Schoolhouse Rock!

Today, my son’s dyslexia tutor suggested we get him some recorded songs to help our auditory learner remember his multiplication facts. Thinking that was a brilliant idea, I hit up my friend Google for some suggestions. As I was flipping through the treasure trove of information, I happened upon something I could not resist. Schoolhouse Rock! Need I say anything more? I have many happy memories of sitting in front of Saturday morning television watching cartoons and catching all kinds of useful information from Schoolhouse Rock! I tell you with absolute certainty that the only reason I can recite the entire Preamble to the Constitution is because I can sing it first in my head to a tune I remember from those Saturday mornings. True story.

Joe was sitting with me as I was looking at Amazon trying to decide which DVDs to order. He looked over at my laptop and saw Schoolhouse Rock on the page. He got very excited.

“I’ve seen these!” he exclaimed. “My teacher shows these to us in class.”

“Really?” I replied. I knew his teacher, Mrs. Downs, was good people.

“Yes. All the math ones and some social studies ones. Here….I’ll show you,” he said as he ran off to grab his iPad.

He came back with a bunch of videos queued up on You Tube. He opened up the Elementary, My Dear video about the two times table and hit play. We sat and watched it. It made me smile. After that we watched Three Is A Magic Number. Then, I saw it in the side margin. A video of The Preamble. I clicked on the link.

“I know this one, Joe. Watch.”

Then, along with the video, I sang the entire Preamble while my son watched in complete amazement. At least, I think it was amazement. I prefer to think he was looking at me with awe because he had no idea I knew these videos rather than in horror because I should by law be banned from singing publicly. I prefer to think he’s continually shocked by how smart his mother truly is.

I have to wonder if my boys would have had struggled as much as they have with their math facts if they would have had the pleasure of sitting each Saturday morning and watching Schoolhouse Rock like I did. I’m not entirely sure that the Schoolhouse Rock songs cemented the math facts into my head, but it is kind of intriguing that 35 years later I still remember the words to the Preamble I learned while catching my dose of Saturday morning cartoons. It can’t all be coincidental. Some of the things I saw as a child stuck.

I wish more networks made programming choices based around what was best for people rather than what made them the most money. There was a time when there were public service announcements on television for our children to watch, things like Time for Timer where kids would learn about healthy food choices. Now, though, our kids get nothing but a healthy dose of ads for all sorts of processed junk food and then more junk food in the form of brainless programming all hours of the day and night, on demand even.

Maybe it’s a romantic notion to wish that we could go back to a time when there was some actual thought given as a society to how to raise children to become well-balanced, informed, thoughtful, healthy, and creative individuals. I admit it. I wish kids had less homework and more time on their bicycles, fewer hours of television and more hours for creative and social interaction with friends via a means other than texting. I’m a dinosaur, I know. I’m not suggesting we go back to the 1970’s (personally, bell bottoms pants were never a look I could rock), but it would be nice if we could give our kids a little bit of the childhood we had. It might be nice to give them a break from the innumerable activities topped off with hours of homework. As I think about Schoolhouse Rock, what becomes clear is that it’s not that our children watch too much television but rather that they watch too much of the wrong television. The things I learned on Saturday mornings have stuck with me this long, and now I’m going to share them with my kids. Hopefully they will remember Conjunction Junction and I’m Just A Bill and forget everything they’ve ever seen on My Little Pony.

Posted on 14/12/2012 by Me 2

Like Sands Through The Hourglass

Our youngest came down with a wretched cold on Sunday afternoon. By Sunday evening I knew he would have to be home with me on Monday. When our boys first started going to school, I would cringe and whine when they’d come down with a cold, not just because I knew I would be getting sick too but also because I knew that meant they would be home with me all day again. After all, I’d just gotten them into full day school and had begun to relish my emancipation from non-stop, boy-generated sound effects and full-day indentured servitude. I’d recently rediscovered the perfection in silence. I didn’t look forward to relinquishing it for even one day. That was years ago now, though, and yesterday I had a different experience when Luke stayed home with me. We ran a couple quick errands during which he was honestly helpful. Then, at home, we worked together on some of his school work. We read together. We watched Elf. Other than his constant hacking and my fear of getting in germs’ way, it was a wonderful day.

This morning while Joe was showering for school, Luke crawled into bed with me. He was crying. He didn’t want to go to school today. He was stuffy and not yet truly better, but he probably would survive the day. It was a sketchy call. If I were a parent who worked outside our home, he’d be going to school. End of story. But, I don’t work outside my home. I could tell his tears were real. He was stressed. He had so much to make up from Monday’s missed classes plus there was an additional large project he’d been working on and was hoping to complete. Last year, before I knew about his dyslexia, I would have mercilessly driven him to school despite his protestations and gone to yoga class unabated. Today, however, I really felt for him. I could understand how having all that work looming over his head at the end of a full day of school would seem an insurmountable task. I’m not afraid to admit it. I caved.

So today I spent my second full day this week alone with my youngest. We picked up a few groceries, selected a couple dress shirts for Christmas attire for them, and then we settled in at home with a goal of completing two days’ worth of school work as well as finishing most of his big project that is due Friday. I worked with him and, with just short breaks in between, we busted through all his work. By 2 p.m. I could see his shoulders raise as the weight of his heavy, third-grade world lessened on his shoulders. He was smiling more. I could tell he was feeling better. A couple times during the day I stopped to wonder if I had done the right thing, bailing him out of his nerves like that. Had I given him an easy way out? He probably would have benefited from the opportunity to fall behind and catch up slowly, finally realizing that the world did not come to a crashing halt because it took him a couple days to finish his work. Instead, I somewhat selfishly looked into his teary, hazel eyes and saw my two-year-old son, the one who used to climb into my lap every day to give me a hug and tell me he loved me. I gave into my emotions. I was weak.

At 2:20, he was starting to miss Joe so we hopped in the car to pick him up from his full day of school. On the way there, we chatted a bit. Then it got quiet. Out of nowhere, my 9 1/2 year old hit me with this.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“I’m going to miss you tomorrow. When is the next time we can have a full day together?”

With this remark, I no longer wondered if I had done the right thing keeping him out of school for an extra day. I had. I got to spend two, uninterrupted days with my youngest son. When Luke said he would miss me, I was the one who got misty. The time I have left with my boys is precious and quickly slipping through my grasp. The days when we will sit together on the couch watching movies and sharing Skittles are numbered. The passing of time is a necessary evil during this journey through life. I missed two days’ worth of yoga classes and alone time during which I could have accomplished much during this busy holiday season, but it was so worth it. Luke got his peace of mind, and I got to have two-year old Luke back. You can’t put a price on the rare opportunity to flip the hourglass over even if only for a moment with your children. I have no regrets.

Posted on 11/12/2012 by Me 3

Yep…They’re Special All Right

A couple days ago I had to do something I’ve been dreading doing for a while now. I had to visit the principal at the boys’ small, private school and tell her that it’s likely that our boys won’t be returning next year. I had to tell her this now, months in advance of fall registration, because I need to pass along some evaluation requests about our boys from the school in which we’re hoping to enroll them next year. I wasn’t dreading this conversation because I thought I would get grief or because I eschew conflict (which I truly do). I was anxious about this conversation because for the past eight years this school has been a safe haven for our boys, a place where they felt loved even though they knew they weren’t exactly like all the other kids. It’s been a place where they’ve always felt special.

When Steve and I first received Joe’s ADHD diagnosis, the psychologist told us he might benefit from a more specialized learning environment or, at the very least, a school with special education services. We looked at our bright, articulate son and couldn’t even begin to imagine him at a special school because the term special somehow implied slow. Jokes from our childhood about the short bus began driving through our head. We considered switching him to a public school but, after talking with several special ed professionals, we determined that Joe might not even qualify for special ed assistance in a public school because the need is so great. I couldn’t imagine transferring him to our local public school, where the class size would be double the class size at the private school he was in, on the off chance that he’d receive enough services to make up for the deficit in personal teacher attention. So, we kept him where he was because at least there we knew they would accommodate his needs, and we knew he felt comfortable.

Turns out, though, that his comfort level isn’t enough of a reason to keep him at the school he’s always known. He and Luke, we’ve discovered, will benefit greatly from placement at a school that specializes in teaching students with learning differences. I recently read that 1 in 7 people have some type of learning difference. These type of issues often run in families. They are not indicative of lower intelligence, although most people seem to think they are. The truth is that a learning difference is just that, a different way the brain processes information. Because schools have to cater to the majority, most teaching is done in the systematic way that works best for most students. Our sons are not in the most category. It’s taken us a while to accept that they’re different. It’s taken us even longer to acknowledge that putting them in a special school doesn’t mean that there is something wrong with them.

So, we’ve at last arrived at the place where we’re ready to make a big leap and switch them to a special school. As parents we’re finally able to admit that our boys are different and to believe that, although their differences are difficulties now, someday those differences will be valued as strengths. When I began to explain to the boys why they struggle the way they do, I wanted to put a positive spin on it for them. So, I did some research. I told them about Richard Branson, Albert Einstein, Charles Schwab, Bill Gates, and Steven Spielberg. I told them how thinking differently made those men special in a good way and how their differences made them successful. I told them that while they may struggle greatly on the front end learning a new task, in the long run they may be better off for the unique perspective. Funny how the more I did research to try to help my boys feel better about themselves, the more I found myself feeling better about them and their potential. I no longer look at dyslexia as a life sentence (although Luke will have it for life), nor do I look at ADHD as an impenetrable road block. Do they make things a bit more difficult for my guys? Absolutely. But, as Luke told me after we watched The Big Picture: Rethinking Dyslexia with them a few weeks ago, maybe true success requires a special brain, the kind of brain he knows he has. Go ahead. Call my kid special. I dare you. He’s just different enough to understand it’s a compliment.

Posted on 09/12/2012 by Me 3

Drawing The Box To Think Outside Of

They’re notes about Ben Franklin, obviously.

Kids come home with school papers every single day. When the boys were in kindergarten, I tried to save everything. Every paper seemed too precious to toss. Each drawing was a work of art. Each handwritten page a portent of the amazing stories yet to be told. By the end of Joe’s kindergarten year, I had a stack higher than I could manage. I promised myself I would go through them, select no more than 5 (or maybe 10 or perhaps 20 at the most) and toss the rest because I knew I could not keep every one of them. I’m pragmatic. I understood that if I saved everything we would have to move in three years’ time. Now that they’re older, the pieces of schoolwork I save are even fewer. I’m more likely to save an honor roll award or an awesome watercolor than I am a piece of their graded work. I’ve somehow created categories in my head of which work is somehow more important and trumps another piece of paper for the valuable space in the Save box.

Yesterday as I was going through Luke’s school folder, I came across a piece of notebook paper with Luke’s writing on it. In addition to words, there were drawings. I looked at it briefly and acknowledged that they were notes, but I couldn’t tell what exactly they were about.

“What is this paper?” I inquired.

“Notes for my Ben Franklin test,” he answered.

“When is the test?”

“On Thursday.”

“Oh. So these are your notes so you can study for the test?” I clarified.

“Yes. But, I don’t need them. I know it all already,” he replied.

I didn’t doubt him. He has a fairly good memory because, as I’ve said, he’s a great listener. What he’s not great at, though, is taking notes. As I glanced over the paper, I realized I could not understand at least a full two-thirds of what he had written. Luke’s spelling and handwriting are horrific which, I am now learning, is caused by dysgraphia. Dysgraphia is to writing what dyslexia is to reading. So, in Luke’s bi-weekly tutoring sessions, he’s working on cursive letter formations. I didn’t understand it at first, why he was writing when he should be learning to read, but it’s all interconnected.

I have to admit that when I saw Luke’s notes yesterday, I cringed. Joe used to bring home papers like Luke is writing now. When Joe brought those papers home, I cried. I only cringed yesterday because I know it gets better. I’ve seen progress in Joe’s work. It’s been slow, but it’s perceptible if you look closely enough. So, I know someday Luke’s written work will get better too. Still, when you look at a paper like that with your third grader’s work and you register that it looks like something a first grader would do, it’s sobering.

I shared Luke’s paper with a friend when I was looking over it yesterday. She tried to assure me that her daughter’s paper wasn’t much better and that she believed that, as her daughter reported, the teacher talks so fast during the note-taking, review portion of the class that it’s hard to keep up and be neat. Good friend that she is, she tried to help me believe that Luke’s notes were probably not that far off the notes of other children in the class. I appreciated her trying to make me feel better, but I wasn’t convinced. Then, tonight, she texted me this:

“I looked at Luke’s paper again now that I know more about Ben Franklin. And, it was really smart of him to draw the pictures. He knew what they meant. The lighting rod, the fireman, etc.”

When I’d looked at Luke’s paper yesterday, I was seeing only the writing. I looked past the drawings because Luke is always drawing. He’s been very artistic for as long as I can remember. He’s done elaborate battle scenes where he attaches page after page of lined notebook paper to each other so that he creates a mural that stretches 15 feet long. Luke always sees the big picture. He draws it too. Heather was right. His notes were filled with drawings, but they weren’t doodles as I had originally thought with my overly critical, left-brained parental eye. They were part of the notes. There on the page were the kite and the lightning bolt, a candle to represent his working in his brother’s candle shop, and a fireman to denote his work as a volunteer firefighter. Luke doesn’t think in words. He thinks in pictures. He knew he would have difficulty reading his notes, so he drew pictures so he would not forget. It was quite clever, actually, because what could be more difficult than asking a dyslexic kid who also suffers from dysgraphia to read notes he took with his own hand? Is that some sort of a cruel joke? That’s more painful than eating salt and vinegar chips when you have a mouth sore.

I am continually amazed by the way my sons have creatively adapted themselves to fit into the traditional school model that caters not at all to children with learning differences and difficulties. For all the days when I’m sad because they struggle so much, there are days like today that fill me with pride and wonder at their ability to think outside the box and see the big picture. And, you’d better believe that Luke’s note page with its innumerable spelling errors and non-existent grammar is going into the Save box. That paper taught me more about my son than any test ever could. I have no reason to be concerned about Luke. He’s light years ahead of his old mother. Not only is he able to think outside the box, but he can draw it first.

Posted on 28/11/2012 by Me 3

I Found The Silver Lining

_DSC1256 — Luke and a juvenile red-footed booby in the Galapagos.

When our youngest was assessed a few weeks back as having dyslexia, I have to admit that it wasn’t a total shock. Luke had never shown any interest in reading. Working with him on it had been a drag. He wheedled to get out of it, wiggled when we made him sit down, and then winced his way through it. And, honestly, we whimpered as he messed up words like “that” and “what” and “there” and “where.” We put him through four weeks of reading tutoring in between first and second grade. In second grade, Luke’s teacher kept him after school once a week for six weeks to review phonics with him. The kid struggled. But, he was doing so well with other things and he was making progress, so we reasoned that sooner or later he would turn that magic corner and all would be fine. What we didn’t understand then was that for Luke and all people with dyslexia there is no magic corner.

The school psychologist who tested him had very specific instructions for us when she gave us his test results. We were to get him a dyslexia tutor who specialized in a multi-sensory approach to teaching reading. We were not to penalize him for misspellings (which is a good thing because his spelling is appalling). And, to keep him up at grade level literature when he can’t read well enough to comprehend books at his grade level, we were to allow him to listen to books on CD rather than to force him to read them. One thing that struck me from our conversation with the psychologist was that, although Luke’s reading skills are about two years behind where they should be, his listening skills are more than two years ahead of most children his age. It’s not unlike that quote from The Sound of Music, “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” Luke may not be the world’s greatest reader, but he is a phenomenal listener.

In preparation for Luke’s book report, which is due this week, we finished listening to his chosen book report book tonight. The four of us sat in the family room listening to The Mouse and The Motorcycle on our Bose home entertainment system. As we sat there, I thought about the days before television when people would gather around their radio to listen to the latest news, music, or program. When you use your ears and not your eyes, you’re more present with the other people in the room. There is something magical about hearing a story and noticing the acknowledgment and reaction in the faces of others. You’re present to share in their understanding. You’re simply more tuned in to the story and to each other. It’s pretty cool.

When I’ve mentioned to people that an accommodation we’re making with Luke now is allowing him to listen to books rather than actually attempting to read the book, I register a Hey…no fair look in their faces. Why should my kid get to listen to a book while their child actually has to read the book? I get where they’re coming from. I can see how it seems not right. Then I explain that although Luke can read words, he’s not truly reading. He spends so much time trying to figure out each and every sound in each and every word that he is unable to grasp the meaning of the sentence as a whole. Imagine trying to sound out “superficially” and then by the time you’ve finished sounding it out properly you have no idea what words preceded it. There is no fluidity. There is no comprehension. There are words, difficult, solitary, and devoid of collective meaning. Yes. He can read. But he can’t read.

I tell you what, though, that kid can listen. During our audio program tonight, I would pause the player every couple chapters to ask Luke comprehension questions. These were not easy, yes/no questions. These were designed to elicit specific contextual details from the story. What did the mouse do with his tail when he rode the motorcycle? What was the boy’s hotel room number? What killed the mouse’s father? Name some foods the boy brought back for the mouse and his family. Luke answered every question in great detail without missing a beat. When we sit and he reads text, he fidgets and squirms and has no clue regarding what he’s very clearly recited aloud. When Luke listens to a story, even when he appears to be checked out, he’s still getting it. This is the boy I’ve always known, the one who appears to be in his own world and yet when asked can repeat verbatim what was just said. Reading is an important skill. In fact, it’s crucial to becoming a successful adult. But, listening is a dying art. Luke will learn to read, but how many youth of today will learn to be effective and empathetic listeners? Luke may be living with the cloud of dyslexia, but that cloud’s silver lining may just make it worth the trouble.

Posted on 26/11/2012 by Me 6

Note To Self: Cows Don’t Care About Glory

I am a stay-at-home mom, which means that I don’t get paid and that I’m never home. I live in my car. Consequently, my car (a midsize, luxury SUV in name only) consistently looks as if it’s been plundered and pillaged by rogue Norsemen (which it has because my sons have a full quarter Norwegian ancestry). This morning after the boys had removed themselves from the back seat, I noticed that I could no longer see the black, leather seats back there at all. They were covered with Legos, food wrappers, various school papers, and sticky substances I have been ignoring for weeks. The floor was not much better. I knew there were floor mats down there somewhere. But where? As far as I could tell, the carpet had been replaced by shredded tissue, chewed on straws, and Star Wars action figures missing their heads. It was at that point that I seriously began to wonder if the mess back there was partially due to a rodent infestation.

I headed to the local, automatic car wash to vacuum out my filthy car and find the silver paint again. I immediately realized I had not enough quarters for the vacuum, so I sent the car through the wash and drove home to rescue the inside. I dragged out the wet/dry vacuum, a trash bag, a damp rag, a roll of paper towels, and about a gallon of Windex to begin my quest. I was mildly concerned that during my cleaning I might shove my hand under the backseat and pull out a rodent (something similar happened in our family before when hubby pulled up a seat cushion and uncovered Voldemouse in his FJ Cruiser). I tried not to think about it as I opened the back door and started digging through the rat’s nest where my children usually sit. In the first three minutes, I rescued five mangled Lego magazines, four pieces of foreign currency (not sure when my kids had time to vacation in England, France, Italy, and Denmark without me), about a gazillion Lego bricks and assorted Lego pieces, a super-high bouncing ball, an empty water bottle, some crude drawings of battles and dragons, and a spelling list. (I’d wondered where that had gotten to.) When I at last found the back seat and started working on the floor, I uncovered an interesting piece of paper. It was in Luke’s handwriting…neatly penned but with the kind of obvious errors only a child with dyslexia could make. It said: “Note to self. Cows don’t care about glory. Cows don’t care about you.” I stood there staring at that paper with my head cocked to one side. What the hell does that mean? I had no idea where to go with that information. It was funny, but what made it even funnier was that my darling son had flawlessly executed his b and d letter reversals in the most stereotypical dyslexic way. I love the way his mind works.

I finished cleaning the car to the best of my ability without uncovering any evidence of the Lost City of Mouselantis. But, I walked around for the entire rest of the day thinking about Luke’s note to self. Instead of mice occupying my thoughts, it was cows. And, not just any cows. Cows that don’t care about glory. I later was able to ask Luke about his cryptic message. He disclosed that he heard that quote on some Lego video on You Tube. Ah. It suddenly all made sense. Chalk the whole thing up to You Tube. And to think I’d been blaming the obscure cow mention to our trip to Chick-Fil-A last week. Silly me.

Posted on 20/11/2012 by Me 4

When Life Lobs A Dodgeball

Luke has invented a new comic book character named Lord Zen. I find this encouraging.

I am not, by nature, the most positive of people. I try not to be cynical, but I am never surprised when someone disappoints me. This tendency towards negativism is one of the reasons I started this blog. I was trying to find myself a better attitude. Aided by the wisdom of Eckhart Tolle (among others), I’m working towards becoming a more complete version of my best self, even though it’s not an easy journey. Just about the time I feel I am coming closer to reaching a better place, some new challenge presents itself and I’m back in Eeyore mode again. Luke’s recent diagnosis of dyslexia is the latest in a recent string of course corrections my life has taken. I’ve been trying my hardest at every turn to put a positive spin on the things I never asked for but got anyway.

Today, I went to a Lunch and Learn lecture with Luke’s new tutor. A local pediatrician was speaking about diet, exercise, and health, especially with regard to raising children, and Marcy invited me to join her. Given our boys’ difficulties, I figured that at the very least I would have an opportunity to learn something new by attending. And I had to eat anyway, right? Sitting there with other parents and individuals concerned about their health and eating habits, it hit me that two weeks ago I hadn’t even met the woman who was my host at this luncheon. It’s incredible how quickly changes come at you sometimes and how fast a new discovery will broaden your horizons if you let it. The experience I had today was just a small part of what will be a new adventure in my life. If we have to change schools or move, the adventure will alter the landscape of my life even further.

Today I determined that life is simply a giant game of dodgeball. I have two options: 1) go on the defensive and duck, weave, dive, and avoid or 2) go on the offensive and catch the ball. Attempting to avoid what’s being thrown at me seems a bit defeatist. So, I’m going to catch the ball and get in the game. Who knows what I might learn about myself along the way?

“You can never win or lose if you don’t run the race.” ~Psychedelic Furs

Posted on 16/11/2012 by Me 4

My Boys: Like The X-Men Only Not

I asked them to create their own X-Men/superhero character. This is what I got. Monkey-cat man and a pants-less king/robber dude. I’m at a loss.

After school today, I had to stop to talk to Luke’s teacher about some accommodations we need to get in place for him for his schoolwork while we begin his tutoring for dyslexia. On the way home after my conversation, the boys and I were talking about how much they dislike having people know that they’re struggling. They don’t want to feel different than their classmates and they don’t want their classmates looking at them differently. Luke hadn’t even wanted me to talk to his teacher, but I convinced him that she needed to understand his difficulties so she could help him. Even at that, he was insistent that we find a way to help him in which no one in his class need ever find out about his dyslexia. Since I just last night wrote about the boys and how grateful I am that their struggles are occurring earlier in their lives rather than later, I thought I would take the opportunity to reinforce my thoughts on the subject by talking to them about it.

“You need to step back and look at the bigger picture on this, Luke. You’re having some difficulties on the front end, but these things you’re going through will just make you stronger in the long run.”

“I just don’t want any of my classmates to know I’m different,” he replied.

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m afraid they’ll think I’m weird,” he said.

“They already think you’re weird,” I added.

“I don’t want this to make me unpopular,” Luke continued, unabated in his concern for his reputation as class clown.

Unpopular? Seriously? The kid is 9 years old. Is he already planning on being Homecoming King?

“Seriously, Luke?” Joe asked. “Everyone loves you because you’re so cute and funny. I don’t think they’ll stop liking you because you can’t read. I told my classmates about my ADHD and they don’t even get what it is. I don’t think your classmates will care.”

“I don’t want them to know,” Luke insisted.

“Luke, sweetie, you’re looking at this all wrong,” I tried again. “All these struggles you’re having now are going to help you later in life. You’re going to be able to face anything because you’ve had to be so brave and dedicated through all this. Dyslexia is not a problem. It’s a gift.”

“It’s not a gift,” he whined. “It’s a curse.”

It got quiet while I tried to figure out how to convince Luke that his embarrassment now at not being able to read as well as the other kids is actually a good thing for him. Then, out of nowhere, Joe piped up.

“Luke…it’s like the X-Men. They have powers and abilities that other people don’t have. They want to keep them a secret because they feel like freaks. Some of them think their powers are a curse. But, they’re not. Their powers make them special. They’re different and it’s not bad. They can use their special abilities to do all kinds of things.”

“Exactly,” I replied. “What Joe said.”

Okay. Okay. So, my boys aren’t exactly the X-Men. I mean, they’re not telepathic, they can’t shoot people with a high-powered optic lasers, and they’re not exactly conjuring up storms to smash their enemies. On the flip side, though, they are special in their own right. They may wish now that they were just “normal” like other people. But, I hold out hope that someday they’ll see that the challenges of being different have been a gift and not a curse. Maybe someday they’ll be proud of their own accomplishments and maybe they’ll even think they’re cool, even if they don’t have retractable, razor-sharp claws like Wolverine.

Posted on 13/11/2012 by Me 4

What To Expect Is The Unexpected

FFDJnboysstanding — My most unexpected expected things

A week ago tonight, my husband and I were not in a good place. We were grappling with the knowledge that our youngest son (our easy one) might be severely dyslexic and in need of a lot of help. We couldn’t decide which news was worse…the fact that he was dyslexic and would struggle with language, writing, spelling, and reading his entire life or that perhaps the best thing we could do to help him in the long run was to move him to a “special” school that caters to children with learning disabilities. The whole thing stunk worse than a dead mouse in a car’s heating duct.

When you find out you’re pregnant, you run out and get a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting because you want to know what you’re in for. You’re excited about what the future has in store. Last Monday night, after we’d received the less than positive news from the dyslexia specialist, we took the boys out to fulfill a promise we’d made a couple days earlier. We went to Target to buy more Skylanders because, well, why not? While browsing around in Target, I saw a copy of that ubiquitous pregnancy bible. I suddenly hated that book. I stared at it with contempt.

“That book is worthless,” I told Steve.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it doesn’t matter what happens when you’re pregnant. When you’re pregnant, you believe everything is going to be perfect. You’re going to have the delivery of your dreams where everything will go exactly as planned. Your child is going to be born healthy. He’s going to be strong and flawless enough that he can do all the things you hope he will do. He will speak two languages by age 5. He will make the winning catch in the baseball game. He’ll take calculus in 10th grade because he’s just that smart. He’ll get accepted to five, Ivy League colleges and give the commencement address to his high school class as valedictorian. When you’re pregnant, you can see no other outcome. What they need is a book called What To Expect Is The Unexpected,” I said quite bitterly. I was in a very bad place.

The past week of my life was far longer than I wanted it to be. Last Wednesday night I remember looking at Steve and asking him how it could ONLY be Wednesday. Hadn’t we lived a lifetime since Monday? I wasn’t sure how I would make it to the weekend. But, I did. And with each passing day and with each little bit of additional information about dyslexia, we began to feel better. What had looked so bleak was beginning to look palatable. On Saturday after we saw the James Redford film, The Big Picture: Rethinking Dyslexia, we understood that dyslexia is no longer the brick wall that it once was. There are programs that can help a dyslexics greatly. And, we’re in the position to help our son. No matter what he needs, we’ll be able to make it work. They say knowledge is power and they are right. The more we learn, the more we recognize that this diagnosis does not equal doom. Luke’s already on the road to getting the help he needs. With some hard work and a little perseverance, Luke will still be able to do a keg stand at college someday. And, unlike most parents, we’ll be proud because he worked hard and made it there on his own.

When my boys struggle, and they do it a lot, I remind them that every single hardship they are enduring while they’re young will only make them stronger and more resilient as they get older. I tell them that the kids that have it easy now one day won’t have it so easy and, for those kids who’ve never had to fight to overcome an obstacle, life will seem suddenly, incredibly, and insurmountably difficult. For my boys, though, and for all kids who have to put in longer hours, life’s hardships will just be another day at work. My boys may have it rough on the front end but once they get through these challenges, they will know they can tackle anything. And, although it does not seem like it to them now, that experience is a gift.

Twelve years ago I was expecting my first child. I had the book. I thought I was ready to go. What I realize now is that even with the book, I had no clue. What I thought I wanted for my sons was the wrong thing. The universe corrected me and, as hard as I took it sometimes, it was absolutely the right thing. Life is not for sissies. And if there’s one thing I know now about my boys for certain it’s that they’re not sissies.

Posted on 12/11/2012 by Me

Just Another Walk In The Park

We’ve had a couple rough days here in our house as we begin to accept the reality that Luke has dyslexia. Luke has been dealing with his differences for a while, working very diligently to disguise his struggles and fit in despite them, but we haven’t had to face them until now. I spent my morning reading a great deal online. I looked into support groups, testing options, literature, schools, and summer camps. It was mentally exhausting. Around 11:30, my brain had absorbed all it could sponge up. I was spent.

The sky was clear and sunny. Despite the November date on the calendar, the temperatures outside hovered in the mid 60s. I didn’t see how I could, in good conscience, get myself into a yoga studio on a gorgeous day like this. So, I leashed up the dog and headed into the open space park behind our house to do my usual four-mile hike. As Ruby pulled me toward our standard clockwise route on this loop hike, I stopped. She stopped. I just needed to pause, to be in the moment. I had to stop thinking and simply be.

Sometimes, things don’t go the way we would like. I had just gotten to a place of comfort with Joe’s situation when this new obstacle presented itself. So much is going to have to alter in our lives going forward. We will probably have to change Luke’s diet. We may need to change his school. We’ll shift our expectations and our strategy as parents. It’s time to look at things in our lives with fresh eyes. With that in mind, Ruby and I took our walk today against our usual grain. We proceeded in a counter clockwise direction with an eye to something different. The changes this family is facing don’t necessarily make our lives more difficult. They merely make them different. Today I walked the same path I’ve been walking but I did it a little differently. I looked at it with a new lens. The only thing that changed was my perspective. As soon as I started walking north instead of south, it stopped feeling unfamiliar. It simply felt like walking and the particulars weren’t important. I realize now that is how we’re going to get through this new challenge. Step by step we will move forward until it no longer seems new and challenging, until it’s just another walk in the park.

Posted on 07/11/2012 by Me 4

Live Now and Zen

Because even when it seems like a gag gift, the present is still a gift