More than two months have passed. Ready to exhale.

Friday, January 3, 2014: the second day of the rest of my life.  

The job change has come.  I almost didn't make it to the end, but it in order to claim unemployment, I had to work as long as the job was available.

The boys and I have been in our jammies all day, keeping warm and doing indoor activities.  There's tortilla soup on the stove, cats freaking out with catnip toys in the dining room, and kids playing Minecraft, too. Our Christmas tree stands in a corner of our living room, unlit.  I think we'll put it away tomorrow.

Hero has just arrived home.  I kissed him hello.  He promptly changed out of his work clothes and into flannel pajama pants, slippers, hoodie, hat, and thick insulated vest.  That's how we roll.  A cold snap is heading our way. We may not venture out all weekend.  Due to a forecast with dangerous wind chills, school has already been cancelled for Monday.

I've tried to make a habit of not expecting much out of life, especially not expecting happiness.  When I received the layoff notice, I went into a period of very low self-esteem and high-energy job searching.  It wasn't a very nice time to live through.  Then, as I settled in to the reality of being forced to make a much-needed career change, my spirit rallied a bit.  I'd hate to say that I started 'leaning in,' because I'm not fond of that term.  But I did start daring to hope.

Since having children and getting Primo's autism diagnosis, I've tended to be a keep-your-head down, keep-working-to-support-your-family kind of person when it comes to work.  I know what I'm good at, and though I've built up new skills over time, I tend to do the same kind of work wherever I go.  Even when a job gets boring, tiresome, and lacks challenges or interesting people, I tend to stick to it loyally.  But then things start to change, and the boredom starts to show my productivity.  I lose focus.  If the management style of the next-higher-up isn't proactive, I find it difficult to not go into something of a stasis, if not a tailspin.  And then it's time to change.

It seems that the life cycle for my jobs is between two and five years.

Two times twice exceptional (aka, We Hit the Jackpot!)

As I wrote to a dear friend today,

Now I've been drinking some gin + lime + soda, trying to recover from an empowering but emotionally draining day at the therapist's office with the youngest son, who is getting through the process of being diagnosed as twice-exceptional: gifted to the point of genius in certain ways, and also having dyslexia and dysgraphia.  

Another Saturday gone, hours upon hours spent with therapists.  Finding out that Spark ranks in the exceptional/genius range for some innate skills, and he's at kindergarten level for what his teachers have been trying to help him learn for the last three years.  What a mixed blessing.

Spark is gifted in some of the same areas that Primo is, which will be a great help as we try to build on their shared interests.  But where Primo taught himself to read at age 6, and read Rowling's complete Harry Potter series TWICE over the summer when he was 9, Spark is still trying to keep his lower and uppercase letters straight.

We're also looking at moderate to severe depression in Spark.  My mother heart aches for him, knowing that this kind, creative, spunky, imaginative kiddo thinks of himself as one of the 'dumb' kids.  Can't keep his days straight.  Never knows how long a minute or an hour feels.  Can hear everything that's going on in a room, but can't focus on what one person is saying.  We're all going to learn how to support him in this.

So, this family is blessed with two healthy, amazing sons.  One may be going to the university at age 15, and one may turn out to be an engineer who can't spell.  

Like many special-needs parents, I'm in it for the long haul.  I might have to pull over and cry every now and then, but I know these guys are worth every bit of effort we exert on their behalf.

Time, and time in the garden helps a lot

Two days ago, (see previous post) Primo and I had an interaction in the car that ended up with him pinching a huge bruise into my upper arm, and me speaking in a hurtful way.  

I was truly shaken.  I sank into an ugly and dark funk.  I wrote that post.  I felt deeply saddened by this violence, discouraged that we could have such a setback, ashamed that even though my son had hurt me, I wasn't able in that moment to keep my temper in check and stay calm enough to keep from scaring him.

Then we cried separately and together for forty-five minutes, talked, apologized, hugged, and moved on.  Here's the rest of the story:

At age 12, Primo is almost as tall as I am now, and though he's very much better at controlling his temper, he does still have trouble with safety issues when he's angry.  He said that by the time he thought to calm himself and be safe, he'd already torn apart some things in the car and pinched me.  That's his fight-or-flight response and the autism delay.

Tomorrow Spark is going in for his second all-day dyslexia evaluation appointment.  I'm so excited to get the data and strategies that we need, but I'm not so happy to give up my only day off to be there.  We do know he's right in the middle of the 'spectrum' of dyslexia (forgive the autism metaphor), not severe and not mild.  We're starting to be able to tell him about the ways he is smart, and we'll learn how to help him know it for sure.

And well, that Hero, and the music, it's something that's integral to his being, something that cannot change, even if he tried.  I think I'm feeling, first, the pre-summer crisis of confidence in our abilities to manage childcare without school; second, a lack of shared purpose in my life with Hero.  We need a spoken agreement on our priorities.  We've been just surviving and tag-team parenting for so many years now.  

Our marriage is a true partnership based on deep love (and wacky humor), but the part where we enjoy each other and have fun together is missing.  The majority of the time we spend together occurs when we're asleep.  We don't know who's the leader when we're both home at the same time.  We don't know how to make conversation at the dinner table when all of us are together.  

I'm hoping that a change in schedule at my office may be coming, so that we'll be able to be a complete family more evenings each week.  I'm not sure whether that means I will have a new job at a different business, whether my position may be terminated, or whether I'll be allowed to simply work a shorter schedule.  My next career step is a big question mark right now.

That brings me to today.  Today has been pretty grand.  I've breathed deeply.  Our geographic area has had a week of stormy weather, drenching downpours, rapidly shifting temperatures, and then sunshine.  Today is a mostly sunshine day.

When the boys and I got home after school, Spark went outside to explore the yard and observe bugs.  I let the cats out so that they could bask in the sunshine and eat grass tips.  They were calmly joyful, as cats can be.  I looked through all the little parts of our yard where I like to plant things, and got more ideas for what I'll work on this weekend.  

I was a very lazy gardener last year, planting very little, not weeding, not mulching.  A perennial that looks very like creeping bellflower (campanula) went to seed and has started taking over our and our neighbors' yards.  Time in the garden, just keeping my mind on the plants and getting my hands in the soil, is healing to me.  So that's the plan for the weekend.

Dyslexia, gardening, and laundry and family.  Sounds all right to me.

Sad today

Oh, Lord, I am not the one best suited to raise this child.  Please help me.  God, please, please help me.  I'm married to a man who seems to love music more than he loves me or his family.  He is so often distracted and un-present. I have one son who is sweet as pie and so very smart, and dyslexic.  This other son, the one who hurt me today, has autism and mental illness.  We are just starting to dig our way out of debt after years of being in it up to our eyeballs.  I feel like everyone expects me to keep us functioning on an even keel.  When I've asked for help, I first get a question about payment for services.  I feel so alone.  The weight of this life is so much.

Big rig gig

Instead of writing this post, I've been making stew, emptying old condiments from the fridge, watching cartoons with the boys. A new blizzard has arrived, so perhaps the pressure change drove me to the household things.  Or perhaps it's just good ol' procrastination.

I feel like this life I'm in is a journey on a long gravel road in a country with no maps.

Some parts are smoother than others.  Some are muddy, sloggy, and rutted.  There's often no good vista or clearing to tell me where we are or what's coming next.  Not a lot of faces of people I know.  There's only the onward, the forward, the road.

When I was a girl, one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up was a long-range truck driver.  The open road, the big rigs, the time to myself . . . called to me.

Primo has just graduated from his mental health/social skills program, which he started in October of last year.  The first few months were very hard; he pushes people to their limits of tolerance, so see whether and how much he can trust them.  He pushed almost too hard, sometimes physically, in those first months.  He was nearly kicked out of the program on a number of occasions.  But the therapy staff there saw something in him, the same something Hero and I see.  There is potential for greatness in this boy who sometimes would sooner throw a punch than acquiesce to a simple imperative that's not of his own choosing.

We struggled through it together.  Sometimes I'd have to take him home early, because he wasn't able to get into the groove of the day.  The police were called a couple of times, when he'd hurt others.  It could be scary, knowing Primo had hard work to do on his inner Self, and that he might not up to the day's challenges.  He was pushed to learn about his own emotions and triggers, to understand the way the rest of the world would expect him to respond, and how to respond appropriately even when he didn't feel like he could.

But it was a safe place for him to be, this program was.  The staff of therapists was strong and usually unflappable, except when praising the kids for good work.  They covered the details of almost every day with me.  They cared and persevered, when many adults would choose to give up on Primo, or recommend some other program or even an institution of one kind or another.

He ended up with a couple of friends (!!) in the group who actually looked up to him, a graduation celebration, and gave a gift to the program's other kids.  It was an ending that suited his journey.

So now we're in the rig again, away from the support of that group, and I'm wondering what comes next.  I'm trying to remain calm.  I'm nervous, though.  There isn't a lot of solitude on this road.

Sunday: We are Here!

Two weeks ago, I was in denial about summer schedules and something being vaguely awry with Spark's ability to learn to read.  Then school ended and we had a week to ourselves to try and configure ourselves into a new mode of living.

We have now survived our first week of "our family sport is autism therapy," for Primo and summer school for Spark.  It's been profoundly satisfying to know Hero and I could hold the family together for another week.  I still haven't made all the medical and psych appointments Spark's going to need, but I think that'll come this week.

A great reason for things feeling good is that the money situation may be looking up.  This week we applied for the HAARP refinance program for our mortgage, paid off my car loan, and I sold some old jewelry for more than I expected to get.  We may end up replacing our bald tires before the summer's over, after all.

The cats still need tune-ups, though they seem to be holding up all right.  We've been rather neglectful pet owners of late, and there have been a couple of incidents that forced us to reacquaint ourselves with the local vet.  Our 100-year-old equivalent cat, Gracie, has been in slow decline for the last two years or so, and she required some IV fluids and attention for what appears to have been an intestinal blockage.  The big fella, George, is about 8 years old, and he apparently needs dental work.  We woke up one morning to find that one of his lower fangs was poking haphazardly out of his mouth.  It fell out when I touched it, rotten.  It seems that our dental coverage doesn't extend to our fuzzy babies, though.

I've been reading a series of books that were recommended by Mary at Owlhaven, written by Ralph Moody.  My library's set of them is mostly from the 1960's, with that old-book smell and acid-yellowed paper.  The stories Ralph tells are from his life in the late 1800's and early 1900's; they're full of his boyhood thoughts, working with his family, and the seasonal rhythms and routines of years on western ranches.  The stories are reminiscent of Laura Ingalls Wilder's books, but I relish the male viewpoint and the mostly out-of-doors living young Ralph did.

Often, when I'm checking in on my favorite bloggers' writings during the week, I have some fantastic ideas for posts of my own.  Then the next appointment or mealtime comes up, and I'm off the computer to do the required task.  Sigh.  But then, staying busy keeps the depression at bay.  

I don't have time to feel melancholy when I try to be fully present with my sons.  Hero and I have been making specific efforts to be kind and supportive to Primo, setting an example for how we would like to be treated.  Sometimes it works, though I wonder whether the exercise benefits us more than Primo. The boys have been tangling with each other more, though; Spark just doesn't seem to understand the futility of physically fighting against a brother who is twice his size and age.  He rails at Primo like a crazed amateur boxer.  It's been hot, though, and the boys have been cooped up in the house, trying to stay cool in the a/c.  That's breeding an environment where lack of activity makes nerves go on edge.

Another of my favorite blog-friends is Mrs.G from Derfwad Manor.  This Wacky Wonder Woman will eventually visiting my hometown this summer, and I've actually started dreaming about seeing her.  Perhaps it's the amazing journey Mrs. G has embarked upon, perhaps it's the freedom that I yearn for, perhaps it's just the great vistas she's sharing with us, her Derfs.  I am inspired.

First-world problems

I have two sets of blogs I love to read: one set is just for me and my interests, and the other set is about autism and parenting kids who have autism.  Over time, the blogs in the lists have changed, but they remain a list of those that are mostly family-friendly (for those who read over my shoulder) and mostly G-rated.

I know that being the parent of a kid with autism is hard.  My kid's flavor of autism -- Asperger's -- is an intellectually-gifted, socially-pathetic (almost-sociopathic) kind.  Primo has almost no ability to empathize with anyone else, except when their point of view is very similar to his.

I know that parents who have kids with autism didn't choose the life they have.  Many parents would choose to have their kid, without the autism.  Others will say that the autism and the kid are inseparable, and the autism is part of who the kid is.  For me, I would be lying if I said that I'd take Primo with autism as readily as I'd accept him without it.  His struggles with life, his loneliness, and his antisocial behaviors are all hard on him as well as the rest of his family.  Having Primo's autism in our family makes our lives so much more challenging, and often downright miserable.  If I could choose to have him become neurotypical, I'd do it in a heartbeat.  I wonder whether he would.

Having Spark come into our family has provided a sharp contrast for me as a mother.  As far as we know, Spark is neurotypical.  He joined our family when Primo was four years old, right when the autism started to become more markedly apparent.  I knew, through the haze of nursing and diapering and trying to mother those different needs, that something was up with Primo.  I was raised in a family with a father has Asperger's Syndrome, too, so I recognized what was going on.  Spark knows that his brother has autism, and to a degree he can understand that the autism is what makes Primo so unable to be mostly polite and kind.  It's hard for Spark, though.  He's a deeply emotive and sweet person.  I wish his big brother could be the strong, sure, kind and assuring type.

Some days I'm in a state of grace, and some days I'm not.  I've got my own issues, like major depression and anxiety, which I mostly manage with medications and supplements.  I'm about 65 pounds overweight.  Hero's got more anxiety than I do.  He's a gifted musician with no time to make music.  We've got no discretionary income, lots of debt, a house in strong need of rewiring and insulation, and two cars with almost-bald tires.

We also have a lots of family members who love us, though they are unable to help us with caring for our children or our finances.  They can and do pray for us on a regular basis.

I think about the complaints that I have and the complaints I hear and read from others every day.  For the most part, we are lower-middle-class white U.S. residents who have homes to live in, food to eat, and people who care about us.  I know that some hurts run extra-deep, and some pains from mental illness and addiction are extra-strong.  But really, what is it with the navel-gazing and inward-scrutiny?

Sheesh.  Get over yourself already.  It's not about YOU.  Do some good for someone else today, will ya?  You might feel better.

Tell 'em Glori B. said you should.

Burdens, weariness, and rest (part 2)

The newly-turned young married woman at the end of the Part 1 post has now grown up quite a bit. In the last few weeks, I have been coming to terms with what I feel is the truth about my adult experience with churches and the Church, big and small C's.  That little girl who grew up in the bosom of the Church, in close community and communion with the Lord, found out that unless she invest in her faith and her faith community, the foundation that was built in her early life will deteriorate.

That's where I am now, camped in the cracked, propped, and shimmed foundations where I grew up, realizing that I can't build on a foundation that needs repair.  I've got work to do.

Here's my meditation passage for today: 

Hebrews 6 (NIV)

 "¹ Therefore let us move beyond the elementary teachings about Christ and be taken forward to maturity, not laying again the foundation of repentance from acts that lead to death, and of faith in God, ² instruction about cleansing rites,^[b] the laying on of hands, the resurrection of the dead, and eternal judgment. ³ And God permitting, we will do so.

 ⁴ It is impossible for those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, who have shared in the Holy Spirit, ⁵ who have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the coming age ⁶ and who have fallen away, to be brought back to repentance. To their loss they are crucifying the Son of God all over again and subjecting him to public disgrace. ⁷ Land that drinks in the rain often falling on it and that produces a crop useful to those for whom it is farmed receives the blessing of God. ⁸ But land that produces thorns and thistles is worthless and is in danger of being cursed. In the end it will be burned.

 ⁹ Even though we speak like this, dear friends, we are convinced of better things in your case—the things that have to do with salvation. ¹⁰ God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them. ¹¹ We want each of you to show this same diligence to the very end, so that what you hope for may be fully realized. ¹² We do not want you to become lazy, but to imitate those who through faith and patience inherit what has been promised."

Burdens, weariness, and rest (part 1)

Matthew 11:28-30

²⁸ “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. ²⁹ Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰ For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

To be honest, my heart, my spirit, and my relationship with God and the Church are not in a place where I am able to do much more than survive.  I am weary, poor, tired, weak, lonely and disappointed in myself and the way I've lived my life in recent years. 


Perhaps the church is exactly where I need to be. My childhood was full of the relationships shared with people in my church.  The first church I remember attending was a very small, vibrant group of about 50 people.  It was the mid-1970s. Services were held at our local YMCA, which was closed to the public on Sundays.


Can you imagine a fitness facility being closed on Sundays today?


As I grew up, the little YMCA church group changed and we moved to a larger church in a different part of town. This one was much more established, with a large building and an independent Christian grade school.  There were lots of families with kids my age, older and younger. My family--my brother, my mom and dad--went to services three times  week, Sunday morning and night, and Wednesday evenings.


In that larger church, I found it easy to make friends. There were Sunday School classes and youth groups that I participated in on a regular basis. In my junior high and high school years, a group of us girls built some strong, faith-filled relationships through Bible studies, youth activities, church trips, and more.  I felt strong and secure in my beliefs and thought I might be hearing a divine call to missions, particularly mission work on the African continent.


After high school, I attended two years of undergrad at a small Christian liberal arts college in Massachusetts. Students there were required to attend Chapel services a minimum of four days a week. The campus was small and a bit remote, though, and I didn't join an off-campus congregation for Sunday services on a regular basis.


I would say that, until college, I had gone to church for all but a handful of Sundays in my entire life. Our family would even find churches to attend while we were on vacations, in and out of the United States. Being among believers and having a living faith was my reality for my first nineteen years of life.


At the tender age of nineteen, I married Hero. We moved back home from the Massachusetts college and applied to attend our much larger (and financially accessible) hometown university. We became active in serving the children of the congregation of the larger church of my childhood--also Hero's first church home.


But that congregation had grown rapidly and gone through an enormous building project, reaching out to many new families and many new members.  Attendance nearly doubled in the first two years in the new building; we used to joke that the whole complex was the size of a large strip mall. It just had a cross on the top.


So, what happened to that child of the church, that girl of faith?

My Kids and Technology

Why is it that every time I sit down to write a post, I need to use the bathroom?

We're getting a big snowstorm again today. I'd say we've gotten about 3 inches of fresh powder so far, and it's only 4pm. Hero was sent home early from work, which is wonderful. That sometimes happens for him on Friday afternoons. I usually take time to greet him well when he comes home. It's something that really fills up his well of joy.

We have a 1972 olive green rotary wall phone in the dining room at our house. We got it in order to have a family-friendly phone for the kids to use when they got older. I'm not a big believer in the idea of having my kids have their own cell phones. Fortunately, Primo's just 11 and Spark is 6, so that means we have some time to think about the issue.

In our 1920s house, it took a special trip from an electrician, two hours of fishing wire through the walls, a special digital adapter, and surgery on the phone itself in order to install the phone on our wall. But it works!  Now we have a phone that really does all of the verbs phones are supposed to do: when someone calls, the phone rings. No electronic tones there. (We turned our other cordless phones' ringers off after getting this phone.)  When you wish to make a call, you dial the numbers. When you're done talking, you hang up the receiver. I know it's not revolutionary, but it's satisfying to have a familiar piece of childhood around. If we didn't have it, they may never have seen one in person!

Today our DVD player died, though, and that means that if the boys want some video stimulation to chill out with, they're restricted to the broadcast channels in our city, most of which play shows that aren't suitable for young kids. We've never paid for cable TV. The PBS channels' afternoon kids shows are pretty limited. Whenever Super Why comes on, it's highly likely the Sarcasm Train will disgorge a whole load as the boys watch. It seems like they make fun of and critique every sentence and idea. I don't like them to get into that habit.

So, it being Friday and a regular family movie night, I did what parents in older generations could not have done: I signed up to stream movies via Netflix. Hero puttered for a minute or two with a connection cable, and viola!--movies on the TV. The boys were amazed. I'd never had a Netflix account, usually because when 9pm rolls around, I'm spent and wish I was already asleep. No energy for movies, no extra time for viewing much that isn't life or the written word. But I can't argue with being able to select the programs and movies my boys will see. I think that Saturday nights should be reserved for nature and science shows!

I just read another person's blog post about the end of coin-operated parking meters and pay phones. My husband and I are personally very fond of Old Time Radio programs and early twentieth-century culture. I wonder what my children will be nostalgic for as they reach my age.  How much is our cultural experience a product of its technology, and technology a product of an era?

Tuesday afternoon

Thoughts going through my head late at night, ideas for writing posts. Not falling asleep.


Did Hero know what he was suggesting when he said I should have a blog?  Thinking of setting up categories, organizing ideas.  But I should also get the laundry up into the bedrooms and make some dinner and scoop the cat boxes.  Then back to work for the evening shift.  Then home to bed and not sleeping because I'm thinking about writing.


Sigh.


Now, in the early evening, Primo sits at the table, crunching on cereal and trying to do his math homework.  Spark is silently playing a builders game on the computer. It's snowed for half the day and now the temperature is dropping to the coldest yet of this season.  Drafts move through the house, swirling, making our little cat pester me to hold her for warmth.  She hides near a heat vent, waiting for the furnace. I've got a hat and vest on.


Hot dogs?  Soup?  Dinner. The boys have gotten picky about food lately.


Dinner was left to Hero last night when I left for work in a huff.  After the Christmas break, he didn't remember I usually work on Monday nights.  They all set a place for me: pork chops and green beans.  And I stayed away until my shift was over.  There were hugs and kisses and I'm sorrys when I returned.