I wanted to sit down and write so many times this week. But, it seemed that every time I did try to sit down at the computer, someone needed something. Sometimes, I feel like the human snack dispensing "Queen of need fulfilment", without any power...or a crown..though I could probably pick one up at Walmart...Hold on a second, I have to get a yogurt and a banana, and cookies for Oscar, Sammy's markers from off of the fridge, put Lily to bed, and walk the dogs. Now, where was I...
At first, I thought I was going to comment on the campaign to get rid of the "R" word. I had a lot to say about promoting respectful language for everyone. That, changing a word doesn't necessarily change attitudes. I had examples, charts, graphs... a guest speaker.(not really)..but then, Sammy needed more paper...and the cat needed to be fed...By the time I sat back down again, I lost my train of thought..
So many things have happened recently, there is much to discuss. There was President Obama's gaffe on"The Tonight Show". He compared his bowling to that of someone in the special Olympics...which brings me back to the "R" word campaign. If we are going to get rid of the "R" word-then we also have to do something about the word "special". We have "special ed", the "special bus", "special needs" and of course the "special Olympics". If you were to ask someone just exactly what the word "special" meant in any of the above phrases, more than likely you would be told...retarded. "Special", by definition, means "distinguished by some unusual quality" or "held in particular esteem". If that were truly the case, then president Obama's comment should have been construed as bragging. But, since he did call Tim Shriver, head of the "special Olympics" to apologize ...I guess that isn't so. How did the word "special", become less than ...special-and why? Have we ever held people with developmental disabilities in particular esteem? If the "Special Olympics" are so special, why aren't they televised-in prime-time? This in turn led me to think of other words whose meanings serve a dual purpose. The word "gay" has two very different definitions. Either "Happily excited/merry" or "homosexual." So I guess that would mean that prop 8 in California could make a gay person.. not so gay? Hey Mormon church, mission accomplished?! I mean absolutely no disrespect to any person ..I'm just trying to make a point. Focusing on one word to define similar traits among many people in order to group them together, is a dangerous thing..
I decided to look up the definition for the word "autism". Which, according to Websters dictionary, is "a variable developmental disorder that appears by age three and is characterized by impairment of the ability to form normal social relationships, by impairment of the ability to communicate with others, and by stereotypical behavior patterns" Does the above definition describe my boys? Yes, to an extent...they are both so different. However, autism does not define THEM, nor does "special" or any other phrase that may be tossed around. Which is why I don't use those words with my kids. Besides, I was lambasted a few months ago by someone who decided that my kids didn't have "real" autism. I asked him if he thought they were faking it...he had no answer. "Real "autism. IS there a definition? Some magical word or phrase that defines a person with autism as a whole? I don't think so. I look at my kids, all of them. Each are unique, individual, with their own set of needs. Special in the real sense of the word.
My question is this...Is there any word that defines any of us as a whole? Is it even necessary to have one? I know that I wouldn't want to be defined by words like "retarded, or "special" or even "autistic"...Nor do I want to be called "fat ass , lazy, ugly( sorry, I mean "buttocks enhanced", "motivation challenged," and "handsome") or any other such word that in turn suggest that I am somehow less, or second class. It is 2009, and we are still using the "R" word, and the "N" word and many other consonants that seperate us from the one thing we have in common. Humanity. Unfortunately, To quote George Orwell in Animal Farm, "All animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others."
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
If you give a baby a baby...
I walked in to my daughters room today and witnessed a scene worthy of a C.S.I. investigation. "Dog walking Barbie" and plain old "Barbie" were sprawled naked on the floor. Their arms and legs akimbo, their heads twisted in unnatural positions . Their faces locked in masks of perpetual happiness, actually the faces looked like they always do-but it was creepy!..Poor Barbie's! What had they done to deserve this? Who was responsible for this macabre display? Sigh. This isn't the first time I've run into similar "crime scenes". There have been others. Dolls found stuffed head first into couches, floating face down in the bathtub, sprawled naked on a cold floor. The more I think about it, the more I wonder, just what kind of example am I setting as a mother?
My daughter begged for a baby doll at Christmas. One that she could change and feed-a baby of her very own. I was surprised by this request. She had never shown an interest in dolls before. In fact, the only other time she was given a doll(for her first birthday) she screamed and threw it across the room, never to touch it again. I thought that her change of heart may have to do with going to school. She had only her brothers as playmates before now. And, as she was starting to interact with little girls -I thought her interests might be changing. Santa brought her some Barbies and a baby, whom she promptly named "ponytail". For two days she played with her. Changing her, feeding her, carrying her everywhere. Although I was surprised at her behavior, I didn't comment on it. It turned out to be a short lived phase. Three nights after ponytail came to live with us...I found her naked in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. I questioned my girl about it the next morning. "Lily, you left ponytail naked and on the floor last night. What happened?" Lily looked at me and said" That's o.k. mama, she's just practicing crawling" It is now three months later, and ponytail still hasn't moved. I guess she's still practicing.
This is not the only time that I've witnessed doll neglect by my kids. During both of my boys evaluations, they were given a doll and toy food to play with. Sammy just threw some "food" over to the baby(he was more interested in the other toys) and Oscar glanced at the food and the doll and let them both slowly drop from his hands,with a look that said "I'm just going to pretend I didn't see them". On both occasions, it was commented on that neither of them showed any inclination towards feeding or holding the dolls.That they had no interest in nurturing. It was implied that their lack of participation could be a problem.(What would they think of Lily!) Apparently, the boys should have been attempting to model my behavior. Or, perhaps they were..? "No", I assured the observers, "I don't throw their food on the floor-they do" Although, now that I think about it, I probably should have. More food wound up on the floor at mealtimes than in their mouths-it would have saved on clean up time.
Don't get me wrong, I do believe that modeling good behavior is important. Children do learn by example. I frequently see myself or Omar in the kids facial expressions, gestures and language. Sometimes though, they come up with things all on their own.. Zoe, my youngest, loves opening our front door to greet the school bus-stark naked. She also enjoys standing on top of the nine foot snowbanks in our driveway, dropping her pants to her ankles, and dancing. I can't tell you why she does these things. They are certainly not modeled after anything I have done. (I'm such a prude, I was born clothed) I can only hope that she out grows this by the time she is sixteen.
So now, when I happen upon abused Barbies and the like, I take it with a grain of salt. My kids just aren't that interested in playing with dolls. At least not in the way they are supposedly meant to be played with. The care and feeding of little ones is a huge responsibility. When and if the time comes, I hope they are ready for it. Until then, I'll live with the unpredictability of what I may find in their bedrooms. I will continue trying to set a good example , model loving behavior and hope that one day they will ALL keep their clothes on.
My daughter begged for a baby doll at Christmas. One that she could change and feed-a baby of her very own. I was surprised by this request. She had never shown an interest in dolls before. In fact, the only other time she was given a doll(for her first birthday) she screamed and threw it across the room, never to touch it again. I thought that her change of heart may have to do with going to school. She had only her brothers as playmates before now. And, as she was starting to interact with little girls -I thought her interests might be changing. Santa brought her some Barbies and a baby, whom she promptly named "ponytail". For two days she played with her. Changing her, feeding her, carrying her everywhere. Although I was surprised at her behavior, I didn't comment on it. It turned out to be a short lived phase. Three nights after ponytail came to live with us...I found her naked in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. I questioned my girl about it the next morning. "Lily, you left ponytail naked and on the floor last night. What happened?" Lily looked at me and said" That's o.k. mama, she's just practicing crawling" It is now three months later, and ponytail still hasn't moved. I guess she's still practicing.
This is not the only time that I've witnessed doll neglect by my kids. During both of my boys evaluations, they were given a doll and toy food to play with. Sammy just threw some "food" over to the baby(he was more interested in the other toys) and Oscar glanced at the food and the doll and let them both slowly drop from his hands,with a look that said "I'm just going to pretend I didn't see them". On both occasions, it was commented on that neither of them showed any inclination towards feeding or holding the dolls.That they had no interest in nurturing. It was implied that their lack of participation could be a problem.(What would they think of Lily!) Apparently, the boys should have been attempting to model my behavior. Or, perhaps they were..? "No", I assured the observers, "I don't throw their food on the floor-they do" Although, now that I think about it, I probably should have. More food wound up on the floor at mealtimes than in their mouths-it would have saved on clean up time.
Don't get me wrong, I do believe that modeling good behavior is important. Children do learn by example. I frequently see myself or Omar in the kids facial expressions, gestures and language. Sometimes though, they come up with things all on their own.. Zoe, my youngest, loves opening our front door to greet the school bus-stark naked. She also enjoys standing on top of the nine foot snowbanks in our driveway, dropping her pants to her ankles, and dancing. I can't tell you why she does these things. They are certainly not modeled after anything I have done. (I'm such a prude, I was born clothed) I can only hope that she out grows this by the time she is sixteen.
So now, when I happen upon abused Barbies and the like, I take it with a grain of salt. My kids just aren't that interested in playing with dolls. At least not in the way they are supposedly meant to be played with. The care and feeding of little ones is a huge responsibility. When and if the time comes, I hope they are ready for it. Until then, I'll live with the unpredictability of what I may find in their bedrooms. I will continue trying to set a good example , model loving behavior and hope that one day they will ALL keep their clothes on.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Bleacher wail..
March in New England brings melting snow, the desperate hope of spring and the youth basketball season to our little town. Every Saturday, parents of eight to twelve year olds gather in the school gymnasium to watch their children compete. This is my son Sammy's second year playing on a team. The games are short enough for him to keep focus (about twenty five minutes) and he enjoys being with the other kids. Every Saturday morning, I gather up the herd, and we make our way over to watch that weeks game.
My other three kids love going to Saturday basketball. For one reason. The bleachers. Those gigantic wooden structures, that unfold from the walls of the gymnasium, creating instant seating for a hundred or so people. I hate them. The person who invented these anxiety causing monstrosities, was definitely not a parent. What mother in her right mind would design something that rises fifty feet in the air with seating resembling an enormous staircase, WITH NO RAILINGS?! What is the FIRST thing that any kid wants to do when they see them?... Run to the top.... And then back down, fifty thousand times. My kids can be particularly creative. Simply running up and down is boring to them. No, they need to challenge the laws of gravity, to laugh in the face of danger...to age their mother. They will run up sideways and come down backwards, they will go up sitting and come down sliding. They will hop and twirl and play balance beam. They will come down backwards hopping on one foot with their eyes closed,while reciting the alphabet.They will do all this without regard to life, limb, or their mothers mental health. There is so much tension in the gym on Saturday mornings, and none of it is from the basketball being played.
I try to keep track of the game. I am there to support my son. It is just so difficult to both watch a game and keep your children from killing themselves. On the court, the boys, all attired in baggy shorts, run back and forth-all elbows and knees. Sammy gets the ball and immediately passes it to another player. This is a big improvement from last year. Back then, if he got the ball, he would giggle uncontrollably. Or, if he saw a friend on the opposing team, he would drop the ball in order to give him a hug. This year, he is much more focused. He passes the ball with intent...he picks a player to guard, and jumps up and down in front of him frantically waving his arms. Someone shouts "way to go Sammy!" My boy is appreciated.( There are definite attributes to living in a small town.) I on the other hand am twisting and turning, trying to watch the game AND catch any of my kids should they take a misstep.I am NOT poetry in motion. I am more like a bizarre contortionist who lacks direction. One eye on the game, and the other tracking the antics of three very creative acrobats. I think about covering them all in pillows-or at least duct taping them next to me.When, finally,the buzzer goes off. The game is over. There is no winner, they don't keep score. But, I feel like a champion. All of my children are walking out of the gym alive. We have survived another Saturday basketball game.
We are all quiet on the way home. They all played hard,and they are tired. I am exhausted. Seven more days until the next game. I wonder if it is wrong to pray for a snowstorm.
My other three kids love going to Saturday basketball. For one reason. The bleachers. Those gigantic wooden structures, that unfold from the walls of the gymnasium, creating instant seating for a hundred or so people. I hate them. The person who invented these anxiety causing monstrosities, was definitely not a parent. What mother in her right mind would design something that rises fifty feet in the air with seating resembling an enormous staircase, WITH NO RAILINGS?! What is the FIRST thing that any kid wants to do when they see them?... Run to the top.... And then back down, fifty thousand times. My kids can be particularly creative. Simply running up and down is boring to them. No, they need to challenge the laws of gravity, to laugh in the face of danger...to age their mother. They will run up sideways and come down backwards, they will go up sitting and come down sliding. They will hop and twirl and play balance beam. They will come down backwards hopping on one foot with their eyes closed,while reciting the alphabet.They will do all this without regard to life, limb, or their mothers mental health. There is so much tension in the gym on Saturday mornings, and none of it is from the basketball being played.
I try to keep track of the game. I am there to support my son. It is just so difficult to both watch a game and keep your children from killing themselves. On the court, the boys, all attired in baggy shorts, run back and forth-all elbows and knees. Sammy gets the ball and immediately passes it to another player. This is a big improvement from last year. Back then, if he got the ball, he would giggle uncontrollably. Or, if he saw a friend on the opposing team, he would drop the ball in order to give him a hug. This year, he is much more focused. He passes the ball with intent...he picks a player to guard, and jumps up and down in front of him frantically waving his arms. Someone shouts "way to go Sammy!" My boy is appreciated.( There are definite attributes to living in a small town.) I on the other hand am twisting and turning, trying to watch the game AND catch any of my kids should they take a misstep.I am NOT poetry in motion. I am more like a bizarre contortionist who lacks direction. One eye on the game, and the other tracking the antics of three very creative acrobats. I think about covering them all in pillows-or at least duct taping them next to me.When, finally,the buzzer goes off. The game is over. There is no winner, they don't keep score. But, I feel like a champion. All of my children are walking out of the gym alive. We have survived another Saturday basketball game.
We are all quiet on the way home. They all played hard,and they are tired. I am exhausted. Seven more days until the next game. I wonder if it is wrong to pray for a snowstorm.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
dancing at wits end
It's 5:30 a.m. on Monday morning. My husbands alarm clock finally stopped going off at fifteen minute intervals , I am about to drift into a deep sleep, when MY alarm clock starts ringing. I drag myself out of bed, stumble down the stairs and pour a cup of coffee. Lukewarm coffee. Because my husband lovingly poured it from the coffee maker into the carafe in order to keep it hot for me. Only, he didn't screw the lid on correctly-so now it is closer to cold than warm. I glance out the window-and to my absolute horror, at least two feet of snow has fallen...and is still falling. For the love of god-it is going to be ANOTHER snow day-the kids WON'T have school. It is now 5:45 a.m. Monday morning and already the week has been too long.
I think about going back to bed...and just as I begin to make my way up the stairs, I hear the herd starting to wake up..Which is remarkable, for had this been a regular school day, I would need to prod, poke, pull and threaten them out of bed. It never fails...if it is the weekend, a holiday, or any other day in which there is no reason to wake up early-they are up at the crack of dawn. I wonder if there is some unwritten rule or code. A law that tells children "Thou shalt not let thy parents sleep late." If I do by chance, try and go back to sleep, they will tip toe (like a pack of elephants) into my room, stand next to my bed, and argue about whether or not I am awake...They think that they are whispering...but a whisper to them is one decibel below shouting. Sammy, will try and make everyone be quiet."Shh, mama is sleeping!!...Oscar, will get anxious saying"Oh no we are waking up mama!!"...Lily will tell Zoe that she is a baby and needs to go back to sleep...Zoe will scream(her face two inches from mine-she is checking whether or not my eyes are open)...I will pop up from the bed saying "Why are you all shouting?!!" to which they will reply.."Mama's awake!"Can we eat...I can't find my socks...Zoe pushed me...Sammy told me I had to go to bed...I did not!"...this will follow me to the bathroom..to my coffee..until I can actually quiet them with breakfast..
I get dressed and quickly walk the dogs. I am hoping to get a workout in. Working out with four kids at home is an adventure. If I ever meet Jillian Michael's, I will ask her how many extra calories this burns. In addition to following the workout routine, I chase my three year old who runs off with my weights, do push ups with a five year old (and various stuffed animals) on my back...have a ten year old who is all elbows and knees( with the coordination of a headless chicken) trying to mimic what I am doing and all the while I am asking my eight year old to "Please stop hopping up and down in front of the television". It takes roughly 2 hours to get through this 45 minute workout..by then it is lunch time..and my kids are hungry...they behave as though they hadn't been fed in months...I also notice that none of them have gotten dressed...with the exception of my three year old who is walking around in just one sock...this is her idea of a fashion statement.
I give them lunch and quickly walk the dogs(again). I make a pot of coffee and avidly watch the weather report-dear god let there be school tomorrow! As I try to drink a cup of hot coffee..my kids all clamor that they are bored and want to go outside and play in the snow. Four pairs of snow pants...boots, coats..hats, gloves and 30 minutes later they are outside..As I look longingly at my coffee pot my oldest comes to tell me that the snow plow guy has pushed all of the snow in front of the garage(I now look longingly at the wine bottle)...On go my own snow pants, hat, gloves and coat..I trudge towards the garage ready to do battle with the 5 feet of snow blocking the door...when my three year old has to go to the bathroom. Into the house we go..off come the hat,coat, mittens, snow pants and into the bathroom she goes...and out she comes...on go the snow pants, hat, coat and mittens...out the door we go when..."mama, I'm cold, I want to go in..." followed by a chorus of "me toos"..I plead- "Doesn't anyone want to help me shovel the snow?""Come on! It will be fun!"(I try to look enthusiastic) They look at me as if I have lost my mind. They do however agree to "help". Help consists of my ten year old shoveling the snow that I have moved- back to where it was, my eight year old rolling in the snow I am shoveling,my five year old lying in the snow complaining that her legs are tired, and my three year old repeatedly needing her mittens put back on. Three hours, two snack breaks, and one snowman later, it is done.
We go back into the house where I settle the herd in front of the t.v. with hot chocolate and even more snacks. I walk and feed the dogs. I clean up the kitchen and put a load of laundry in.
Finally, I pour myself a big cup of coffee and think about sitting down with a book. When my oldest comes in and hugs me saying "I love you mama"..I hug him back saying "I love you too buddy."He pulls away, looks at me and says "whats for dinner? I'm starving."
I have a few options...I can cry...I can drink coffee and cry..or I can turn on music...I put on The Black Eyed Peas "Pump It" crank up the volume and watch as my kids start to dance..I see no other choice but to join them. It has stopped snowing, there will be school tomorrow. I dance all the way to the kitchen.
I think about going back to bed...and just as I begin to make my way up the stairs, I hear the herd starting to wake up..Which is remarkable, for had this been a regular school day, I would need to prod, poke, pull and threaten them out of bed. It never fails...if it is the weekend, a holiday, or any other day in which there is no reason to wake up early-they are up at the crack of dawn. I wonder if there is some unwritten rule or code. A law that tells children "Thou shalt not let thy parents sleep late." If I do by chance, try and go back to sleep, they will tip toe (like a pack of elephants) into my room, stand next to my bed, and argue about whether or not I am awake...They think that they are whispering...but a whisper to them is one decibel below shouting. Sammy, will try and make everyone be quiet."Shh, mama is sleeping!!...Oscar, will get anxious saying"Oh no we are waking up mama!!"...Lily will tell Zoe that she is a baby and needs to go back to sleep...Zoe will scream(her face two inches from mine-she is checking whether or not my eyes are open)...I will pop up from the bed saying "Why are you all shouting?!!" to which they will reply.."Mama's awake!"Can we eat...I can't find my socks...Zoe pushed me...Sammy told me I had to go to bed...I did not!"...this will follow me to the bathroom..to my coffee..until I can actually quiet them with breakfast..
I get dressed and quickly walk the dogs. I am hoping to get a workout in. Working out with four kids at home is an adventure. If I ever meet Jillian Michael's, I will ask her how many extra calories this burns. In addition to following the workout routine, I chase my three year old who runs off with my weights, do push ups with a five year old (and various stuffed animals) on my back...have a ten year old who is all elbows and knees( with the coordination of a headless chicken) trying to mimic what I am doing and all the while I am asking my eight year old to "Please stop hopping up and down in front of the television". It takes roughly 2 hours to get through this 45 minute workout..by then it is lunch time..and my kids are hungry...they behave as though they hadn't been fed in months...I also notice that none of them have gotten dressed...with the exception of my three year old who is walking around in just one sock...this is her idea of a fashion statement.
I give them lunch and quickly walk the dogs(again). I make a pot of coffee and avidly watch the weather report-dear god let there be school tomorrow! As I try to drink a cup of hot coffee..my kids all clamor that they are bored and want to go outside and play in the snow. Four pairs of snow pants...boots, coats..hats, gloves and 30 minutes later they are outside..As I look longingly at my coffee pot my oldest comes to tell me that the snow plow guy has pushed all of the snow in front of the garage(I now look longingly at the wine bottle)...On go my own snow pants, hat, gloves and coat..I trudge towards the garage ready to do battle with the 5 feet of snow blocking the door...when my three year old has to go to the bathroom. Into the house we go..off come the hat,coat, mittens, snow pants and into the bathroom she goes...and out she comes...on go the snow pants, hat, coat and mittens...out the door we go when..."mama, I'm cold, I want to go in..." followed by a chorus of "me toos"..I plead- "Doesn't anyone want to help me shovel the snow?""Come on! It will be fun!"(I try to look enthusiastic) They look at me as if I have lost my mind. They do however agree to "help". Help consists of my ten year old shoveling the snow that I have moved- back to where it was, my eight year old rolling in the snow I am shoveling,my five year old lying in the snow complaining that her legs are tired, and my three year old repeatedly needing her mittens put back on. Three hours, two snack breaks, and one snowman later, it is done.
We go back into the house where I settle the herd in front of the t.v. with hot chocolate and even more snacks. I walk and feed the dogs. I clean up the kitchen and put a load of laundry in.
Finally, I pour myself a big cup of coffee and think about sitting down with a book. When my oldest comes in and hugs me saying "I love you mama"..I hug him back saying "I love you too buddy."He pulls away, looks at me and says "whats for dinner? I'm starving."
I have a few options...I can cry...I can drink coffee and cry..or I can turn on music...I put on The Black Eyed Peas "Pump It" crank up the volume and watch as my kids start to dance..I see no other choice but to join them. It has stopped snowing, there will be school tomorrow. I dance all the way to the kitchen.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Lust in translation
I was watching television with my husband, Omar, the other night, when one of those odd local advertisements came on. These are usually low budget commercials in which someone is either dressed up in a costume or an ill fitting suit and shouts at you to come into their store. In this particular one, an oddly dressed woman(she was wearing a lot of scarves?) was talking about taking some of "daddy's hard earned"(by way of stealing his wallet) and going on a shopping spree in this dismal looking discount store. My husband turned to me, shook his head, and said"I used to live in Paris".
It is true, my husband is a man of the world. He is originally from Algeria, and has lived in Paris, London,the south of France, and Budapest.(just to name a few). He speaks three languages fluently, and at least a little of many more. How did he wind up living with me in the middle of nowhere New England?
I originate from N.Y. and though I have moved a lot, the most exotic place I have ever lived is Madison Wisconsin. I speak only English. (Not for lack of trying, but I am terrible at learning languages. I just can't seem to grasp them. )Although, I have made an effort to memorize a few words-just in case I am stranded in a foreign country without money. For instance, I can confidently ask for a job as a dishwasher in Paris. "plongeur? Euros? Moi?"
Often times, I will listen in on the phone when my husband speaks to his family in Algeria...Their English is better than mine...and I am embarrassed that I can't say more than a proper greeting to them in Arabic, a language I find fascinating, intense, and very mysterious. No matter what they happen to be talking about...it sounds exciting and very passionate...
(I use the word "Arabic" in the following to denote actual language)
Omar- "ARABIC!! arabic! arabic??"
his sister-"arabic? arabic!! arabic!!"
his brother-Arabic!, arabic!!! ARABIC!!!"
Omar-"Ahh.."
his sister-"Ahhh.."
his brother-"Ahhhh.."
Me-What?!! what happened?!! Is everything o.k.?!!!
Omar-"yeah, my family says hi"
Me-"That's it?...all that just to say hi?"
Omar-"yup"
It frustrates me sometimes- my inability to grasp different languages. Even our children seem to be adept at picking them up. I guess it is something that I will just have to learn to accept about myself. It doesn't seem to bother anyone ,especially Omar. I asked him once (well probably many times) What it was that attracted him to me (besides my good looks, unparalleled intelligence and self effacing demeanor)I haven't traveled the world, I can't speak any other languages...what is "it"? He said "your funny,..you make me laugh". I make him laugh?...ahhh..It works for me.
A few weeks ago, Oprah aired a repeat of her "Warrior Mothers" show.( starring Jenny McCarthy) In this particular episode, Jenny claims that autism is the cause of divorce in 90% of marriages. Not surprisingly, like her many other claims (she cured her sons autism, vaccines are the cause of autism) there is absolutely no evidence to back this up. Once again, with the help of Oprah, she is distorting and devaluing the lives of the many people who live with and around autism. It is a language of lies. A language, that for once, I am happy not to be fluent in.
We may live in the middle of nowhere New England, and we may have to live with strange local television commercials...but I look at my incredibly sexy husband, and our four wonderful children and I think..."ARABIC, ARABIC, ARABIC!!!" Which simply means, I am blessed.
It is true, my husband is a man of the world. He is originally from Algeria, and has lived in Paris, London,the south of France, and Budapest.(just to name a few). He speaks three languages fluently, and at least a little of many more. How did he wind up living with me in the middle of nowhere New England?
I originate from N.Y. and though I have moved a lot, the most exotic place I have ever lived is Madison Wisconsin. I speak only English. (Not for lack of trying, but I am terrible at learning languages. I just can't seem to grasp them. )Although, I have made an effort to memorize a few words-just in case I am stranded in a foreign country without money. For instance, I can confidently ask for a job as a dishwasher in Paris. "plongeur? Euros? Moi?"
Often times, I will listen in on the phone when my husband speaks to his family in Algeria...Their English is better than mine...and I am embarrassed that I can't say more than a proper greeting to them in Arabic, a language I find fascinating, intense, and very mysterious. No matter what they happen to be talking about...it sounds exciting and very passionate...
(I use the word "Arabic" in the following to denote actual language)
Omar- "ARABIC!! arabic! arabic??"
his sister-"arabic? arabic!! arabic!!"
his brother-Arabic!, arabic!!! ARABIC!!!"
Omar-"Ahh.."
his sister-"Ahhh.."
his brother-"Ahhhh.."
Me-What?!! what happened?!! Is everything o.k.?!!!
Omar-"yeah, my family says hi"
Me-"That's it?...all that just to say hi?"
Omar-"yup"
It frustrates me sometimes- my inability to grasp different languages. Even our children seem to be adept at picking them up. I guess it is something that I will just have to learn to accept about myself. It doesn't seem to bother anyone ,especially Omar. I asked him once (well probably many times) What it was that attracted him to me (besides my good looks, unparalleled intelligence and self effacing demeanor)I haven't traveled the world, I can't speak any other languages...what is "it"? He said "your funny,..you make me laugh". I make him laugh?...ahhh..It works for me.
A few weeks ago, Oprah aired a repeat of her "Warrior Mothers" show.( starring Jenny McCarthy) In this particular episode, Jenny claims that autism is the cause of divorce in 90% of marriages. Not surprisingly, like her many other claims (she cured her sons autism, vaccines are the cause of autism) there is absolutely no evidence to back this up. Once again, with the help of Oprah, she is distorting and devaluing the lives of the many people who live with and around autism. It is a language of lies. A language, that for once, I am happy not to be fluent in.
We may live in the middle of nowhere New England, and we may have to live with strange local television commercials...but I look at my incredibly sexy husband, and our four wonderful children and I think..."ARABIC, ARABIC, ARABIC!!!" Which simply means, I am blessed.
Friday, February 13, 2009
stim cycle
The school called. Oscars' stimming is becoming a problem, a distraction...he can't focus, he is disrupting the class. He is laughing at inappropriate times. Oh..is that all? Phew! I was afraid that they were going to tell me that he quit, did not want to be there, had given up. I see so much of myself in Oscar,I don't want him to follow in my footsteps. When I was six years old, I quit, gave up,and most certainly did not want to be there. That's right, (sigh) I tried to be a first grade drop out.
After a blissful year of kindergarten where I played, danced and explored-first grade came as rather a shock . I just did not understand the orderliness of it all. Sitting still, keeping a neat desk, having to pay attention...sitting still! Where was the music? Where were the finger paints? Why was this woman dressed like a penguin?
I was in the first grade at Blessed Sacrament School, and I was miserable. Sister Margaret Mary, my teacher was a sweet little nun, yet she ruled with an iron crucifix. There would be order, there would be neatness! Day dreaming was not allowed. We were there to learn in a quiet and orderly fashion. Heaven help the child who resisted. It was her way or the "hellway". Did I mention that I was miserable? I was the ultimate day dreamer, the fidgety girl whose desk was always a mess, the questioner of all things questionable. I did not like being the focus of attention,but my behavior caused me to be the focus of hers. It all came to a head very early in the year.
It was the end of a beautiful fall day, and we were packing up to go home. In my joyful exuberance, I started whistling. An apparent major transgression in the classroom. (actually, it was more of a high pitched shrill sound as I was missing quite a few teeth) Sister Margaret Mary,was horrified ."I DEMAND to know-who is Whistling?" Sensing harsh punishment, and being the youngest of six kids, I knew to keep my mouth shut. The accusations flew! I too even looked around shaking my head in apparent disgust. What better way to hide my "sin" then to join everyone on this witch...or should I say "whistle" hunt?" "He did it Sister!".."She did it Sister!" It would seem as though everyone was accused. Everyone... but me. (heehee) Nobody confessed to this heinous crime, this unrestrained whistling..so Sister Margaret Mary declared that if the guilty party did not CONFESS, they would"BURN in the FIRES of HELL for all ETERNITY because of their DECEPTION!" I was only six years old, and if I didn't confess I was going to hell? I had to save myself, so I did the only logical thing that I could think of. I Kept my mouth shut, went home and promptly declared myself an atheist. I also quit school. Not exactly the wisest of declarations to make in a house headed by DEVOUT Catholics-they simply could not accept my rebellion. Especially as I could not give an explanation-I was not taking the fall for whistling. And I was not it seemed, going to be able to drop out.
I was remembering this story while I waited for Oscar to come home. We had to discuss his situation-but at the same time, I had to understand his reasoning..I could not use my "neuro traditional" thinking on his "non neuro traditional" behavior.
"Oscar, the school called. They said that you are shaking and eeeing and laughing a whole lot. Whats going on?"
"I'm shaking."
"Yes, I know. But you seem to be doing it more than usual. Is there a reason?"
"Shaking feels good"
"I agree, it does feel good...but, you are doing it a lot. Is something bothering you?"
"I'm shaking and shaking..eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!"
"I need you to focus here buddy...WHY are you shaking so much at school?"
"I shake because of tricky work."
"The work is hard?"
"Yes! Can you be done now?"
"For now, but we have to figure out how to make the work not so tricky, o.k.?...O.K.?...Oscar?
"Yes!! Can I have a snack now?"
"Wait-one more question...You haven't by any chance been whistling have you?"
"Whistle?...Why?"
"Never mind...go get your snack"
That night, while putting the boys to bed, Oscar started saying "help. help". He had taken his arm out of his pajama sleeve, and stuck a tiny stuffed animals arm in its place. It was a little creepy looking and yet so very funny. So very Oscar. So truly wonderful. So absolutely stimulating.
After a blissful year of kindergarten where I played, danced and explored-first grade came as rather a shock . I just did not understand the orderliness of it all. Sitting still, keeping a neat desk, having to pay attention...sitting still! Where was the music? Where were the finger paints? Why was this woman dressed like a penguin?
I was in the first grade at Blessed Sacrament School, and I was miserable. Sister Margaret Mary, my teacher was a sweet little nun, yet she ruled with an iron crucifix. There would be order, there would be neatness! Day dreaming was not allowed. We were there to learn in a quiet and orderly fashion. Heaven help the child who resisted. It was her way or the "hellway". Did I mention that I was miserable? I was the ultimate day dreamer, the fidgety girl whose desk was always a mess, the questioner of all things questionable. I did not like being the focus of attention,but my behavior caused me to be the focus of hers. It all came to a head very early in the year.
It was the end of a beautiful fall day, and we were packing up to go home. In my joyful exuberance, I started whistling. An apparent major transgression in the classroom. (actually, it was more of a high pitched shrill sound as I was missing quite a few teeth) Sister Margaret Mary,was horrified ."I DEMAND to know-who is Whistling?" Sensing harsh punishment, and being the youngest of six kids, I knew to keep my mouth shut. The accusations flew! I too even looked around shaking my head in apparent disgust. What better way to hide my "sin" then to join everyone on this witch...or should I say "whistle" hunt?" "He did it Sister!".."She did it Sister!" It would seem as though everyone was accused. Everyone... but me. (heehee) Nobody confessed to this heinous crime, this unrestrained whistling..so Sister Margaret Mary declared that if the guilty party did not CONFESS, they would"BURN in the FIRES of HELL for all ETERNITY because of their DECEPTION!" I was only six years old, and if I didn't confess I was going to hell? I had to save myself, so I did the only logical thing that I could think of. I Kept my mouth shut, went home and promptly declared myself an atheist. I also quit school. Not exactly the wisest of declarations to make in a house headed by DEVOUT Catholics-they simply could not accept my rebellion. Especially as I could not give an explanation-I was not taking the fall for whistling. And I was not it seemed, going to be able to drop out.
I was remembering this story while I waited for Oscar to come home. We had to discuss his situation-but at the same time, I had to understand his reasoning..I could not use my "neuro traditional" thinking on his "non neuro traditional" behavior.
"Oscar, the school called. They said that you are shaking and eeeing and laughing a whole lot. Whats going on?"
"I'm shaking."
"Yes, I know. But you seem to be doing it more than usual. Is there a reason?"
"Shaking feels good"
"I agree, it does feel good...but, you are doing it a lot. Is something bothering you?"
"I'm shaking and shaking..eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!"
"I need you to focus here buddy...WHY are you shaking so much at school?"
"I shake because of tricky work."
"The work is hard?"
"Yes! Can you be done now?"
"For now, but we have to figure out how to make the work not so tricky, o.k.?...O.K.?...Oscar?
"Yes!! Can I have a snack now?"
"Wait-one more question...You haven't by any chance been whistling have you?"
"Whistle?...Why?"
"Never mind...go get your snack"
That night, while putting the boys to bed, Oscar started saying "help. help". He had taken his arm out of his pajama sleeve, and stuck a tiny stuffed animals arm in its place. It was a little creepy looking and yet so very funny. So very Oscar. So truly wonderful. So absolutely stimulating.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Wash, Rinse, Repeat, Repeat,Repeat........
Sick kids and snowstorms have kept me away from my weekly blog. So instead of my usual type of post, I will instead share some of my journal entries from last week.
1/25/09
Sam is home from school today-stomach flu. He spent the entire night throwing up. I think that for every ounce of food, there is a pound of vomit. Interesting how he can get it everywhere but the toilet. I wonder if "aim" can be worked on in occupational therapy? Must remember to buy laundry detergent.
1/26/09
Sam home again today. Was sick again last night. Why does it seem that children only throw up at two o'clock in the morning, and never at the more convenient two in the afternoon? Washed all his bedding for the second time today. School called, Oscar is got sick. (at least I didn't have to clean it up.) Had to go get him. Quiet afternoon. Sam is in his room playing with castle and Oscar is on the couch watching the same episode of "Caillou" repeatedly. That show annoys me. Perhaps I will get all the laundry done.
1/27/09
Sam back in school today. I thought all was back to normal until Oscar got sick all over the dining room. Dog helped clean it up(yuk). Oscar watching "Caillou". Need to do more laundry. Need to try to get Oscar to watch something else. He has spent the entire morning watching the still same episode of "Caillou" over and over again. I suggested that perhaps he would like to watch another show? He said "No, I like this" , and continued to watch. Rewinding and watching, rewinding and watching.. I don't like "Caillou". He whines. He whines and he has a big head. He whines, he has a big head, and he is bald- without explanation...his parents have hair, his sister has hair, his grandparents have hair...Why doesn't he have hair? His parents even look alike...is there something odd going on here? As far as I know, "Caillou" doesn't play the banjo.... Can someone please tell me why he doesn't have hair? Now the dog is sick . Need to get rug cleaner.
Later- Snow storm today. The other kids were released from school early. Now they are ALL watching" Caillou". Something strange is going on here...why this show? I keep hearing the same line repeated over and over again..."Caillou" saying in a very whiny voice "MOMMY Rosie won't pulay(his pronunciation) with me" I am at my breaking point...finally, I went to the t.v. and yelled "She won't play with you because you have a BIG BALD HEAD!!!" To which my shocked children replied.."mama, he can't help that he's bald...He's just different, there is nothing wrong with being different...YOU say that all the time." Hoisted by my own petard! I need to get out of the house. It is either me or the bald kid. Thankfully, it is almost bedtime.
1/28/09
Oscar still sick...Oscar still watching follicle challenged child. Omar is off from work today. I can get out! Although I am afraid to leave...what if I come back and Omar is watching "Caillou" with Oscar? Self preservation takes over...and I run out the door. I returned to find them both happily watching a show about duck hunting. When I asked my now sainted husband how he did it..he said "I just changed the channel"...he just changed the channel....HE JUST CHANGED THE CHANNEL??? I want to weep.
1/29/09
Oscar back in school today. Laundry done. Rug cleaned. School called, Lily is sick....I looked out the window, it is starting to snow. Just in time for the weekend. I should probably pick up some more laundry detergent...and ear plugs. Just in case.
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