The Problem With Parrots

Most sentient creatures expression a variety of emotions:  Happy, sad, content, angry, frustrated, scared, elated, and so on.  In addition to this,  any extra-ordinary family can tell you that even within the common expressions, are a variety of sub-types:  Happy-controlled, happy-uncontrolled, sad-appropriate, sad-inappropriate, frustrated-contained, frustrated-hide-the-breakables, etc.  However parrots really only have two options:  Excited and Not Excited.

How do you know if a parrot is happy?  Her eyes will kind of dilate and she will probably make some kind of squealing noise.  And she might bite, just from sheer excess joy that has to get out.  How do you know if a parrot is mad?  Her eyes will kind of dilate, and there will definitely be squealing noises (unless she is only mildly mad). And she will probably bite.  If the parrot bites, don’t assume that she is either happy or mad, it could just be that she panicked and didn’t know what else to do.

ADHD kids might be extreme in their emotions, but at least they can be counted on for clarity.  If your special kiddo is happy, you know.  If your special kiddo is mad, EVERYONE knows.  If your special kiddo received instructions at school to start experimenting with Microsoft Power Point, make a mock presentation, and then email their comments on the process not only to their teacher, but to the principal, and the government ministry of education office (because apparently May means “survey time”), you can safely assume that your special kiddo will be running around the house like Chicken Little, demanding everyone else immediately stop what they are doing and help her before she gets expelled by the Prime Minister.  I mean seriously, my First Daughter isn’t the only extra-ordinary kid in the class, couldn’t they have found a gentler way of explaining this task to avoid panic and mayhem?

Anyway, with the parrot, First Daughter has create a fabulous new game.  She sticks her face on one side of the cage, causing the parrot to run and attack that side.  When the parrot fails to bite my child, they both have a good laugh (quite a deep belly laugh from the parrot), and then they do the same thing on the other side of the cage.  The parrot may or may not be enjoying this, it’s a little hard to say.  Occasionally, she will maniacally shriek “PEEK-A-BOOOOOOOOOOO!” if the game continues for a long period.  At least she’s getting some exercise.

They’re a perfect fit in other ways.  Sometimes their emotion gets so strong that the line be between elation and anger gets blurred.  Too much fun is like an out-of-control roller coaster ride, frightening if too long, and exhausting if too intense.  Disappointment can be as dangerous as a sucking black hole, one step in a negative direction and it can be near impossible to pull back.  There’s goodness along the way though, don’t get me wrong.  This is how childhood is supposed to be, with all of the bumps and bruises along the way.  I just worry (constantly in case you haven’t noticed) about the one time which is going to be one-time-too far.

It’s 9:00 PM.  First Daughter has popped up out of bed with a burning question:  “Why do cockatiels like shiny stuff?”

“All birds do,” I answered.  “Good night.”

“Got it, thanks,” replied First Daughter, now fully equipped to fall asleep for the evening.  At least that’s my hope.

And then I start wondering about other people’s families.  It’s not true that everyone has problems, and that all parents find child-rearing challenging.  Some are naturally better at it than others, some have an easier time than others.  Why some families become extra-ordinary, and why some have such difficult burdens to bear is a question that is always on my mind.  Was the ADHD genetic, and will there be epilepsy and Crohn’s Disease (hubby’s ailment) in our children’s future?  I’m not feeling sorry for myself, at least that’s not what I want to do, but I can’t help wondering what the moral of the story is here.

When I first met my husband, he was working as a job coach with adults with developmental disabilities.  He was good at it and enjoyed it, which is not common for this very challenging and low-paying profession.  I loved his goodness, particularly that his goodness extended to a population that many people have trouble even acknowledging.  I remember thinking shortly after I got pregnant, that if our child would be born with some sort of birth defect… well then G-d couldn’t have picked a better family for that child to be born into.  Pregnancy bliss.  This thought comes back to me at night… and sometimes I say quietly back to G-d:  I didn’t actually mean it.  I didn’t know that it could be so hard.  And I’ve been a good person, I’ve tried to be at least.  Why are some who are so careless get such an easy ride?  Why do those who care the most have to struggle so much.

My phone just rang, and it was the Art Therapist, whom I love.  She told me that First Daughter was making real progress, and that she was such a wonderful girl.  I started thanking her profusely, I was so happy to hear such positive things, and while I didn’t say it out loud, I thought to myself that the worst must be over.  The Art Therapist must have heard the relief in my voice, because she felt it important to remind me that while we should celebrate my daughter’s achievements, we still had a lot to work on.  She gently reminded me that my daughter would have these struggles for her entire life.

First Daughter made a beautiful presentation about Morocco, and managed to complete the survey at 9 PM last night.  It only took a couple hours of yelling at her father and sisters, panicked SMSs and Facebook messages to me while I was at work, and finally three different computers to find one that had both powerpoint, Hebrew enabled, and with Hebrew alphabet stickers on the keyboard.  And now, Powerpoint is her new best friend.  My husband’s birthday is today (according to the Hebrew calendar, 12th of Sivan), and First Daughter is so excited that she made him a special powerpoint presentation.  The title slide says “To Summarize:  I love you.”  How cute can you get.

To summarize:  The Prime Minister has not expelled my daughter, the parrot is dilated, and all is generally manic in our household at the moment.  Things will become even more manic when I tell First Daughter in a few days that I’m getting us tickets to see her favorite singer, Eyal Golan, when he comes to Karmiel in June.  Especially when I ask her not to tell anyone else, particularly little sisters who are too young to go.  You know on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t tell First Daughter until the actual evening of the concert.

Judith Warner rocks!

I’ve just added more articles to Snake Oil, Pharmaceuticals and Rubber Duckies.  The articles were written by Judith Warner, who is doing an AMAZING job countering the “ADHD is a myth” crowd.

I’m all for exploring treatment options, including non-pharmaceutical ones, but conversations that suggest that ADHD is just a figment of our imaginations only mean that extra-ordinary people have to suffer in silence.  And keep in mind, a good amount of those who are trying to delegitimize ADHD are also just trying to make a buck:  Book sales, herbal remedies – it’s the ultimate snake oil.  And these peddlers reason that the more vulnerable our population is, by claiming that it’s really just all our fault anyway,  the more we can be pressured into thinking that we NEED to buy their bestsellers and supplements.

Judith rocks.  ADHD is a fact, not a myth. Get the facts.

Update to Snake Oil, Pharmeceuticals and Rubber Duckies

Just entered some more info on my Snake Oil page.  Check it out here.  Or if the link doesn’t work, please check it out on the side menu.  I’m still relatively new at this blogging thing.

These Go to Eleven.

Ahhh… the ADHD life.  Like your normal life, except with a maxed volume and a vibrating downbeat.  And the one making all the drama thinks it’s all the height of cool.

Especially when the magic medicine disappears.  Yep, we are officially flying solo.

It all started around February (still medicated).  Throughout the month we had many pop-up evenings and peppy mornings, involving lots of words, magical ideas and skipping.  If we were an animated short, we could have scored an Emmy.  I occasionally had a fleeting thought of wondering whether or not the Ritalin was working quite as well as it used to.  “First Daughter”, I asked “How are you feeling?”

“Neveh Betteh” (“Never Better” for Americans.  First daughter enjoys speaking like Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter movies.)

Then the teacher (the good one, the substitute who I fell in love with and begged not to leave us when the permanent teacher’s maternity leave was up) began calling us.  It started with calls once or twice a week, reporting that First Daughter was having terrible headaches.  I didn’t think much of it at first, but the teacher then made it clear these were migraine level headaches.  They were also strangely clustered around Tuesdays.  First Daughter was not making them up, nor was there any subject/event/person that she wanted to upchuck from her Tuesday life.  It didn’t seem to be anxiety related.

Mama called the doctor and the doctor said:  No more Ritalin.

The first school day without Ritalin was not a good one.  It was also the last day of the awesome teacher, and the last day before a major vacation period (for the Passover holiday.)  At approximately 10:30 AM, Awesome Teacher texts me to say that First Daughter was having a difficult day.  I texted back to ask for details.  Awesome Teacher replied that my daughter was having a hard time paying attention.  I breathed a sigh of relief – at least she wasn’t throwing something or engaging one of her friends in an endless discussion on the texture of Justin Bieber’s hair gel.  Well, maybe the lesson was boring and that’s why she was having a hard time paying attention.  I texted back to ask what the subject of the lesson was.  “We’re having a party,” was the teacher’s reply.

Her home behavior really hadn’t changed much.  Granted she’d been a little louder, a little more fragile, a little more British, but other than that, not much else was different.

And then there was the car ride from hell.  Our first car ride without medication.  Three and a half hours in a hot car, on our way to the Negev desert.  It was so bad, I can’t even remember what First Daughter did exactly. I do remember that during the trip, I was googling on my smart phone: “ADHD Help” and “ADHD Families” and “ADHD won’t stop” and “ADHD can’t take it any more.”  Googling for advice was probably the worst thing I could do.  Experts recommended using your listening ears, and to make sure to set aside time for dinner.  They caution that parents of extra-ordinary children are more likely to get divorced.  They explain that you must get all the facts before jumping to conclusions.

DO THEY HONESTLY THINK THAT AN ADHD PARENT HAS TIME TO GET ALL THE FACTS BEFORE JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS?!?  WE’RE BUSY FOR GOODNESS SAKE, CHASING A CHILD WHO SPEAKS TWO LANGUAGES, HAS NO OFF SWITCH AND CAN DANCE FASTER THAN A CHEETAH ON A HOT TIN ROOF?!?

School has resumed, and the permanent teacher is back.  I have not told her that we’ve stopped the pills, I don’t think she deserves a place in the conversation about First Daughter’s medication.  I’ve been waiting for the phone calls and the notes, because I know this teacher has it in for us.  First day back: No note. At least no note from First Daughter.  Second Daughter had a note, which resulted in a half hour discussion with her teacher about second daughter’s inability to bring her school supplies.  Second day: No note.  Third day: Three notes, two of them retroactively dated for previous days.

“First daughter was an absolute delight!” said the first note.

“First daughter knew all the answers to every question!” said the second note.

“First daughter behaved perfectly in class today, but she did seem a little tired.” said the final note.

I signed them all, confirming that the notes had made it home to a parent.   “First daughter”, I asked her, “How was school today?”

“Fine,” she replied.  “Except Rabbi A. made me sit somewhere else.  Just because I was talking to my friend.  But I had to answer her didn’t I?  I mean, it would have been very mean if I just sat there and didn’t say anything.  I don’t understand why Rabbi A. moves my chair every single day, it’s not fair!”

I was silent for a moment.  I then asked her if other teachers have switched her position in class lately.  Yes, apparently all of them (except the homeroom teacher) have been having my child play musical chairs nearly every day.  But don’t worry, the homeroom teacher is thinking happy thoughts (and probably smoking fairy dust.)

Then the art therapist at the school wanted to speak to me.  First daughter is having a hard time paying attention in art therapy, seems very jumpy and tense.  “Oh really?” I reply.  “Have you spoken with her teacher?  She said my child is an absolute delight to have in class!”  Art therapists eyebrows disappeared into the brim of her hat.  She then suggested that maybe she should talk with the homeroom teacher, to find out a little more. I begged her not to.  This teacher is never going to be a participant in the education of my child, not in a productive way.  The very least I can hope for is to not have her cause too much damage.  “Can we just assume this teacher is irrelevant, let her be happy, and just you and I can talk and try to get to the bottom of this?”

She agreed.  She’s going to watch First Daughter a bit more, and then we are going to talk about possible solutions in a few weeks.  I’m very lucky that at the least the art therapist understands what it’s like to be a special needs parent.  We’re tired.  So tired that there aren’t any adjectives for it.   Sometimes being an extra-ordinary family downright sucks.

Oh, and did I mention that during this time second daughter came down with a mild stomach ache that turned out to be raging appendicitis, requiring two different hospital trips, several consultations, an operation and an entire troop of trilingual clowns?  And third daughter had cavities so terrible that she now has two crowns on her baby teeth, and is showing signs of her yet-to-erupt-adult-teeth leeching bone material from her jaw, which requires several dentist visits for monitoring?  And the children are still insisting on wearing boots in the warm Spring weather because their worn boots are in better shape than their sandals and street shoes which definitely don’t fit?  And we are going to have to move again in a few months, because yet again we have a landlord who wants to raise the rent to ridiculous levels?  And third daughter may or may not be going to first grade next year (late December kid), depending on the benevolence of the Rabbi at the education office who has yet to return my phone calls or inform his secretary when he will be available to speak?

And to top it all off, First Daughter, has now declared herself to be a vegetarian.  This is highly problematic since she hates most vegetables, however her fear of cows and sorrow over chicken-murdering has crystalized her resolve.  The only protein that will be ingested from now on is soy chocolate milk.

We need a real vacation.  A special needs vacation.  We don’t have to go anywhere in particular, we just need a week where everything works.  No notes from teachers, no complications in arranging child care, no medical traumas.  Where stores are open after “working hours” and children don’t have to be up at the crack of dawn to get to school where they are confined to idiotically designed seats with attached tables.  I love working, I don’t need a break from my job.  I need a break from our problems.

Consequences

Here’s an article recommending not to discipline kids with ADHD.  Well, sort of.  Actually, the article makes a pretty strong case not for giving up discipline, but for giving up the idea of conquering your extra-ordinary child.

“My Son Can’t Help It — So I Don’t Punish Him”

He shouts, he swears, he calls me names — but it’s his attention deficit talking. My child can’t help his behavior, so I work hard to ignore it.

I came across this article after a particularly exhausting battle with first daughter.  Weapons were drawn at approximately 9:30 PM on Wednesday night:

The phone rang, with a lovely calming ringtone of Marc Cohen’s Silver Thunderbird:  “Don’t you give me no Buick. Son you must take my word:  If there’s a  G-d in heaven, he’s got a silver Thunderbird.  You can keep your El Dorado, and your foreign cars absurd…”

I answered the phone.  “Hello?”

“Hallo,” was the reply from my oldest daughter’s English teacher.  She was calling to invite First Daughter to a special afterschool club for advanced English speakers.  Marc Cohen’s Silver Thunderbird tune that was rattling inside my head quickly changed to refrains of “First Daughter’s been called ‘Advanced’; First Daughter’s been called ‘Advanced.’”   Visions of her finally being able to read Harry Potter in English, and therefore keep herself entertained after she’s devoured every other Hebrew teen novel we have, danced before my eyes.

“Oh she’d be happy to attend an afterschool English club,” I gush into the phone.  In English.  Which the English teacher should be speaking with me anyway.  “Yes, she will be coming,” I quickly clarified.  I know how hard it is to deal with fancy phrases in a foreign language.  However, this is the English language teacher… anyway.

“WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!” came the screams from First Daughter’s bedroom, as she overheard my conversation.

I ran into her bedroom, not bothering to turn on the light.  “No, really, this is a great idea,” I tell her.  “Soon you will be reading Harry Potter in English.  And then Shakespeare, and maybe even To Kill a Mockingbird.”  I had tried to read that last one to First Daughter a few years ago, thinking it was a good idea.  Scout is a little girl after all, and first daughter is a little girl.  Great!  I came to realize a few pages in that To Kill A Mockingbird cannot be written or read in any language other than Dixie, and the listener must already be fluent in the first place in order to understand.  How else to explain the book’s definition of luck as “Fried chicken when you aren’t looking for it?”

“I’M NOT GOING!!!!!!  IT’S NOT FAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I ALREADY HAVE ONE LONG SCHOOL DAY, AND I DON’T EVEN GET HOME UNTIL 3:30!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I’M NOT GOING AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And that was the phrase that pretty much set me off. I can’t make her?  I’m the mother, I’m in charge!  I smiled sweetly and said to the English teacher, “We’re going to have to get back to you later.  First daughter is definitely excited about this.  Have a great night.”  I hung up the phone.

“I’M NOT GOING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  YOU CAN’T MAKE ME STAY SO LONG AT SCHOOL!”

Which prompted screaming fits from me about how American kids have long days every day, and they damn well like it.  I had to restrain myself for declaring that American kids also walked to school every day in the snow, uphill both ways.  How dare this child think she didn’t have to listen to me!  Her sisters would never dare scream so much.  Why why why did she have to make things so difficult?

The screaming continued for another ten minutes, from both of us.  I finally decided to break the argument with  ”Enough!  Get into bed and stop making any sound whatsoever.  If one more word comes out of your mouth I will take away EVERYTHING including the computer!!!”

Silence, continued with First Daughter’s silent weeping.  I walked out into the family room, and my husband made the mistake of asking what happened.  “Shhhh!” I whispered at him, “You’ll set her off again.”  I put on Downton Abbey and tried to calm down.  Unfortunately it was the episode where the youngest daughter of the clueless aristocracy gallantly dies in childbirth.  Could my luck get any better?  Where was my fried chicken?

Before I continue with the rest of the account, I’m sure newly-made parents are clucking their tongues at this point in the story.  They probably have lots of advice, suggestions and recommendations of books filled with parenting techniques.  I know, I know.  And I also know that more seasoned parents are probably laughing their heads off at my reaction, thinking me such a dork.  I know, I know.  But when you are in the middle of outrageous, it’s really hard to pretend to be a dignified lady in waiting.  Unless you live at Downton Abbey apparently.  Downton Abbey, England engaged in World War 1, the estate partially turned into a field hospital (since CSI shows are way cool) and despite it all, the lovely ladies wouldn’t think of showing up to a family dinner in their own house without elbow-length gloves and evening gowns.  Love that show.

Anyway, as the experienced extra-ordinary parents must have predicted by now, the battle continued once First Daughter woke up. There were arguments while chomping Cheerios, arguments while on the toilet, arguments while getting dressed.

There are a few things first daughter is super-sensitive to.  Having to ride the school bus is a terror for her, and I’m not sure why.  No one makes fun of her (anymore anyway), no one takes her seat (took at least five conferences with the assistant principal to get that one sorted out), and it’s only a five-minute bus ride, if that. However,  I do know that bus rides are problematic for a number of extra-ordinary children, so I decided long ago not to force her on this issue.   Threatening to lengthen her school day is apparently another one of those red lines that I probably shouldn’t cross.  I guess that makes sense for a kid who already has a hard time sitting still.

I had no choice, I had to relent.

There are many times when First Daughter does listen and follow directions.  If I ask her to clean or organize something in the house, she does it without argument and does it quite well.  She’s also been quite happy to help with her younger sister’s plans, assisting with putting together a friend’s birthday present, reminding forgetful-daughter that she has to go to her ceramics class, and so on.  She is a good girl.

But for the rest of the day, I had lots of parenting doubts.  If I gave in now, wouldn’t it make it much harder when she’s a full-fledged teenager?  Don’t I need to insist on my way or the highway?

I do worry about first daughter.  I worry that the medication will stop working, and that she will somehow become a victim of her tantrums.  That she won’t be satisfied and at peace as an adult – that somehow the one poor decision I make at some point is going to cause her future to spiral out of control. What if she doesn’t learn how to deal with disappointment?  What if she refuses to go to college?  What if she refuses to get a job?  What if she can’t succeed at relationships?

It’s not about the English class – and I still haven’t informed the teacher that First Daughter isn’t planning on attending.  I had thought that if the teacher calls to follow up on her absence, I could put on my best Downton Abbey accent and reply “Do you mean to tell me that THAT was TODAY?  How utterly absurd! I shall speak to Carson immediately!!”  My brain is still residing in outrageous, apparently.

Is it about raising my child to be the best she can be, with all of her strengths, supporting her weaknesses?  Or is it about being the perfect mother?  I’m very grateful I came across the above article to set me straight a bit.  While trying to be the best mother I could be, I had lost sight of being the mother that my child actually needs me to be.  Not one who always does the right thing, but the kind of mother who always is emotionally available for a child who has a hard time expressing emotion properly.

No special English after-school club.  However, First Daughter and I might have to go out and buy fancy ballroom gowns and high heel shoes, and stock our basement with cranky servants.  Just because.  She doesn’t watch the show, but I’m sure she would understand.  Actually we don’t even have a basement, so maybe we’ll just go get fancy hair clips for everyone.  Childhood is too short and too precious to be filled with conquests and broken spirits.

Check out the article.  That mother who doesn’t discipline her child knows what she’s talking about.

Bully

This is a must-see.  Parents, extra-ordinary kids, especially those who think that words are something that can just be ignored. Kol HaKavod (all the honor) to the graduating class of “We Made It!”

Goodnight, Sleep Tight

One of the cruelest symptoms of ADHD is insomnia.  And the kind of insomnia where your body desperately craves sleep, but your brain refuses to give in.  After all, beds are boring.  Beds are where you lie still and do absolutely nothing.

First daughter routinely has what I’ve called “pop-ups” in previous blog posts.  She really doesn’t understand why she must be banished to her mattress EVERY night, it’s so unfair.  Especially since the evening is when the parrot really starts talking, which is incredibly fascinating to a chatty ADHD child, which is incredibly fascinating to the chatty parrot and they just jabber and yell at each other so happily that it seems a crime to calm down and stop.    Eventually, however, she does go down to sleep, and sleeps well.  Not me.

Unlike First Daughter, I love the idea of getting a good night’s sleep.  I eagerly get into the bed, smooth the top sheet, wool blanket, and down comforter over me, and politely wait for sleep to come.  And wait and wait and wait.  Often, if I can’t manage to fall asleep by 2 am, I’m extremely sad and start hyperventilating.  If I do manage to fall asleep at a reasonable hour, I usually have pop-ups at 1 am, 3 am, 4, am, and 5 am, only to be thoroughly exhausted at 6 am.

One thing works – if my husband lies on top of me.  It sounds very strange, I know, but the hard pressure is the only thing that can help calm me down enough to fall asleep.  I have found doctors don’t really seem to have good advice on how to treat insomnia – I’ve been prescribed sleep pills, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety medications – nothing worked.   Deep pressure works for me.  When I’m stressed, and lying on the sofa, I’ll ask my little ones to come sit on my legs.  Thankfully they think this is very funny and are happy to comply.  The pressure helps me calm down.

As I’ve done research on ADHD for my sweet first daughter, I’m beginning to realize that I have a lot of these symptoms as well.  Let me put it this way – I have a craft supply closet.  Not only does it contain lots of craft material, but there are also at least 5 unfinished projects at the moment.  And it will take every ounce of strength I have not to go buy a brand new craft project to start.   I can’t organize myself at all, particularly any living quarters. I’m great at computer filing.  I can’t sleep well because my brain is buzzing too much.  My brain buzzes so much, that I can read books really really fast – usually poring through a 400 page murder mystery in a few hours.  I can’t stop worrying about problems that really aren’t a big deal, but I can’t physically get my brain to stop going over them again and again and again.  I find it easy to bury myself in books or knitting, to the detrminent of things that need to be done (like cleaning, cooking dinner, etc.), but find it extremely difficult to pay attention to stupid (like cleaning, etc.)  And I can’t sleep.

Exhaustive internet searching led me to the idea of “weighted blankets” or “pressure blankets.”  I thought this might be a good solution for first daughter’s pop-ups, it just sounded like such a wonderful idea.  It’s a blanket, full of weights, that applies pressure to your body.  It’s supposed to be calming for people with sensory issues – particularly kids on the autism spectrum. It’s also getting quite popular with ADHD families.  As I researched, while I knew that first daughter “might” appreciate a blanket like this, I knew I definitely NEEDED it.

After price checking a few sites, I relied on the great reviews from the “Shut Up About Your Perfect Kid” online support group, and contacted  ”Salt of the Earth Weighted Gear.” They had lower prices than most, and they agreed to ship to Israel (yay!)  They offered suggestions about weights and size, and I made a decision to order one for myself, and let first daughter actually see what it is, before I order it for her.  I placed the order around the end of December, and it took exactly one month to arrive to me.  Actually, Salt of the Earth, got it shipped out to me in a week and a half (all blankets are custom made to order.)  It arrived to Israel within two weeks, but the customs office here spent an additional two weeks scratching their heads and trying to figure out what in the world this could possibly have been.

It’s beautiful.  It’s wonderful.  It’s very calming and soothing.  It feels like a super-heavy beanie-baby.  Many companies use ball-bearings as weights in their blankets, but Salt of the Earth uses fine-grade river stones.  It feels like sand.  The cotton is also a great texture, nice and stiff like the cotton of a good top sheet.

My husband (who has been diagnosed with ADHD) loves it as well.  He was the one to pull it out of the package and unfold it.  And then of course, he couldn’t help himself, he had to test it out.  Now he steals it for daily naps.  It’s too heavy for first daughter to use, but she’s seen how we use it, and has said that she would like one of her own to try.

Pictures below.  I chose a lightening fabric, but they have lots to choose from on the site.  I’m not sure if doctors in Israel know about this – they might, and there might be Israeli options for this blannket, but information is so hard to get here sometimes.  Salt of the Earth is a great company – and if any Israeli is thinking about ordering from them, you’re welcome to stop by our place on Hallelujah mountain and test it out.

                 

Around the web…

I found two really great articles, and a few pictures that I just had to share.  Links and graphic below.   I crack a lot of jokes in my posts, and I do this because I’m so enjoying life, and I just want to spread it around a bit. For me, the humor is like a big magic superhero shield, deflecting pity and biting criticsms that would threaten to chip away at our souls.

It might just be my sensitive feelings, but lately I’m feeling the pressure of one to many squirrel jokes out there in cyberspace.  We are funny and full of joy – but we aren’t a joke.  We are also beautiful, inspirational, a true testament to life’s endurance.  Enjoy, reflect and spread the message!

Special Education Speed Dating

The most important component of the success of any student is parent-teacher communication; so much the more so with a student who has special needs.

Full article here.

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Ynetnews.com: “Disability not a tragedy”

It is only tragic when one considers disability to be the end of the potential
for achievement.

Full article here.

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From TangieBaxter.com

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Paying attention

Here are two recent snippets from our life in the past few weeks.  Most recent first, in reverse chronological order.  Which is cool.  Kinda like bow-ties.

….

Driving the two youngest children down the mountain to a dentist appointment, I get a call (on speaker phone) from an unknown number.)   Dialogue translated below:

“Hellooooo.”  Says the voice.

“Hi.” I reply.

“How are you?”

“Fine, who are you?”

“My name is “C–,” she slowly drawls, “I’m calling from the organization ‘Kesher.”

“Oh,” I say surprised.  I had called the organization weeks ago, exchanged emails, begged for someone to get back to me.  I completely forgot about them.

“You called me a few days ago…..?” C slowly questions?

“Well, it was weeks ago-”

“But I don’t check my voice mail all the time, so I only heard your message a few days ago.”

Really – did she just say that out loud? “Uh, yeah, I called,” I replied, “But I’m driving at the moment.  Can we talk tomorrow?”

“I’m not going to work tomorrow,” C replies.

Again – really, out loud? “Um, when are you at work?”

Quiet silence.  C has resumed slow drawling (the way you indulgently speak to a three-year old). “Would you like me to call you in one half hour?”

“I’m on the way to a dentist appointment, I really can’t talk now.  And I’m driving at the moment, could we talk another day?”

Another annoying quiet moment.  I’m driving and want this conversation over.  Eventually C drawls again “Would you like me to call you in one hour?”

“I’m driving C.  Have a good day, bye bye.”

As I re-type this, it occurs to me that my heavy English accent might have been responsible for her slow syllable pronounced drawl.  It could also be that she believes this an appropriate way to speak to extra-ordinary people.   If I were weak and vulnerable I would be hurt that this turned into another dead-end.

Good thing us extra-ordinary people aren’t pushovers.  If ”C” can’t keep up, then  she can get out of the way.  I’m driving.

………..

Parent-Teacher conferences:  When it’s just you and the teacher, face to face, with no ability to hang up the phone and blow raspberries in the privacy of your own home.

I couldn’t sleep in the nights leading up to this dreaded event.  For extra-ordinary families, this almost always involves a terrible confrontation where you either emerge victorious (yeah right), or run away crying with your head hanging in shame.  My middle child who also attends the school is usually regarded as ordinary, so at least I had one happy conference to pick me up.  I scheduled that one for last so that my night could end on a happy note.

A substitute has replaced oldest daughter’s homeroom teacher, who is on maternity leave for the next three months.  I prepared myself to explain and excuse oldest child’s behavior, once again.  Of course no one briefed her, of course no one would let her know about previously arranged agreements.  Starting over.

I walked into the room.  “Hello, how are you?” asked the teacher.  And she was smiling.

“Fine, how are you?” I replied.  “I’m first daughter’s mother.”

She kept smiling and said “Nice to meet you!  Your daughter is such a sweetheart.”

Really?  She said that out loud?  The principal could have heard her - and then we would have had an “incident” on our hands.  Maybe the substitute was just too new, and had my child confused with someone else.

I sat down.  “First daughter has ADHD, you know.” I blurted out.  In retrospect I really wish I hadn’t denigrated the positive feedback that way, but I was just in shock.

“Yes, I heard,” replied the substitute.  And then she continued.   ”Her grades are very high, she’s really advanced.  She’s a great student.  Sometimes she gets a little over-excited but really she seems fine to me.  Here’s her report card – the homeroom teacher filled out the top part.  I don’t know why she graded her so low, she seems great in my class.  I’ve given her these grades down at the bottom of the card.  Your first daughter always brings all of her materials, always completes her homework, she’s really a sweetheart.”

A sweetheart?  When was the last time I heard an adult say that about my kid?  Actually, now that I thought about it, a lot of people have said that about my kid.  My friends and family who know and love my first daughter, and who have been reading this blog,  have responded in person to many of my posts with comments like “You know, I just don’t know why this is happening.  You first daughter is such a good responsible girl, I think she’s just great.”  I would politely thank them for their comments, and just assume that they weren’t seeing the “other side.”  I shouldn’t have lowered my expectations so much.

We continued to talk happily and honestly.  She was very familiar with what kind of support oldest daughter needed, and together we came up with a plan for how we would communicate in the future.  And the night didn’t end there – I then met with oldest daughter’s English teacher, who also replied that my daughter was such a good girl.  She was very bright, and a good student.  “You know,” the English teacher continued, “You should know that your oldest daughter told me that she doesn’t like the English language very much – she said this in English. But as long as she has good grades, we have nothing to worry about.”

Wow!  Knock me over with a can of silly putty!  Could this night have gotten any better?

I met with second daughter’s teacher.  I’ve always had a lot of respect for this woman.  In a school that seemed very chaotic, this teacher was incredibly organized and serious.  I smiled as I sat down.

Hellos were exchanged.  Then, she was all business.  “For the past several weeks, your second daughter hasn’t been bringing the correct books to school.  Normally, I’d say that this is her responsibility to manage, but it’s clear that she’s going to need some help.  Didn’t you see the notes I wrote in her journal?”

“Uh… no, I forgot to check.”  I replied lamely.

“Please do check,” she replied.  “Second daughter also hasn’t been filling in her reading chart - and I know that she enjoys reading a lot.  Everyone else in the class has already completed at least one chart, but your second daughter hasn’t yet.  Please follow up with her.”

“Ok,” I replied quietly.  What was happening here?  Second daughter never had problems before, at least none that required parental intervention.  That was first daughter’s job.  I started recalling how other extra-ordinary parents had warned me that the siblings of extra-ordinary children run the risk of being overlooked….

“And of course, we must move forward arranging her occupational therapy.”  We knew that second daughter had a speech problem since she was a toddler.  As the years have gone by, I’ve been quietly hoping that this problem would just go away.  Life was just getting too complicated…  we took her from speech therapist to speech therapist – the last one finally informing us that the problem wasn’t her speech, but that her shoulders and neck appeared to be extremely weak.  Occupational therapy was supposed to be the next thing to try, and the school would provide it.  But apparently parents must jump through a few hoops first, and I hadn’t figured out which hoops I need to jump through… and of course there was the quiet hope that she would just improve.  We’d been doing hand-stands and barrell-racing at home to see if we could tackle the shoulder-weakness as a DIY project.   We definitely breeded giggles, but the shoulders are still not up to par.

“The other three kids in the class who need therapy have already started their sessions, but your second daughter doesn’t have all the arrangements made yet. Please attend to this, I don’t want her to miss out.”

I promised to do better, and in the subsequent days, I did  Arrangements for pre-therapy interviews were set.  Second daughter is double checking her daily schedule, and has handed in one full sheet of books that she read.  Getting back on track…

****

[Conclusion - set in the modern period, tonight.]

Mistakes.  I keep wishing I could promise my children a life without mistakes.  Clothes without holes, meals without sugar, television without stupidity.  Parents with undending patience.

All I’ve got is pockets full of do-overs. And I will do everything in my power to make sure my children never lack an opportunity.

Ending with a song – again.   There’s a wonderful musical called “Sunday in the Park with George”, which is a fictionalized account of the life of the painter Georges Seurat.  One of the best songs, “Move On” has some of the best life advice I’d every heard:  “I chose and my world was shaken – so what?  The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not.  Just keep moving on.”

Listen and enjoy.

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,000 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 3 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.