I took my loveable German Shepherd, Lyric, on a walk this morning, as I do every day. It's good for her, and good for me. It's our routine. Twice a day we go around the block that is our neighborhood, rain or shine or blizzard cold. Except Sundays, when I take a Sabbath rest and skip the morning constitutional. Now that school is in session and the weather is cooler, we go around 8:30 am. And usually our evening walk is right after dinner. Lyric knows that when I get out my socks and tennis shoes it's time to go. (Seriously, the only time I wear tennis shoes is for these walks, so if she sees me in them she goes nuts!) If I don't get around to it soon enough she comes and head butts my leg, c'mon mom!
So we headed out this morning and weren't very far along when from behind me I heard a woman shout "Rascal, NO!" followed by a lot of barking. I turned to see Rascal charging at us, and Lyric looked and started pulling too. Despite Rascal's bark, we were not afraid, since Rascal probably weighed all of 5 pounds. Our 40-pound (as our daughter calls her) "fun-sized" Shepherd could have eaten Rascal for lunch, but she really only wanted to play. Clearly Rascal's owner was not in the mood for play and called for him to stop, NOW!, so we continued walking, all the while looking back to see if he had.
When we finally faced forward again we found, not 10 feet in front of us, a hissing, back-arched cat. Giving me whiplash, Lyric now pulled the other way, angling for the cat. Clearly the cat was not amused. She tried to hold her ground while I tried to hold mine, on a leash. Finally the cat gave us a wide berth and walked away. And Lyric sulked, thinking I'd cheated her out of more fun.
Sometimes things that interrupt your routine are just that: opportunities for fun. Taking a break from your plan for the evening in order to spend a couple hours braiding your daughter's hair. Not being able to concentrate on the reading you wanted to do because your son is alternately playing drums and guitar in your basement and he fancies heavy metal grunge, which to your brain is like fingernails on a chalkboard, only louder. But you're so happy to hear him doing the thing he loves. Things that make your daily walk a little bit interesting.
But sometimes the dog isn't a pipsqueak pup but a teeth-barred wolf, famished and stalking. And you turn and see from the other direction a prowling lion staring you down. And you're stuck in the middle and frankly don't know what to do. (I know, I know...wolves and lions don't occupy the same habitat...just work with me here). Sometimes your enemies are bigger than you, and you can't whistle a happy tune or find any lyrics to sing, and it's all you can do to hold your ground, and you really, really just want to make it out alive. But we are besieged on all fronts. Helpless. Hopeless.
"When he (Jesus) saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd." (Matt 9:36) "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand is not the shepherd who owns the sheep. So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep. I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me." (John 10: 11-14) Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith..." (1 Peter 5:8-9)
Do you know what I'm talking about? Are you there now? We made it through our walk by taking another step, and another. And I think that's how we'll make it through this chapter of life as well. We take another step and another step and another step. We hold tight to our Shepherd, who has compassion on us. And holding fast to God, we trust Him and take another step.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
License to Parent
Twice a judge has banged his gavel on his bench and declared that I have a license to parent. Well not a license so much, but a certificate. A decree. He called it adoption, but we'll call it a license. And licensed, I thought I was prepared. I knew what I was doing. I was ready for the open highway. And even as I type this I hear a news story about a newly licensed teen who hit the accelerator instead of the break and went crashing into a building and took out three gas meters. And those early days of parenting I think I took out a few gas meters myself. Parenting infants and toddlers is hard. There's the newness of everything, the sleep deprivation, the pee and the poop and the volcanic spit-up. Getting them to try new things, and getting them to fall asleep in their own beds. First time left in childcare, and first day of kindergarten. All can be challenges for the young parent.
But now I'm the parent of two teens. And I realize that was nothing. Like riding a bicycle. And now I'm driving a commercial vehicle...an 18-wheeler. And I still only have my bicycle license. And the semi is careening out of control...and wait...I'm not driving it at all, it's coming down the highway in the wrong direction barreling straight at me, and I'm not sure I can get out of the way on time to avoid a collision. And I'm in a smart car...and the 18-wheeler is going to take me out. Because we all know smart cars aren't designed to take that kind of impact no matter how smart they are. And my teen doesn't believe I'm smart at all...I'm the stupidest creature that ever did live. And then I'm back in the big truck and yanking the wheel and blaring the horn, and hitting the air brakes, and I hear the hissing, and I come to a stop, but not without losing half of my load on the highway, and apparently the truck was filled with a load of fertilizer and there is sh-- all over the highway, and now what do I do?
Yup...that's my parenting experience. And every morning I have to get up and take the wheel again, because I've got the license, and that's how I earn my living. And I find myself really disliking those other drivers who seem to have their 18-wheelers under control. Mostly I guess I'm just jealous of them, because I want to be driving their trucks. But I've got my own truck. Or smart car. Whatever. And I'm hoping one day to graduate to a nice recreational vehicle, where I can tool around the country and stop where I want and enjoy the view. But for now...get out of my way, I'm driving the truck.
But now I'm the parent of two teens. And I realize that was nothing. Like riding a bicycle. And now I'm driving a commercial vehicle...an 18-wheeler. And I still only have my bicycle license. And the semi is careening out of control...and wait...I'm not driving it at all, it's coming down the highway in the wrong direction barreling straight at me, and I'm not sure I can get out of the way on time to avoid a collision. And I'm in a smart car...and the 18-wheeler is going to take me out. Because we all know smart cars aren't designed to take that kind of impact no matter how smart they are. And my teen doesn't believe I'm smart at all...I'm the stupidest creature that ever did live. And then I'm back in the big truck and yanking the wheel and blaring the horn, and hitting the air brakes, and I hear the hissing, and I come to a stop, but not without losing half of my load on the highway, and apparently the truck was filled with a load of fertilizer and there is sh-- all over the highway, and now what do I do?
Yup...that's my parenting experience. And every morning I have to get up and take the wheel again, because I've got the license, and that's how I earn my living. And I find myself really disliking those other drivers who seem to have their 18-wheelers under control. Mostly I guess I'm just jealous of them, because I want to be driving their trucks. But I've got my own truck. Or smart car. Whatever. And I'm hoping one day to graduate to a nice recreational vehicle, where I can tool around the country and stop where I want and enjoy the view. But for now...get out of my way, I'm driving the truck.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Perennating...
I found a new word in the dictionary last night. But more on that in a minute.
Wow, it's been a long time since I last wrote...so long in fact that I've started a whole new chapter, where we move again, this time to St. Louis, and start life over. Again. With moody teenagers. And it's not easy.
I shared a link a few weeks ago on my facebook page about "the Silent Years." (If I was savvy enough to figure it out, or even find it again, I'd share it again here.) In it, the author talked about the teenage years, when parents inexplicably (or maybe not) disappear from facebook. And I totally get it. When you have young kids, you share their every little cute saying, action, and thought. And you share the poopy ones, too, because they're funny, at least in hindsight. And they're not on facebook, so how will those cute little ones know that you're telling all their stories anyhow?
But suddenly they're teens. And nothing is private anymore (except everything they do, because they tell you nothing)...And there's no way you could post on facebook without them somehow finding out. And they still haven't forgiven you about lying about Santa and the Tooth Fairy, so you know they'll never forgive you about telling one of their secrets online...and you don't really know what they would consider a secret.
And besides, what do you tell? I mean, sure, you can post about their time on the Dean's List, and the winning play they made in the varsity game, and all those great, positive things, right? But what if they're barely scraping by, and the only Dean's list they make is one you don't want to be on, and they're not starters on the team, (or maybe don't make it at all), and nothing is coming up roses (except maybe whatever that is growing in the pile of dirty clothes in their room)? What then? These are things you just don't write about. Thus, the silent years.
Well, that's where we're at. And life's not pretty. And no one wants to read a blog that's depressing. And really no one wants to admit that they're living that life, at least not in something as public as a blog. And we're just trying to keep our heads above the rising tide.
Which leads me to the word I found in the dictionary last night. No, I don't just sit down and read the dictionary. Although maybe I should. And I really enjoy the physical dictionary versus the dot.com world. So here's what happened:
I was writing the dedication for my book (Mirror, Mirror...due out this spring...how's that for slipping that in to the conversation), and I had written about people I was struggling through life with. And Mark said I shouldn't use the word struggle. He suggested "journey", but I found that kind of boring, and didn't really capture what I meant. So I looked on dictionary.com for a synonym to journey and found "peregrinate." And I was like, "what the heck does that mean?" So I got out my huge Random House dictionary and looked it up. And it means journey...which was still not what I meant, even if the word was fancier.
But as I was looking up that word, first my eye landed on this one: perennate. And this is a word that exactly describes what I'm trying to say: to survive from season to season for an indefinite number of years. (and doesn't it almost sound like "parent"...and isn't that what parenting is all about?)
And I'm so thankful for the people God has given me to perennate with (which btw comes up underlined in red in spell-check)...the friends who are with me season after season. Together we have raised toddlers, muddled through middle school, sent a child to college, and navigated life-changes and moves. We've re-written friendships through long distance phone conversations, texts, and the occasional 1000-mile journey. Between us we've survived divorce, the death of a parent, and even the death of a child. I'm grateful for the friends who've helped me survive, and thankful that I have been allowed the privilege of being there for them, too. And I'm sure we will perennate a while longer, through all the bumps and twists and turns of the teenage years. And beyond.
So, here's to the next chapter...won't you join me in it...
Wow, it's been a long time since I last wrote...so long in fact that I've started a whole new chapter, where we move again, this time to St. Louis, and start life over. Again. With moody teenagers. And it's not easy.
I shared a link a few weeks ago on my facebook page about "the Silent Years." (If I was savvy enough to figure it out, or even find it again, I'd share it again here.) In it, the author talked about the teenage years, when parents inexplicably (or maybe not) disappear from facebook. And I totally get it. When you have young kids, you share their every little cute saying, action, and thought. And you share the poopy ones, too, because they're funny, at least in hindsight. And they're not on facebook, so how will those cute little ones know that you're telling all their stories anyhow?
But suddenly they're teens. And nothing is private anymore (except everything they do, because they tell you nothing)...And there's no way you could post on facebook without them somehow finding out. And they still haven't forgiven you about lying about Santa and the Tooth Fairy, so you know they'll never forgive you about telling one of their secrets online...and you don't really know what they would consider a secret.
And besides, what do you tell? I mean, sure, you can post about their time on the Dean's List, and the winning play they made in the varsity game, and all those great, positive things, right? But what if they're barely scraping by, and the only Dean's list they make is one you don't want to be on, and they're not starters on the team, (or maybe don't make it at all), and nothing is coming up roses (except maybe whatever that is growing in the pile of dirty clothes in their room)? What then? These are things you just don't write about. Thus, the silent years.
Well, that's where we're at. And life's not pretty. And no one wants to read a blog that's depressing. And really no one wants to admit that they're living that life, at least not in something as public as a blog. And we're just trying to keep our heads above the rising tide.
Which leads me to the word I found in the dictionary last night. No, I don't just sit down and read the dictionary. Although maybe I should. And I really enjoy the physical dictionary versus the dot.com world. So here's what happened:
I was writing the dedication for my book (Mirror, Mirror...due out this spring...how's that for slipping that in to the conversation), and I had written about people I was struggling through life with. And Mark said I shouldn't use the word struggle. He suggested "journey", but I found that kind of boring, and didn't really capture what I meant. So I looked on dictionary.com for a synonym to journey and found "peregrinate." And I was like, "what the heck does that mean?" So I got out my huge Random House dictionary and looked it up. And it means journey...which was still not what I meant, even if the word was fancier.
But as I was looking up that word, first my eye landed on this one: perennate. And this is a word that exactly describes what I'm trying to say: to survive from season to season for an indefinite number of years. (and doesn't it almost sound like "parent"...and isn't that what parenting is all about?)
And I'm so thankful for the people God has given me to perennate with (which btw comes up underlined in red in spell-check)...the friends who are with me season after season. Together we have raised toddlers, muddled through middle school, sent a child to college, and navigated life-changes and moves. We've re-written friendships through long distance phone conversations, texts, and the occasional 1000-mile journey. Between us we've survived divorce, the death of a parent, and even the death of a child. I'm grateful for the friends who've helped me survive, and thankful that I have been allowed the privilege of being there for them, too. And I'm sure we will perennate a while longer, through all the bumps and twists and turns of the teenage years. And beyond.
So, here's to the next chapter...won't you join me in it...
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Lightning Speed
Wow, has this last week been a whirlwind. 8 days ago Mark accepted a call to be Director of Worship at Christ Memorial Lutheran Church in St. Louis, Missouri. And we frantically began to clean, spruce up, and pack. Mark mostly got the "sprucing up" part, and I got the cleaning and packing. And packing and cleaning. And more cleaning. And a little more packing.
And between Tuesday and Friday we got the house ready to put on the market. Which included spending about 6 hours on Thursday cleaning the grout on our tile floor. And had me vowing never to get a tile floor again. About half of our house is tile. I had a homemade solution that really does a good job of cleaning the grout, but not without some elbow grease. And a little gadget slightly larger than an electric toothbrush. And me, sitting or kneeling on the floor, and having to go to the sink about every 4 or 5 tiles to rinse out the sponge. Pretty much like doing 6 hours of the thigh master. And then being crestfallen when I finished and saw there was a pasty coating across the floor, which didn't come off on the first, second, or even third steaming. I was disheartened.
There was also about 4 hours on Friday morning scrubbing shower and tub. And more thigh master.
And there were windows to clean. And clean again. I hate streaks. Our living room is basically 2 sliding glass doors and a big plate glass window. They give a spectacular view of our pool and yard, which I love. but did I mention streaks?
Brianna helped (a lot) by cleaning and packing her room, packing up a bunch of pictures, and pitching in when the grout cleaning looked like fun. (That ended about 20 minutes later when it no longer looked like fun). Matt mostly hung out in his room on the computer, trying to pretend like we weren't moving, and trying not to be spotted lest we give him a job to do.
By Friday afternoon we were out of time, and said, "it'll have to be good enough." Our realtor had arrived as well as the professional photographer. We headed out to the movies and dinner, and they took some amazing pictures. You may have seen them on facebook. We couldn't believe our house looked like that.
And by 9 pm Friday, we were live...our house was listed.
Saturday the calls started coming, as Mark headed to work, Lyric went into her kennel, and the kids and I did what we could to get out of the house. Not the easiest thing when it's 107 degrees outside. We had 4 showings on Saturday. We had 5 more on Sunday, and more trips around town. By Sunday evening, I was exhausted. And pretty ready to be done.
Sunday evening our realtor texted us. We had an offer. She set up an appointment Monday at 1 pm to present it to us. By the time she arrived we had two offers, both pretty similar. We countered both, and waited for a response. By Tuesday we had our response. One buyer had removed the offer, not due to the counter, but to some unforeseen circumstances. So we were down to one offer, which we accepted, at full asking, but with some closing costs. And with a contingency, which makes us a little nervous, but we know God's got it all.
So now we are in the inspection period. Hopefully all will go smoothly. Not much is within our control.
Over and over in the last few days we have heard, "God is really showing you he wants you to move." And while I do believe that God has told us to move to St. Louis, I think the lightning speed of everything isn't necessarily confirmation of that. More, I see it as an example of God's graciousness and love. He could just as easily have allowed us to sweat out this moving thing, not sent us a buyer so quickly, and had another plan for things we needed to learn about trust during this move. (He still may, if the buyer's house sale falls through). Several people I know have been moved by God to a different location and not had their house sell right away. It in no way was confirmation that God didn't want them to go. Instead, he was saying "Trust me."
We have indeed heard God's voice telling us the way we should go...the lightning speed of the home sale (so far) is just an added bonus.
"Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it.'" (Isaiah 30:21)
And between Tuesday and Friday we got the house ready to put on the market. Which included spending about 6 hours on Thursday cleaning the grout on our tile floor. And had me vowing never to get a tile floor again. About half of our house is tile. I had a homemade solution that really does a good job of cleaning the grout, but not without some elbow grease. And a little gadget slightly larger than an electric toothbrush. And me, sitting or kneeling on the floor, and having to go to the sink about every 4 or 5 tiles to rinse out the sponge. Pretty much like doing 6 hours of the thigh master. And then being crestfallen when I finished and saw there was a pasty coating across the floor, which didn't come off on the first, second, or even third steaming. I was disheartened.
There was also about 4 hours on Friday morning scrubbing shower and tub. And more thigh master.
And there were windows to clean. And clean again. I hate streaks. Our living room is basically 2 sliding glass doors and a big plate glass window. They give a spectacular view of our pool and yard, which I love. but did I mention streaks?
Brianna helped (a lot) by cleaning and packing her room, packing up a bunch of pictures, and pitching in when the grout cleaning looked like fun. (That ended about 20 minutes later when it no longer looked like fun). Matt mostly hung out in his room on the computer, trying to pretend like we weren't moving, and trying not to be spotted lest we give him a job to do.
By Friday afternoon we were out of time, and said, "it'll have to be good enough." Our realtor had arrived as well as the professional photographer. We headed out to the movies and dinner, and they took some amazing pictures. You may have seen them on facebook. We couldn't believe our house looked like that.
And by 9 pm Friday, we were live...our house was listed.
Saturday the calls started coming, as Mark headed to work, Lyric went into her kennel, and the kids and I did what we could to get out of the house. Not the easiest thing when it's 107 degrees outside. We had 4 showings on Saturday. We had 5 more on Sunday, and more trips around town. By Sunday evening, I was exhausted. And pretty ready to be done.
Sunday evening our realtor texted us. We had an offer. She set up an appointment Monday at 1 pm to present it to us. By the time she arrived we had two offers, both pretty similar. We countered both, and waited for a response. By Tuesday we had our response. One buyer had removed the offer, not due to the counter, but to some unforeseen circumstances. So we were down to one offer, which we accepted, at full asking, but with some closing costs. And with a contingency, which makes us a little nervous, but we know God's got it all.
So now we are in the inspection period. Hopefully all will go smoothly. Not much is within our control.
Over and over in the last few days we have heard, "God is really showing you he wants you to move." And while I do believe that God has told us to move to St. Louis, I think the lightning speed of everything isn't necessarily confirmation of that. More, I see it as an example of God's graciousness and love. He could just as easily have allowed us to sweat out this moving thing, not sent us a buyer so quickly, and had another plan for things we needed to learn about trust during this move. (He still may, if the buyer's house sale falls through). Several people I know have been moved by God to a different location and not had their house sell right away. It in no way was confirmation that God didn't want them to go. Instead, he was saying "Trust me."
We have indeed heard God's voice telling us the way we should go...the lightning speed of the home sale (so far) is just an added bonus.
"Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it.'" (Isaiah 30:21)
Monday, March 17, 2014
Vision
6 years ago, I think to the week, I was having some vision problems. I had gotten new contacts, but they didn't fit my eyes properly. Intense pain and scratched corneas ensued, and a couple weeks without contacts...just when Mark and I were headed to the Virgin Islands for an anniversary trip (and to check another National Park off our list). This is about as close as I've come to a natural disaster (unless of course you count the big LA earthquake, or hurricanes Rita or Ike)...and I was NOT happy. I HATE my glasses. The way I look in glasses, the way I see in glasses, the inconvenience of glasses, everything. The new contacts arrived the day after we left for our trip. So we took the trip and I wore the glasses. (But took them off whenever we took photos). And I had a great time, despite the big chip on my shoulder.
Less than a week after returning, I headed on my first mission trip to Africa, an eye care mission trip. I decided with all the trouble I had just had, that I ought to wear the glasses to Africa too. I certainly didn't want to experience any more of these difficulties in a foreign land, and since I'd had the contacts less than a week, I wasn't sure if my eye problem would occur again. So, off I went to Africa, again with the glasses I hated.
And God used the whole glasses thing as a huge teaching opportunity for me, a lesson I would not have experienced if I had been wearing my contacts. Especially about being thankful for things that I just took for granted for 35 years, like my glasses. And I also had a good laugh about the man who got glasses correcting his 20/200 vision (the same as mine...it means you cannot read the big E), and asked me, "should I wear these when I drive?" Think about that the next time you go driving in Kenya.
Anyway, I was thinking about that experience again the last couple of days for a few reasons. First, several friends posted on facebook recently about an object lesson at church. I said I loved a good object lesson, until I was the object, and then I object. And I remembered this particular lesson, in which I was the object, and I was objecting, until God opened my eyes to the lesson he had for me. And then I was thankful.
Oddly enough, the object lesson my friends were posting about had to do with specks and logs in the eye...
The second reason I was thinking about it, is because I'm having eye issues again. A week of irritation that I attributed to a very high pollen count, a couple days without wearing my problems, er contacts, and I thought the problems were over. But today while I was driving Brianna to school the problem came back and then some. Finally decided to see the eye doc. Anyway, the doc was out, so I had a sub (whom I loved, and wished he was my doctor). He said there was no debris in my eye (no logs or specks), gave me some drops, and 2 options. (Actually, they're not options, as I don't get to choose between the chicken and the beef). In scenario A my eyes are irritated, and with the drops they'll be better when I go back to see my doctor tomorrow. In scenario B it's something else, and it won't go away on it's own...whatever that means, which I'm not dwelling on for now. Either way, I see the doc tomorrow. I'm hoping for scenario A, since I don't like the way "won't go away on it's own" sounds.
Meanwhile, I'm waiting to see how God is going to use this as an object lesson. Besides, I've got these $600 glasses that I got in September to only wear at night when I took my contacts out...it's about time they see the light of day.
Less than a week after returning, I headed on my first mission trip to Africa, an eye care mission trip. I decided with all the trouble I had just had, that I ought to wear the glasses to Africa too. I certainly didn't want to experience any more of these difficulties in a foreign land, and since I'd had the contacts less than a week, I wasn't sure if my eye problem would occur again. So, off I went to Africa, again with the glasses I hated.
And God used the whole glasses thing as a huge teaching opportunity for me, a lesson I would not have experienced if I had been wearing my contacts. Especially about being thankful for things that I just took for granted for 35 years, like my glasses. And I also had a good laugh about the man who got glasses correcting his 20/200 vision (the same as mine...it means you cannot read the big E), and asked me, "should I wear these when I drive?" Think about that the next time you go driving in Kenya.
Anyway, I was thinking about that experience again the last couple of days for a few reasons. First, several friends posted on facebook recently about an object lesson at church. I said I loved a good object lesson, until I was the object, and then I object. And I remembered this particular lesson, in which I was the object, and I was objecting, until God opened my eyes to the lesson he had for me. And then I was thankful.
Oddly enough, the object lesson my friends were posting about had to do with specks and logs in the eye...
The second reason I was thinking about it, is because I'm having eye issues again. A week of irritation that I attributed to a very high pollen count, a couple days without wearing my problems, er contacts, and I thought the problems were over. But today while I was driving Brianna to school the problem came back and then some. Finally decided to see the eye doc. Anyway, the doc was out, so I had a sub (whom I loved, and wished he was my doctor). He said there was no debris in my eye (no logs or specks), gave me some drops, and 2 options. (Actually, they're not options, as I don't get to choose between the chicken and the beef). In scenario A my eyes are irritated, and with the drops they'll be better when I go back to see my doctor tomorrow. In scenario B it's something else, and it won't go away on it's own...whatever that means, which I'm not dwelling on for now. Either way, I see the doc tomorrow. I'm hoping for scenario A, since I don't like the way "won't go away on it's own" sounds.
Meanwhile, I'm waiting to see how God is going to use this as an object lesson. Besides, I've got these $600 glasses that I got in September to only wear at night when I took my contacts out...it's about time they see the light of day.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
It All Changes
It all changes. When the child is yours and not just some annoying student in your classroom. Who never seems to turn in an assignment. But on the rare occasion that they do it's well done and insightful. Who seems not to care about grades. Whom you are sure should be kept out of sports until they get their grades up. Whom your husband keeps saying is great in the band classroom but you just aren't seeing it.
And then your child is the one coming home with a failing report card. And they don't turn in their work even when you sat with them watching them complete it. Who HATES to read. Who lives for sports, and you're pretty sure if it weren't for the team they are on, you'd never even be able to get them to go to school, and certainly taking them off the team should be the motivation they need, but the threat of it doesn't improve the grades.
And the frustration grows and grows, especially for the mom for whom an A- was just about the same as an F. And the guilt about what kind of lousy parent am I?
And you finally seek help. And get a diagnosis. ADHD. And of the 9 markers (6 would be a positive diagnosis), your child has a score of 9. Fine time to get a perfect score.
And you realize your child has been in over their head for some time now, but it's finally gotten so deep that even on their tippy-toes they can no longer get a breath of air, and they can no longer pass on the basis of their good looks and charming personality.
And then you see a chart that shows the ADHD iceberg (only 1/8 of an iceberg is visible above the surface). And the visible signs of ADHD-Inattentive are: disorganized, doesn't follow through, doesn't pay attention, is forgetful, doesn't seem to listen, distractible, makes careless mistakes, loses things, doesn't do school work. And you say "Yup" for every one of them.
But beneath the surface are other symptoms like impaired sense of time (doesn't judge passage of time accurately, loses track of time, often late, doesn't have skills to plan ahead, difficulty estimating time required for tasks, etc); and low frustration tolerance (difficulty controlling emotions, short fuse, emotionally reactive, etc); not learning easily from rewards and punishment (repeats misbehavior, may be difficult to discipline, less likely to follow rules, must have immediate rewards, long term rewards don't work); and sleep disturbances (doesn't get restful sleep, can't fall asleep, can't wake up, late for school, irritable, morning battles with parents).
And you say "Yup" to all of those too.
And you know for certain that they are not stupid, and they are not lazy, but it's the neurotransmitters in their brain that are not working correctly.
And you feel like a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders because it's not you, and it's not even them. And you know you have a long way to go, and a lot of hard work ahead, but it doesn't seem as hopeless anymore.
And you read this, "Let's not forget the positives...we've got to recognize our strengths and special talents. Many of us have a wonderful zest for living and have high energy. Life is never dull when we're around. We often have creative ideas and unique ways of thinking about things. We can also hyperfocus and work on projects much longer than most people. In fact, sometimes, we become so engrossed in our projects that we lose all track of time."
And you think, "Yup!"
And then your child is the one coming home with a failing report card. And they don't turn in their work even when you sat with them watching them complete it. Who HATES to read. Who lives for sports, and you're pretty sure if it weren't for the team they are on, you'd never even be able to get them to go to school, and certainly taking them off the team should be the motivation they need, but the threat of it doesn't improve the grades.
And the frustration grows and grows, especially for the mom for whom an A- was just about the same as an F. And the guilt about what kind of lousy parent am I?
And you finally seek help. And get a diagnosis. ADHD. And of the 9 markers (6 would be a positive diagnosis), your child has a score of 9. Fine time to get a perfect score.
And you realize your child has been in over their head for some time now, but it's finally gotten so deep that even on their tippy-toes they can no longer get a breath of air, and they can no longer pass on the basis of their good looks and charming personality.
And then you see a chart that shows the ADHD iceberg (only 1/8 of an iceberg is visible above the surface). And the visible signs of ADHD-Inattentive are: disorganized, doesn't follow through, doesn't pay attention, is forgetful, doesn't seem to listen, distractible, makes careless mistakes, loses things, doesn't do school work. And you say "Yup" for every one of them.
But beneath the surface are other symptoms like impaired sense of time (doesn't judge passage of time accurately, loses track of time, often late, doesn't have skills to plan ahead, difficulty estimating time required for tasks, etc); and low frustration tolerance (difficulty controlling emotions, short fuse, emotionally reactive, etc); not learning easily from rewards and punishment (repeats misbehavior, may be difficult to discipline, less likely to follow rules, must have immediate rewards, long term rewards don't work); and sleep disturbances (doesn't get restful sleep, can't fall asleep, can't wake up, late for school, irritable, morning battles with parents).
And you say "Yup" to all of those too.
And you know for certain that they are not stupid, and they are not lazy, but it's the neurotransmitters in their brain that are not working correctly.
And you feel like a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders because it's not you, and it's not even them. And you know you have a long way to go, and a lot of hard work ahead, but it doesn't seem as hopeless anymore.
And you read this, "Let's not forget the positives...we've got to recognize our strengths and special talents. Many of us have a wonderful zest for living and have high energy. Life is never dull when we're around. We often have creative ideas and unique ways of thinking about things. We can also hyperfocus and work on projects much longer than most people. In fact, sometimes, we become so engrossed in our projects that we lose all track of time."
And you think, "Yup!"
Friday, July 26, 2013
Letting Her ...
If you've seen me lately, you might have noticed bite marks on my tongue. Before your mind goes there...they would be from me biting my tongue to help me not say what I want to say to my daughter. You see, I'm in the process of letting her...letting her be who she wants to be. And who she wants to be is definitely not me. Although...
...She wants to cook. And the way she cooks is not the way I cook. (I use a recipe, I clean as I go, I don't really experiment...)
...She wants to sew. Without a pattern. Without following directions. Without my help, thank you very much. Except occasionally to thread the machine, which still seems to have her stumped.
...She wants acrylic nails. Despite the fact that every time she asked, I said no. I said they're expensive to have, and a lot of work, and time, and money to keep up with (relatively speaking, for someone who has no income stream). I had acrylics for awhile, a couple of decades ago. When I was young, and single, and taught but also worked at Domino's Pizza for some extra disposable income. And I decided they weren't worth the time and the money. And that awful smell in the salon.
Anyway...The day after school got out in May, she had a friend over. She asked if they could go get a manicure. We have a nail place just around the corner, so I said okay, I would drop them off and they could walk home. 2 hours later when they weren't yet home I got a phone call from her, saying they'd be leaving in a few minutes. Wow, I thought, there must have been a long wait...Until they arrived home, and she showed me her nails. She had gotten acrylics. "Don't they look pretty mom?" she said. "But you didn't have permission" I responded. "Yeah, but don't they look great?" "but you didn't have permission," I said again. And then I let it go. After all, it's her money.
But a week later (having repolished them about 5 times) she started volleyball camp. On the second day of camp they worked on setting. She came home saying, "I hate these nails. I want to get rid of them." and off she went. Quite a while later she emerged, still hating her nails, for some reason mad at me. (For some reason, it's always my fault) I asked if she wanted me to find out how to remove them. And so I went online, found some websites with instructions. I knew I could take her back to the salon, but I wanted her to live with her decision, rather than for me to solve her problem. Too impatient to wait the time that the website suggested with her fingers in nail polish remover, she took matters into her own hands. When next I saw her, she was prying the nails off with a paring knife. I held my tongue, and prayed that she wouldn't slice her finger off. An hour or so later she emerged, nail free.
Several days later she was on a trip with her friend in Southern Cal. She called one evening and she told me that the next day they were getting their nails done. "Acrylics?" I asked. No, "I'm never ever ever ever ever ever going to get those again. They were horrible." "Yes!" I whispered to myself on the other end of the line. Successful mothering.
...She wants purple hair. Just dipped on the ends. Please mom. Please. Please. After she asked a few times, I finally agreed... when she could pay for it. So...when they go to camp they always get some money at the camp store, for ice cream snacks, etc during the week, and a souvenir tshirt or something if they want. Anything they don't spend they get to keep. Brianna saved almost the entire amount. So after camp, the first thing she did when she got to a store, was buy a purple hair dye kit.
I thought she had told me that they were temporary. But the instructions said first to bleach the hair. Oy. That's not what I wanted to hear. I've never even dyed my hair, let alone bleached it and colored it purple. Unless you count that one summer a couple of decades ago (Hmmm, I think it was at the same time when I had the acrylic nails...when I was about 25...not 12) when I used lemon juice and sunlight to lighten my hair.
Anyhow...Yesterday was the big day. Probably the hardest thing about this was knowing that if she didn't like it, somehow it would be my fault. And it was permanent. And her hair doesn't grow that fast. And she is incredibly beautiful, even without dying her hair. But after having her read the instructions, then read them again, then tell me what she had read, the process began. Midway through the bleaching she finally called me and asked me for help. Which I gave.
And when she was done bleaching the bottom 3 inches of her hair, I thought, hmmm, not bad. Better than I had expected. Kinda cute. And she thought so too... (yes! Successful mothering...) and she wasn't sure if she still wanted to cover the bleach part with purple, hoping for an ombre effect (dark to light). Finally she decided to just do the tips in purple. (Less hair to cut off if she didn't like it) And we finished the job. without getting purple on any of the furniture, or walls, or floors. (Yes! successful mothering again). And I think she likes it.
And now the job is done. The purple is barely visible. And I keep wondering what she'll come up with next. And how long I'll have to bite my tongue. (So far she still thinks tattoos are stupid...)
...She wants to cook. And the way she cooks is not the way I cook. (I use a recipe, I clean as I go, I don't really experiment...)
...She wants to sew. Without a pattern. Without following directions. Without my help, thank you very much. Except occasionally to thread the machine, which still seems to have her stumped.
...She wants acrylic nails. Despite the fact that every time she asked, I said no. I said they're expensive to have, and a lot of work, and time, and money to keep up with (relatively speaking, for someone who has no income stream). I had acrylics for awhile, a couple of decades ago. When I was young, and single, and taught but also worked at Domino's Pizza for some extra disposable income. And I decided they weren't worth the time and the money. And that awful smell in the salon.
Anyway...The day after school got out in May, she had a friend over. She asked if they could go get a manicure. We have a nail place just around the corner, so I said okay, I would drop them off and they could walk home. 2 hours later when they weren't yet home I got a phone call from her, saying they'd be leaving in a few minutes. Wow, I thought, there must have been a long wait...Until they arrived home, and she showed me her nails. She had gotten acrylics. "Don't they look pretty mom?" she said. "But you didn't have permission" I responded. "Yeah, but don't they look great?" "but you didn't have permission," I said again. And then I let it go. After all, it's her money.
But a week later (having repolished them about 5 times) she started volleyball camp. On the second day of camp they worked on setting. She came home saying, "I hate these nails. I want to get rid of them." and off she went. Quite a while later she emerged, still hating her nails, for some reason mad at me. (For some reason, it's always my fault) I asked if she wanted me to find out how to remove them. And so I went online, found some websites with instructions. I knew I could take her back to the salon, but I wanted her to live with her decision, rather than for me to solve her problem. Too impatient to wait the time that the website suggested with her fingers in nail polish remover, she took matters into her own hands. When next I saw her, she was prying the nails off with a paring knife. I held my tongue, and prayed that she wouldn't slice her finger off. An hour or so later she emerged, nail free.
Several days later she was on a trip with her friend in Southern Cal. She called one evening and she told me that the next day they were getting their nails done. "Acrylics?" I asked. No, "I'm never ever ever ever ever ever going to get those again. They were horrible." "Yes!" I whispered to myself on the other end of the line. Successful mothering.
...She wants purple hair. Just dipped on the ends. Please mom. Please. Please. After she asked a few times, I finally agreed... when she could pay for it. So...when they go to camp they always get some money at the camp store, for ice cream snacks, etc during the week, and a souvenir tshirt or something if they want. Anything they don't spend they get to keep. Brianna saved almost the entire amount. So after camp, the first thing she did when she got to a store, was buy a purple hair dye kit.
I thought she had told me that they were temporary. But the instructions said first to bleach the hair. Oy. That's not what I wanted to hear. I've never even dyed my hair, let alone bleached it and colored it purple. Unless you count that one summer a couple of decades ago (Hmmm, I think it was at the same time when I had the acrylic nails...when I was about 25...not 12) when I used lemon juice and sunlight to lighten my hair.
Anyhow...Yesterday was the big day. Probably the hardest thing about this was knowing that if she didn't like it, somehow it would be my fault. And it was permanent. And her hair doesn't grow that fast. And she is incredibly beautiful, even without dying her hair. But after having her read the instructions, then read them again, then tell me what she had read, the process began. Midway through the bleaching she finally called me and asked me for help. Which I gave.
And when she was done bleaching the bottom 3 inches of her hair, I thought, hmmm, not bad. Better than I had expected. Kinda cute. And she thought so too... (yes! Successful mothering...) and she wasn't sure if she still wanted to cover the bleach part with purple, hoping for an ombre effect (dark to light). Finally she decided to just do the tips in purple. (Less hair to cut off if she didn't like it) And we finished the job. without getting purple on any of the furniture, or walls, or floors. (Yes! successful mothering again). And I think she likes it.
And now the job is done. The purple is barely visible. And I keep wondering what she'll come up with next. And how long I'll have to bite my tongue. (So far she still thinks tattoos are stupid...)
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