Ribbons Fade

I have to be able to do this, even if I feel like I may throw up. I have to be there. I WANT to be there. I keep driving through the southern countryside, passing cows, and wondering to myself what cows think when they see cars? That is clearly one of life’s truly important questions.

I’m not a social person. One on one I’m great. When I really get to know someone I’m great. It’s the journey between not knowing someone and knowing someone I have difficulty with. I feel like I can’t breathe. I remind myself to take deep breaths and to relax my muscles that tense up painfully without my consent. Someone needs me and there’s one thing I HAVE to see. As I arrive at my destination I sit in my car for just a minute, breathe, and relax while asking God to help me shut out the infinite sounds, colors, noises, and smells I know I will encounter. I remind my brain it doesn’t have to interpret and dissect every single stimuli, just one.

Ok. It’s go time. I  push the baby and the stroller for what feels like a mile, mostly up hill. I come to a white, folding table and hand over a five dollar bill to the woman seated there. I hope they don’t notice that my hand shakes as I reach out for my change. I walk through the gate with bars that reminds me of an ominous, nineteenth century prison and I hear a gunshot. The stench of gunpowder stings my nose. Screaming pierces my eardrums as people are running past me.

It sounds scary, doesn’t it? It shouldn’t be. It’s an elementary school track meet. My mind perceives it the way it perceives everything, as incalculable stimulants. None of that matters now. I’m here and I see a beautiful brown-haired girl with a bounce in her step, freckles on her nose, and a smile on her face. She’s why I’m here. I just got here in time to see her run in her first event, a relay. We aren’t sure when her other event will be called. Over the course of the next three hours she stands with me, talking and laughing, rather than going to the bleachers where all of her friends and their parents are. I have her baby brother in a stroller where I can’t go up in the bleachers. This is not really true. I’ve managed to do the impossible on a daily basis so if I want to find a way into the bleachers I could. I don’t.

It’s too uncomfortable. I will have to figure out what to say. My brain will read everyone’s body language, facial expressions, and tone of voice. I will get mentally drained much quicker because my brain is on full alert with an insurmountable task of assessing and interpreting all of the stimuli. I would worry about what the other people think if they notice me shake, courtesy of the adrenaline pumping through my veins. There’s so much here, but I am here for one thing.

I have a great time. My daughter’s friends show up. The other parents come by and we talk.  Never too many at one time. After all, no one wants to stand up this long,  except me.  I truly enjoy all of them. I just have to hide the fact that I can only handle a few people at a time without my brain wanting to shut down on me. I’m here for one really important thing. I have to conserve my “mental energy” for this ONE thing. I can’t use it all up on stimuli.

It’s time for my daughter’s last event. I break out my camera. This is so important to me. I have to get these pictures.  Pictures matter because through that small window I can stop my brain from focusing on all the stimuli that doesn’t matter and only focus on the truly important scenes. Pictures show all the details my brain sees that are important, without all the details that shouldn’t matter.

As the gunshot sounds I begin snapping away. This moment is perfect. This moment ends in tears. Honestly I don’t know why. I ask my daughter what’s wrong and she said she finished last. My camera didn’t show me that. It wasn’t important. We briefly talked and miraculously she recovered. She recovers so well she leaves right in the middle of my inspirational parenting monologue. I look over and see they are serving their lunch. Right, it was food, not my parenting monologue. Well it achieved the desired result, I’ll consider that a win.

A few hours later I leisurely swing on the porch and wait for the bus to pull up. It rumbles to a stop and one happy kid bounds up the driveway, then another, and then we have an unhappy kid. Oh no. I ask my daughter what is wrong.

She tearfully replied, “I didn’t get a ribbon. Most of the people on our team got a ribbon and I didn’t. I got eighth in my events.”

I tell her genuinely, “That’s ok. I don’t like the number eight. It’s an even number and I don’t like even numbers, they bother me. I would’ve preferred ninth but I’ll take eighth this time.”

She’s appreciative of my eccentricity and cracks a small smile then says, “I didn’t win.”

“That depends on how you see winning. You tried out for the team, you made the team, you ran against 8 of the best runners in the school system, you had fun with your friends, I got to spend time with you, and you enjoyed a day away from school. That sounds like winning to me.” She perks up and agrees with me.

Later that evening she asks if I can wash her track shirt. She is proud of it and wants to know if she can wear it to school tomorrow. I am so tired. I tell her no, she just wore it. She looks a little sad, but says okay and goes to bed. I did wash her shirt. I hang it on a coat hanger in her room with a note on it.

Words never make as much sense coming out of my mouth as they do in my head.  Writing is important because my writing says in a series of letters what my brain could never get out of my mouth in a series of sounds. The next morning my brown-haired, beautiful, freckled daughter would come around the corner smiling radiantly, a bounce in her step, and wrap her arms around me. She says, “I love your smile too Mommy.” The ONE thing I just HAD to see, that smile.  

 

Standing in the Gap

While sitting in the recliner, holding Trouble, and breathing in the intoxicating smell of his hair I heard Milk Man say, “You should write about what a great mom you are.”

I looked at him incredulously and spontaneously interrogated him, “Why in the world would I do that? Who does that?”

Even in disbelief I saw a wealth of emotion in his eyes. Love, respect, and adoration were the few I could identify in what was obviously a sea of feelings. I quickly dismissed the idea as self-absorbed and narcissistic therefore nowhere in the realm of my writing genre, not to mention my character.

During occupational therapy with our autistic child I was trying to soak up as much knowledge as possible to help her at home while trying to feed baby at the same time. I managed to miss his mouth at least every other spoonful due to either his inattention or mine. The occupational therapist looked at me and asked quizzically, “Does she like to play in the mud?”

“She loves it. I don’t let her much though. When you have 4 that ends up being a mudslide, in the house. Why? Would that help her?” I asked, eager to try anything to ease her sensory processing disorder especially when the substance is free and we possess an abundance of it.

Nonchalantly she answered, “No. I just have two kids and they bring in a lot of dirt. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like with four. I couldn’t do it.” As she stared off into the distance I could see her picturing the mess currently residing in her home then multiplying that. I didn’t need to think of mine. It’s seared into my brain, always.

I often get those statements from just about everyone I meet…everywhere…all the time. I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t do it. Bless you. You sure have your hands full.  I can’t believe you take 4 kids to the store. I can’t imagine why you take 4 kids to the store!

As with all my writing these events led to the inspiration to write. Maybe people aren’t just flabbergasted, maybe they actually wonder. The answer can be found in a conversation I had with my 10 year old daughter on a drive to the store one day. She asked me how she would know what God’s purpose was for her life.

Reflecting back on my own 36 year search for purpose I advised her, “You should ask him. Usually it’s nothing you had planned.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I went to school to be a social worker and I did that for a while. Daddy and I decided to have a baby and God gave us you. Later we decided to have another baby and God gave us two. Daddy and I decided we were done. Then God said, ‘Except for this one.’ We were both scared. Each time we had a child we had new fears and new concerns. We also had new blessings, new hopes, and another purpose. I have learned so many things about myself. I am a writer, a photographer, an artist, and a loner. I’m funny, brilliant, beautiful, and strong. I am anxious, moody, obsessive, and a perfectionist. There are so many things I want to see and do in my lifetime, but there’s only one thing that I know if I didn’t do it before I die my life would’ve been wasted. That’s being a mom. It’s a small part of all the things that I am, but it is my greatest purpose. I didn’t always accept it willingly, trusting God fully, still don’t, but I know that this is my purpose.”

That explains why I do what I do. As for the most common question,  “How I do it?”

My dad once told me, “Your job as a parent in this world today is so much more difficult than mine ever was. Keeping them safe from the internet, bad influences, and drugs. We didn’t have to worry as much.” The secret to purposefully parenting any number of kids is not found on Pinterest, in name brand clothes and technology, nor in aggressive, competitive education and sports. It’s not in how big, clean, or expensive your home is. It’s not about awards to put on Facebook, though we have those. It’s not about who had the most exciting expensive vacation. It’s not about whether a 7 year old has an iPhone.  It’s not about participation trophies or first place trophies.  It’s really quite simple.It’s about the message through the gap.

When it comes to friends, feelings, drugs, sex, media, music, internet, sports, school, challenges, needs, and wants I stand in the gap between our kids and the world. Kids are amazing. They will find their path. Yes, they need some reminders not to kill themselves or each other, positive reinforcements, and consequences. More than once our kids have come home to nothing in their rooms but a bed. They know you mean business when they only have a bed and have to earn back everything from toys to posters. We don’t hide the world from our kids. You better be the first one to talk to your kids about sex, drugs, alcohol, and the internet because if you aren’t you can be assured they probably won’t get the message you want them to. I give my kids as much room to be themselves the way God made them, to grow the way God intended, to learn the way God has planned. Even when it hurts. I give them that room then I stand in the gap between what the world throws at them and the purpose God gave me to make sure in the gap between the world and my child the world’s message is filtered through God’s love. Just stand in the gap, that’s how I do it.

(Featured picture courtesy of our 10 year old photographer. I love seeing her world through her eyes. She has real photography talent.)

Through My Eyes

“He called me a loser, fat, stupid, and he looked at me and said, ‘F*** you’. He said I was weird like Sadie.”

My 10 year old daughter’s words and tears horrified me. So much came into perspective for me at this point. This explained the moodiness, crying, and skipping meals. It took every ounce of responsible parenting in my body to contain the outrage that flooded my body. Some kid was saying all these things and making fun of my child with autism too? What parent raises a child like that? What father raises a son to treat girls or anyone that way? I, of course, contacted the school. The kid continues to bully my child and other children to this day. It feels as though in the school system the bully is protected and not the bullied. The bully’s parents weren’t told. My child said she was blamed by the school for some of the bullying she endured and that the school believed the bullies when they lied and said the didn’t say something about her sister. Yes, there are multiple bullies, boys and girls.

When I look at my child I see a beautiful girl, inside and out. I see an intelligent child who always gets great grades. She’s never been fat. I just can’t fathom where this hateful behavior comes from in a child. Whether I understand the bullies at the school or the school system’s lack of response doesn’t matter. I have some parenting to do.

While driving my kids on a beautiful day I asked Kasey, “If someone was passing a note that said, ‘Kasey is so short’ would that bother you?”

With near amusement she relied, “No.”

“Why not?” I asked her.

“It’s not true. I’m not short.”

“Right. You don’t believe it, so it doesn’t bother you. That tells me that some part of you believes you are a loser. Why do believe you are a loser?”

She looks out the window at the passing scenery and mutters, “I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you tell me someone in your class who you believe is not a loser?”

“Well, like Lucy (names changed for privacy).”

“What is it about Lucy that makes her not a loser?”

“She can do gymnastics and dance. She’s a good friend and she’s smart. She’s a great actor. She’s  also pretty.”

“Okay, let’s start with that. Last year in your class you won the class best friend award voted by your class as being everyone’s friend. So are you a good friend?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Do you get good grades?”

“Yes. I don’t always get 100’s, but yeah I do.”

“So you are smart or you couldn’t get good grades.”

“Yes.”

“When you were in the play did everyone tell you what a great job you did?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that many people would tell you that if you didn’t do well?”

“No.”

“You are pretty. You are pretty in the most important way possible. On the inside, just like Lucy. Y’all are both sweet, thoughtful, kind, and caring. Both of you are pretty on the outside, but that doesn’t matter as much as being pretty on the inside. Can you agree with that?”

“Yes, but she can do gymnastics and dance. She’s great at it.”

“That’s absolutely wonderful. Does she play soccer?”

“No, she doesn’t know how.”

“Okay,  you do know how to play soccer and you’re pretty great at playing soccer. Does that make Lucy a loser because she doesn’t play soccer?”

“No, of course not.”

“Right, just because you have different talents than someone else doesn’t mean you are better than them or that they are better than you. Can you tell me, ‘I’m not a loser?'”

“I’m not a loser.”

“Tell me someone else who is not a loser?”

“You.”

“ME?!?!?” I really wasn’t expecting that response. You probably could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Never did I envision a day when I, the consummate underdog and black sheep, was the bar by which someone measured their own worth. Then again I was never a mother until God blessed us with this child. So I try to gather my composure, hide my shock, and continue on my parenting mission. “Kasey, what do I do that makes me not a loser?”

“You are an amazing cook and all I can cook is macaroni. You are the best soccer player, the best actor, the best artist, you are so smart. You went to college. You have a MASTER’S degree! You have 4 kids and you are still the best mom.”

Shocked, I think to myself we must be grading on some kind of curve here. “Kasey I’m 36. I don’t think you should judge your talents at 10, by mine at 36. I’ve had a little more practice. At 10 I couldn’t even make macaroni, nor did I want to. I was not the best soccer player, I just played my best. I wasn’t the best artist. I’ve learned a lot about art the more I did art. I’m a good actor because I’ve had to act my whole life. I don’t understand how people really talk to each other and act around each other so I acted. You are probably much more talented than me because you actually understand how to be social. I also did not have a master’s degree or 4 kids at age 10. Never judge your worth by anyone else’s, but definitely don’t judge it by someone who’s had 26 more years of life to fail and learn from it.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am. I have a master’s degree remember. That means I mastered being right. Now about being fat. Has the doctor ever said you were overweight or that there was  anything wrong with your weight?”

“No.”

“She would have if there was any concern over your weight. Also you need to understand fat is not what someone is. It’s not part of who you are.”

Slightly confused she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Your eye color is part of how God made you. You can wear colored contacts, but you will never be able to change your actual eye color. Your hair color, it can be dyed but if the stores ran out of dye you can not actually change your hair color. You can’t make yourself permanently taller or shorter. Those things are uniquely you. Your weight over your lifetime will change. When you grow it changes. When you are more or less active it changes. Having a baby changes it. Weight is not part of who you are but more a part of what is going on at the time and it can always be changed so it’s not part of how God made you. You know I’ve lost and gained weight even over the ten years you’ve been alive. Did that make me a better or worse person? ”

“No. You’ve always been a great person. That didn’t change anything about you.”

“Ok, name some great people for me.”

She lists a long string of people.

“Those people are all different weights. Does that change who they are as people? Does it make them good or bad?”

“No.”

“It’s important to eat healthy and exercise, but weight is not who you are since you can change it. Now can you tell me, ‘I’m not a loser, I am not stupid, and I’m not weird or fat, but if I was that would be okay because it doesn’t make me a bad person?”

“I’m not a loser, I am not stupid, and I’m not weird or fat, and if I was that would be okay because it doesn’t make me a bad person.”

Dear Children,

I can’t go out into the world for you and shield you from all the mean people, nor would I want to cheat you out of that learning and growing experience. Ok, truth be told I really would want to, but I won’t. If I could do anything I would give you the ability to see yourselves through my eyes. If you could only do that then you would never doubt your beauty, worth, intellect, or value. God didn’t make you perfect just like He didn’t make me perfect. He did, however, make you perfectly. He made your strengths yours for a reason. He made your challenges yours for a reason. Never let anyone make you question how God made you and never forget your Mom and Dad don’t question why God made each one of you who you are, we only thank Him that he did. We love you always.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.