Coming Down to the Ground

“When this is over, what changes are you going to make in your life?”
Yeah, I already wrote about this, but I wasn’t done.

The question assumes that this pandemic will end:

“When this is over…”

Will it ever be over? To be honest, I hope not. Not the virus, of course, but the reeling world. The asking of questions like this one. The conservation of products, the sudden interest in our neighbors’ well-being. I know others are talking about this, too. I’ve read the articles with similar thoughts on about how this is going to bring the world to the next level. I really pray that that’s the case.

Tonight, Squishy and I talked about landfills because he asked me what happens to something we throw away. He asked me about what happens when a landfill is full. What happens when there isn’t any more land to fill? This led to talking about the movie Wall-E, and the trash-covered Earth. Perhaps we’re all moving too fast. Perhaps we’re all consuming too much. Perhaps we’re all forgetting the imperative instinct to connect with other people.

My generation knows how to live without plugging in. I went to festivals and concerts and drum circles and road trips and…college (eesh)…all without a cell phone. You can call me old, or you can ask me how to do it. Shit, I need to ask me how to do it. My grandparents lived through the Great Depression. They instinctively reused and mended and made-do. They were young, but so are our kids. This is going to shape them in ways we can’t foresee.

Maybe this pandemic is here to shake us loose from our teetering lifestyles, like the last healthy seeds from a dying tree. It’s now our job to plant and nurture the true grit of human nature. Our children will remember the time when they couldn’t leave the house, and there weren’t any leftovers after meals. Some will skip meals. Their ears will hold our voices talking of the sick people, the need for masks and equipment, the heroes who had to leave their homes. They’ll remember decorating their front windows with homemade chin-up pictures and signs, and retain muscle memory of every dip in the backyard dirt. This generation will appreciate their food, and the importance of caring for elders. I pray that the art they create now in quarantine will preserve the sacredness of all of the arts for their children’s children.

Maybe we won’t all become homesteaders who grow our own food and can it for the winter, but this might just bring all of us back down to the Earth in one way or another. Like Peter Gabriel in the closing credits of Wall-E when he sings “We’re going down to the ground, there’s no better place to go…” “We’re gonna find new priorities. These are extraordinary qualities.”

My optimism is short–I don’t think we’ll all emerge from isolation as a reformed society. But, that doesn’t have to be “when this is over”. Maybe there will be enough of us whose habits change, and our kids will remember all of it. They hear us and see us, and I bet their resilience will carry their generation through whatever is next for the Earth. Then, maybe the lasting effects of this global pandemic will never be over.

Peter Gabriel, Down to Earth

Did you think you’d escaped from routine
By changing the script and the scene?
Despite all you made of it, you’re always afraid
Of the change

All those rules don’t apply
When you’re high in the sky
So, come on down
Come on down

We’re coming down to the ground
There’s no better place to go
We’ve got snow up on the mountains
We’ve got rivers down below

We’re coming down to the ground
We hear the birds sing in the trees
And the land will be looked after
We send the seeds out in the breeze

You’ve got a lot on your chest
Well, you can come as my guest
So, come on down
Come on down

We’re coming down to the ground
There’s no better place to go
We’ve got snow up on the mountains
We’ve got rivers down below

We’re coming down to the ground
We hear the birds sing in the trees
And the land will be looked after
We send the seeds out in the breeze

Like the fish in the ocean
We felt at home in the sea
We learned to live off the good land
Learned to climb up a tree

Then we got up on two legs
But we wanted to fly
Oh, when we messed up our homeland
We set sail for the sky

We’re coming down to the ground
There’s no better place to go
We’ve got snow up on the mountains
We’ve got rivers down below

We’re coming down to the ground
We hear the birds sing in the trees
And the land will be looked after
We send the seeds out in the breeze

We’re coming down
Coming down to Earth
Like babies at birth
Coming down to Earth

We’re gonna find new priorities
These are extraordinary qualities

We’re coming down to the ground
There’s no better place to go
We’ve got snow up on the mountains
We’ve got rivers down below

We’re coming down to the ground
We hear the birds sing in the trees
And the land will be looked after
We send the seeds out in the breeze

We’re coming down to the ground
There’s no better place to go
We’ve got snow up on the mountains
We’ve got rivers down below

We’re coming down to the ground
We hear the birds sing in the trees
And the land will be looked after
We send the seeds out in the breeze

We’re gonna find new priorities
These are extraordinary qualities
To find on Earth

(Coming down)
(Coming down)
(Coming down)
(Coming down)
(Coming down)
(Coming down)

Zen and the Grief Machine

I’ve been spending less time trying to control things and more time noticing what is. Sounds Zen, right? I’m not sure if that’s it.

Last night, Binker talked to me about choosing a band instrument for next year. I was surprised, because he’s a singer–he loves being in chorus. I thought for sure he’d choose choir in 5th grade. And, the instruments he was talking about were random, and I really think he has no idea what he wants to do.

I’m finding myself stepping back a lot more with these kinds of decisions. It’s not a conscious thing, it’s just happening. I’m noticing him. I’m noticing a 4th grade consciousness grappling with how to even make this kind of decision. He’s like a loose piece on a desk or chair–I could grab a clamp, stick it on, twist it tight, make sure that piece doesn’t fall off! I could add glue, stand there a while, make sure that clamp stays on–here is the instrument you should play, but really you should choose choir… But I’m finding myself waiting to see if he can get himself put together. I’ll catch him if he falls.

I’ve learned that I really don’t know anything. I could think I knew what was best for them, and gaslight them into choosing that. But what if I’m wrong? (It’s been known to happen.) If I leave it to them, it’s on them. And maybe they’ll learn something about making decisions. Shit, my life choices haven’t all been sparkly perfect. In fact, I’d probably change….uh, MANY of them…decades, even. (My own parents can kindly zip it, please.) I can’t presume to know that a child’s choice is the wrong one. Plus, there are no wrong choices if we’re talking Zen and stuff.

When I was set on Tuna continuing piano, it was Latefordinner who had to convince me he was a drummer. I remember it in slow motion–the two of them standing there, trying to convince me. Tuna looking helpless, Latefordinner stepping toward me, holding my face, speaking in that low, super slo mo voice, “Thhe boyyyy iiiissss aaaa DRUUUUMMMMMMERRRR. Hhhee doessssn’t neeeeeedd morrrrre piannno lessssonnnns.” My shoulders slumped. What the hell did I know, anyway? The boy was a drummer.

Why this shift to just guiding? Sadly, I have to give some credit to Tuna. Grief depletes your energy like…man…like you’ve lost some of your own life. Like that machine thing in The Princess Bride that sucks years off of your life. It’s like you’re hooked up to that thing 24/7, but it’s invisible and you have to carry it on your back, and pretend it’s not there. With your new limited mental, emotional, and physical capacities from carrying around the grief machine; you’re forced to slow down. There’s no more extra effort to make things perfect. Things just are as they are. That machine won’t let you do any more than BE there. It drains you of all but the bare minimum to keep going. Of course, you’re still there underneath it–I’m still there for my boys–I just can’t carry anyone else’s burdens anymore. Silver lining: Their strength grows when they carry their own.

So, I don’t know if that’s a Zen thing, or just self-preservation. Is there a difference? Don’t know that either. An old friend used to call me “Zen Jen”. Maybe this grief machine is forcing me back to that simplicity. Stupid insight. I’d rather be less enlightened and have my Tuna back, but if we’re talking Zen and stuff, I guess this is just what freaking IS now.

Radical Piece Protector

It’s a radical concept to some–I listen to my children. They are individuals with their own ideas, opinions, feelings, experiences, and perceptions. When one of them tells me he’s scared, I listen. When he says he couldn’t breathe and his stomach hurt at school, I recognize that he’s describing a panic attack. When he can’t sleep and begs me not to go, I hear him. I respect my children and believe them when they tell me their feelings. If they can’t count on me to trust and protect them now, how will they trust me with their hearts in the future?

Squishy is grieving, and he has severe separation anxiety. He’s now scared people will leave him. This extends to everything–pets, TV shows, and objects. When one of his mittens fell out in the car and he didn’t have it for recess, he wouldn’t use any others and ran away from his teacher. He ended up surrounded and secluded, and then had a panic attack. His brother died suddenly last year, but no hugs while he’s upset. No understanding that his mitten missing translated as everything being out of place and nothing would ever be right again. This is grief. I’ve been told they can’t help him with anxiety at school. Almost every day I pick up my baby boy with a face puffy from tears, and exhausted with worry about the next day at school. He. Is. 7. Years. Old. And so, we pulled him from school… for the second and last time.

I pulled him the first time in the fall for similar reasons, and because he was being physically restrained and secluded almost every day. I homeschooled/unschooled him for two months, and a lot of healing happened in those two months. He opened up about Tuna for the first time, and he relaxed a lot. He started to like learning. I thought that was a good amount of time for him to breathe and heal, so with high hopes for success, I sent him back to school starting with half days at the doctor’s suggestion.

My hopes were wrong. He was miserable. He hates school. Our family is hurting, and anything that adds to our pain (that we have the power to change) is now unwelcome in our lives.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

When you lose a child to suicide, the person that was you becomes a shattered mirror, smashed to tiny shards, skidded and scattered– stuck underneath in the small dark places–impossible to sweep up. There are pieces of me that are lost forever. They’re lodged in floorboards and bare feet. They’re in a landfill with rinds and wrappers. They’re dust.

And there are just a very few pieces that I found and kept. I’ve tried to repair them–to put them back together–but they don’t fit now, so they just lay there, broken. Now, I’m searching for pieces that will fit where the gone-forever ones should be. When I look into them now, I see shifting fragments of the self I used to know. Where I’ll find the pieces to repair them, and what they’ll even look like, is a mystery.

But, there is one piece I keep apart from the others. It shows me the same piece of me each time I look. I’m protecting this one–giving it it’s own space. Every time I check to see if I’m still there, this piece shows me my boys.

When I only have fragments of myself left, and my two living boys are whole and alive, I will do ANYTHING to make sure that piece is protected. When I entrust anyone to hold that piece, and there’s even a slight chance that it could break, I’m taking it back. That means that if my boys tell me they don’t feel safe, the most important thing in the universe is to make sure they do. PERIOD.

When we still had Tuna with us, there was a lot more worry about the “shoulds”. I like to think that we’ve always been this way–fiercely protective of our children’s mental and emotional safety (We definitely ignored the “shoulds” more than most people I know)– but they did hold us back from the right decision more than once. Now, the things we thought mattered are meaningless.

Now, there are zero “shoulds” for us. There is no room here for anything or anyone that tries to impose on our fragile family well-being with a “should”, or a “have to”, or a “keep up”. If it’s a radical concept to anyone that we listen to our children’s voices, and that their mental and emotional health come first; I hope they may learn to unconditionally follow their hearts and guts. There is no time on Earth for anything else.

May no one judge the grieving in their process, only love and support them in every way, and forever. As trauma survivors we’re doing our best. We have no room for struggle. Zero room for trouble, unless someone threatens the well-being of that one whole, beautiful, fragile piece of me. Then, I will bring that piece back to peace and safety before you can say “should”.

Because Boys 2.0: Not Entirely Because Boys

Once upon a time there was a storyteller with three sons.  She wrote about them, and many readers in the land praised her work. The boys’ ridiculous antics made the townspeople slap their knees, and their stories spread far and…well maybe just a little ways away…

The storyteller eventually moved to the land of Full Time Job where she thought she was exhausting all of her creative energy, and that must be why she stopped telling tales of her boys. But then, there came a day when the real reason revealed itself in a disguised message, delivered from the nearby town of Facebookland. On the surface it was indeed an interesting exchange, but between the words came another voice: “It is time to do another brave thing:  It is time to tell your whole story, and spread your truth far and maybe wide this time. This is why your writing has stopped until today.”

So the storyteller opened up and shared her whole story and sold lots of books and became a successful writer.  The end.

I hope you liked my totally true tale of the storyteller who is actually me. Yeah, it’s all true…it’s just that that ending part isn’t true YET.

If you’re just joining us, I started this blog about my three boys in April of 2014. Tuna is now 13, Binker is 8, and Squishy is almost 6.  I’ve shared a lot, but skated around the whole truth: I am a special needs mom.

It’s time to include that part of my story.  It’s time to talk about it. So, just as I jumped in and wrote one of my first entries about floor food, here goes: Tuna is gifted, has Tourrette’s Syndrome, ADHD, and food allergies. Binker is autistic, has ADHD, and is gifted. Squishy is autistic and we suspect giftedness. These diagnoses make myself and Latefordinner special needs parents. 

There. Done.

I have my dear friend to thank for unknowingly jump-starting my blog again, and showing me it’s time to come out. 

I’ve chosen to keep writing here, rather than starting a new blog, because I want you to understand why I stayed in the special needs parenting closet–those of you with neurotypical children may have related to the chaos when you read my stories. However, the differences in special needs families add several layers of challenges that I left out of those stories.  The wonderful news is that neurotypical families can relate to our stories!  We really are “normal” (because no one is normal, so we’re all normal), so there are tons of things we all have in common. Whew! That’s comforting for special needs families. My charge now is to talk about those unspoken layers.  It’s time to pull them out of the closet, dust them off, and show you how they fit if you’ve never worn them. And if you do wear them, maybe we’re matchy!

I hope you’ll stick around for some knee-slapping, eye-opening, ignorance-squashing stories–Because Boys 2.0: Special Needs Edition. AKA “God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can Handle”, and “You’re Their Mom For a Reason”. Also, “I Don’t Know How You Do It.” 

(Psst, I don’t either.)

(Pssst, actually it’s magic. Special needs moms have magic. Don’t tell anyone.)

 

 

Such is life

I made a new friend in one of my classes.  She’s around my age, and we have some things in common, so I did the “hey, let’s connect on social media” thing.  We walked out of class, talked for a few minutes, and then got to talking about having coffee after class one day.  But I had to get going because Latefordinner had to take Tuna to one of his things.  I had to hurry home to be home with the littles. She asked me if I had ever been to this place in town, or this other place…she had to go shopping there, and go eat over there.  Shopping?  At a little place?  You mean somewhere other than Costco or Target?  Wouldn’t that other place be Amazon?

You see, this new friend who is around my age and also in college, doesn’t have children.

She said, “You’ve never been there?!”

“No, I have no life”, I said with a smile.

We laughed, and I found myself floating away from this new friend in front of me. We do actually have things in common–we feed off of each other in class discussions, and we both lean toward holistic practices, plus there’s the age thing.  Age…it really is nothing.  Her laughter was coming from a very different place of understanding, in which someone my age actually did have a “life”, and was not a mother.  I wonder why she laughed, actually.  Probably just because I did. Politeness.  She’s nice, so I’m sure she didn’t actually think anything of it.  But of course I did.

We separated, and I had that unsettled feeling, hearing the echo of myself saying “I have no life” in my head.

It was such a quick realization this time.  No pondering the depths, just hearing the echo come back saying:

“You have SUCH A LIFE!”

And it’s true!  My life is FULL, and RICH.  Not with the freedom to shop in little shops, or eat out all the time; but with my full, rich family.  My family gives me SUCH a life.  My life is enriching and busy and chaotic and messy and scary and exciting and boring and breathtaking.  My life is a roller coaster of exhilaration and fear and love and boys and marriage and school.  My life is PACKED with NEWNESS every day, jammed with sameness, overflowing with opportunities to grow and thrive and teach and learn.  Every. Single. Day. of my life is SUCH A DAY. 

Psh, no life.  Why did I even say that? What a thing to say. I don’t have time to have no life. That is the stuff of midlife crises. There is no crisis when every age is SUCH an age. Every life we live within this one is exactly what it should be.  There is no need to call motherhood  and marriage and college less than life, because it is exactly what completes me now. Accepting SUCH a life is crisis-prevention.

Try it: Tell yourself you have no life.  If you don’t hear that echo back, YELL IT BACK. Every one of you has SUCH a life.

No life my ass.