A Mother's Dirty Window -- Her Own Eyes

I once heard this story where this gossipy old lady kept looking out her apartment window and complaining that the neighbors had filthy windows. At the end of the story, it's revealed that it was actually the old lady's windows that were coated in grime. 

I find parenting my children a bit like this. Do we really see who our kids are? The eyes are the windows to the soul but they are also the dirty windows through which a mother views her child. 

I am the mother of an introvert. Don't worry I've fussed and fretted over him enough to zealously rule out social anxiety and autism or anything else clinical with the professionals. He's a little anxious but mostly he's just a good old fashioned-would-rather-keep-in-my-own-space type of guy. 

While he has a couple of friends he likes to spending time with, he also mostly loves to do his own thing. He likes to garden with his dad, drink soda, watch anime, configure the LED lights in his room program stuff, lift weights at the gym, make furniture out of cardboard and draw.  He's sweet but has a dark sense of humor. He likes his way and he's a picky eater. He is PERFECTLY happy being him. He never complains if he isn't invited to something. He never laments that he doesn't dozens of friends. 

Does it sound like a tragedy?  Nope. But somewhere along the line my mother hen, anxious brain decided it was a big problem.

Throughout the elementary years whenever I'd see him behaving outside "the typical," emergency sirens went off. It was like a one-two-punch in the worried momma tummy. Not eating lunch -- panic! Playing with nobody at recess -- horrors! No interest in sports -- dread! 

Yet, no matter how much I worried, stewed, and prayed, how many playdates I arranged, how many sports teams he failed to enjoy, or how I hoped he might change...my Christian kept being...Christian.

 By 6th grade he had made a professional career of keeping to himself at school and had the reputation to prove it. One night at a sleepover, his buddy Luke offhandedly remarked with a little exasperation, "Christian, you never talk to me at school. Nobody would even know we are friends."  Yep Luke, that's being friends the Christian way. School is a place of for work and learning; socializing -- not part of the package.   

Once, after giving him an "N" (Needs Improvement) for collaborative effort and participation on his report card, Mrs. Grider, his 4th grade teacher remarked that Christian probably had little hope of ever bringing those scores to a Satisfactory. When I asked why she simply blurted out, "Christian is not a collaborative person." Ha ha...so much for the growth mindset at elementary school. I get it, but why are they grading a personality then? I wish I could have asked that thoughtful question in the moment. 

At the time, it was a punch in the gut. 

All that grade said to me was,

"Your son isn't the way he's supposed to be." 

Sad to say, I saw that evidence wherever I looked. 

It was there wherever Christian wasn't: the playground loaded with extroverted children lost in their games of basketball and kickball, the packs of boys walking home from school and the social media posts where parents bragged about their son's athletic prowess. 

So what's so wrong with Christian's way? 

Does it hurt anyone but me? Does it hurt him? 

His gifts are in the one-on-one conversation, the enthusiasm for a project on the computer that absorbs him for hours, the way he calmly observes the world. 

When I rub the hurt out of my eyes I can see him clearly. He isn't doing life the easy or usual way, but he's doing it his way, the way he was supposed to do it. 

It's hard when vision is clouded by society's expectations and my own suppositions about what is "normal." If I can clean the view, I can see my son is a child of God. It's not just a platitude. No one of God's children are like the other. He made everything so different...animals, flowers, trees, and even his children. He made variety to make things more beautiful. Christian is beautiful. He's like the big star that shines bright in the sky that catches your eye because it's different than the others. He's the rare gem in a treasure chest, made more valuable because it's unique. 

 

Letting Go a 'Lil Bit'

With rare exceptions I was never allowed to watch horror movies as a child. Maybe that's why the mildly PG-rated handful I did watch etched themselves in my mind. I remember vividly a movie called, "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." In the 1978 version of the movie, a young, Donald Sutherland with a giant, curly fro played an everyman named Mathew. He and his wife Elizabeth confront an unusual, sinister reality that people all around them are being replaced by emotionless, robot versions of themselves while they sleep. Whilst the unsuspecting victim innocently slept, a whole duplicate of their body formed under their bed in a disgusting pod that started small and eventually, morphed and bubbled into their emotionless doppelgänger in a translucent shell. Somehow the characters Mathew and Elizabeth discover the secret. But what was the impossible alternative to being replaced? Don't sleep. Oh the movie was so stressful. Mathew and Elizabeth ran around with bloodshot eyes, sleepless and delirious as zombies while they fought to avoid the inevitable. I don't even think the movie ended well. Eventually, Mathew nodded off and was replaced and poor Elizabeth was left exhausted to create her epilogue in your imagination as the credits rolled. It was terrifying.  

Eventually, all parents live some version of this movie when their child morphs into someone else entirely: the teenager. Oh you can try to stop it by taking endless pictures and videos, saving baby clothes, or kissing those sleeping pink cheeks and dimpled hands endlessly. But one day, quicker than you want or expect, inevitably you walk into find someone new is sleeping in your child's bed. Experienced parents try to warn you but there is nothing that really prepares you for your new, big stranger.   

My story started with a mother and her preemie son. My Andy. He started small but with a lot of breastfeeding, he quickly became a fat, round, serious-faced extension of my own body. I carried him everywhere so that he would avoid the mortal danger that always awaited him on the floor with his toddler sister. One day Andy, who we nicknamed 'Big Boy,' started talking, though not a lot. Everything Big Boy said had "a lil bit" added onto it. With the aforementioned serious plump face, out would come, "I love you a lil bit" or, "Can I watch Thomas (the train) a lil bit?" It's not by accident that God gives the mother the child that will completely, utterly, devastatingly, and irretrievably melt her. He did it to me. I was hooked.  

Andy grew into a confident, quiet boy who never talked about his day but would lovingly, yet casually, sling his arm around my shoulders at random opportunities. I was Andy's girl. I turned around and it was his 13th birthday. He invited me to the arcade, just me and him. We took silly pictures in the picture booth and retrieved the set of three black and white pictures of us as a souvenir. I thought, "Having a teenager isn't so bad." 

It was the last time I was invited anywhere.

The transformation didn't happen over night. Oh no. Get ready. You, the parent, are the frog in the cold water while the teenager's changing brain is gradually turning the heat up. Just like in the Bodysnatchers that brain changes and their legs grow while they sleep. Did you know it's developmentally appropriate for your child to begin craving novel voices while finding your voice annoying? All of this happens in their brain as nothing changes in yours. I was and am still irretrievably and helplessly smitten with Andy. 

Months after his 13th birthday, my attempts at communicating outside of Andy's basic needs began to be rebuffed. So I took to hanging out in Andy's room when he wasn't there. I'd hang clothes or fuss over and tidy his belongings pretending that I had some necessity or right to be in a place where I wouldn't be welcome if its occupant was home. It's how I stayed connected. I could also pay for things and sit in the bleachers and watch him get smashed by other giant teenagers in football. 

One day I went into 15 year old Andy's room to find all 6 feet of him laying flat on his back on his bed with his eyes gazing at his little iPhone screen. The transformation was complete. Andy was still my Andy, but not really.  

"Andy? I want to go on special time with you again."

"Why?" his eyes still glued to that mini screen like a fly to a light bulb. 

"Well because I want to just connect and spend time with you."

"Nicky (17 year old sister) never does anything with you. Why do I have to?" 

I gently reminded him that Nicky does indeed let me take her shopping when I'm paying and there's something expensive she wants. 

In agitation and to get fully back to TikTok, he relented. Still looking deeply into the recesses of the iPhone he said, "Ok. Dr. Strange part 2 comes out in a few months, maybe we could go to that." 

My heart soared as I thought of Andy and I sharing a popcorn and a theater just like old times. I absolutely hate all the Marvel movies but I always went because he wanted me there. Maybe he'd even say a few sentences about what he liked about the movie when it was over. We'd be talking.

Two months later my fingers joyfully texted Andy, "The movie comes out this Friday," 

Silence

"I promise to buy popcorn and treats and not talk at all."

Crickets

Apparently, I should have payed attention to the "maybe" part of that invitation as I was later unceremoniously and emotionlessly uninvited. I ended up buying treats and tickets for Andy and my replacement, his best friend Teigen.  

When I tell veteran parents about these experiences, they smile and shake their head up and down in remembrance, "ah yes I remember those days. Don't worry, they will come back." But I guess they come back when they leave the house...they're all grown up. Apparently this is just a phase like the terrible twos. I guess I can just be thankful that in this experience there is only one person that changed. I still get to love on Andy. Though instead of hugs, holding hands, and cuddles, I love on him by making his food, doing his laundry, and getting out of his way. He was meant to grow up. Parenting gives you the lovely opportunity to unconditionally love your big stranger because you know somewhere in there is still your little guy. Letting go was always part of the plan. Even if it hurts, "just a lil bit."  

  

Teens are Just the Bigger Toddler

When your kids are babies they have all sorts of adorable idiosyncrasies. Andy, for example, at two years old knew all the trains of Sodor and could name each one, Thomas, Henry, Gordon, etc. He sang the Thomas the Train theme song with a baby lisp and even dressed as Thomas with a candy pouch up front for Halloween. But best of all, one night he decided to start sleeping with all his wooden trains and a few tracks for good measure. So there he was in his stout little baby ball trying to share a baby mattress with James and the other weird-faced toy trains. 

You'd think the baby would grow up and all the funnies would grow and go with them, but they are still who they are. 

In 7th grade, Andy grew an obsession with football. It's sort of similiar to trains except now instead of memorizing names of personified trains, he memorizes football plays by the dozens. Instead of spending $20-$30 per wooden train, we spend $50 an hour on wide receiver training. Instead of playing a train table, Andy throws a football with his dad at the park. Instead of playdates with friends who had better train tables and more trains, Andy goes to football practice with the 1st string kids that play better than him (for now). 

Best of all, Andy still sleeps with things he loves. The picture below shows what happen when Mom washes the sheets and pillowcases but when a 14 year needs to nap, he's gotta nap! 

Cheerleaders Still Have to be Teenagers

I used to love writing about my babies and toddlers. Everything simple thing they did or new thing they learned seemed magical. Last night I thought, I sure miss writing about my babies! I'm left with irritating teenagers as my only muse. 

Then I thought about how being a teenager is such a unique, magical, and horrifying time. What if it was every bit as fun to write about as it was to write about the toddlers. So I'm trying it out. 

When I was in high school, I thought that the cheerleaders had it ALL! They were popular, pretty, well-dressed, athletic, and the list went on and on.... If I'd been a cheerleader, my teenager years would have been filled with all the promised one-in-a-lifetime fun I'd seen my older sister who was a cheerleader enjoy. I was never a cheerleader and I was sure that was why I was the unpopular moody frog I became during those years and why high school years were pretty much the worst of my life! 

When Nicky wanted to be a cheerleader in 6th grade, I was all in. She is much more petite than I ever was and was always chosen as the flyer. I thought she'd have it made if only she could be a cheerleader in high school! 

She's 16 now and on the varsity team. She's pretty and blond and a flyer! I wonder how other girls see her cuz I know how she sees herself. When she's not being an ever-loving-witch to me, she's crying about not having enough friends and hating her personality. When she screams, "I hate you!" and I'm in a good mental place, I know she's really just yelling that she hates herself. She hates her homework, social pressures, and not feeling good enough. She hates that she has to do homework all the time to get her straight As. She doesn't feel popular and she doesn't even want to date let alone have a boyfriend.  She is in her junior year working on making sure her perfect grades stay perfect, studying for the ACT/SAT, and trying decide where she wants to go and what she wants to do when school is over in two years. It's a big helping of crazy times!

She asked me not to go to her first two football games because she's a twit. She explained it's because my mere existence is embarrassing. Nevermind I foot the bill for that adorable white uniform, the tumbling classes, and every other want and desire. It really sucks to sit at home. I decided I'm going to show up next time. It's a free country and I never get these moments back. 

Even though I embarrass her, she makes me so proud. Look how beautiful she is! I got these pictures from some other mom who didn't listen to her daughter and went to the game anyway (taking a page from her book next time).    

That's my flyer on the far left! 

And this is the close up shot I found on the photographers website. She wasn't smiling so she hates it! I love this picture because it captures my Nicky in all her intensity and angst! She's 16 years old and by golly she's go to cheer with the seriousness of heiling Hitler! 

''

 That was her reaction to the picture. So typical of of a teenager who really just can't find anything good to think about herself. Now I know the truth! Being a cheerleader doesn't make you feel any better about yourself than I did when I wasn't a cheerleader. It's a stage they all must tussle with and they're are going to be scars no matter which door they open or whatever sport they choose! 

Everyone Needs a Nicky

Giving up the SAD (Standard American Diet) is no easy task. I imagine it might be easier if you had you whole tribe at home eating huge salads, begging for green smoothies, and happily forgoing the trips to Krispy Kreme. My husband Jeff  loves to eat healthy but he also likes treats. Right now he's not motivated to give up his midnight chocolate or Ben and Jerry's. So that stuff sits about and is in within easy reach if I have a weak moment.

Once again it is a new first week. I don't know how many first weeks there have been...probably a hundred. But I'm determined to make this my last first week. I've decided in weakness, one must put on their armor and prepare for battle.  There are two weapons I have found work best in fighting the war against food addiction, they are 1) planning ahead and 2) asking for support. So, I got my planner out and listed out what foods I'll eat this week. For my support, I enlisted my daughter Nicky. Nicky is almost 14 and a lovely example of a teenage human being. Of course she's typical for a girl her age in that she loves to toy with her hair and peruse her phone looking at pictures, playing games, and watching Youtube. She may be your typical teenager in those ways but she atypical in others. Like Nicky is so mature and adultish and I've always felt she understands things beyond her years.

I approached her a few nights ago and asked her if I could make my Eat-to-Live commitment to her so that I would have someone to keep me accountable. She readily agreed. I have faith in prayers and I believe a loving God wants me to meet my goals and be the healthiest and happiest version of myself. I have said my prayers many times in my quest to be in control of my eating. I have also let myself down many times. I don't think God didn't hear my prayer. I have not kept my commitment to myself and therefore, how could God help me?  I asked Nicky to say a prayer for me. I don't remember her words exactly but it was one of the sweetest prayers I've ever heard said just for me. She asked God that I would be able to make it through this week and keep my goal. There is something different about hearing someone that loves you pray for you versus praying for yourself. Prayer truly does bind your support person to you in love. I can't imagine not having faith in that sweet prayer and I can't imagine not keeping my commitment when I know that Nicky is rooting for me. Who is your sweet Nicky? Who can help you reach this goal of health and happiness?

Just Jump In

Somehow, someday I'm going to have the health and body of my dreams. I just haven't figured it out yet. I'm 42. There's still time, right? It's been a life project with some ups and downs. 2019 is the year I'm going to figure it out! Why not? It's a good, odd-numbered, obscure year. If you're here, you can come with me.  What dream do you want to come true? I believe for our dreams to come true, we have to just jump in. 

I hurt my hip and some sort of gluteus muscle in my butt that has been making it impossible to run. The stiffened muscles in my butt threw out my lower back. I've put on weight which makes all other excercise hard because the shame of my flabby tummy is heavier than weights and harder to to stretch past than my tight hamstrings. When I can't run, I feel a little sorry for myself and think of myself like a gorgeous Toucan in a cage with clipped wings. Right now, because I can't do much else and I refuse to give up on my dreams, I need to go to the pool. Swimming the freestyle at the gym has begun to correct my lower back issue. Who knew that I had my own Healing Waters of Katlanovaska right in my backyard. Instead of a bird, I'm a freaking fish. Sigh!

You'd think I'd be excited to get that pool knowing that upon emerging later, I'll feel exercised and stretched as well as able to bend over and put on shoes without pain. Not so! The mental anquish begins on morning of self appointed swimming day. "Maybe another day would be better," I think as I search for reasons not to go. My waiting, stretched swimsuit which was draped on the towel rack for drying, sits looking like a deflated balloon. Seriously, the best part of winter has always been the hiding in sweaters and coats. There is nowhere to hide in that little bit of lycra. Just when I think the worst part of winter swimming is pulling my white flesh into suit, the cold hits. You know that "Would You Rather" game? My kids play it all the time. You're given two impossible choices and you must pick one. "Would you rather burn to death or freeze to death?" This morning as I stood in my swimsuit, I answered that question. Give me death in the fire and the desert I say. Nothing is worse than goosebumps. This is a first world problem. I know it.  I feel cold even after putting several layers of clothes over myself and the swimwear. Feeling frigid and vulnerable continues into the gym locker room where I must remove everything again. Then it's the sad, naked march out the door, onto the pool deck, trying to ignore the white old men boiling in the hot tub. Finally, I reach the lap pool. You mustn't be fooled by the steam arising from the waters. It doesn't mean that water is hot by any means, it's just the 68 degrees is much warmer than the 40 degrees outside. I jump! I lose my breath! It's the pain of a thousand icy swords. It only lasts one minute. 

Then... I adjust. I'm so glad I came. My body is strong, supported, and warm. The sun shines bathing me in its one-eyed blinding glory. I'm alive. I breathe. I'm ok. This is good. Why is is always so darn hard to just jump in? 

You know that overused saying from Finding Nemo that everyone  says  when they want to encourage someone is doing something hard like going through a divorce, fighting depression, or dying, "just keep swimming." I'd say for me, swimming is the easy part. My new mantra is, "just jump in."

So many things in my life that I want to start feel like jumping into a pool on a cold day. Eating well is one of them. I know the nutrition rules and I know the benefits of following them. Just like the rythym of swimming the freestyle, I love the rythym of the healthy eating routine and I love the food.  I know how good I feel when I lose weight and when I can run fast because I'm not carrying all the extra pounds. However, when I have to stifle my desires and when I have to tell myself no...I feel naked, cold, and vulnerable...just like I do before I jump in the pool. The only difference is that I don't know how long those feelings are going to last. I could be eating great and doing great for days and suddenly, I'm exposed on the pool deck. I'm empty and cold and I don't know how to warm up without eating a comfort food or overeating. How long will I feel this way? It could be a few weeks or months. Could I feel cold that long? Let's find out.

Loved in Every Way

How is it that one short human being can truly be loveable in every way. Even his problems are funny and endearing. He can't poop on the potty yet because he's anxious that he won't be able to when he sits down. He's afraid of swimming so his dear stocky fingers cling around my neck for dear life whenever we venture into the pool. When he gets his feelings hurt or he's injured, his sadness melts to pure, red-faced anger within seconds. He retaliates with fists, loud gravel-voiced dressing downs, and, occasionally, butter knives out of the silverware drawer.  And after he gets in trouble for some of these things, all the naughty memories get stored inside me under a secret smile. His troubles touch off my sense of humor in a way that nothing in this world does.

Then there's all the good stuff, the pug nose, the mischevious smile, the gravel voice, the facial expressions..the way he says, "I love you more than you can ever say."

He was born under the cloud of Stargardt's disease in the family. He had the biggest, dear blue eyes and the most kissable soft skin and I couldn't get enough. I'd cry so many times when I'd see those innocent eyes smiling up at me out of his crib because I was afraid they'd be going blind. But somehow I'd find moments to put that worry down and pick that Bub up and I just enjoyed him like you can't imagine. The days, months, years just flew by because no mother ever enjoyed a boy as much as I enjoyed my Dylan.

He almost died on a penny before his first birthday so maybe it's why nothing can make me worry over him or stress. We sat together so much and I read him stories and taught him his alphabet. When he was ready, he started to read. I will never forget him reading, "If you ask the dog to sit, it will." The dog  that went with that sentence was ridiculous.  Dylan's little kid voice was just so cute reading it and he always giggled. Maybe he'll never remember, but I always will...the stinky old elevator and playing Candy Land at Christian's speech therapy appointments.

Now he's at Kindergarten all day and I think he's happy. At first it was hard to share him. Then I noticed how he goes about collecting friends and bringing the same happiness that he gives me, to others. Of course we miss each other but I find I'm enjoying catching my breath and organizing my life a bit. Whenever I go to pick him up at school, I gather him in my arms and he is so little still and kissable. He is everything to me and I am so proud to be his mom.

Dylan I am so sorry you don't have much written down between birth and five years. Your mom was busy enjoying you so much, I didn't pick up the pen or keyboard. It's the truth. No boy has been enjoyed as much as you.