The Yearectomy

    

This memory made the cut! Alex, Spencer & Logan Yellowstone 2009

 

     A few weeks ago I was talking to our psychiatrist about the results of some testing we had done on Logan. She'd enthusiastically explained he had shown consistent improvement, "He is," she said beaming, "the poster child for how we want autistic children to assimilate, adapt and progress. He accesses the tools he needs to function happily, fully and beautifully." (And yes, I thought it was ridiculous that finally my child was called THE perfect poster child -but did I get a bumper sticker?!! NO!) "He's continued to make steady progress since the last time we tested him two years ago." Her complete, unabashed love for Logan made me smile affectionately too because I utterly ADORE that Loggy Bear; he feeds my soul with his wacky humor and sweet unfettered affection. But still, it has been a long journey we have traveled together, with some rocky up hill - forgot the water bottle and accidentally started the climb in pajama pants without my bra on- terrain. And, it would be more doable if I was just climbing bra less on my own...but I have been dragging my boys along this path too, promising them something to quench their thirst just past the summit. But, the problem is, the summit never comes, we never even out, never tip the scale, start the downward journey, so we just keep trudging along, setting our sights on milestones five steps ahead (I will make it to that tree and then collaps) because what else is there to do, but keep moving? In thinking about  the start of this journey with Logan, (a start that certainly didn't just begin with diagnosis) I was thinking about this period of time in our lives and remembering something I wrote right after we found out he had autism. I stumbled onto it in the depths of my computer the other night.... This is a throw back, a look at one part of our stumbling, bra less-dry mouthed journey:

Hanging at home with friends! Theo & Joshua Dawson, Alex, Colter Dawson, Spencer & Logan 2008

     It's been seven years since my oldest son Alex was diagnosed with autism and one week since my youngest son Logan was. One life changing, breath snatching week. Before we left for Logan’s appointment, I was telling a friend we were going to the University of Utah autism clinic to get Logan evaluated. She'd said by means of encouragement, “Good luck.” And I'd thought, “I wish there was some measure of luck involved in this, something simple and seemingly innocuous as a roll of the dice in Las Vegas. (It could go good, it could go bad, either way it's all just for fun, so kiss the dice and let 'em fly!)  I've even wished autism was like some illness, that might be cancer of the stomach lining, but more likely was just food poisoning, and the doctor would promise that while “you might not feel good for a few days, you'll be tip top come Saturday.” On the way home I could stop for Sprite, and saltine crackers. But there is no luck with autism. No luck because it's pervasive. No luck because genetics are genetics and environmental triggers are elusive and misunderstood. No luck because once the brain is wired it's wired. And no luck in the hard work it takes to try to rewire hard wiring. During Logan's evaluation, I had joked with the psychiatrist and psychologist until they were comfortable, until they were unguarded as they talked about Logan's autism. “They already have a son with autism,” I imagine they'd thought, “they're joking about the way it affects their lives. They must be okay with this....” and so they had haphazardly discussed his autism, as if it was as innocent and as common as a cold. I had thought then, maybe it isn't Logan who needed the luck, but me. Maybe the good luck should be in reference to, “Good luck not bursting into tears! Good luck not doubling over and barfing all over the sterile tile floor. Good luck not feeling like your heart is being rendered useless because someone has pulled it from your chest cavity still beating as it struggles to stay attached to the tiny, intricate vessels while being twisted and squeezed like a sponge used for cleaning.”

Loggy bear hanging onto saftey (that's a long ways down!!) Yellowstone Falls,  2009

            On the way out of the building we'd stopped by the vending machines to get Logan a kit kat bar. Russ and I mused how he'd used to call the candy bar a “mere cat” “I want a mere cat” he would cry and I would say, “Logan, we already have a dog, besides, mere cats are wild animals” and he would burst into tears and say, “No, I want a mere cat!” It wasn't until some months later when he handed me the kit kat bar, and said, “Can I have a mere cat?” that I put two and two together. And now, even though Logan says, “Kit Kat” we still affectionately call the candy bar, “Mere Cat bars.” His differences in communication were endearing and innocent. In the car I'd called a friend and told her we were done with our appointment and she'd responded,“I'm glad it went well.” And I'd thought, “How can you possible think things went well? My son just got diagnosed with autism!”
            And so, with the heaviness of yet another diagnosis, the brick that's currently breaking this camels concave back, I've decided I would like a year-ectomy. I would like this year surgically removed from my life. I would like to forget how the other day at the park, I had watched Alex and thought his motor awkwardness made him seem like Pinocchio, stiff and wooden. I'd imagined there was something invisible, like fishing line, attached to his limbs that kept him bound to a rigid pattern of movement, like a puppet. I had surmised if this boy was Pinocchio, then I must be Gepetto, because hadn't I, in some awkward way, made this boy? Made these boys? Held them in the rawest of forms? I'd watched Alex watch the way the other children played a game. He seemed to puzzle over the way they went about their lives with such fluid gracefulness. I saw him trying to figure out how to merge, how to become a part of the team. And I'd wondered then, if in his frustration in knowing how to proceed, his little wooden heart had wanted to cry out his greatest hope, “I want to be a real boy! I want to be real.”


Ride your bike to school day/ aka try to avoid hypothermia day. Spencer, Logan and Josh Dawson 2009

 

 

            If I had a yearectomy, I could forget the pain when I'd thought that like Gepeto, I loved this child fiercely! I would search for my boy if he was lost. Search and search and search, even if only a part of him was lost. And like the story, I know I would wait for him in the belly of a whale, wait like Jonah. Wait, while I asked forgiveness for not wanting to do what God asked me to do. Ask forgiveness for thinking I knew better than Him. A yearectomy would certainly relieve my pain. Erase the memory of the massive battles we've had concerning Alex's school this year, and his subsequent forced placement in a new school Alex loathed. During this rough season, there were many times when I had wished  I had the wooden heart, an organ to sit heavy and stagnant in my chest, instead of the heart I had that beat so ferociously every time I pushed my boy on the bus while he cried, “I'm not a menace to society! I'm a good boy!”



Loosing Spencer's glasses over the falls I could forget...but these cute boys, I'd like them seared in my memory forever!

            If this year was obliterated, I would never have visited the University of Utah Autism Clinic. Never met the amazing doctors and nurses there. Missed out entirely on getting Logan diagnosed, and our family could have stayed whole a bit longer, instead of once again being fragmented by this pervasive developmental disorder that robs mother's of their children.  Oh, how I wish there was a pill to let me slip into amnesia, slip in luxuriously, like I was slipping into a hot bath. No luck in that either. The reality of our circumstances never allows me to forget, it even invades my sleep. But, truthfully, it's good to remember. Good to sometimes have the hot, sweaty anger in the pit of my stomach, and the raw grief thumping in my chest so regularly it might be mistaken for a heart beat, because the anger and the hurt is what gives me power and motivation as a parent to fight for my child. To fight for my children.
           “How do you feel about Logan getting diagnosed with autism?” My friends have asked, my family, and I've asked myself. How do I feel? Well, devastated of course. By now I know what autism is. I know how it affects our lives. I understand the work that goes into loving a child with autism, and  the effort it takes to help them succeed.  But his diagnosis isn't met with the same confusion and anxiety that Alex's was. Maybe it's like having a first child, and having a second. With the first child you don't know what to expect. You read endless books, and talk to friends and ask doctors silly questions. But, after the baptism by fire, after you've held that squirmy wet child in your arms for the first time, looked into those beautiful pools of blue that are their eyes, after you've connected, and cared for, and loved, and despaired over the first born, you have experience to serve as a baseline, and an expectation of what comes next, to serve as a memory to help you move forward with confidence. With your second child, you know what you're getting into. You've learned the highs are higher than you ever could have anticipated. You know you will love your child with a fierceness you couldn't have foreseen before becoming a parent, conversely, you understand the lows of parenting aren't something you can just brush off as you did in those early, pre-pregnancy days where you would see a child throwing a fit in a grocery store and tell yourself, “not my child!” By now you've learned sleepless nights and tantrums, will be balanced by first smiles and little arms reaching out for you. Only for you. As a parent of a second child, you appreciate it all, which gives you both a feeling of ecstasy at the impending birth, and dually, a sense of resigned anxiety.


Love that Lizard! (without glasses you can see his eyes better! Silver lining?)

           
I think that's how it is for me. I know what to expect with autism. I won't be shocked by the reality. I've learned the loving doesn't stop, if anything it intensifies. I appreciate the difficulties that originate as a complication of autism are more significant than I ever could have imaged when we'd left the autism clinic in Scottsdale Arizona, clutching the hand of our sweet little six year old Alex. This is why if you were to ask me how I felt when Logan was diagnosed, I would have said devastated, because I hate to see another child of mine robbed of normalcy. Hate to see his one neuro-typical brother in the middle take on the role of caretaker. Again. Hate to let go (and let go, and let go, and let go) of that dream of what I thought our family would be like, a dream that now seems as evasive and mysterious as dissipating smoke. With diagnosis comes mourning. And I don't want to mourn. Don't want to slip into that black, empty place of letting go. I am afraid.
            And so, I want a yearectomy. I'd like to skip over all the readjustment. All the shifting and realigning and weaving of new dreams. I'd like, rather, to just walk into my life at some future point when all is right with the world, and resume my role as mother. I'd like to just be strong enough to deal with all of this, then to have to find out if I really am.
            In retrospect, I wouldn't like a complete yearectomy. I wouldn't want to have missed out on sloppy kisses, awkward hugs, school plays, Christmas morning, or camping out with my boys, and in the cold, tree fringed night, counting as many stars as we could until our voices gave out. I wouldn't want to miss the magic of watching my beautiful children grow up. I would just like to remove the hard parts. Because honestly, I hate the conflict in the story, loath the part where you find out the character's flaws. Despise lessons learned from loss. I Hate Old Yeller. Hate Where The Red Fern Grows. And I hate that professor from college who said, “It's the conflict that makes a story interesting. What fun would a story be if Little Red Riding hood just took a basket of goodies to her grandmother and her grandmother just ate them? How would we learn anything if there wasn't the big bad wolf?”   

A keeper! Spencer and his friend Josh Dawson and dog Bear walking the path from our backyard to Flat Creek to raft 2009

 

            “I would have learned something.” I would tell the professor if I was in class with him today. “I would have learned the world isn't always made up of shadows and deep dark woods, but rather, it could be soft, full of wildflowers, and an abundance of sunshine. I would have thought how nice, simple and completely normal it was for one person to take care of another, to hover over them lovingly, just because they wanted to, not because it was something borne out of necessity. I would have learned people do go about their days without the agony of suspicion hovering over their red cloaked heads. I'd have thought how lovely it would be, to live in a world where you didn't have to wonder if hiding beneath everything you loved, was a sharp toothed monster, just waiting to snap your basket right out of your hands.”

The Question Mark Heart

The Swan Habitat. September 2010

When Alex started middle school in 6th grade; his social anxiety (among other things) caught up with him. Middle school started much earlier than elementary school, and in case you forgot, mornings are not our friend. In the still dark frigid moments before the tardy bell rang, Alex and I would lean into the heater vents of our van, wishing the warmth would reach us faster, while we made our traditional pass through the student drop off lane before I could finally pull over and try to convince him to get out of the car (again, I apologize for idling in a non idling zone. Yes, I still have guilt over your children's lungs inhaling my exhaust. And yes, I truly am sorry that Zoe flunked her science quiz because the carbon monoxide poisoned her brain.) In my life as a mom, I have done a lot of driving, but  possibly, even more waiting. The other day while driving Logan, now 11 to school, I was waiting at the light by our neighborhood exit when two geese haphazardly wandered across the four lane road. Their unexpected presence sparked a memory of all the mornings Alex and I spent at the swan habitat before school, a routine that became our sunrise ritual:

 Most mornings Alex refused to get out at school; he was at once an 11 year old toddler throwing a fit, so we’d drive away, try to merge with the other parents but usually it seemed in the chaos of starting a new day, no one would let us in. I’d wait, signaling, until the crush of traffic had past and we could leave unnoticed; Alex sighing heavily as we pulled away from the school grounds. I’d turn left, to do what Alex always wanted, "Take a little drive, so I can get prepared to go inside." We'd drive the few miles in silence, move like zombies towards our traditional pre-dawn destination. We'd pass the bugling elk, pass the startled deer to stop by the side of the road and watch the swans. On this morning our spinning wheels had separated the fog hovering above the road and in the rear view mirror it looked like ghosts being pulled apart from each other, (like torn cotton candy). I watched as the broken mist rose up and seemed to reach across the gaping distance, hoping to reconnect, stretching with long, mournful arms.

Alex was quiet as we drove. I knew he was dreading school, dreading bells, pencils, and the emptiness of recess. And as we drove further away from the place we were suppose to be, I was left wondering how I could ever have said autism wouldn't affect us, wouldn't change our relationship. But I had said it, yelled it in fact across a whole parking lot at the doctor’s office, hollered to Russ, “This doesn’t change anything!” while I’d crossed the road, sweating in the suffocating Arizona heat.

At the sanctuary, there was a faded wooden sign explaining the refuge was built as a class project.

-And no matter how many times, I read the sign, I always envisioned the way the students would have told their parents their plans, and that image of bursting excitement, always fed into a vision of parents writing about their child in their Christmas letters, “Our little Timmy, 9,  has added one more feather to his already full cap (bless his soul) in between rescuing abandoned puppies, heading up the student counsel, participating in a focus group supporting overweight tweens and trying out for the Olympic skiing team, he's been building a refugee to protect our earth's waterfowl. He’s really an environmental professor in the making! Look out Jane Goodall!” I would sigh over how easily I imagined they could lace their words with layers of intricate, drooping pride.

 

But on this day, the reality of upkeep had surpassed all those sparkling classroom dreams. The water was stagnant, the grass overgrown, newspaper bunched in a branch of a tree. Alex rolled down his window, the cold air rushed in like death, when I pulled over so he could get out, his words were white smoke against the chalkboard sky.

We stood together, not touching, but close. Watched the ripples seep unaccounted into the sandy shore, watched the perfect silhouettes of the swans gliding on the silvery water unscathed, their beauty startling, their eyes shined like black pearls the unexpected trumpeting calls became the sound of rejoicing. I was distracted by a swan taking off from the pond, I watched her rise up, perplexed as it seemed her wings beat furiously against nothing.

Along the fringes of water, a group of awkward cygnets had gathered together; their down the color of soft gray rabbits. Their necks were short, movements rigid and calls harsh; the notes knocked against each other when they open their mouths to protest being pushed to the edge. Alex left me to walk some distance up the shore; he was almost far enough away to be lost. Near the edge of the fence, he’d found the broken remains of the shell of a hatched egg, he held up a handful of pieces, calling, “Come see what I found.” I moved slowly towards him, rubbing the sting of cold out of my arms while I walked. The fragments of new life were scattered like puzzle pieces along the trail and I was left suddenly wondering why the story of “The Ugly Duckling” starts with the life of the cygnet? Why did Hans Christen Andersen ignore the story before the story; a story where the mother swan had noticed her egg was missing. I wondered how many times she'd circled the sky, her ebony eyes scouring the ground, frantically searching for some clue as to what went wrong.

When I reached Alex, I touched his arm; he turned, bright eyed, hopeful, until I said a little too cheerfully, “We've stayed long enough. We need to go back. School will be okay.” Alex sagged under the weight of my words, he looked at me skeptically, knew I was lying, but turned to follow me back to the car anyway. We walked along the worn path silently, the frozen grass crunching under our feet. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the clouds had gathered in the spot it would grow from, gauzy and pink they stretched across the horizon, layers of orange weaved throughout, bloated like unraveled yarn, the clouds waited protectively, cupped like two hands, soft like a nest. At the car we stopped, resigned to our fate, but still, I hesitated, stalled along with him. I'd paused, holding my breath while I took in the beginning moments, reached for Alex’s hand and when he didn’t jerk away, it made me linger longer, savor the moment of hopeful suspense. 

What I remember from that long ago morning isn’t how I had to drag Alex into the school, wait at the counselors office, bribe him with extra rewards, distract him with funny stories, beg him with low, frantic pleas, or how I'd finally had to leave him; distraught, hurt and alone. What I remember….what I choose to remember, is how I stood with my son and watched the way the first light of day had touched the tired mountains, the quiet pond, the dewy grass and made everything sparkle. I remember we stood together in the unblemished calm of new light and Alex had pointed out two swans about to pass each other. I thought at first they’d collide, then, was sure instead they’d hurry along, intent to get to where they needed to be, but no. They’d paused, lingered (their webbed feet still paddling beneath the surface, still churning water, still keeping them afloat) unhurried, they seemed to absorbed each other’s presence, then almost like a greeting, each swan bent their neck into a graceful question mark, reverently dipped their soft heads and together their two curved halves made a perfect heart.

The same pond, the same day, a different view; the clouds rolling in.
 

Letter Therapy = PS: You Made the List!

 

Russ, (repentent after sleeping-in on a camping trip & leaving me alone to deal with monkeys)
This is his best attempt at, "Love me! I'm an angel" Yellowstone July 2009

 

Years ago I sat in a human psychology class listening to a teacher explain the different ways relationships functioned. He used a letter “H” to illustrate a couple who weren't in a healthy relationship; they essentially lived parallel lives –each individual one side of the H- with very little connection in the middle. But an “A” couple was ideal; they had their own “lines” but still leaned on each other. He explained that in marriage you need to have your own life and interests while still being connected. The trick was not to lean on your partner so much that you became enmeshed-which was apparently a bad thing- at the time I was single and longing for love and being enmeshed sounded divine.   

I did meet someone wonderful. He was kind, handsome, totally into me and he could single handedly lift a washing machine from a moving van; thus fulfilling all of the requirements on my “What I want in a spouse list.”  I could think of nothing better than spending every waking second with him.  I wanted our “letter” to be an “O” because that way you couldn't even tell where one person's needs and wants ended and another person’s needs and wants began. I was head over heels in love. We were apart during our engagement; Russ played football at one school, while I went to another. He was off tackling someone on the weekends, while I was sitting on the sidelines wishing he was tackling me. We couldn't get enough of each other, and when we finally got married, I remember thinking everything was going to be perfect.

 (Insert. Dramatic. Sigh.)

 

Strawberry Shortcake + Happy celebrating boys + Fire = Russ turns 36! Jackson 2008
 

By the time we’d been married six years, we had a three year old, an eighteen month old and a two week old. Times had changed; I smelled like milk. I was no longer considering forming any letters of the alphabet with Russ. I wondered why anybody even invented the alphabet and in the pre-dawn dark, I may have periodically ranted in the general direction of my husband’s sleeping form, shouting: “THERE WILL BE NO MORE ENMESHMENT EVER!!”  In those early days of mothering, I was clawed, clutched, sucked, wet on, fought over, hit, thrown up on, cuddled, and loved twenty-two hours a day. Note: there was a two hour block of time when I was free to myself. I tried to sleep during that block of time.  My husband, however, thought this was a good time for enmeshment. He missed our “O days.” He would even settle for two dysfunctional L's lined up by each other, he said he wasn’t asking for much, maybe just a little cuddling? I used to love to cuddle! I responded by saying he could touch his big toe to my big toe, but as we laid in bed together, I realized he needed to cut his toenails, so all bets were off.

 I think the initial hope Russ had that we’d get through the early stages of parenting and resume our O letter lifestyle was obliterated years ago. We’ve grudgingly accepted that our haphazard pace has only increased with time. Like everyone, we are swamped juggling work schedules and boy schedules and life schedules. Russ may have given up his dreams of enmeshment, (which I’ve assured him the professor said was for the best). But sometimes at night, before we succumb to the weight of exhaustion, we lay in bed, our hands touching, and that contact sparks some long ago memory, I close my eyes and remember the hopeful kids we once were. I trace my finger in his palm, draw the letter A the way I imagine Anne Sullivan would trace it into Helen Keller’s palm. The need we have for communication is still there, so we stutter through the words at first, try to sound out the letters, work to string the vowels and constantans together to form sentences.

 

Russ & his "Mini Me" Alex: If you want to see Alex smile a real smile, just put him with his dad! 2008
 

We try to be gentle with each other in our awkward attempts at articulation, but a few years back, we broke the cardinal rule of our letter therapy sessions. We tried to form words after midnight (which means the words that were formed might need to be edited for content). It was a rough day that flowed seamlessly into a rough night. Everyone had the flu, we were moving in a week and I was in charge of a school fair the next day. We were both so exhausted from packing, cleaning, and administering Tylenol to even see straight. Russ and I collapsed into bed, practically delirious. Before I’d even pulled the covers over us, I felt at once crowded. “Scoot over” I said, elbowing him, “You’re hogging the bed!”  “I'm hogging the bed? You're on 2/3 of the bed!” Russ countered, pulling my hair.  Now, this was a queen size bed and Russ is an ex-college linebacker. The very idea that Russ could insinuate I was taking up the majority of the bed was infuriating, and I told him as much. Russ claimed he was falling off the bed and if he scooted over any more he'd be sleeping on the floor, so naturally I’d cried, “And that would be a bad thing because...?” Instead of answering my question, Russ declared, “You always hog the bed and I never complain!” So I said, (with perfect diction I might add) “Don’t you have a minor in psychology? Shouldn’t you know that using the words “always” and “never” when discussing behavior is not a good choice?” “Well if you didn’t always hog the bed, I wouldn’t have to say it.”  Russ laughed smugly. I love my husband for his sense of humor, but this was NOT a joking matter. Clearly he took up more space on the bed and I was the sacrificing wife who always scooted over to the other side so he would be more comfortable. I climbed out of bed, pulling the blanket along with me. “Where are you going?” Russ asked, confused, “I'm going to sleep on the couch, so I don't crowd you so much.” I ground out, throwing a pillow at his head. “Oh, come on Joanie” Russ cajoled as he wearily climbed out of bed to chase me down the stairs, realizing as he raced, that I was not in a teasing mood, or even a rational mood for that matter.

 I flopped on the couch and turned on the TV. “I hog the bed? I hog it?” I yelled into the dark. Russ caught up with me and stood uneasily at my feet, blinking like a deer in the headlights, not sure which direction to sprint for cover. Finally, decisive, Russ threw his hands in the air and said, “All right, let’s settle this. I'm going to get the tape measure from the garage and we can measure to see who is actually taking up more space.” “You are not!” I cried leaping from the couch and following him to the garage. After he went outside I locked the door and turned out the lights. It was twenty degrees and I laughed maliciously as I watched him make his way barefoot through the snow to the front door. He came inside shivering, held up the tape measure and grabbing my hand in his cold one said, “Come on wife, let’s settle this.” I followed him up the stairs. We lay down on the bed. Russ got up and tried to measure the distance of our positions, but I complained that when he got off the bed, he changed the point where his arm was resting.” After some discussion, we agreed to lie side by side while I used my mascara wand to make a tiny dot on the sheet where our arms rested.  We got off the bed and I stood at the foot of the mattress while Russ fumbled with the tape measure.  Looking at the sheet I was shocked when I realized my side was significantly bigger than his. BLAST! So, naturally, at the last minute before he could measure, I pulled the sheet to the side, so it made my side smaller. Russ hollered “You cheated!” “I did not!” I cried, laughing. “This was a stupid idea!”  I continued, falling back into bed. It was one AM. Russ climbed into bed as well; I curled into him like the letter C. I cried a little from the sheer force of fatigue I felt crushed by. Russ held me, tried not to fall asleep while he listened to me rattle off my complaints. He kissed the top of my head and before I finally succumbed to sleep, I wondered why I thought enmeshment was such a bad idea.

Hangin Out at Spencer's Football Game: Thus the big smile! Russ & Logan. October 2010

In reality, our moments of connection; our much needed letter therapy session are sporadic at best. In the past I have easily justified this drop in adult conversation as a necessary part of the cause and effect of living with autism. The whole way we navigate our world, from opposite work schedules, to dividing and concurring tasks, to deciding whose dealing with the child whose having a meltdown and whose staying behind to pick the pieces…is designed around our boys. It’s a zone defense. We have it perfectly worked out so one of us is always helping our children, but by default, rarely helping each other.

 But here’s the deal; Yes! Life does pull the carpet out from under your feet sometimes; it slams you to the ground so fast all you can do is wait for your pupils to redialate so you can locate the car keys that fell out of your pocket midair, (because of course, the boys are late for scouts). It’s easy to justify the way you behave in a crisis situation. I don’t blame either of us for getting so caught up in our roles as adult care takers putting out fires every five seconds,  that when you  finally have a moment to regroup, to shake off the soot, that you naturally (oddly) think of yourself.
 

Spencer giving Russ a little sugar: OR Spencer asking Russ what kind of face
to make when he starts shaving? April 2010

 Years ago, a good friend of mine with a very busy life told me she’d checked her calendar and realized with traveling for work, and her kid’s schedules that if her husband was going to get any enmeshment, it would need to be that night. So, when the kids were finally asleep, she climbed in bed, lit a candle and said (possibly in the same tone of voice you would tell your child, “I want this room picked up, now!”) “Ok. I’m here…”  Her husband responded, “I just feel like I’m one more thing on your to do list.” I asked my friend what she did then, and she said that she blew out the candle and resumed reading her book. I told her the difference between her husband’s response and mine, was that Russ would have looked dumbfounded and cried out gleefully, “I made your list?!!”

 I confess I have been so overwhelmed with keeping my wits about me, with trying to protect the fragile remains of my crumbling sanity, that at times, I have brushed away Russ’ needs like I was brushing toast crumbs off the counter. His need for connection has in the past become one more thing on my to do list, and possibly even the last thing on my to do list. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve thought, “You’re on your own Russ. You’re the adult, and while I know you’d like to share your –good day, bad day, ordinary day- with me, Alex just melted down on Isle 5, so, let’s catch up…another time….next month? Wednesday the 4^th? I can pencil you in at 5 pm between therapy appointments.”   

Logan, Spencer & Russ with their beloved dog Boo Bear. Jackson 2009

 I’ve realized in the last year that the mounting stress of raising three boys, two with autism, coupled with the pressure of daily life has at times caused me so much anxiety that I’ve turned inward as a means of self preservation, However, in turning to self so much, I’ve denied my husband his place as protector, I denied him my vulnerable heart. I thought of him less often, and our points of connection grew farther and farther apart. I was wrong. (It KILLS me to admit this! Picture me dead on the floor, and you, grappling with an unfinished post and no closure). I know now, we need the hold we have on each other like we need air. It must be protected with bubble wrap. It’s fragile and tenuous. We need to consistently sound out the words that give us joy, we need to laugh often, we need to connect more than just our big toe touching each other. We need to hold each other closely so we can remember there are still good things in the world and moments of happiness yet to be discovered. There is strength in the Quaker Proverb, “Thee lift me, and I’ll lift thee, and we’ll ascend together.”

 So, apparently you can teach an old dog new tricks, because, SURPRISE! I put Russ on my list,  which means I sometimes say no to other things, I let Alex writhe about on the floor of Isle 5 a few extra minutes, and I have washed the same load of laundry three times because I keep forgetting to put it in the dryer. We’ve shifted our priorities a bit, made a little wiggle room, reevaluated what is really important, and it turns out, fighting over who takes up the most room on the bed = not so important. Besides, we got a king size a few years back, and most mornings it would seem Russ and I are hovering on either side of the mattress anyway, because Logan has come up sometime during the night to sprawl between us, forming the perfect letter H.

A Bear & His Cubs. Salt Lake City, Utah, April 2010

 

Hope Sometimes Smells Like Burnt Popcorn

 

 

Fire & Boys....always an intoxicatingly frightening combination. Alex & Spencer Jackson 2009

Several years back, I scraped my toe (the piggy that eats roast beef) on a screw in my living room. I thought nothing of it—a surface wound at most. I wrapped a Batman band aid around it and went about my life. A few weeks later, I noticed the wound was infected. I diligently poured hydrogen peroxide on it, applied Neosporin, and wrapped the toe, once again; this time in a camo bandage.

The next day I felt lousy. By evening I was running a fever, aching all over and shaking with the chills.  Russ was teaching a night class at the time, and had left me alone to pop Motrin and climb into a tub of hot water. Later, I’d hastily dried myself and pulled on a robe before collapsing into bed besides Spencer and Logan who (ignoring my moans) cuddled close as they watched a show on TV.

As I lay there, somewhat comatose, wafting smoke started to fill the space between the ceiling and floor in our room. I turned to the boys, demanding, “Are you guys cooking something?” “No” they said in unison while the smoke continued filling the room. I DRAGGED myself out of bed, unsteady on my feet, and staggered down the stairs. Coughing, I waved my hand in front of my face so I could see, the smoke alarm shrieked insolently. Before I even reached the living room, Alex met me at the bottom of the stairs, choking on his own laughter. I stumbled to the microwave where I could see something was on fire, yanked the door open and with a hot pad grabbed the “cup of noodles” out of the microwave and hurried to throw it into the yard, grabbed the hose and sprayed it down.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” I demanded when I came back inside, throwing doors and windows wide to clear out the smoke. I pulled a stool over so I could turn off the blaring fire alarm. “It was the ultimate stink bomb! Remember?” he asked, erupting into laughter again, “I told you about it---I got the idea at school when a kid put a cup of noodles in the microwave without adding water. It filled the whole cafeteria with smoke, and Tyson called it the ultimate stink bomb. I thought I’d try it out.” (Alex had been talking about the ultimate stink bomb ever since he started fifth grade, but I couldn’t believe he picked this moment –with me, possibly seconds away from certain death- to implement his plan.) The smoke smelled worse than burnt popcorn and had a cloying quality to it—it permeated my hair, my clothes, and I think the very pores of my skin. I remember lightly smacking the back of Alex’s head (something I never did) and demanding, “What were you thinking?” “That’d it be funny” he said, giggling, while I heaved myself up the stairs. I collapsed once again on the bed next to the boys, the layers of smoke settling like early morning fog in the bedroom.

Fire....so....pretty...Loggy Bear feeling the effects of the flames... Jackson 2009

 

When Russ got home, I knew I needed to go the emergency room, (my fever had spiked to 105) but I was avoiding it like the plague. I felt stupid going to the ER with a “scraped toe.” But, in the end, my conscience won out. I pulled on the same jeans and sweater I’d been wearing earlier, (that had sat in a pile on the bathroom floor…just down the hall from where the microwave had given birth to that which should not be named) and staggered to the van. It was 9:00 pm, Russ stayed behind to get the kids to bed.

As soon as I walked in the ER, the secretary started sniffing the air, “I’m sorry “she said as I sat down, “I think somebody is burning popcorn. What was your name?” she asked, (turning her head to grimace at the offending odor) “The burnt popcorn smell is me. I didn’t have time to shower.” I mumbled, apologetically. “Oh.” The secretary said, her eyes watering. “Uh, what are you here for today?” She continued, her fingers flying across the key board. “I have a cut on my toe.” I said. “Does it need stitches?” She asked, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No.” “Oh.” She concluded (probably adding a side note to my chart that said, “Crazy lady probably seeking drugs for superficial wound. Alert psych ward. Offer her dinner, a shower and a lollypop, I think she’s subsisting on burnt popcorn.”) “Take a seat over there, dear, by the bookcase.” She directed. I stood up, wobbly, and walked to my designated spot…. the farthest place in the entire empty waiting room.

A nurse came out to retrieve me, stopped short as she opened the door to the ER, and cried to the secretary, “Did you burn popcorn?” The secretary, rolling her eyes, pointed her hitch hiking thumb towards me. “Oh no!” The nurse exclaimed. “Was there a fire?” She asked as she ushered me into an empty room. “Are you burned?” (I quickly relayed the ultimate stink bomb story to her) “Well, I think you ought to make your son sleep in the snow.” She concluded, appropriately. “I know,” I sighed, “and of course I have company coming tomorrow.”

The doctor pulled the curtain aside and came into the room, “Uh! What’s that smell?” He asked, eyeing the nurse, “It’s against hospital policy to make popcorn in the ER! I apologize, Mrs.…..ah….Tidwell. ” The nurse covering her face with my file whispered I’m sure a shortened version of the ultimate stink bomb story. Nodding, the doctor, breathing through his mouth, said, “Let’s take a look at your toe, shall we?” Bending over my offending foot, he peered at the swollen, red toe, and much to my complete shock, instead of telling me, “You came to the ER for a scraped toe???” called to the nurse, “I need two IV lines started STAT! (He actually said STAT, I thought that was just for the movies). Suddenly my bed was laid flat, I had two nurses (their eyes watering from the stench) starting IV’s on both of my arms, and bags of fluid were being attached and steadily squeezed as cold fluid entered my veins. An Intern popped his head in the doorway, “Staff infection” The doctor said, “Man, I can smell that from here!” The Intern commented, his brow creased. “The smell is not from the staff infection, but the ultimate stink bomb” the doctor and nurse said in unison.

“You have a staff infection, and the line of infection is rapidly climbing up your veins.” The doctor told me (from a safe distance in the corner of the room). The intern walked to the edge of my bed with a sharpie marker in his hand, and wincing, uncovered my foot (I was given a warm blanket to help me stop shaking from the fever…I’m sure they planned to burn it as soon as I left.) He drew a line from the source of the wound, up my leg, and circled the infection at its ending point. “We need to make sure the infection stops, and the medication does its work. I don’t mean to scare you, but this is a fast moving infection, when the nurse saw you, there was no red streak coming from the wound. Now, even with the IV’s attached, the line of infection is past your ankle and half way up your calf.” “What happens if it moves up my body?” I asked, (honestly still in shock that my scraped toe was causing so much duress, and the utterance of words like STAT) “That would be very, very bad.” The doctor said, The Intern added, “If it gets to your heart, it can be fatal” “Fatal?” I cried, “We have the science fair tomorrow, I don’t have time for fatal!” The doctor shot The Intern a harsh look and assured me everything would be okay. He thought we had caught it early enough.

I spent the night in the ER, went through a few bags of antibiotics, but when the first light of dawn started touching the mountains, the doctor came into my room for the last time. “You know, you kind of get use to the smell,” he said. “Thanks. I’m planning on bathing in tomato juice when I get home,” I assured him, sleepily. He laughed, but then growing serious said, “You know Joanie; people die from these infections.” “Really?” I asked, stupefied. “From a scraped toe?” “Yes." He said, handing me five prescriptions to fill,  "You did the right thing coming in.”

Smoke gets in your eyes.... Sticks AND fire....that is a heady combination! Spencer 2009

 

I have been thinking about the tendency I  have to battle it out with grief, whose presence to me, sometimes feels like a sudden, intense infection, something that certainly needs the words “STAT’ attached to it. And I confess, having two of my three sons diagnosed with autism means that I have spent many lonely nights in a metaphorical ER room, wondering over the beeping monitors and oxygen masks.  Mostly, I stumble about my days, clumsily happy. I go through the motions of living. I love my boys, we do homework, make revolutionary war costumes, do the dishes, walk the dog. We cycle through our days; but I think, as a coping mechanism, I attempt to keep the heaviness of life at a safe distance. Until, often unexpectedly, I stumble into pockets of grief, a potential infection as thick as molasses, and I can’t seem to wade through it fast enough. I am stilled by the heaviness. Rendered catatonic by the cache of emotion. And I confess, sometimes, when I am pliable, when all resolve to fight has slipped from my soul, drained like dish water, I have thought, “Move sluggish limbs! This is terminal!”

Grief, no matter its source, cannot be ignored: Heartache over our missteps as parents, anguish over setbacks, remorse that you’re not the mother you always thought you’d be and guilt over not loving every moment of your life as a parent. But here’s the deal with grief, if allowed to, it can spread to all the vital organs, spread with a tail of pink as vivid as a comet. In thinking about how I deal with the disappointments of life, the vicissitudes of loving, I’ve learned I need to address my anguish, before it gets to my heart.

So what do I do? I allow myself on occasion, to curl around the hurt, to keep it still and throbbing in my center. I feel what I don’t want to feel, what I avoid at every turn. BUT…then, I know, I must wean myself off the heartache before I become addicted, and wrap myself forever in the velvety cloak of fear. The first step in recovery, at least for me, is to get up from that fetal position and put my bra on. It’s to go for a walk. Talk to a friend. Do an activity I enjoy (and face the things that gives me the most fear, in a space where fear is not allowed to exist. If my boys are giving me anxiety, I try to take them somewhere I know they won’t get into too much trouble, like an empty park, or a padded room.) I laugh. I laugh often and heartily. I don’t read disturbing websites (like the ones about adults with autism) at night, when I am tired and vulnerable. I avoid negativity. I am working on asking for help when I need it (key word working). I avoid self pity. I trace grief with a sharpie, and say, “You are not allowed to cross this black line” I remember what my mother always said, (and her mother before her said, and her mother before her….) “this too shall pass.” Or “today is the day you worried about yesterday, and all is well.” 

Camping in the backyard: (that flash is brutal!!!) Jackson, 2009

 

Grief. We all have it. But I know now the purpose of grief is to shape the person we are becoming; the ragged infection of angst has broken me apart- but in the breaking, it has crashed into the place that holds all the compassion I am allowed in this lifetime, (I picture it in a glass capsule – sparkling like pixie dust) and set it free. And now, because of grief, compassion has consumed me, floats about in my veins as thick as blood cells. It fights off the infection of anxiety. It keeps company with love and charity. Yes, grief –in it’s intensity- has burst open the pockets of heartache and fear, but in so doing, has also allowed hope (fear’s nemesis) free to do battle, an antibiotic.

To me, taking control of my world means I don’t just brush the pieces of my life that give me anguish under the rug (at least not ALL the time) but rather, I recognize the disquiet heartache for what it is, and I move forward anyway. I accept that even in my resolve to push onward with hope, there will still be moments when I get tangled up in mourning, when grief over the life I have and the life I thought I wanted, will make me double over. But, with time I’ve learned, clutching my stomach and crying uncle isn’t what gives me fulfillment. What gives me joy is being a mother. And part of being a mother is being the nurse. I am the doctor for my boys, I am the comforter, and even with all my blaring imperfections, I have even become the antibiotic for the times when grief has seared my boy’s tender organs. I know I don’t want to be so caught up in my own sorrow, that I miss the chance to be the one sitting near my children with chicken soup and an icepack. I don’t want to miss one moment of comforting my boys in their times of mourning, in their times or reconciliation, in their own moments of grief.

Looking back – to that day when I was so sick, to the conception of the ultimate stink bomb, what I remember most is the look of joy on Alex’s face as I tumbled down the stairs; his triumph! His successful mimicking of other fifth grade boys. His dodging of my so very ordinary thundering and complaining about his actions just like any other boy would dodge their mothers when they had done something they knew was wrong. I’d taken off the kid gloves I always handle him with- I was an angry mom and he was just like any other ten year old boy. I remember his unreserved giggling, his mischievous grin.

Hope: it can save your life. It bubbles up like uncontrolled laughter- it cannot be contained.

And sometimes smells like burnt popcorn.

 

My Son the Cheese

Boys! It's what's for dinner! (Boy sandwich = better than a knuckle sandwich) Jackson, WY 2009

 

When Spencer was little, the boys used to take the cushions off the couch to make a boy sandwich; the two cushions were the bread and the boys were the filling. Every time we played this game Spencer would always shout out enthusiastically, “I am the CHEESE! I am the CHEESE!!” And since neither Alex nor Logan wanted to be “the cheese” Spencer always got his way.

Sometimes it seems like Spencer getting his way, is as rare as spotting an African Albino Rhino, with her three albino rhino cubs (calves? I don’t know, ask the boys) at the National Elk Refuge in Jackson, Wyoming. (Which, if you’ve been to Jackson in the winter, you would know spotting something white in a blizzard = hard).  Sandwiched between his two autistic brothers, Spencer has assumed the role of peace maker, negotiator, soother, sacrificer, sympathizer and protector, and all before he turned four.

Being the cheese for Spencer means; never riding shotgun when Alex is around, taking the second stool, leaving parties early, fielding awkward questions, being wrongfully accused, repeating verbatim exactly what Logan wants him to say in any given game….for hours at a time. Being the cheese means trading slices of pizza, not picking the movie and being an often innocent casualty because of his proximity to the explosion. I am consistently amazed at how he absorbs the force of duress with the strength and grace of Ghandi. Spencer often leaves me reeling from his example.



Love that smile, love those dimples! Spencer, Oceanside California 2009

Last week, Spencer was sitting next to Alex at the dining room table. I was standing between the two boys, chatting while we waited for Russ to come down to dinner. Spencer was playing on his Kindle and Alex said, “Spencer! No electronics at the table.” Spencer calmly replied, “Dude, dad’s not here yet and besides I’m already turning it off.” “NO ELECTRONICS!” Alex bellowed. “You’re not my parent!” Spencer had the audacity to quietly assert. So, naturally, Alex picked up his full glass of lemonade and promptly threw it directly in Spencer’s face. “Not. Cool.” Spencer said, while swiping his wet hair off his forehead. (It is surprising that I am still surprised when something like this happens. Mostly, I am surprised when it comes out of right field. If he’s already upset, I expect it, but the instant “snapping” without warning sometimes leaves me stunned & unresponsive) “Stop!” I yelled, but not before Alex had grabbed another glass of water, and flung it at Spencer’s retreating form, efficiently soaking our entire dinner, and just before Russ came casually strolling into the room, he’d managed to throw another two glasses as well.

Spencer gearing up for snorkling; Maui, Hawaii 2012

 

I am an expert at handling meltdowns; but in this particular moment, exhaustion had made me sag under the weight of conflict, I had been traveling and didn’t get much sleep the night before. I had actually made dinner, and now it was ruined. I was processing the fact that obviously it was time to mess with Alex’s medicine again (which as a general rule I would rather check myself into a terrorist holding cell than deal with altering my autistic child’s brain chemistry) and so I left Russ to deal with Alex while I climbed the stairs, (heavy hearted, on the brink of tears) to check on Spencer.

I found him in his bedroom, pacing the floor like a caged tiger. “I’m just trying to cool down.” Spencer said when he saw me. “I get that.” I answered, sinking onto his futon. He came over to where I sat dejected, and slumped down next to me; leaning his red head against my shoulder, he sighed heavily. “You ok?” I whispered without looking at him. Spencer leaned forward, cocked his head to the side to peer at me,  and I saw him take in my unshed tears, slumped shoulders, and the way I was breathing in and out through my nose, and he said, “Well, my cholesterol is a little high…” I laughed hard. Then promptly burst into tears.

My son the cheese.

Everyone wants to be near Spencer; especially all the cousins! (Not another picture mom!)
Spencer Tidwell & Sam Ellis, December 2010

 

I cried then, gave into the frustration of living with the ramifications of autism; but it wasn’t grief over the ruined dinner, but rather grief that my twelve year old held in his own despair, so he could comfort me in mine. The weight of the world should never be thrust on a child’s shoulders. I cried because Spencer is perfection. I cried because he is learning social skills, because he can read facial cues, because he said his cholesterol was a little high, and while he may have meant blood pressure… he was clever, and patient and kind.

I wiped my tears away and took Spencer and Logan to McDonalds. But later that night I was thinking how Spencer is the embodiment of love. He shows me on a daily basis how love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

And to my beautiful boy I want to say, “Spencer, you don’t always have to be the cheese. You don’t have to be the melty glue that holds the sandwich together. Just remember, you can be the bun, you can be the soup, you can be the brownie, but whatever you choose to be, you will always be perfection.”   

  

LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. This boy! Spencer Tidwell, July 2012

Nanny Sarah & Airport Terminals

Captain Logan: "Okay, uh, power on...chart the course...
easy on the flaps, hold her steady...I've totally got his mom!"
(Thank you Delta Captain) December 2010 

 

I have found myself these past few months in a weird state…. (Okay truthfully, I almost always find myself in a weird state; maybe I should rephrase that to say, “different state”). In August 2012, we moved to San Antonio, Texas, but I’ve continued to work in our old hometown of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. If you’ve been to Jackson, you might understand why I’ve kept my claws clenched like a mountain lions in my beloved Tetons as well as those people in Jackson whom I consider family -sorry for the puncture wounds-.  I’ve been commuting to work about every other weekend… ALONE. I usually fly out, bleary eyed, on an early morning flight, where often while waiting to board -yawning in some unyielding chair- I find myself watching these mothers flitting about, trying to keep their tired, grouchy, just woken up, tousled hair, pajama clad children from bothering other travelers. They walk the terminals haphazardly. They buy skittles for an obscene amount of money and try bribery, “Okay, if you stop screaming for 10 seconds, you can have twenty skittles. Okay….5 seconds…..”  They scold, they hold, they break out the IPod, the IPad. (They pick up the shattered screened devices from the ground) they offer gold fish crackers that the child throws in the air like tiny pieces of orange confetti. But often it would seem, no matter their tactics, the child (ripped from her bed at 3 am) understandably, cannot be consoled….so, dejected, these mothers, look around at the other travelers, shrug their shoulders and almost apologetically lock eyes with me, a fellow traveler. I have been on the receiving end of these pathetic, “please-don’t-judge-me-I’m-doing-the-best-I-can” looks, and always I’ve wondered- in the millisecond before I respond- how this mother views me: have I somehow become the “business traveler” stern and impatient, just waiting to scan a brief, annoyed by her bawling kid….?

 Of course, while bending to pick up a hurled sippy cup I often say, “It’s early. Don’t worry about it,” and in reference to the sippy cup that’s just bounced off my head, “It won’t leave a mark. Traveling with kids can be hard.”  Then this poor, mother (I want to say young mother, because most often she is) gives me the most trembling -as if she might burst into tears at my kindness- smile of gratitude, which always breaks my heart.

Logan told the Captain, "Well, this all looks pretty self explanatory to me!" 2010

 

 While boarding, I continue to think about perception; how other people perceive me, and how I in turn perceive other people. If my life has taught me anything it’s this: you never know what’s going on in someone else’s life, therefore you never know the driving force behind behavior, or the way someone parents, or responds, or doesn’t respond, or why when you look in their eyes it seems like they may be about to give up. Of course, the sterile environment of an airport terminal at 5 am doesn’t lend for the cozy heart to heart conversation I long for, but I’ve found myself wishing I could freeze time, and of course freeze that tired child in a comatose state so the mother could hear me tell her something like this:

 I have become an expert at avoiding eye contact, partly because in the past I didn’t want to feel judged for what I perceived to be parenting missteps, and additionally, I didn’t want to parent haphazardly, which usually happened when I would lock eyes with another person, and see what I perceived to be, disappointment in their reflection. I would avoid eye contact, and truthfully, even mirrors because I was disappointed that I never felt like I lived up to the standards of others, let alone, my own, (Olympic high bar high) standards.  

This innocent child didn't say "No" when he didn't want something, but "NEVER!!!"
Loggy Bear,  Yuma, Arizona 2004

 

 Years ago, I was contemplating buying a book, turning it over, I glanced at the author's bio, and part of it included a statement that went something like, “She happily writes five days a week, only taking breaks to bake organic bread, and practice phonics with her children.”  This sentence struck me as both depressing and guilt provoking. Not only was this woman apparently focused, but she was published, made nutritious food, and not to mention phonics, obviously her passion, didn't make her want to run screaming from her house. Then, because I’m a cynic, I wanted to ask about the wording, “only taking breaks to....,” I put the book back on the shelf, and while wandering the crowded isles in search of my boys, I started mumbling to myself, “What if she has to go to the bathroom? What if her best friend calls to give her the scoop on the fight that went down between the PTA president and the secretary last night in the school cafeteria? What if her child comes bawling to her with a bloody appendage? Does she simply respond, ‘Arthur, now is not a good time for mommy because she’s writing, unless, of course, you would like to discuss what phonics make up the word bloody. Just wrap your slice of organic bread around it hunny, and hop on downstairs, okay?  The wheat germ will soak up the blood.’”

 My husband Russ thinks I'm nuts that statements like these bother me. I said they bother me because who is that perfect? Show that woman to me! And it also bothers me because it somehow insinuates that I should also be that phonic practicing, organic bread baking time management guru. Russ said, “How does that statement possibly insinuate that you should be that person?” “Because,” I answered, throwing my hands up in the air, “the book was about having a balanced life….and I will never be balanced because I am not a phonics practicing, bread baking woman!”  “It bothers me,” I told Russ, “because I'm tired of perfection….it makes me feel like I never measure up.” If I had a book bio, it would read, “She struggles to write a complete sentence because her children are always interrupting her with request to jump off the roof onto the trampoline. She only takes breaks to break apart her boys who are trying to choke each other. For time off, she enjoys making chocolate cakes, and eating them, in their entirety, alone in her closet.”

"Oh!! Did you want me to come to you??? Are you gonna chase me??? I LOVE this game!
Ready......GO!" Loggy Bear and Spencer Lizard...being boys. San Diego, 2004 

 And then we are back to my character flaw of avoiding eye contact; I know now it’s a character flaw because while avoiding eye contact, I may have achieved my goal of missing some judgmental glances, but I also missed out on those people who offer their steely stares of hope like a tractor beam….people, who with their half smiles and raised eye brows seem to say. “I’m not perfect either.” I am one of those people. I love when people are vulnerable around me. I love being around somebody when their kid is throwing a complete fit. It validates me. I love when people look like death warned over when they drop off their kids at school, because then I just fit right in. The other day, everybody seemed to notice when I dropped off my kids in a denim skirt, with makeup applied and my hair brushed. Everyone noticed, because usually I am not wearing a bra, have on whatever I slept in, and am chasing after a child, with my awkward pony tail (among other things) bouncing, who forgot his backpack. I told, the crossing guard who asked, “Wow, what's the occasion?” that the reason I looked….like a human being, was because I had a meeting the night before that ran late, so when I got home and put my boys to bed, I’d laid with Logan to read a book and fallen asleep with him. I slept until Monday morning, where conveniently enough, all I had to do was roll out of the bunk bed, and was set to go, bra and all. I’d only brushed my hair because when I went to use the bathroom, I noticed there was an army soldier tangled in it, and the color totally didn’t' go with my shoes.

 And so what I want to tell to those mothers, ready to collapse in the terminal before they ever even get on the plane is that I am just another girl like them, another weary traveler trying to survive this journey, trying to make it all work, trying not to ruin my children, and end up with thousands in therapy bills, especially since I am currently still paying off thousands in CAT scan bills, and emergency room visits. (Did you miss my bio? “interrupted to ask if they could jump off the roof...”)  and I would hope when they locked eyes with mine they would see the tangible evidence of understanding staring back at them, a look I would offer any woman who struggles with phonics and organic bread (and truthfully, any women, even those who don’t seem to struggle at all).

 I have a great love for mothers, especially when I see their triumphant victory in ignore their pulsating desire to throw up their hands and give up, but don’t. I see you standing in grocery store checkout lines with crying kids, while the people around you are sighing and rolling their eyes, while the clerk is glaring at you while she v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y rings up your order. I've been there, except my kids were probably not just crying, but were also trying to ride the conveyer belt, and parachute off the end with a flung open non-biodegradable plastic grocery sack. My kids, I’m sure, had already taken my debit card out of my purse so they could pay, and subsequently lost it on Isle six next to the fruit loops.  And my three year old would have pushed so many buttons on the check out ATM pad that it had shut down the whole system, in the entire store, (and possibly nationwide). Yes, I am that woman. The one they had probably pointed out over the PA system, “The child of the mother on checkout five has caused our system to go off line. It will be an hour before its rebooted, and we are locking everyone inside the store to prevent theft. If you'd like to complain, please talk to the mother of the child on check out five. Yes, the one with the boy eating the stolen chocolate bar, and hitting his brother. Thank you for shopping at Target.” 

Too. Tired. To. Walk. (Good thing Logan's dad is beast size!) Jackson, Wyoming 2011

 

 I wish time would allow me to stand near you in your line, because then I could assure you that you were already worlds ahead of me because at least you knew where all your children were! And I would let you in on my little secret, which is: when I’m in moments of extreme duress, I act like I'm the babysitter, or young nanny starlit just waiting for my big break in film. If you’d seen me back then and leaned close, you could probably hear me whispering to my three year old, “Let's play a game!  How about you call me Nanny Sarah?” “Why should I call you Nanny Sarah mommy?” I'm sure he'd answer. But then when the clerk glared at me, I would lean in and whisper conspiratorially, “Sorry he’s so out of control, his mother works all the time…poor kid, he think I’m his mom” And then she’d nod sympathetically, double bag my milk and give my pseudo-child a lolly pop.

 I've been there. I am there. I’m there with so many other people who are cheering you on. Look across the store, I'm there even still, telling the boys, “We are not  buying a twelve pack of water guns, and put back the mouse traps. Remember what happened with your experiment with mouse traps last month? And no! Just because you didn't catch a trout at scout camp doesn't mean I'm buying trout now and sorry, but I don't care if Jordan's mom let's him drink Monster energy drinks all day long, I’m not buying one for you.”

 If I was there behind you I would say, “Don’t leave. Stay and talk.”  I would pat your back, and whisper consoling words like “I know just how you feel.” And please, don't panic when I'm paged over the PA system again, I know the routine, “Will the mother of a child wearing a superman t-shirt and covered in stolen chocolate please come to the customer service booth and pick up your son. He says you answer to the name Nanny Sarah.” “Don't worry,” I'd whisper, winking, “It isn't called Customer Service, for nothing, right? Let’s go to the snack bar for popcorn?”

 Don’t give up. I know now there is more kindness out there than meanness (even if some days it feels like the opposite is true) and you might just find an unexpected friend in a bleary eyed, business traveler like me. Lock eyes with a person who isn’t afraid to stare back and smile, and remember to treat others the way you would like to be treated: I love the Quaker Proverb, “Thee lift me, and I’ll lift thee and we’ll ascend together.”

Finally, I would slip you a hastily written note on my beverage napkin (because I know you’d never hear me over your child’s screaming) that reads,  “Once this flight is over, you will never see any of these people ever again. And know this my friend; I’ll be hoping that if you have a connecting flight, I’m seated right beside you.”  

 

Logan & Spencer: Living the first class dream! October 2010