Tag Archives: stress

Big Rocks

I ran out of time. For a year I intended to write about turning 50 – a contemplative, insightful piece extoling the wisdom gained from living for half a century, but in a few days I’ll be 51.  Gone the way of shoulder pads and stirrup pants, like it or not, the time has passed.

I ran out of time though I’ve tried diligently to slow down my life and clear some space. Simplify, downsize, prioritize; these are my buzz words.  Progress is evident, although the perfect balance wherein I fulfill my roles of mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend and instructor, and manage to shave under my arms occasionally . . . this eludes me still.

The other night, my father-in-law, glancing at my Google calendar on my iPhone, its colorful blocks stacked atop, beside and overlapping each other like a patchwork quilt, looked from the screen to my face and said, “You’re too busy.”

This, I know.  How to change it, I do not.

“What can I cut, Dad?” I asked, a little desperate, a little exasperated.

Life seems to be speeding up, or perhaps it’s that more life is crammed into a single day.  I know my parents’ generation raised their families in a slower time. Compare a rotary phone on the wall, its handset tethered by a 10 foot spiral cord, to a smart phone, handheld and able to, at virtually any time, any place, connect to limitless information . . . and limitless other smart phones.  Technology adds convenience, but these instant connections, particularly in the form of text messages, demand instant responses, & idk if we r betr 4 it.

During the last week of school my moderately frenetic pace kicked up to severely frantic.  With routines out of whack, extra activities to manage and preparations for the upcoming summer vacation (‘vacation’ is truly a misnomer), the needle on my stress gauge pushed into the red.

With Type-A drive I tackled numerous projects at once, the way I know best – with sleep deprivation and coffee.  The goal; to knock out as many items as quickly as possible.  My monkey-mind chanted an endless to-do list like a scrolling marquee across the back of my mind.  I was running out of time.

In the midst of it all, Sydney had, as a result of a sleep study and the subsequent diagnosis of obstructive sleep apnea (common in kids with Down syndrome), a tonsillectomy, and was spending the week recovering at home. Before surgery, she charmed the staff with her smiles and snappy come-backs, but afterward, my brave girl was miserable and understandably, a bit grumpy.  We stuck to an alternating 3 hour dosing of Tylenol and Motrin to keep the pain at bay.  Armed with popsicles and ice cream and soup and mashed potatoes, we told her she could watch as much Disney Channel as she liked.

Since Sydney’s my easy-going kid, stoic with a high tolerance for discomfort and doesn’t complain often, I figured it would be, for the most part, business as usual.  Steven and I arranged our schedules to trade off being home, but I anticipated that while she rested I’d be able to toggle between making milkshakes and sending emails.

Uh, yeah.  No.

She didn’t really rest.  In fact, she was rest-less, never settling for more than 30 minutes at a time.  She couldn’t focus on TV, it hurt too much to eat (even ice cream), and she had no interest in her iPad.  She wanted to talk.  To me.

“Um, excuse me, Mom?”  Sydney asked from the table.  “Why my voice is low?”

I answered from my computer without looking.  “It’s from your tonsils, remember?”

I’d just blended a smoothie to chase a round of medicine, hoping for a few free minutes to compose an email.   “Don’t worry.  It won’t last.”

“Why can’t I go to school?” she asked.

“Hmmmm?” I replied, fingers flying over the keys. “School?”

“Why am I not at school?”  She repeated.

I could picture her face though my back was to her; eyes opened wide behind purple wire-frames, eyebrows arched high, her mouth frozen in the shape of the last vowel sound she made.  She’d asked this question every day, several times a day, for the last week.

“You know why.  You tell me, why you aren’t you in school?”  I said trying to be patient, though I felt anything but.

“Because I had my tonsils out?” she asked, acting unsure.

But she knew.  I’d noticed her strategy of waiting for me to pick up my phone, then immediately starting in with obvious questions to which she knew the answer.  The more I needed to concentrate, the more effort she made to divert my attention.  And the more she kept me from working, the more annoying it became.  In front of me, my iMac displayed the afternoon’s tasks; open Word documents, several tabs on the web browser, iTunes with my playlists for teaching, an unfinished email to Sydney’s teacher.  And my calendar.  Always my calendar.

Behind me, my daughter waited for an answer.

Realizing it had been several seconds, I turned and looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, honey,” I said firmly, “because you had your tonsils out.”

Her days were long, her throat hurt and she was lonely.  My compassion stirred when she said, “I just miss my friends, Mom.”

“I know, sweetie.  I’m sorry.” I got up and walked to her, resigned to the conversation for the moment.

“Good job! You drank your whole smoothie!”  I said with over-the-top enthusiasm as I took the empty cup to the kitchen sink.

She soaked up the praise with a smile and a shy little shrug.

“I know you miss your friends, but you’ll see them at yearbook signing, remember?”

She perked visibly at the mention. “Oh, yeah!  Yearbook signing. On Thursday, right?”

“Yep.  On Thursday.”

She sat without speaking as I rinsed dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher.  Though I heard my daughter’s angst, my monkey-mind chattered louder, calculating what was due when.  I was running out of time.

“Mom needs to get some work done now, Syd.  Okay?”

She was quiet.

“How about a pudding?”

She nodded.

“Do you want anything else?” I asked.  “I can put on a movie.”

“No, I’m fine,” Sydney said, matter-of-factly.

I registered her disappointment, but I was up against a deadline and the detailed work required focus.  I sat down once again and the clacking of the keyboard filled the silence.  For 15 seconds.

“Mom? Excuse me.”

Like clockwork.

“Wow,” I said, taking a deep breath.   Patience, Lisa.  “You sure are talking a lot today.  Doesn’t that hurt your throat?”

“No-oo!” she answered emphatically.  “I just . . . , I just have tonsil breath,” she stammered, referring to the unfortunate halitosis following a tonsillectomy.

Her voice, from behind, carried recognition; she knew what she was doing, but couldn’t stop herself.  I didn’t catch the rest of what she said; I was reading the three texts I’d just received. My adrenaline rose as my shoulders tensed up to my ears.  And my monkey-mind chanted away.  Running. Out. Of. Time.

“I know I’m talking a lot,” Sydney admitted.

Tapped, no restraint remaining, I interjected, “And . . .  you’re driving me CRA-zy.”

An offhand remark, casual, yet careless, it stung with more bite than was intended.  But I didn’t know that yet.  I went on with my work for a minute before a subtle energy permeated my unraveling focus.  I felt more than heard something and turned around.

Grimacing with silent sobs, Sydney bent over her pudding, shoving bite after bite in her mouth until it overflowed.  She inhaled sharply and coughed.  Snot billowed from her nose until her face was a mass of chocolatey mucus.

“Oh, honey!”  I jumped up and grabbed a Kleenex, wiping her nose and mouth quickly.   “Swallow,” I said, holding the straw of her water jug to her mouth.  “Breathe,” I directed.  She cleared her throat repeatedly then took a shaky breath as she tried to calm herself.

When she could talk, she said softly, “I get it, Mom.”  Speaking with a wisdom I forget she is capable of, her words held the implication that she did indeed understand how swamped I was and that she was doing her best not to need too much from me.

“I know we have a busy schedule?” she continued, shrugging and turning one palm up as if to say, ‘it is what it is,’ “but,” her small voice quivered, “you’re going to the gym and . . . ,” she paused, “And . . .  and . . . and I just really . . . “

I waited, my attention fully–and finally–and my daughter.

” . . .  miss you.”  The last two words came out high-pitched and barely audible.

Her chin trembled. She tucked her head down and reaching her index finger underneath her glasses, and wiped fresh tears from her eyes.  Lifting her head with a slow inhalation, she looked to see if I was watching, then choked out the words, “but, I . . . just . . . NEED . . .  you!”   And with that, she abandoned her fight to hold back the tide of her emotions.

Remorse hit me like a wave.  My heart broke open wide. The tightness in my chest loosened and slid away as I gathered her in my arms.  She buried her gooey face in my belly and we both cried.

In the past I would have castigated myself for being a bad mother, but as an older parent, my compassion extends to myself as well.  With maturity comes the recognition that when I’m drained by overdoing, I lack what she needs from me; it’s just not there. I can’t make it materialize.  Conclusion: In order to take care of Sydney, I need to take care of myself.

The overdoing has to stop.  This I know.  How I to change it, I have not known.  But perhaps the analogy of sand, pebbles and rocks in a glass jar illustrates how.  My time – a finite amount – is represented by the glass jar; the sand, pebbles and rocks are all the many, many things that fill that time, ranging from smallest to biggest.  Fill the jar starting with the sand and only a few big rocks will fit.  But reverse the order and miraculously, everything slips into place.  It becomes clear to me: if the big rocks are gonna fit, they must go in first.

My fatal flaw? Everything has been a big rock; I’ve missed the distinction between size and texture and value.  But now I know it just ain’t so.  Obviously, Sydney is a bona fide big rock along with my other children and my husband.  But, what about me?   Is it possible to forgo some sand and pebbles to make room for a big rock of my own?  I don’t know whose permission I’ve been waiting for.  Who’s jar is it, anyway?  In my 50th year, these shifting perceptions and realigning priorities influence my choices more than external expectations.  The voice I’m attuning to now comes from within – not without – myself.

My friend, Jackie once told me, special-needs mom to special-needs mom: “There is just no way to get it all done, so I have to let some things, the less important things slip.”  Since it is my jar, I get to decide what’s more, and less, important.  If worry about the big rocks, the rest can slip.  No more running out of time for what really matters.

I untangled from Sydney and pulled back to look at her puffy, reddened eyes.  I sighed, smoothing her hair back from her face.  Such a precious girl.  My daughter.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” I asked.

She looked crestfallen.  I’m sure she was thinking, ‘Mom is shoving me off again.’

I added, “With me?” and a smile lit up her face as we headed to the couch.

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Filed under Adolescence, Down syndrome, Enlightenment, Family, Gratitude, Letting Go, Motherhood, Parenting, Self-Care, Special Needs, Stress

Let It Go

Before moving to Columbia, Missouri, spring break meant a week off school to hang around the house and catch up on projects. I soon learned this is not the case in the Midwest.  In CoMo, it’s ‘hasta la vista, baby,’ and everybody gets outta dodge. Headed to prime vacation destinations like Florida and Mexico (the country, not the city in Missourah, population 11,543), people lay out the big bucks.  And they take their kids with them.

For eight years I didn’t get it.  An Arizona girl transplanted to Texas, I never felt the need to migrate to warmer climates; I already lived there. But, by adopting the Show-Me state as my new home, I’ve been reacquainted with the seasons, and after this particular year – the year of the interminable winter in which the world descended into an icy kind of hell, a frozen apocalypse with subzero temperatures, biting winds, ice storms and snow day upon snow day upon snow day – I got it.

“I’m so cold!  I haven’t been warm in months,” I said to my friend Jane in Phoenix, who at that moment was sitting on her patio shaded by palm trees, enjoying a perfect 75 degrees. “I can’t wait to feel the sun on my face again.”

I pictured myself lying on soft sand, nearly lifeless, basking in the golden rays like a reptile sunning on a rock.

“You’re going to be gone how long?” she asked.

“Nine days.  Granted, it’s four long days of driving, but five full days of camping right across from the beach.  South Padre, baby.  Kicking back at the KOA!”

In my mind’s eye I can see us in our little home away from home: a green sturdy mat to cover the ground outside the trailer, an awning to create a cozy space lined with Little Japanese lanterns that cast a soft glow, music resonating from outdoor speakers. The girls riding their bikes. Steven at the grill, searing steaks, enjoying a beer.  Me, reclined in a comfy camping chair, feet up, wine glass in hand.

“All I’m going to do is relax.”  I said, “And, Steven’s taking his kayak so he can fish.  It’ll be so good for him.”

A nature lover, my husband is most at peace on a lake, river or ocean, casting his reel.  It’s his meditation, his sacred communion.

“And it’ll be good for you.”  Jane said.  “You guys both need this after everything you’ve been through.”

Stress is a buzzword that’s become cliché in our fast-paced culture, but ‘this’ year has been even more intense for us than normal.  A lot of travel, the girls’ medical and educational issues, my job, Steven’s job, our new grandbaby’s heart surgery . . .  well, nothing has been routine for awhile.

And then there’s Mom’s death.

“It’s been six months already,” I said, disbelief in my voice.

Our grief cycles as we learn to live without her; it’s been hard, but more and more the sadness is imbued with vitality and getting away to enjoy each other is a significant part of that healing process.

“So, we’re going,” I exclaimed.  “All the way to the coast!”

Jane celebrated with me over the phone, “I’m happy for you guys.  You really deserve this.”

Steven brought the RV out of hibernation, cleaning and repairing and stocking, and making sure his 4WD truck was tow-worthy.  Ever the über-boyscout, my mate impresses me with his thoroughness, making lists and spending hours following through with his plans which this time included detailed preparations for salt water fishing.  He loaded his kayak atop the roof of the Super Duty.  Protruding over the hood, the end rested on a carrier attached at the grill, forming a visor that framed our view as we headed south on a 1,200 mile trek in search of fun in the sun.

Everyone in their places, we drove; over 22 hours, but we made it, full of anticipation and ready for anything.  Anything, except what we got.

After all that, the weather did not hold up its end of the bargain.   In fact, the elements conspired to create the antithesis of perfect weather. Warm temperatures were nowhere to be found; we wore jeans instead of shorts and jackets rather than short sleeves.  At night every blanket was put to use until we broke down and turned on the heat.  All day, the sun hid, obliterated by cloud-cover, casting a gloomy pall.  Thunderstorms shook the trailer and gales of wind blew day and night, snatching the door out of our hands and slamming it against the side of the RV, whipping up everything in its path, even extinguishing the flame on the BBQ grill.  We retracted the awning and stayed inside.

We were not happy campers.

On the morning of the fourth day, I lay in bed listening to the sound of a downpour – rain dancing with tap shoes on the roof of the trailer – and had a conversation with the petulant teenager who lives inside me.

‘Let it go, Lisa.  You’re ruining your own vacation.’

‘But, this isn’t the vacation I ordered.  This is not the vacation I NEEDED!’

‘The girls are handling it better than you.’

They were such troopers.  Sydney’s ability to go with the flow has always amazed me.  And even Haley wasn’t complaining, finding other things to do.  But hanging out inside our RV wasn’t what we planned.

‘This weather sucks. This totally sucks.’

‘You’re still spending time together as a family.’

‘Three miles shy of Mexico, for the love of Mike!  We came all this way to get out of the cold.’

‘Lisa, shhhhhh.  Let it go.’

Cue music: the infamous melody from Frozen rang through my brain, “Let it go!  Let it go!”  a counter to my stubborn argument. Tenacity and perseverance have gotten me a long way, but this time, a white-knuckled grip on my expectations was not serving me well.

Later that day we passed the time browsing a few touristy gift shops with their shelves of souvenir shot glasses and cheap jewelry, bins of shells and painted starfish and rows of campy T-shirts and hats.

Haley hollered at me a few aisles over, “Mom, look!”

Rounding the corner, she held up a shirt, excited to show me the writing on the front.

“Read it!” she insisted, grinning ear to ear like a little Cheshire cat.

So I read.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Yep.  That’s what it said.

Haley beamed at me as if she’d discovered the meaning of life (and maybe she had).  “I’ve never seen this on a shirt before.  Isn’t that cool?” she asked.

Pretty cool,” I said.

Um, hello?  A personal message from the universe, you think?  Let. It. Go.

I looked at the past few days through this lens.  I didn’t lounge lazily in the hammock like I wanted, but I did cuddle up with my girls to watch movies.  I didn’t play catch with Sydney using those little Velcro mitts, but we did play Candy Land and Go Fish, much to her delight.  Steven and Haley didn’t take their father-daughter fishing excursion (in fact, Dad’s kayak never even touched the water), but, on a nature walk they did find a fantastic creature called a sea hare.  And as a family, we ate delicious seafood at a very cute restaurant on the pier, (while wearing pirate hats), and visited Allison at the Sea Turtle Rescue and Rehabilitation Center, an old sea turtle with only one fin, who wears a prosthesis and stars in a documentary.

Then, on the last day, the clouds evaporated and the glorious sun shone bright, warming the air as the winds calmed.  The spring break paradise we’d been longing for suddenly materialized.  Gathering our gear post haste, we headed to the beach and I lay supine in the sun, eyes closed, drinking in the radiant heat, reptilian instincts satisfied.  Haley surfed on her boogie board, Sydney dug in the sand and Steven combed the beach.  Bittersweet.  We finally got a taste of what we came for.

“Mom, I don’t want to leave,” Haley said.  “The sun just came out.”

Sydney said, “But, I miss my friends.”

I understood the sentiments of both my girls.  Incredibly grateful for one gorgeous day, I was, nonetheless, disappointed that we didn’t have more.  But, I had finally let it go and was ready to go home.

I’m recovering now, adjusting to the discrepancy between what was hoped for and what was.  As I contemplate my resistance to (okay, my utter rejection of) accepting the things I could not change, I had to wonder why was I so terribly disheartened?  Life happens; C’est la vie and all that, right?  But, there was too much riding on the trip; it absolutely had be renewing and rejuvenating.  Desperate for rest, we knew it would be a long time before we could commit this kind of time, money and effort to another lengthy sabbatical.

The life lesson comes in not only leaning into the acceptance piece, but embracing the courage piece; the courage to change the things I can.  Moving forward, I can create time and space in my busy life for recreation before the need becomes critical.  I can infuse my daily routine with all the good things life has to offer, seizing opportunities for joy whenever they present themselves – who said I have to wait?   Using my hard-won wisdom, I can sort out the difference.  I can have . . .  Serenity Now!

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Filed under Enlightenment, Family, Gratitude, Letting Go, Marriage, Motherhood, Stress, Travel

Give and Take

 

handssoft

You are my love and my life.

You are my inspiration.

Just you and me.

Simple and free.

Baby, you’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

 Just You And Me by Chicago

 

“Al, I need ice.”

With a white Styrofoam cup in hand, he bends over and carefully spoons ice chips into her mouth, her lips parched and quivering.  A few pieces drop off the plastic utensil onto her collarbone, the skin exposed where the hospital gown has slipped off a bony shoulder.

“You’re not very good at this,” she says weakly. Her breathing is labored and shallow.  The effort of reaching for the ice and talking at the same time is too much and she lays her head back on the pillow, exhausted.

“Well, whatcha gonna do?” He replies good-naturedly.  “I am all you’ve got.”

Quiet for a few moments, eyes closed and very still, she appears to have fallen asleep. But then, my mother-in-law’s eyes open and she answers irritably, “I’m getting somebody else.  You’re fired.”

But, it’s the cancer talking. And the chemo and the side effects and infections that have devastated her body and threatened to defeat her spirit.

As my husband’s father gently wipes away the melted ice, he smiles and croons, “Oh, I’m fired, am I?  Okay, babe.  But I get to interview my replacement.”

For 50 years they’ve faced life side by side.  For better or for worse.  In sickness and in health. Strong when the other is weak, optimistic when the other is sad, calm when the other is upset.  She is devoted to him and he adores her.  Two souls intertwined; theirs is the ultimate love story.

Young lovers can’t begin to imagine what awaits them; that the family born out of their passion will test their resolve and challenge their allegiance, forcing them to redefine love as they know it.

Years ago, when we were young, I married my best friend.  It’s a cliché sung about in love songs and easily dismissed, at least until it applies to you.  However prosaic it may sound, my husband is my partner, in all things.  He is my co-parent in raising our children, he is my intellectual equal, my companion and comforter and confidante.  The love of my life.  He is my home.

Nonetheless, navigating the constant demands of family life takes a heroic commitment and requires a willingness to place another’s needs above one’s own at times, trusting that it will balance out.  Never static, the relationship is fluid, the dynamics ever-changing, and it’s precisely this ebb and flow through seasons of abundance and seasons of bleakness that secures the longevity of a marriage.

Steven and I have been doing this parenting gig for a long time and the truth is we’re tired and we sometimes take it out on each other.  It’s a known fact that parenting children with special needs can contribute to higher divorce rates, though interestingly one study found that in families who had children with Down syndrome the divorce rate was actually lower than in families with other birth defects or no identified disability.  Predictors of divorce among parents of kids with ADHD, however, showed the divorce rate was nearly twice that of the general population before the child’s age of eight.

So, statistically speaking, Haley’s special needs add more marital stress than Sydney’s. I would concur.  Haley brings an energy to our family that is amazing and astounding, but also overwhelming.

Frequently my mind will spiral into panic when tallying what needs to be done, when, how and by whom until I’m convinced that I am doing everything.  Resentment poisons my thoughts and I can’t see clearly.

“Are you okay?”  Steven asks.  “You seem crabby.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, crabby that he called me crabby.

And when my husband’s frustration mounts, his accumulating stress has nowhere to go but outward.  His patience is depleted; he is not pleasant to be around.  “Leave Daddy alone,” I tell the girls, giving him a wide berth.

Inevitably in marriage, storms hit.  Some hard.  Rain falls heavy and saturating until we can no longer buoy the other up.  A drowning person cannot save another drowning person.  Misunderstandings, unspoken expectations and harsh words flood and we are in danger of being swept apart by the current.

But gratitude is the ballast that holds fast, and forgiveness the rope that leads us safely back to each other, hand over hand.

At the end of long days I reach for my tall husband as he walks into the kitchen and wrap my arms around his waist.  It takes only ten seconds to feel the bands around my chest begin to loosen.  He rubs my back.  I close my eyes and breathe.

Then, I feel Haley dive between us, using her body as a wedge to leverage us apart, making a parent sandwich of herself.

“Group hug!” she yells, her voice ringing through the kitchen.

And . . . the moment is over.

Yet within this chaos of everyday life, our love solidifies into an unbreakable, brilliant diamond; under pressure, the mundane is transformed into the extraordinary.

I watch him from across the room when we’re enjoying the company of friends: the expressions I know so intimately; the way his lips curve up at the corners, showing his gums when he smiles; his eyebrows, animated when he talks, and the dimples that mesmerized me when we first met, still flash when he laughs.  Not as young now, but our life is written on his beautiful face.

He stands with one foot on the low rung of a stool, his legs long in slim jeans, sporting a graphic t-shirt and trendy glasses, holding a craft beer in one hand and gesturing with the other as he converses.

I fall in love all over again, but harder.  I see not only an attractive man, but a man who fixes my computer, and makes me laugh, and runs through the mud in a Viking helmet with me.  I see a father who camps in the backyard with his girls, and teaches them about fish and birds and nature, who strokes their cheeks tenderly with the back of his hand when he puts them to bed; a father who endures long hours, sacrificing his own leisure so he can pay insurance premiums, mortgages and college tuition, who generously provides the good things in life for his family, who gives and gives and gives and gives.

I hear not only his voice, but the clang of a lug wrench on concrete as he replaces the brakes on my car, the rhythm of the washing machine as he does 52 loads of laundry, carefully separating my Lululemon to hang-dry.  I hear the soft click of the bedroom door as he tiptoes away on a Sunday morning, letting me sleep.

He feels me staring and turns.  “I’ve got you,” I say without speaking when our eyes meet.  “I’ve got you,” he answers.

Ours is an ultimate love story.  Tested and true, redefining love as we knew it.

Like my parents-in-law.

Love is sleeping on a roll-away bed in a hospital room, an arm’s length from his wife.  Love is fighting the battle of a lifetime, with unending courage so she can stay longer with her husband.

“I was supposed to have more time,” she sighs.

“You’re not dying today,” he answers.  “Not today.”

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Filed under Aging, Family, Loss, Marriage, Parenting

Leap From the Nest

mama swan

Where are you going, my little one, little one,

Where are you going, my baby, my own?

Turn around and you’re two, turn around and you’re four,

Turn around and you’re a young girl going out of my door.

Turn Around by Malvina Reynolds and Alan Greene

Autumn is my favorite time of year and there’s nowhere the season is more provincial than in the Midwest.  A tangible chill in the morning air softens the heat of summer and signals a coming change.  Seemingly overnight, leaves begin to turn.  Variegated branches hint of color that will soon become rich orange, yellow and red, flaming briefly before falling to the ground and creating nature’s perfect playground for jumping children.  The farmer’s market yields a spread of eggplant, pumpkin, corn, squash and apples; not only a visual feast, but a culinary mother lode for comfort foods that fill the house with the tantalizing aromas of savory soups, roasted vegetables, freshly baked bread, and apple pie. Thrushes, sparrows and other song birds nest mid-migration, on their way to warmer climates. The days shorten and the pull of the Earth’s orbit around the sun is felt.  My own focus gravitates homeward; summer is over.  It’s time to go back to school.

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Filed under Adolescence, Down syndrome, Growing Up, Letting Go, Motherhood, Parenting, Special Needs

Joyride

red convertibleThe secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.

Any fool can do it; there ain’t nothing to it.

Nobody knows how we got to the top of the hill.

But since we’re on our way down,

We might as well enjoy the ride.

Sliding down, gliding down, try not to try too hard.

It’s just a lovely ride.

James Taylor—The Secret ‘O Life

I don’t always recognize I’m headed for collapse until, speeding down the freeway at 100 mph, dashboard warnings flashing, I veer off the road to make an emergency stop. I’ve gotten so good at disregarding my maintenance lights, by the time I realize I’m in trouble, I’m already sputtering and careening; out of gas, overheated, or worse, out of control, crashing and taking out everyone around me.

When we moved from Missouri back to Austin, Texas in 2003, circumstances combined to create a fusion of indescribable stress that will go down in Kent family history as The-Time-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named.   Every member of our family was a hot mess; Haley, 5 weeks old, a textbook example of a colicky infant, emitted a type of banshee wailing that could literally wake the dead, and was silenced only when nursing (constantly) or sleeping (rarely).  Sydney, 4 years old, with modulating sensory integration issues, experienced overstimulation, auditorily and otherwise. She was confused and jealous.  Her ‘elopement’ was at an all-time high and, thanks to a very ambitious preschool teacher, potty training had begun in earnest (it took two years to fully train our sweetie and it wasn’t the potty that was so much the problem).  Let that image crystallize for a moment: Clingy, wailing infant on the boob and pooping-in-her-britches toddler on the run.

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Filed under Down syndrome, Family, Grandparents, Motherhood, Parenting, Self-Care, Siblings, Special Needs, Stress