I was wrong (the cube realized)

It happens. I am wrong. It has happened before. Not often. But it happened tonight.

The Cube.

After a 12 hour work day. After he'd been at school then tackled homework. Right before bedtime. This had disaster written all over it.

But I was bound and determined for him to have some role in this mindless exercise.

We picked out the paper and settled in at the table. iPad open to the 18 step "easy" directions.

And I started folding and he started creasing. And he said "I've made this before, mom. We've got this. Follow me." And I did.

And it was hard but doable. Together. Alone I'm not sure either one of us could have assembled the cube. But together, we proved, anything is possible.

And before long step one was step twelve and the cube was taking shape. And pretty soon we were both marveling at how awesome we were.

Most days I'm dead on estimating my children's strengths and weaknesses but tonight was a reminder not to write them off. They have undiscovered talents. They have unique. skills. They are amazing in their own right.

Will Aaron grow up to be a master paper folder (if such a thing exists)? Probably not. But I hope he will look back and remember his tired, frazzled mom sat down after work and helped him fold an origami cube and told him, "I'm so proud of you."

the cube

easy 

adjective \ˈē-zē\ 

causing or involving little difficulty or discomfort

requiring or indicating little effort, thought, or reflection

hmmm. Easy?

What is easy anyway?  What is easy for me is not necessarily easy for you. And it is definitely not easy for Aaron.

The Cube. EASY Modular Origami Cube.

6 sheets of paper. 18 steps.  39 photos. 

A child with fine motor skill issues and the inability to follow a string of instructions.  A mother with limited patience.

Easy?

The Cube project is indicative of  the problems we are having at school.  Balancing the assignments Aaron is given with what can realistically be expected from him.  Questioning what the goal of EACH task is and where it fits into content mastery and academic standards. Is it truly designed to teach or reinforce a concept or simply a time waster that will surely throw us over the precipice we teeter on daily between sanity and a nervous breakdown? 

Easy?

Nothing is easy with Aaron.  Even the simplest tasks take forever and require multiple reminders and redirects. And most of the time, the assignment is not simple or easy.  All too often, there is yelling.  And frustration by everyone involved.  You can hear it in my voice.  You can see it in Aaron's clenched up fists and scrunched up face.  

Determining what he can do on his own, what we help with, and what we do for him. Easy? No.

Sometimes we let things slide - things like The Cube. Because when it comes down to it, building an insanely small origami cube will not teach him how to determine the surface area or volume of a shape.  It will only illustrate to him, yet again, his weaknesses, his disabilities, his failures.  And mine, too.

He will see that what is easy for others is nearly impossible for him.  So I will build The Cube and he will turn it in and get a grade on it. 

And instead of a lesson in futility and frustration disguised as geometry, he will learn that I will be there to support him and fight for him.  In the end, honestly, it's the easiest thing I can do.

smells like teen

Your modern teenager is not about to listen to advice from an old person; defined as a person who remembers when there was no Velcro.
Dave Barry

Loud. Smelly. Unpredictable.

Clothes on the floor instead of the closet or the dresser or the dirty clothes hamper. A room that smells like something died in there. Years ago.

Food that disappears as fast as it enters the house. No more kiddie menus.  Full size, adult meals PLUS "are you going to finish that" and "what's for dessert".

Light still on.  Not studying, but yelling at some random stranger on Xbox Live, half-way around the world. It's after midnight, go to sleep.

A mix of chlorine and sweat and dirt and body odor and body spray.  Shoes and feet that smell so bad I nearly throw up when I have the misfortune of being in the same room with them.

"Can I borrow your car?" Sure, but don't forget to leave the stereo at an ear-shattering volume.

Staying up late and sleeping all day.

No longer a child but not yet an adult. Stuck between what the world expects and what you want to do.

Stand tall. Pull up your pants. Wash your hands.

Roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders and assume that I know nothing about being a teenager.  Nothing about peer pressure. Nothing about dating and relationships and the drama that comes from teenage girls. Nothing about stress and a demanding schedule and choosing priorities and making time for what is important.

And then there are those times where out of nowhere you hold my hand in public or dog-pile on top of me laughing uncontrollably. Cuddle up next to me on the couch to watch a movie. Let me tell you that the fight you had with your girlfriend is not the end of the world (as you seem to think) but an opportunity for the two of you to grow.

Someday, you'll have a teenager, too. And you will understand that I did indeed know what I was talking about.  Until then, for the love of G-d, pull up your damn pants!

it's not you, it's me

Sometimes I have to take a friend-cation.  Not a getaway with my bests (I do that, too) but a brief break from the people around me.

I do it for my own sanity. And to make sure that my friends stay my friends.

Over the years, I've gotten pretty good at holding my tongue.  Keeping my inner voice silent. Most of the time at least.

So why take a break if I have it under control?

Because sometimes it is more than I can handle and I feel myself losing that inner battle. But it's (rarely) you that is the reason for the hiatus - it's generally me.  My jealousy. My inadequacies. My issues.

So I walk away.  I stop reading texts and posts. I find myself unavailable for lunches and outings. I just take a break.

Deep down, I am happy that your child is doing well in school and life. But honestly, it's hard to calmly sit back while you complain about your son having a B or your minor annoyances.  SAT scores, colleges, awards.  Those constant reminders of how much we struggle at home is sometimes more than I can handle. It is a reminder of our loss, our frustrations, our pain. 
 
I know you don't mean it maliciously or as a slap in the face.  It's not a competition - I know that - but it still hurts.  My insecurities.

So although I don't expect you to understand what we go through at home, I hope you understand why sometimes I just don't want to go to lunch and listen to how great your life is.  I want you to stay my friend and I'm afraid the inner voice will come out.

It's just a vacation not a permanent split.  Please understand, it's not you... it's me.

focus

I've often lacked focus.

I was diagnosed "hyperactive" at seven. I flit from one thing to another.  My life is run by a series of to do lists and reminders on scraps of paper, in my phone or scribbled hastily on my hand.

I don't watch tv. I watch tv, while playing a game, reading a book and having a conversation.

I often wake up in the middle of the night to make myself a list of things not to forget.

I changed my major in college three times and still questioned if that was my "final answer".

Focus.

I have so many things going through my brain at any given moment that I often lose sight of what is most important.  I can't see the forest through the trees because I'm too busy looking at the leaves. And the birds. And the trail. All at the same time.

It's not a symphony of well orchestrated notes.  It's a cacophony of unrelated ideas crashing upon each other loudly for dominance.  As you can imagine, I don't sleep well.

Focus.

Lately, I've found myself so mired in the everyday struggles of my life that I have lost focus on what is truly important. 

But now it's time to focus.  Focus on what I can change, accept what I can't and enjoy the journey through the forest again.  Ignore the leaves that are all over the floor.  Tune out the birds that are arguing loudly. Follow the trail that I am on and enjoy the view.

TO DO:
Focus.

every day

I knew he was different when he was two.

I remember the first Christmas. The shopping cart he was so excited about.  Not for the cart per se but for what came inside.  We woke up early Christmas morning to find him at the end of a long trail of boxes.  All neatly lined up.  The shopping cart on its side while he spun the wheels round and round.

I remember not being able to communicate with him.  He had his own language - his own way of seeing the world.  Hands over his ears shielding him from loud noises - eyes covered against bright lights. Being told by the school district that the problem was on my end - that my child was brilliant; that I just needed to learn how to understand him.

I remember sitting in the car while he screamed at the top of his lungs for what seemed like an eternity. Strangers walking past looking at me as if I had beaten my child. Knowing that the only thing that would stop him was sheer exhaustion. I felt helpless and frustrated.

There were days that I felt like the worst mother in the entire world.  Days that he would tell you I was. Days that I would sit in my car alone and uncontrollably cry. So many years later, we still have days like that. Too many.

There were times along the road that I asked myself how I would ever get through this.  Begged G-d for understanding. For patience. Those times are not behind me.  They are my every day.

Some things haven't changed in the past 14 years.  I still often feel helpless and the level of frustration has only increased with age. Gone are the boxes of fake food, and although we talk, we still do not communicate. There is still a great deal of screaming. Frustrated, angry screaming that leaves us both emotionally and physically drained.

I remember the parent-teacher conferences, year after year after year, where we were told that our child was smart (testing showed that) but not engaged.  "He zones out... he's not present... he sleeps through my class."  Classwork wasn't done.  Homework was a battle. Grades fell. Comments from both sides of the table, "We know he can do better." Fingers pointed both directions.

I remember each 504 and IEP. Psychologists and specialists and support groups. Diagnoses and medications and therapies. Parenting classes and books.  Explaining to yet another doctor, teacher, friend, family member, and parent.

I also remember the first time he told a joke. Sitting next to him the first time he watched a fireworks show without his ears or eyes covered. The feeling of picking him up from summer camp last year (the first time without a family member). Watching him lead his peers at Boy Scouts or mentor a younger scout. When he left me in a theater to go sit with his friends - people who accepted him and welcomed him.  These are the everyday.

But then there are also the everyday battles over homework and responsibility. The constant reminders that he lacks reason and the ability to differentiate right from wrong. The same concerns over hygiene and personal safety we had when he was little. Worrying about what the future will hold for him. For us.  Every day.

And, I often wonder how much has REALLY changed in 14 years.

The school district was right - he is smart and I do not understand him. And THAT, more than anything else, leaves me feeling frustrated, helpless. And sad.

Every day is Autism Awareness Day