be much more challenging for her, and she will only succeed if she believes she has it in her power to do so.

I smiled then.  My own words had jogged a memory of Isaac standing in the line of Disneyland's Dumbo ride.  He clutched a "Magic Feather" and watched the other rider's soar above him with wonder shining in his eyes.  The little black feather made of wood looked so big in his tiny hands.  The ride's operator had given one of these symbols of hope to each special needs child waiting in line.  It guaranteed their wait would not be long.  I keep a little figurine of Dumbo, flying with his magic feather, in a prominent place in my home to remind me of what great things hope can accomplish. 

I told this little girl's mother that helping her daughter learn to roll was like giving her Dumbo's magic feather.  If her daughter could believe in her own ability to change her surroundings by moving through them on her own, the more difficult skills would eventually come.  I think sometimes, we could all use a magic feather.  We are capable of so much if we truly believe we can do it.

This Haunted House

When I was a little girl visiting my grandparents' house, my brother and sister and I used to play for hours in their beautiful back yard.  It was part orchard, part garden, and part playground.  We would scale the apricot tree, swing in the tire swing, and run in and out of the house often for drinks and other backyard essentials.  Sometimes we would leave the backdoor open in our haste and my grandpa would shout, "Put the board in the hole!  Were you born in a barn?"

Now I'm a mother, and whenever my imaginative son, Isaac, doesn't want to leave the house he cries, "I want to stay in my barn!"  He says this whether he is pretending to be a cow or a leopard.  Apparently in his mind, a barn is a good dwelling place for all sorts of animals.  It always makes me smile because had these two marvelous people met, Isaac would have flummoxed my Grandpa Glissmeyer.

"Were you born in a barn?"

"Why, yes, lovely isn't it?"

This morning an event occurred that was of epic proportions.  Isaac decided he no longer lives in a barn.  He lives in a haunted house.  He spent a good half hour this morning deciding where all the monsters hang out.  There is a werewolf in the master bathroom, a mummy in the bedroom closet, Frankenstein under the bed, and ghosts hiding under the kitchen table.  I had trouble understanding some of the things he was telling me, so he gave me hints:

"Vit-es" are on the ceiling."

"Huh?"

"Pointy hats.  Brooms."

"Oh, witches are on the ceiling?"

"Yes!"

"Emires in the fireplace."

"What?"

"Emires...Count Dracula."

"Oh, vampires are in the fireplace?"

"Yes, Emires."

 He put a butler in the hall, zombies in the silverware drawer, a dragon on the roof, and Bigfoot downstairs.  I'm sure Isaac will be adding more monsters to this haunted house over the next few days, but don't worry; he'll be done in time for Easter. :)

A Different Kind of Intelligence

My son Isaac has Down syndrome.

That can mean a lot of different things.  It means he is more prone to have thyroid issues.  He is more prone to skin problems.  More prone to have eye problems.  More prone to have sensory issues...and the list goes on and on.

Some people think--like myself before I had him--that it means he is perpetually happy all the time.  This isn't really true, but his "happy" often manifests outwardly as sheer joy.  On the flip side, his "sad" manifests as complete and utter devastation.  I try to explain that to people when he is wailing miserably over something small, like the fact that I said we are going to have meatloaf for dinner.  And, by the way, my meatloaf is delicious...really.

On parent-teacher conference week, it means that I get to hear phrases like "scored in the severely low range" on many of the tests that they administer to him.  Because of this, and the fact that he can't communicate as well as most nine year olds, people often act surprised when they see him doing anything that requires the least bit of intelligence, like repeating word for word a favorite Disney movie.  People will, in awed tones, say things like, "Well he must understand something to be able to do that."

Yes, he does understand.  Much more than many people know.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm never mad when people say stuff like that.  I see it as an opportunity to educate them about how much many people with Down syndrome can understand, but what gets lost as I talk with them is that Isaac has an intelligence that's hard to put your finger on.  I can't quite figure out how to explain it.

I suppose an example will have to do.  This morning as I was running around trying to get everyone ready for school, inwardly lamenting the fact that I was slipping on letting Isaac do his morning "get ready" list by himself. I was wondering what my life would be like if Isaac could, like a regular nine year old, get ready on his own.  I was wishing I could handle the fact that he can't just a little bit better and be more organized or something.  I was really feeling bad that we haven't had time lately to let him go at his own pace, but he can be sooo slow.  And when I say slow, I don't think you can imagine the kind of slow I'm talking about.  I mean one morning I was determined not to help him get his breakfast and that kid took one hour and fifteen minutes to make and eat breakfast.  If he puts his mind to it he can be done in 30 minutes with breakfast, no faster.  He really does take forever to eat, but it doesn't help when he is stopping at every turn to imagine that he is Po, the Dragon Warrior, or Puss in Boots.

This morning I was rushing around and told him to go to the bathroom to do his five bathroom things.  When I came back five minutes later, he was still standing in front of the toilet imagining.  I said, "Isaac, I shouldn't have to tell you to pull your pants down and sit.  You've known that for a long time."  At some point during this very normal morning we were at the sink together, and I was helping him wash his face when he leaned in and gave me a hug.  He hasn't been a big hugger lately, and when I do get one it is short and  lackluster.  Well, this morning he stopped and looked in my eyes and just kept on hugging. He snuggled until I bent down so I could enjoy a little head resting on my shoulder and a tighter squeeze than I have gotten in months.  I can't tell you how badly I needed that hug this morning.

I can never explain how he knew that I needed it, but he did.  He knew.  You see, he has his own special kind of intelligence, and I don't want to know what my world would be like without it.

Within Reach

I have always said that I never liked teenagers, even when I was one.  I'm regretting that statement now.  I guess you could say it was a little over dramatic.  Not that I regularly tend towards the over dramatic...OK, maybe a little.

But now my oldest child is a teenager, and I think that statement, among others, is causing problems around here.  So I would like to set the record straight:  I do like teenagers.  I mean, they are people after all, and I like people.

I think I am just having a problem letting go of my little boy.  It sounds weird to say that because my little boy has been a pretty independent kid for quite sometime.  He was riding his bike to school with friends by second grade.  And all through elementary school, he wouldn't even let me see his homework because he was afraid I might try to help him with it, and he "didn't need help!"  (He really didn't.  He's as smart as a whip.)  And he swore he never missed me when he came home from week long camping trips.

Where has the little boy gone that had to be returned to me early when his grandparents took him on a vacation to Colorado?  Where is the boy that insisted he would buy the house right next door to us and take me on his honeymoon because he wanted to be with me always?  He is right here.  At this very moment, he is asleep in our basement.  And, I think that is what makes it all so very hard.  He is still here.  I have approximately 3.7 years until he packs up and leaves.  But it feels like he is not my little boy anymore.  He is becoming his own person.

And yet, he will always be mine.  I read something this morning in some random place that had nothing to do with children or teenagers and I started to cry.  It said:  "Just because something is no longer within your reach doesn't mean it's no longer yours."  The author spoke of keeping pieces of our lives in our hearts.

It is what I need to do.  I need to keep the pieces close.  The pieces that he doesn't remember, or remembers differently.  The pieces that we share.  I need to know that it is OK that things are changing because that is how things are supposed to be.  I need to be here for him like I was when he was first learning to walk.  After letting go of my fingers and taking those first steps, his range widened every day as he toddled away and back again.  I read somewhere that it is what toddlers do.  They check back in with their parents often as they explore the world around them. We are their reassurance, their safety.  I need to remind myself that he is not gone, his range has just widened and will get wider still, but I hope he will always check back.  I hope Kimball knows he will always find love and acceptance here...and laughter and comfort and someone who has loved him since before he can remember.  Someone who hopes that even if we aren't close enough to physically touch, we will always be within reach. 

 

Thank You Wild Kratts!



At any given moment, Isaac is pretending to be something.  This morning it was a leopard.

While I was helping him get ready for school, he was giving me a hard time, so I informed him he must be full of spit and vinegar today.  Whenever I say anything about vinegar, he knows I usually follow it up with lots of tickling.  Don't ask me what it means.  I got it from my Grandma Glissmeyer.  Us kids were always full of vinegar and were in need of a good tickle when she was around.  Anyway...this morning Isaac threw up his hands and said, "No, don't get me.  I'm just an innocent mammal."

Big words for a kid that couldn't even say 'Dad' until he was four.  I decided to find out if he knew what he was talking about.  I quizzed him on animal classification.  Snake?  Penguin?  Frog?  Correct.  Correct.  Correct.

Apparently, even though he can't be bothered to remember what that shape is called that has three sides and three angles, he has his animal classifications down pat.  Thank you Wild Kratts!

A Typical Summer Evening

It was nice to sit on the deck at Poppy's house last night.  The sun had set.  The smoke from the High Park fire was billowing in a different direction and the evening was dimming to night.  An outline of a crane waded in the water at the edge of the lake while we chatted and laughed at Josie spraying our dachshund, Wilma, with a water gun to help her cool off.  Then, a small light was spotted in the distance, traveling across the sky.  Rudolph was mentioned, and Donner, of course.  Isaac declared that we all must sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer together and so we did.  We sang of a foggy Christmas Eve as we sat in the fading heat of a lovely June day...you know, like anybody might do on a typical summer evening.

Distance

For some reason I think this may sound horrible.  I hope it doesn't.

Today I sat in the van with the windows open and read a book while Josie and Isaac played at a small neighborhood park nearby.  I did not get out and play with them.  As my little sister used to say when she was three years old, I just "couldn't want to."

The day was bright.  The weather perfect.  I was close enough to hear them laugh, but I couldn't hear if Josie was bossing Isaac around or if Isaac was calling Josie names.  I watched Isaac push Josie on the swing and follow her to the van when she hurt her finger.  Band-Aid in place, I watched them run back to the park and heard them whoop with delight.

My heart felt so full of gratitude for them, for the blessing they are in my life.  I'm sorry to say, it's a gratitude that has been lacking lately.  But watching them from that distance let me appreciate how small and young they are.  Ten minutes in which no demands passed from me to them, or from them to me made a huge difference for me today.