I’m sure there is some deep meaning to the lullaby “Rock-a-Bye, Baby,” but it always disturbed me, especially when I was little. While I didn’t claim to be the most responsible parent of my plastic pseudo-children (one cannot make that claim after ruining a doll by leaving it out in the rain), I knew that putting a live baby in a TREE was a terrible idea! And if those dopey parents insisted on keeping the little darling up there, shouldn’t there have been a net to prevent the inevitable fall of “baby—cradle, and all?” I shook my little four-year-old noggin disapprovingly whenever I heard that awful song. Little did I know, my life as Wyatt’s mommy would relate more to that song than any other …
Having a child with autism is definitely a balancing act-- not unlike trying to parent in a tree! My little guy has a plan, and as long as his plan is in motion, he really prefers to keep me at arms’ length. Oh sure, he comes for snuggles in the morning and occasionally at night, but he doesn’t “need” me like his brother Alan does. He prefers to spend much of his time in his own little world. Things seem to make more sense to him there, I suppose. He loves his family, I have no doubt; but he finds his security in routine and regiments. He’s happiest in his tree, being gently rocked by the winds of predictability.
Change, however, throws his rhythm completely out of whack. Be it daylight savings time, haircut day, early release from school or a new pair of shoes, the routine he so desperately craves has ceased. The “wind” is no longer swaying Wyatt’s tree, and he cannot make sense of it. His world becomes too loud, too hard and too bright for his senses to take in. As his mother, I have to try to “sway the branches” myself. I attempt to guess the proper tension of the limbs and speed of my movement; hoping I will soothe my son. Sometimes, it works. In other instances, my efforts are not enough or too much. I become frustrated, and as much as I’d hate to admit it, I lose my patience from time to time. I go into lengthy explanations when I know he’s stimming and can’t process it, because I want to feel better. I cave and give him too much of what he wants, simply because I’m exhausted. I take it personally that I can’t fix my son and I raise my voice or speak too harshly.
That is when the bough breaks.
Cradle and all, in this sense, includes me. When I fail as a parent, I hit the ground first, but we all feel the impact. Wyatt seems to heal from it all so much faster than I do; for an autistic child, he is very forgiving. For that, I am very grateful! While I tend to my bumps and bruises, my Heavenly Father comforts me. He gives me grace I don’t deserve time and time again—Even though I often forget to bother asking Him how to comfort Wyatt. In the midst of my struggle, I forget that I have twenty-four hour access to The One who made my son and loves him even more than I do. I don’t have to know it all, I cannot fix it all and I cannot possibly carry this burden alone. In the back of my mind, I know all this. I am never left in a pile of twigs and leaves wondering how I got there. Regardless of all that, my Father loves, heals, strengthens and renews our entire family. He gives me the courage I need to return to the base of Wyatt’s tree, tirelessly watching over us.
I’m not going to lie; parenting a child who lives “outside of the box” is not easy. Conventional parenting and teaching techniques simply do not work. I have had to do and say some things as Wyatt’s mommy that make that crazy lullaby seem completely logical! That being said, there are many parts of my life with him that are so incredible, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Many parents will probably have a “safer” time parenting on the ground, but they’ll miss out on the beautiful view from Wyatt’s tree.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Hands and Feet
Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ.
1 Corinthians 12:12
At forty-one weeks (and three days) pregnant, my demeanor was nothing remotely resembling the mothers-to-be on the covers of my pregnancy books. There was no chapter explaining how to politely respond to the phrase, “You’re STILL pregnant?” I found no helpful online guides for enduring the shame of being sent home from the hospital (twice). The Food Network did not call me when my first labor induction was cancelled—which was a shame, because the amount of ice cream I ingested with my beloved “soul sister,” Frances that day was worthy of media attention!
Though I found several reasons to be an irritable, uncomfortable and highly emotional preggo, one of my greatest pity parties revolved around the fact that my thoughtful hubby had bought me several adorable maternity outfits for my birthday; most of which were a pipe dream at this stage of the pregnancy. I could only squeeze my watermelon-esque belly into two outfits. One consisted of a pair of super-stretchy pants (of which the elastic was crying out, “I beg of you, NO MORE!”) and a button down shirt (which, in spite of its “hunter green” hue, did not camouflage the fact that the last four button holes resembled two toddlers fighting over a cookie). When that chic ensemble was in the wash, I lumbered about our little home in a blue gingham plaid dress-- which we affectionately called, “The tent.” (I’m fairly certain this particular garment needs no explanation!) Both of these charming get-ups were accented with a pair of fashion forward slippers (to accommodate my cankles and sausage toes). Feeling certain that I would most likely remain a human incubator for the rest of my days; I flopped on the couch to have [yet another] good cry.
Startled by my abrupt change in position, little Alan kicked and flailed about in his ever-shrinking internal accommodations. As I gently patted my belly, I told my little boy all about my frustrations, and how desperately I wanted to be done with this “magical journey” known as the tenth month. While kvetching incessantly to my unborn child, I saw the outline of a teensy little foot beneath my shirt. Now it was my turn to be startled! I moved my shirt up to see the little footprint better. While I stroked his little foot with one hand, I felt something pushing on my other. When I moved a few fingers out of the way, a precious little handprint came into view! As our hands “almost touched,” I forgot how uncomfortable I was, how huge I was, how tired I was … all I could do is stare in wonder as my little boy and I shared that moment.
When “big” Alan came back into the house, he was alarmed by the site of his expectant wife sobbing. Once I could find the words, I told him how our little boy had been reaching out to connect with me; to remind me of the purpose behind the pain. What a gift!
I loved the little kicks and flutters from my sons from the inside, but it couldn’t compare with seeing those precious little faces, hearing them say “Mama” for the first time or feeling their arms wrapped around me in a voluntary hug. This was, and is, worth waiting for!
The world in which we live can be unsettlingly dark and lonely at times, especially when one has no hope. When our Savior ascended into heaven, we were given the incredible and daunting privilege of being the “Hands and Feet of Jesus.” We can’t answer every question, ease every pain or dry every tear, but when we reach out to others—yes, even in our limited, imperfect capacities, we share a glimpse of someone’s purpose. When we take the time to listen, because God does, we show them that we love them, because God does. Never underestimate your ability to be used by God; the tiniest of hands and feet can change a life. :)
1 Corinthians 12:12
At forty-one weeks (and three days) pregnant, my demeanor was nothing remotely resembling the mothers-to-be on the covers of my pregnancy books. There was no chapter explaining how to politely respond to the phrase, “You’re STILL pregnant?” I found no helpful online guides for enduring the shame of being sent home from the hospital (twice). The Food Network did not call me when my first labor induction was cancelled—which was a shame, because the amount of ice cream I ingested with my beloved “soul sister,” Frances that day was worthy of media attention!
Though I found several reasons to be an irritable, uncomfortable and highly emotional preggo, one of my greatest pity parties revolved around the fact that my thoughtful hubby had bought me several adorable maternity outfits for my birthday; most of which were a pipe dream at this stage of the pregnancy. I could only squeeze my watermelon-esque belly into two outfits. One consisted of a pair of super-stretchy pants (of which the elastic was crying out, “I beg of you, NO MORE!”) and a button down shirt (which, in spite of its “hunter green” hue, did not camouflage the fact that the last four button holes resembled two toddlers fighting over a cookie). When that chic ensemble was in the wash, I lumbered about our little home in a blue gingham plaid dress-- which we affectionately called, “The tent.” (I’m fairly certain this particular garment needs no explanation!) Both of these charming get-ups were accented with a pair of fashion forward slippers (to accommodate my cankles and sausage toes). Feeling certain that I would most likely remain a human incubator for the rest of my days; I flopped on the couch to have [yet another] good cry.
Startled by my abrupt change in position, little Alan kicked and flailed about in his ever-shrinking internal accommodations. As I gently patted my belly, I told my little boy all about my frustrations, and how desperately I wanted to be done with this “magical journey” known as the tenth month. While kvetching incessantly to my unborn child, I saw the outline of a teensy little foot beneath my shirt. Now it was my turn to be startled! I moved my shirt up to see the little footprint better. While I stroked his little foot with one hand, I felt something pushing on my other. When I moved a few fingers out of the way, a precious little handprint came into view! As our hands “almost touched,” I forgot how uncomfortable I was, how huge I was, how tired I was … all I could do is stare in wonder as my little boy and I shared that moment.
When “big” Alan came back into the house, he was alarmed by the site of his expectant wife sobbing. Once I could find the words, I told him how our little boy had been reaching out to connect with me; to remind me of the purpose behind the pain. What a gift!
I loved the little kicks and flutters from my sons from the inside, but it couldn’t compare with seeing those precious little faces, hearing them say “Mama” for the first time or feeling their arms wrapped around me in a voluntary hug. This was, and is, worth waiting for!
The world in which we live can be unsettlingly dark and lonely at times, especially when one has no hope. When our Savior ascended into heaven, we were given the incredible and daunting privilege of being the “Hands and Feet of Jesus.” We can’t answer every question, ease every pain or dry every tear, but when we reach out to others—yes, even in our limited, imperfect capacities, we share a glimpse of someone’s purpose. When we take the time to listen, because God does, we show them that we love them, because God does. Never underestimate your ability to be used by God; the tiniest of hands and feet can change a life. :)
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Wyatt's Song
In honor of my little guy's seventh birthday, I planned to share his birth story. However, God seemed to have other plans, because this is what came out of my little noggin instead. How fitting, since Wyatt always seems to change the course of my plans! :)
I had a plan for when you’d come
To complete our family
I’d returned to work
We’d just bought a new house
It didn’t seem like the right time to me!
While your brother called me from his crib
I held a test with two dark lines
They sure showed up quick
I didn’t even feel sick
When we learned of our little “surprise”
Sure, the timing was crazy
And our house seemed too small
But maybe I’d learn how to manage it all
I knew you were a blessing
I just had to tweak my plans
And I carried on, as if I held my life in my hands
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was certain I was having a girl
Ultrasounds proved I’d spoken too soon
I expected a 6 lb. baby mid-May
You arrived (nearly 9 lbs.) in June
We found leaks from the water tank
On our way out the door
We forgot Alan’s shoes
It was chaos galore!
But the chaos was hushed
By the cries of my little man
And I fell in love with the baby they placed in my hands
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You ate all day, and you slept all night
And you wouldn’t look at me
But your mother saw you as brilliant and “quirky”
As you lined up your toys constantly
There was fear in your eyes
That kept you from walking
And though you had words
You struggled with talking
I was grieved and confused
So unsure of how to plan
I released my grip and I placed your life in God’s hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You may have “quirks,” but they’re part of you
And you’re charming, sweet and smart
Much of your thoughts and actions confuse me
But my son, I know what’s in your heart
Through your struggles and trials
I’ve loved watching you grow
I see how far you’ve come
And though you’ve so far to go
I know you’ll find your way
I’m not sure what God has planned
But I rest assured that your life is safe in His hands.
I had a plan for when you’d come
To complete our family
I’d returned to work
We’d just bought a new house
It didn’t seem like the right time to me!
While your brother called me from his crib
I held a test with two dark lines
They sure showed up quick
I didn’t even feel sick
When we learned of our little “surprise”
Sure, the timing was crazy
And our house seemed too small
But maybe I’d learn how to manage it all
I knew you were a blessing
I just had to tweak my plans
And I carried on, as if I held my life in my hands
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was certain I was having a girl
Ultrasounds proved I’d spoken too soon
I expected a 6 lb. baby mid-May
You arrived (nearly 9 lbs.) in June
We found leaks from the water tank
On our way out the door
We forgot Alan’s shoes
It was chaos galore!
But the chaos was hushed
By the cries of my little man
And I fell in love with the baby they placed in my hands
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You ate all day, and you slept all night
And you wouldn’t look at me
But your mother saw you as brilliant and “quirky”
As you lined up your toys constantly
There was fear in your eyes
That kept you from walking
And though you had words
You struggled with talking
I was grieved and confused
So unsure of how to plan
I released my grip and I placed your life in God’s hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You may have “quirks,” but they’re part of you
And you’re charming, sweet and smart
Much of your thoughts and actions confuse me
But my son, I know what’s in your heart
Through your struggles and trials
I’ve loved watching you grow
I see how far you’ve come
And though you’ve so far to go
I know you’ll find your way
I’m not sure what God has planned
But I rest assured that your life is safe in His hands.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Perfect Storm
(Written Jan 23, 2011)
Winter storms (especially here in the Pacific Northwest) are notoriously difficult to predict. Sure, the meteorologist has a general idea of what will happen and when, but it’s all a guessing game. After being sent home twice from the hospital with “false labor” (how contractions that hurt and show up on the monitor can be called false is beyond me!) and having my induction rescheduled (no room at the inn, apparently), I decided that obstetricians were meteorologists with medical degrees! I had begun to think that my dear little boy would attend college in utero! When a woman is just over five feet tall and 42 weeks pregnant, the two words that best describe her are enormous and desperate! I longed for this little guy with more sincerity than a child praying for snow at Christmas.
I’d wanted to be a mother from the time I was old enough to stick a dolly on my hip while I cooked “Lincoln Log casserole” in my little play kitchen. I don’t remember a single present I received for Christmas in 2001, because nothing in a box could hold a candle to the gift waiting inside of me. Christmas and New Years’ had come and gone, as had my husband’s birthday, my due date, and 2 Costco packs of antacids. I would dream of holding my baby (and wake up still pregnant) night after night. With each day that passed, my bulging belly was like a heavy snow cloud, hovering over my future. I knew he was coming, but when?
High blood pressure, while surely not something one usually hopes for, was AWESOME in my eyes. The hospital had to let me in to have this baby! As I reached for the very last antacid at the bottom of the bottle, the phone rang. The hospital wanted me to come! I threw on my only fitting shirt and pants, gripped my husband’s hand excitedly and we headed out into the freezing morning. We were going to the hospital (again), and this time, we were coming back with the baby on the outside!
Like early flurries that fall and stop, so was my labor progression for several hours. Getting ready to push seemed to take a lifetime, but once it was time, he came out quicker than even the doctor expected! My baby came to me like the snow falling outside, quietly and quickly! I expected a big, long wail to fill the halls that night, but he squawked one loud cry, then furrowed his brow and looked around, as if to say, “Alright, who’s in charge here? I hear there is a nice lady who makes milk. I’d like to see her, please.” I spent most of the night just watching him; afraid to close my eyes. I didn’t want this to be a dream. Oblivious to the white blanket covering the world beyond my recovery room, I ran my fingers gently across the flannel that enveloped my son.
After a few little bumps in an otherwise worry-free recovery, my Alans and I were ready to go home. His father drove down the icy streets as if he were transporting the president. He was extremely careful and understandably proud. While it was all sunshine and rainbows in the driver’s seat, reality was hitting me on the head like Kansas hail. This baby was coming home to live with US. Like, ALL THE TIME! I wasn’t waiting for this child’s mother to sign him out, I was his mother! For weeks I fumbled through, adoring my baby, yet secretly hoping that his real mother (who clearly had more of a clue than I did) would come and get him. I didn’t deserve this privilege. He needed somebody who knew what all his cries meant. Someone who didn’t keep the lactation consultant’s phone ringing off the hook. Someone who knew how to avoid getting peed on. Someone who wouldn’t screw this poor kid up! I wondered if the rain of inadequacy would cease-- so I could be more like June Cleaver and less like Lucy. There are days when I still wait …
Nine years later, Alan is still a snow baby. He puts on his snow shoes at the sight of 3 snow flakes and waits expectantly on the porch. He is still a gentle little guy with a plan. All those little thoughts and expressions I once struggled to interpret now come out in run-on sentences. (Hmmm, wonder where he got that?) I know I had a life before children, but I honestly cannot remember it. I’ve grown along side him; gaining experience, confidence and understanding with each passing year, but I still have so much to learn about how to be Alan’s mom. He still sometimes makes me feel like a clueless amateur who has no business raising chickens, much less children. There are days when I feel as though my heart will burst, I love him so much. There are days when I lock myself in the bathroom and scream into my bath towel; afraid I will burst from exasperation. There are days when he has hurts that I can’t fix and cry; wishing with all my might that I could take them for him. But no matter what the day has brought us, as I check on my boy one last time before bed, I am overwhelmed with the reality of how much I love my little boy. I kiss his forehead and remember the night when the perfect storm blew into my life-- changing it forever.
Happy Birthday, Alan Walter!
Winter storms (especially here in the Pacific Northwest) are notoriously difficult to predict. Sure, the meteorologist has a general idea of what will happen and when, but it’s all a guessing game. After being sent home twice from the hospital with “false labor” (how contractions that hurt and show up on the monitor can be called false is beyond me!) and having my induction rescheduled (no room at the inn, apparently), I decided that obstetricians were meteorologists with medical degrees! I had begun to think that my dear little boy would attend college in utero! When a woman is just over five feet tall and 42 weeks pregnant, the two words that best describe her are enormous and desperate! I longed for this little guy with more sincerity than a child praying for snow at Christmas.
I’d wanted to be a mother from the time I was old enough to stick a dolly on my hip while I cooked “Lincoln Log casserole” in my little play kitchen. I don’t remember a single present I received for Christmas in 2001, because nothing in a box could hold a candle to the gift waiting inside of me. Christmas and New Years’ had come and gone, as had my husband’s birthday, my due date, and 2 Costco packs of antacids. I would dream of holding my baby (and wake up still pregnant) night after night. With each day that passed, my bulging belly was like a heavy snow cloud, hovering over my future. I knew he was coming, but when?
High blood pressure, while surely not something one usually hopes for, was AWESOME in my eyes. The hospital had to let me in to have this baby! As I reached for the very last antacid at the bottom of the bottle, the phone rang. The hospital wanted me to come! I threw on my only fitting shirt and pants, gripped my husband’s hand excitedly and we headed out into the freezing morning. We were going to the hospital (again), and this time, we were coming back with the baby on the outside!
Like early flurries that fall and stop, so was my labor progression for several hours. Getting ready to push seemed to take a lifetime, but once it was time, he came out quicker than even the doctor expected! My baby came to me like the snow falling outside, quietly and quickly! I expected a big, long wail to fill the halls that night, but he squawked one loud cry, then furrowed his brow and looked around, as if to say, “Alright, who’s in charge here? I hear there is a nice lady who makes milk. I’d like to see her, please.” I spent most of the night just watching him; afraid to close my eyes. I didn’t want this to be a dream. Oblivious to the white blanket covering the world beyond my recovery room, I ran my fingers gently across the flannel that enveloped my son.
After a few little bumps in an otherwise worry-free recovery, my Alans and I were ready to go home. His father drove down the icy streets as if he were transporting the president. He was extremely careful and understandably proud. While it was all sunshine and rainbows in the driver’s seat, reality was hitting me on the head like Kansas hail. This baby was coming home to live with US. Like, ALL THE TIME! I wasn’t waiting for this child’s mother to sign him out, I was his mother! For weeks I fumbled through, adoring my baby, yet secretly hoping that his real mother (who clearly had more of a clue than I did) would come and get him. I didn’t deserve this privilege. He needed somebody who knew what all his cries meant. Someone who didn’t keep the lactation consultant’s phone ringing off the hook. Someone who knew how to avoid getting peed on. Someone who wouldn’t screw this poor kid up! I wondered if the rain of inadequacy would cease-- so I could be more like June Cleaver and less like Lucy. There are days when I still wait …
Nine years later, Alan is still a snow baby. He puts on his snow shoes at the sight of 3 snow flakes and waits expectantly on the porch. He is still a gentle little guy with a plan. All those little thoughts and expressions I once struggled to interpret now come out in run-on sentences. (Hmmm, wonder where he got that?) I know I had a life before children, but I honestly cannot remember it. I’ve grown along side him; gaining experience, confidence and understanding with each passing year, but I still have so much to learn about how to be Alan’s mom. He still sometimes makes me feel like a clueless amateur who has no business raising chickens, much less children. There are days when I feel as though my heart will burst, I love him so much. There are days when I lock myself in the bathroom and scream into my bath towel; afraid I will burst from exasperation. There are days when he has hurts that I can’t fix and cry; wishing with all my might that I could take them for him. But no matter what the day has brought us, as I check on my boy one last time before bed, I am overwhelmed with the reality of how much I love my little boy. I kiss his forehead and remember the night when the perfect storm blew into my life-- changing it forever.
Happy Birthday, Alan Walter!
Open Your Hand
(Written February 9, 2011)
Then he said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” So he stretched it out and it was completely restored, just as sound as the other.
Matthew 12:12-14
My first-born prepared me for parenting in practical ways, such as how to nurse a baby, when to worry about fevers, diaper bag essentials and which pharmacies are open 24 hours. Aside from that, my two little boys could not have been more different. Alan wanted to be swaddled, snuggled, cuddled and rocked at all times. Wyatt wanted to hang out in his diaper and be left alone until it was time to eat. Alan lived in the swing. Wyatt hated it. Alan always wanted to have mommy nearby. Wyatt was happy to entertain himself between meals and naps with very little maternal intervention. After having a child who wanted to be in my arms, craving constant attention at all times, Wyatt seemed like such an easy baby! I was certain he was going to be the child who gave me no drama whatsoever. That theory could not have been more incorrect!
I learned in his second year of life that my “serious” baby wasn’t just serious. He experienced emotional and sensory deficits (and overloads), due to PDD-NOS, a form of Autism. His high pain tolerance, which had made those rounds of shots during the first year a breeze, was not always an asset. I’m not sure a mother can be prepared for the sound of a single whimper alluding to not just a bump on the head, but a trip to urgent care. There is no “gearing up” for a toddler who runs towards moving cars. Silence can mean your child is playing quietly, or your child is in danger.
On the flip side to the silent dangers he craved were boisterous outbursts which seemed to come with very little reasoning. Car seats, high chairs, changing tables, people wanting to hold him, several foods, changes in scheduling, face washing … all of these would send my child into a screaming, flailing tirade. He began talking at six months old, but from age one to two he scarcely progressed at all, usually only repeating the last words we spoke to him. Unable to express his desires and needs, he grew more and more frustrated. Thank God for the patient, loving and knowledgeable therapists, who walked with us through that difficult time. They taught us how to reach him, how to help him, and how to begin to understand him. Though he still spoke to us in memorized phrases, we were breaking through many barriers. He was learning to be safer. He was transitioning easier. We were planning a move to a beautiful home in the country, where the boys would have plenty of room to safely run and the schools were known for their special education staff. Ironically, this move brought us to the scariest point in Wyatt’s life thus far …
Wyatt’s room had been put in the same arrangement, in an attempt to make him feel more at ease with the move. I was expecting sleepless nights, speech regression and tantrums. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen. A week after we moved, Auntie Laura moved as well. Not only was our beloved “Auntie L” my sister, she was also Wyatt’s first preschool teacher. The two safest places Wyatt knew had changed. Again, I was expecting meltdowns, but they didn’t seem to happen. What happened instead was the clenching of his left hand. At first, he opened and closed it frequently. As the days passed, it was closed more and more. Before we knew it, he was using his left hand like a “club” appendage. His hand remained clenched in a fist when he ate, when he took a bath, when he played, even when he slept. Deeply concerned, we called his neurologist.
As we waited for his MRI appointment, the clenching continued. He wouldn’t even open his hand to push away the nurse as she checked his blood pressure and put an I.V. in his right arm. As my baby slipped into his medicated slumber, his hand slowly began to open. Our hearts sank as the fist returned before he fully regained consciousness.
The doctor told us there was no medical reason why this was happening, but his body didn’t know that. Though stress was causing his clenched hand, his body got used to it. We were informed that if he didn’t start using his hand again, he could remain this way for life. We had to get him to start opening his hand again, and when he was ready, the fist would be gone for good.
We were given strict instructions to exercise his hand once every hour when he was awake. We would tell Wyatt to open his hand, and then tell him what a good boy he was and give him ten high-fives. At first, we had to pry his little hand open. After a few days, he would open it voluntarily, give us “fives” and then the fist returned. Every day, I begged my son, “Please, baby-- open your hand!” Every night, I pleaded with God to show me how I could ease his mind, thereby healing his body.
Auntie Laura called me one morning, asking if we would like to come over. She had set up the new classroom in her new house, and hoped it might help Wyatt to see that his favorite toys and learning tools were still there. When I asked Wyatt if he wanted to go, he thought for a moment, said, “Yeah …” and began opening and closing his hand! Little Alan pointed, noticing at the same time I did. We knew what to do. We drove straight to Auntie Laura’s house!
He opened and closed his hand intermittently during the twenty-five minute drive. I called his daddy on the way, telling him I would keep him posted. He told me he would be waiting by his phone. As we parked in an unfamiliar driveway, Wyatt’s fist clenched tightly. This wasn’t Auntie Laura’s house. His entire body stiffened as we walked up the stairs. When the front door opened, my sister’s gentle smile and compassionate eyes met Wyatt’s. His rigid frame seemed to melt into the arms of his beloved Auntie, as she carried him into the classroom. As she gingerly placed his feet on the floor, she asked him if he could see his beloved wooden numbers. He beamed, pointing at the bountiful basket of numerals. As he slowly walked around the shelves, he found his favorite toys; the wooden cylinders, the sand paper letters, the love-worn copy of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” they were all there! His left hand continuously opened and closed, while his right hand touched each item. It was going to be okay. School was still school. Just like at home, it was different, but the important pieces were still there. I called my husband to share the good news. He said he couldn’t wait to get home and hug his brave boy!
When we returned home, Wyatt’s demeanor was more tranquil than it had been in nearly a month. It took him a few days to remember that he could use his left hand again, but it slowly returned to its original capabilities. When he would feel a bit uneasy, the fist would return from time to time. When those moments came, all it took was a gentle rubbing of his arm and the words, “Wyatt, open your hand,” to relax his little fingers once more. When I think about how fear almost paralyzed my son’s hand, I am so thankful for the intervention of doctors, earnestly praying family and friends and the compassion of my sister, Laura. Fear could have stolen a precious gift from Wyatt.
I am amazed every day how much I learn from my children. Thinking back on this season of Wyatt’s life, I can’t help but see parallels in my own. There are times when God brings wonderful changes into my life, such as new opportunities, friendships or medical advancements. I know they come from a loving God who has proven time and time again that he can be depended upon. Regardless of how good He has always been to me, the proof of His amazing love through Christ’s sacrifice and the plethora of scriptures affirming that God always keeps His promises, I allow fear to paralyze me. I close myself off from all that God wants me to become, because it’s new. It’s different. It’s scary. I stumble through life, struggling in ways God would never want me to; all because I will not listen to His pleading, “Open your hand.”
Then he said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” So he stretched it out and it was completely restored, just as sound as the other.
Matthew 12:12-14
My first-born prepared me for parenting in practical ways, such as how to nurse a baby, when to worry about fevers, diaper bag essentials and which pharmacies are open 24 hours. Aside from that, my two little boys could not have been more different. Alan wanted to be swaddled, snuggled, cuddled and rocked at all times. Wyatt wanted to hang out in his diaper and be left alone until it was time to eat. Alan lived in the swing. Wyatt hated it. Alan always wanted to have mommy nearby. Wyatt was happy to entertain himself between meals and naps with very little maternal intervention. After having a child who wanted to be in my arms, craving constant attention at all times, Wyatt seemed like such an easy baby! I was certain he was going to be the child who gave me no drama whatsoever. That theory could not have been more incorrect!
I learned in his second year of life that my “serious” baby wasn’t just serious. He experienced emotional and sensory deficits (and overloads), due to PDD-NOS, a form of Autism. His high pain tolerance, which had made those rounds of shots during the first year a breeze, was not always an asset. I’m not sure a mother can be prepared for the sound of a single whimper alluding to not just a bump on the head, but a trip to urgent care. There is no “gearing up” for a toddler who runs towards moving cars. Silence can mean your child is playing quietly, or your child is in danger.
On the flip side to the silent dangers he craved were boisterous outbursts which seemed to come with very little reasoning. Car seats, high chairs, changing tables, people wanting to hold him, several foods, changes in scheduling, face washing … all of these would send my child into a screaming, flailing tirade. He began talking at six months old, but from age one to two he scarcely progressed at all, usually only repeating the last words we spoke to him. Unable to express his desires and needs, he grew more and more frustrated. Thank God for the patient, loving and knowledgeable therapists, who walked with us through that difficult time. They taught us how to reach him, how to help him, and how to begin to understand him. Though he still spoke to us in memorized phrases, we were breaking through many barriers. He was learning to be safer. He was transitioning easier. We were planning a move to a beautiful home in the country, where the boys would have plenty of room to safely run and the schools were known for their special education staff. Ironically, this move brought us to the scariest point in Wyatt’s life thus far …
Wyatt’s room had been put in the same arrangement, in an attempt to make him feel more at ease with the move. I was expecting sleepless nights, speech regression and tantrums. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen. A week after we moved, Auntie Laura moved as well. Not only was our beloved “Auntie L” my sister, she was also Wyatt’s first preschool teacher. The two safest places Wyatt knew had changed. Again, I was expecting meltdowns, but they didn’t seem to happen. What happened instead was the clenching of his left hand. At first, he opened and closed it frequently. As the days passed, it was closed more and more. Before we knew it, he was using his left hand like a “club” appendage. His hand remained clenched in a fist when he ate, when he took a bath, when he played, even when he slept. Deeply concerned, we called his neurologist.
As we waited for his MRI appointment, the clenching continued. He wouldn’t even open his hand to push away the nurse as she checked his blood pressure and put an I.V. in his right arm. As my baby slipped into his medicated slumber, his hand slowly began to open. Our hearts sank as the fist returned before he fully regained consciousness.
The doctor told us there was no medical reason why this was happening, but his body didn’t know that. Though stress was causing his clenched hand, his body got used to it. We were informed that if he didn’t start using his hand again, he could remain this way for life. We had to get him to start opening his hand again, and when he was ready, the fist would be gone for good.
We were given strict instructions to exercise his hand once every hour when he was awake. We would tell Wyatt to open his hand, and then tell him what a good boy he was and give him ten high-fives. At first, we had to pry his little hand open. After a few days, he would open it voluntarily, give us “fives” and then the fist returned. Every day, I begged my son, “Please, baby-- open your hand!” Every night, I pleaded with God to show me how I could ease his mind, thereby healing his body.
Auntie Laura called me one morning, asking if we would like to come over. She had set up the new classroom in her new house, and hoped it might help Wyatt to see that his favorite toys and learning tools were still there. When I asked Wyatt if he wanted to go, he thought for a moment, said, “Yeah …” and began opening and closing his hand! Little Alan pointed, noticing at the same time I did. We knew what to do. We drove straight to Auntie Laura’s house!
He opened and closed his hand intermittently during the twenty-five minute drive. I called his daddy on the way, telling him I would keep him posted. He told me he would be waiting by his phone. As we parked in an unfamiliar driveway, Wyatt’s fist clenched tightly. This wasn’t Auntie Laura’s house. His entire body stiffened as we walked up the stairs. When the front door opened, my sister’s gentle smile and compassionate eyes met Wyatt’s. His rigid frame seemed to melt into the arms of his beloved Auntie, as she carried him into the classroom. As she gingerly placed his feet on the floor, she asked him if he could see his beloved wooden numbers. He beamed, pointing at the bountiful basket of numerals. As he slowly walked around the shelves, he found his favorite toys; the wooden cylinders, the sand paper letters, the love-worn copy of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” they were all there! His left hand continuously opened and closed, while his right hand touched each item. It was going to be okay. School was still school. Just like at home, it was different, but the important pieces were still there. I called my husband to share the good news. He said he couldn’t wait to get home and hug his brave boy!
When we returned home, Wyatt’s demeanor was more tranquil than it had been in nearly a month. It took him a few days to remember that he could use his left hand again, but it slowly returned to its original capabilities. When he would feel a bit uneasy, the fist would return from time to time. When those moments came, all it took was a gentle rubbing of his arm and the words, “Wyatt, open your hand,” to relax his little fingers once more. When I think about how fear almost paralyzed my son’s hand, I am so thankful for the intervention of doctors, earnestly praying family and friends and the compassion of my sister, Laura. Fear could have stolen a precious gift from Wyatt.
I am amazed every day how much I learn from my children. Thinking back on this season of Wyatt’s life, I can’t help but see parallels in my own. There are times when God brings wonderful changes into my life, such as new opportunities, friendships or medical advancements. I know they come from a loving God who has proven time and time again that he can be depended upon. Regardless of how good He has always been to me, the proof of His amazing love through Christ’s sacrifice and the plethora of scriptures affirming that God always keeps His promises, I allow fear to paralyze me. I close myself off from all that God wants me to become, because it’s new. It’s different. It’s scary. I stumble through life, struggling in ways God would never want me to; all because I will not listen to His pleading, “Open your hand.”
For What it's Worth
I wrote this back in March on facebook, but I wanted to make sure I was "saving" it somewhere else. :)
“Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”
1 Samuel 16:7
I really do lead an atypical life. For starters, I love my boss. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I don't just love love her little boy, I genuinely love Katie! And no, it's not just for the lattes she brings on tough days, the "staff meetings" she schedules at Cutters Point or the fact that she's growing another little boy for me to love. She's a blast to hang out with! She's crazy smart, has a quirky little sense of humor and she genuinely sees my heart and not the pile of dishes I didn't get to while playing tickle tag with her son. Every payday, Katie usually gets home late. I put Kaelin in his car seat with a snack, Katie writes my check and we spend the next thirty-plus minutes just chatting. I always learn something new from our time together; today I was blessed by the story of a special ring.
Her grandmother had given her the ring; I've never seen one quite like it. The setting was what made it so unique; as prongs were arranged differently during the WWII era. As Katie told me the story of of the gift's origin (the center stone was from her grandmother's engagement ring), she spoke with a genuine fondness-- which had nothing to do with its contents. The ring was a visible sign of love, tying generations together.
While in high school, a fellow classmate (and aspiring jeweler) looked at Katie's precious heirloom with much different eyes. He informed her that the prongs were set all wrong, the coloring of the stones meant they were probably fake and her ring was worthless. While his haughty, unsolicited commentary did not change the value in Katie's heart, it certainly piqued her curiosity. Because of this encounter, she took her ring to an actual jeweler. He marveled at the rarity of the setting, the quality of the stones and the unique choice of rose-gold. He urged Katie to protect her ring with insurance.
Naturally, I was struck by the contrast in the two appraisals. The ring had certainly not changed; the differing opinions were the result of two very different people. While the student obviously took a great interest in jewelry, his expertise and experience was limited. The jeweler had training, much more experience and a greater understanding of what he held in his hands. Again, it did not change the ring's value in Katie's heart, but it always feels good to be validated!
Later that day, while talking with a friend, she mentioned feeling "superfluous." Saddened by her self-appraisal, I vehemently disagreed. While I would be upset by anyone who saw themselves as lacking in value, I am known for sharing some "unsolicited commentary" of my own when a loved one does. I knew my friend had recently been "poorly appraised" by someone close to her, and a long, trial-ridden day had caused her to question her worth. I told her about Katie's ring, and told her that just because someone couldn't see her value; it didn't change how precious she was.
I know we all do this from time to time. We don't even need someone close to us to tell us where we fall short; perfect strangers do it! We have billboards, commercials, music videos and reality TV telling us we're "junk." We're not rich enough, we don't look good enough, we're not smart enough, we're not getting enough done ... I think our "lack of value" is one of Satan's favorite lies. After all, the less we value ourselves, the less we care about the choices we make. When we have no value, we can abuse, mutilate and destroy the bodies God gave us. We can harden our hearts towards the needs of others, since; after all, we couldn't do anything about it. We can callous the protective conscience He placed inside of us, Bringing hardship, abuse and pain into our lives. This truly must grieve our Heavenly Father, who sees us so differently.
Almighty God, the Creator and giver of all life, places upon each of us a certificate of priceless value. He has deemed that we are worth the life of His Son. He sees every quirk of your personality, every mole on your back, every time you kick your shin against the open dishwasher door ... and He adores you. He knows the innermost corners of your heart, the secrets you plan to take to your grave and the number of hairs (or lack thereof) on your head. You can't ask for a more thorough appraisal than that! He loves us unconditionally, so much so that he provided redemption for our sin, lest it separate us from Him. He covered all of our filth with the pure, perfect and priceless blood of Jesus. In that single act, The Righteous Judge has appraised you as priceless.
As your week comes to a close, hold tight to your appraisal! My prayer is that you all might know that you are precious, irreplaceable, priceless and loved beyond measure! <3
“Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”
1 Samuel 16:7
I really do lead an atypical life. For starters, I love my boss. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I don't just love love her little boy, I genuinely love Katie! And no, it's not just for the lattes she brings on tough days, the "staff meetings" she schedules at Cutters Point or the fact that she's growing another little boy for me to love. She's a blast to hang out with! She's crazy smart, has a quirky little sense of humor and she genuinely sees my heart and not the pile of dishes I didn't get to while playing tickle tag with her son. Every payday, Katie usually gets home late. I put Kaelin in his car seat with a snack, Katie writes my check and we spend the next thirty-plus minutes just chatting. I always learn something new from our time together; today I was blessed by the story of a special ring.
Her grandmother had given her the ring; I've never seen one quite like it. The setting was what made it so unique; as prongs were arranged differently during the WWII era. As Katie told me the story of of the gift's origin (the center stone was from her grandmother's engagement ring), she spoke with a genuine fondness-- which had nothing to do with its contents. The ring was a visible sign of love, tying generations together.
While in high school, a fellow classmate (and aspiring jeweler) looked at Katie's precious heirloom with much different eyes. He informed her that the prongs were set all wrong, the coloring of the stones meant they were probably fake and her ring was worthless. While his haughty, unsolicited commentary did not change the value in Katie's heart, it certainly piqued her curiosity. Because of this encounter, she took her ring to an actual jeweler. He marveled at the rarity of the setting, the quality of the stones and the unique choice of rose-gold. He urged Katie to protect her ring with insurance.
Naturally, I was struck by the contrast in the two appraisals. The ring had certainly not changed; the differing opinions were the result of two very different people. While the student obviously took a great interest in jewelry, his expertise and experience was limited. The jeweler had training, much more experience and a greater understanding of what he held in his hands. Again, it did not change the ring's value in Katie's heart, but it always feels good to be validated!
Later that day, while talking with a friend, she mentioned feeling "superfluous." Saddened by her self-appraisal, I vehemently disagreed. While I would be upset by anyone who saw themselves as lacking in value, I am known for sharing some "unsolicited commentary" of my own when a loved one does. I knew my friend had recently been "poorly appraised" by someone close to her, and a long, trial-ridden day had caused her to question her worth. I told her about Katie's ring, and told her that just because someone couldn't see her value; it didn't change how precious she was.
I know we all do this from time to time. We don't even need someone close to us to tell us where we fall short; perfect strangers do it! We have billboards, commercials, music videos and reality TV telling us we're "junk." We're not rich enough, we don't look good enough, we're not smart enough, we're not getting enough done ... I think our "lack of value" is one of Satan's favorite lies. After all, the less we value ourselves, the less we care about the choices we make. When we have no value, we can abuse, mutilate and destroy the bodies God gave us. We can harden our hearts towards the needs of others, since; after all, we couldn't do anything about it. We can callous the protective conscience He placed inside of us, Bringing hardship, abuse and pain into our lives. This truly must grieve our Heavenly Father, who sees us so differently.
Almighty God, the Creator and giver of all life, places upon each of us a certificate of priceless value. He has deemed that we are worth the life of His Son. He sees every quirk of your personality, every mole on your back, every time you kick your shin against the open dishwasher door ... and He adores you. He knows the innermost corners of your heart, the secrets you plan to take to your grave and the number of hairs (or lack thereof) on your head. You can't ask for a more thorough appraisal than that! He loves us unconditionally, so much so that he provided redemption for our sin, lest it separate us from Him. He covered all of our filth with the pure, perfect and priceless blood of Jesus. In that single act, The Righteous Judge has appraised you as priceless.
As your week comes to a close, hold tight to your appraisal! My prayer is that you all might know that you are precious, irreplaceable, priceless and loved beyond measure! <3
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Can You Hear Me Now?
Holy Toledo, I am going to lose my mind. Laryngitis could not have fallen upon someone with a bigger quota of WORDS to get out! Yes, I realize that Barbara Streisand nearly lost her voice, blah blah, millions of dollars, yadda, yadda. Does she clean her house better on the phone, because she NEEDS adults in her life? I don't think so! Does she have two little boys to drown out with the announcement that SOMEONE did not flush the toilet after using it? I would say that's a big, fat, opera-singin' NO! I'm going to also go out on a limb and say that she has not had to shoo chickens off her front porch or call in her twenty-six pound neurotic Mini-Aussie (who is CONVINCED that my neighbors come to the mailboxes in front of our pasture, scheming to KILL US ALL; thus I must be alerted-- repeatedly). I understand that Babs "wants" her voice, but I need mine!
I could go on and on about that (OOPS-- already did), but since I always tell my kids that "whining has never provided a solid case for anything," I suppose it's time to hoist up my big-girl knickers and cope. The question is, of course, how does one attract (and keep) the attention of her children, animals and husband without effectively working vocal chords? (Yes, I know I lumped everyone together. There is a reason for that-- they all seem to be vastly gifted with selective hearing!) I've tried a few methods. Seeing as how many of them made me look ridiculous, I thought I'd share them in a public forum ...
Method #1: The "Seal"
This is where you run around your house, clapping. All I wanted to do was tell Wyatt to go brush his teeth. In need of his attention, I followed him from room to room, applauding relentlessly. You'd have thought Tinkerbell was on life support!
Method #2: The ASL/Interpretive Dance Combo
This method is used with great hopes of helping reach the husband. Since his ASL is rusty (what with there being no toddlers in the house on a daily basis), you feel the need to "assist the signs" in your portrayal. The result: Your husband says "no, thank you," to what he thinks is a pineapple. Sadly, you were offering pie a la mode. On the bright side, mocking your emphatic movement is fun for the whole family! Well ... except you. Sure, it would usually be funny, but acknowledging the humor in this situation would nullify your pity party, after all!
Method #3: The "By Jove, I've Got A Swell Idea!" Table/Wall Slam
This only seems to be effectively used in films that were made before 1962. (Preferably, a musical!) In real life, everyone gets confused. The dogs begin barking, assuming someone has knocked on the door. Alan assumes it is Wyatt, Wyatt assumes it is Alan. Due to their assumptions, they both ignore me. Husband, however, comes running into the room, assuming I have fallen; thereby rendering myself unconscious. Upon the discovery that his wife had merely hoped to relay some information (and doesn't have so much as a paper cut), annoyance ensues from the man of the house.
When all of that didn't work, I pulled up a blank Word document and started typing my requests, declarations and commentary. The boys loved it, especially when I added smileys or silly fonts. Hubby, however, didn't seem to enjoy being pulled to the computer by "Vanna," while I pointed at the screen every five minutes.
There was something I had overlooked. It was something that my voice usually portrayed to my husband; love. I could play charades or type requests to him, but I treated my conversation like a "honey do" list. I'd even forgotten to say "Please" and "Thank You," much less, "I love you." So I stopped typing. I stopped signing. I stopped trying to relay my needs for just a moment. I remembered to do something I usually did while talking; I affectionately touched my loved ones. Simple acts like gently rubbing a shoulder, a hug or a peck on top of the head seemed to make it very easy for my sweetie to intently study my mouthed words. All because I took the time to gently approach him, instead of demanding his attention. I'd love to think that it all left with my voice, but I'm sure that's not entirely accurate ...
I think simple little acts of affection are easy to remember to do with my kids. They're little, they're cute, they call me Queen Mommy-- it doesn't really matter why ... it just is. I'm afraid that it's easier for the grown-ups to speak (and act)more lovingly towards the wee ones, and treat the "other grown-up" in the house like a co-worker or a room mate, instead of the special person they are. We both do it. With a wave of the hand (and the arrival of two children), flowery complements and flirting disappear. Suddenly, we say really romantic statements like, "We need milk," or "I have a dental appointment tomorrow." (Wow, grocery lists and tartar scraping. Is it getting HOT in here?) We're tired. We're cranky. We're out of good snacks ... it happens.
I hope my voice comes back. I REALLY do! The phone looks so LONELY! I'm going to get "texter's thumb!" And most importantly, I want to be able to use my words! Here's hoping that when my voice returns, I retain some of the gentleness I'm trying to use. :)
I could go on and on about that (OOPS-- already did), but since I always tell my kids that "whining has never provided a solid case for anything," I suppose it's time to hoist up my big-girl knickers and cope. The question is, of course, how does one attract (and keep) the attention of her children, animals and husband without effectively working vocal chords? (Yes, I know I lumped everyone together. There is a reason for that-- they all seem to be vastly gifted with selective hearing!) I've tried a few methods. Seeing as how many of them made me look ridiculous, I thought I'd share them in a public forum ...
Method #1: The "Seal"
This is where you run around your house, clapping. All I wanted to do was tell Wyatt to go brush his teeth. In need of his attention, I followed him from room to room, applauding relentlessly. You'd have thought Tinkerbell was on life support!
Method #2: The ASL/Interpretive Dance Combo
This method is used with great hopes of helping reach the husband. Since his ASL is rusty (what with there being no toddlers in the house on a daily basis), you feel the need to "assist the signs" in your portrayal. The result: Your husband says "no, thank you," to what he thinks is a pineapple. Sadly, you were offering pie a la mode. On the bright side, mocking your emphatic movement is fun for the whole family! Well ... except you. Sure, it would usually be funny, but acknowledging the humor in this situation would nullify your pity party, after all!
Method #3: The "By Jove, I've Got A Swell Idea!" Table/Wall Slam
This only seems to be effectively used in films that were made before 1962. (Preferably, a musical!) In real life, everyone gets confused. The dogs begin barking, assuming someone has knocked on the door. Alan assumes it is Wyatt, Wyatt assumes it is Alan. Due to their assumptions, they both ignore me. Husband, however, comes running into the room, assuming I have fallen; thereby rendering myself unconscious. Upon the discovery that his wife had merely hoped to relay some information (and doesn't have so much as a paper cut), annoyance ensues from the man of the house.
When all of that didn't work, I pulled up a blank Word document and started typing my requests, declarations and commentary. The boys loved it, especially when I added smileys or silly fonts. Hubby, however, didn't seem to enjoy being pulled to the computer by "Vanna," while I pointed at the screen every five minutes.
There was something I had overlooked. It was something that my voice usually portrayed to my husband; love. I could play charades or type requests to him, but I treated my conversation like a "honey do" list. I'd even forgotten to say "Please" and "Thank You," much less, "I love you." So I stopped typing. I stopped signing. I stopped trying to relay my needs for just a moment. I remembered to do something I usually did while talking; I affectionately touched my loved ones. Simple acts like gently rubbing a shoulder, a hug or a peck on top of the head seemed to make it very easy for my sweetie to intently study my mouthed words. All because I took the time to gently approach him, instead of demanding his attention. I'd love to think that it all left with my voice, but I'm sure that's not entirely accurate ...
I think simple little acts of affection are easy to remember to do with my kids. They're little, they're cute, they call me Queen Mommy-- it doesn't really matter why ... it just is. I'm afraid that it's easier for the grown-ups to speak (and act)more lovingly towards the wee ones, and treat the "other grown-up" in the house like a co-worker or a room mate, instead of the special person they are. We both do it. With a wave of the hand (and the arrival of two children), flowery complements and flirting disappear. Suddenly, we say really romantic statements like, "We need milk," or "I have a dental appointment tomorrow." (Wow, grocery lists and tartar scraping. Is it getting HOT in here?) We're tired. We're cranky. We're out of good snacks ... it happens.
I hope my voice comes back. I REALLY do! The phone looks so LONELY! I'm going to get "texter's thumb!" And most importantly, I want to be able to use my words! Here's hoping that when my voice returns, I retain some of the gentleness I'm trying to use. :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)