Marbles + Battleships

“Mommy, I made up an imaginary game called Battleships.  Do you want to play?  There are lots of rules to this game.  It’s pretty hard.  Are you listening?  I hope you are listening.  Now this is the ship and you need to knock those posts down with the squishy ball and I will be the guard.  Go!”

“Mommy, I have another game we can play.  Marbles!  I’ll show you.  You just gently roll the marbles and if you hit the other person’s block you get a point!  See?!”

Being stuck inside all winter (and we’ve still had winter in APRIL!) has led the Roc to come up with his own games.  He is happy to play them with anyone, but watch out, the kid is competitive and he doesn’t like to lose.  It’s awesome to see him expanding, using his imagination, coming up with things completely on his own.

So proud of him.

Piggy Back

I promised him an after dinner walk, and so we bundled up, even though a warm bath sounded better to me than stepping out into the 34 degree evening.  But I promised.

“Can I hold your hand?” he asked me as we stepped onto the road.  How much longer will he ask me that question?

“I’ve got mittens on, I hope you don’t mind,” I told him.

“That’s okay.”

We held hands, mine mittened, his gloved, and we walked, our breath puffing out before us.  The air was damp and still, and we were the only souls outside.  Immediately I was glad I kept my promise.  He needs this time, undivided attention.  No phone, no computer, no TV, no animals, no people, no errands, no laundry, no “just a second,” nothing to split my focus.  Just us.

We walked and talked.  He asked me questions.  I answered.  I recognized that he was thinking about the art of conversation.  Practicing asking questions, practicing what his skills trainer had talked about on Thursday.  How awesome.

“This is so nice.  I can feel that spring is coming.  What do you hear?” I asked him.

“Cars!” he exclaimed.

“Yup, I hear cars too.  I also hear the birds.  Birds singing means spring is coming.”

We kept walking.  He hoped to see some animal tracks.

*

The sky melted into the ground.  White and gray, streaked with dirt.  We followed the path down and around the bend.  A field stretched out before us, ending in trees, their bleak branches reaching into the dismal sky.  I wished for a beautiful blue sky, a stark contrast to the gritty snow covered ground.  Then I noticed the sun, a pale yellow circle visible behind the haze and bare branches.  I watched it as we walked, thinking about how rare it is to be able to look directly into the sun.

There is beauty, even now, when winter will not let go.

*

“Do you see those bare patches under the pine tree?” I asked him, wondering if he was picturing a brown bear hunkered down beneath the tree.

“There is no snow under there.”

“You’re right.  Why isn’t there any snow under the tree?”

“Because it blocked it.”

“What did?”

“The tree.”

“You are so smart Roc and you are right!  The pine branches blocked the snow leaving it bare underneath.  Now what do you think about these tree branches?” I asked, pointing to the nearest tree.

“They didn’t block the snow.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t have leaves.”

“What do you call that?”

“…Bare!”

“Right again!”

Not long ago I explained bear vs. bare.  I wondered if it stuck.  It did.

There is beauty in these small steps.

*

Water covered the sidewalk, mud covered the edges, and snow mounds rose up on both sides.  Ahead was our destination.  The little community garden, hidden under the snow, only the posts marking each 15 x 15 plot popping out through winter.  I promised I would show it to him.  Show him where we might have a garden this summer, if we are awarded one of the plots I applied for.

“Can I have a piggy back ride?”

“hmmm….we could go back.  Or go back a ways and then walk on the road,” I suggested, thinking that he is much taller and heavier than he used to be.

“No!  A piggy back!  Please!!”

“Okay, climb on,” I relented, squatting down.  Immediately I realize that I am stronger than I remember and so is he.  Instead of hanging on me like a sack of potatoes, he holds on.  I walk through the water.  We take a peak at the garden area.  Talk about what we could plant this summer.  Then it’s time to walk back through the water.  I lower myself and he climbs on.  I walk in silence, thinking about how easy this day has been, how nice this walk has been, just the two of us.  I think about the weight of my only son on my back as I carry him.

“I love you Roc,” I tell him.

“Thank you.”

I smile and after a few beats he whispers,

“I love you too.”

*

I have found so much beauty on this silent, gritty, gray evening.

I am so lucky.

Waiting

You may not think I saw you.  But I did.  I saw you roll your eyes when we exited the changing room.

I don’t blame you.  You just don’t know what you are seeing.  Based off your exaggerated eye roll, I’m guessing you see a demanding child, a loud child, a child I should have control over.  Maybe you think I’m not a very good mother.  Not as good as you, your children waiting, waiting, waiting so patiently for the tiny changing room door to open.

Maybe you sighed so loudly to send me a message.

You took too long.  How selfish of you.  Your kid is a brat.  You are not a good mother.

I felt the pressure to move him along while I was inside that tiny space.  I knew you were waiting.  I knew you were not the only one waiting.  I heard someone try the handle, even though my big black winter boots should have been clearly visible under that partial door.  I felt the pressure to do for him.  I knew you were waiting.  I knew others were waiting.  I also knew there were at least four or five other changing stalls.  I knew that others would move faster than we were.  I knew that we could move faster if I helped him.  But he needs to be able to do these things himself and I am not helping him by helping him.  So I wrapped my arms around myself, my fingers pressing against my ribs, and I fought the urge to help him.

To help him dry his skin and hair.  To help him untie the knot holding up his bathing suit.  To help him out of his bathing suit.  To help him navigate putting on his underwear, his pants, his shirt, his socks, and finally his shoes.  When he screeched, “I need you to do it FOR ME!” I held my ground.  I squeezed my arms tighter and fought my hands from helping.  The physical urge was so strong.  Instead I prompted him to keep going.  That he could do it himself.  When he sang a song instead of zipping up his pants I gestured for him to zip.  Trying to remind myself not to talk so much.  Not to verbally prompt so much.  He grinned when he got all his clothes on, and I grinned back without telling him his shirt was on backwards.  I gently reminded him to stuff his towel and wet bathing suit into the bag.  I stopped him before I opened that tiny door and said, “See?  You can do it by yourself.  I’m so proud of you!”

If only you could have seen that smile that lights up his eyes from deep inside.  If only you could know what it meant to him, to me.

When I opened that door and saw your face, saw your eyes roll up and away, heard you sigh and usher your two small children forward, already instructing them to hurry I didn’t feel embarrassed or sorry.  If you tried to shame me, it didn’t work.

I do not know your story and you do not know mine.  Maybe you are lovely and you’ve had a bad day.  I try to give you that grace.   The grace I wish for my son as he learns important life skills, necessary skills.  Skills that your children are picking up by osmosis.  I try to give you grace.

And so I smiled.  I let you push past us and I smiled at my son.  I smiled at the other parents nearby.

I smiled.  Because that was huge.  He dressed himself, and I forced myself to be still and I let him.  It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t quiet, but he got it done.

In the past I might have felt shamed by your eyes or your sigh.  I might have gone out to my car and cried a little, felt sorry for myself.

Not anymore.

I am not helping him by helping him.

Even if you wished I would.

I’m doing the best I can.

My son is doing the best he can.

Maybe that was the best you had that day.

I hope you get another chance to do better.

I’m sure you can.

Memoirs

At last I am here, standing in the steam and dim light.  The warm water rushes from the faucet, filling the tub with honey scented bubbles.  I feel like I have been waiting for this moment all day, waiting for this window of time, to myself.  I sink into the hot water, my shoulders slipping beneath the surface.  The heat engulfing me, warming my blood, cold from this winter that will not end.  I wiggle my toes in the bubbles and exhale.  I dry my hands, my fingers find the little slip of paper that marks where I stopped reading the night before.  I begin to read, the words painting pictures behind my eyes.  I lose myself in the life story of a stranger.

*

In an effort to achieve more balance I have been stepping away from my laptop lately.  Away from the status updates I forget the minute I read them.  Away from the obsessive need to ingest all the blogs in my reader.  I have tried to limit my time in front of the TV.  Instead I’ve been requesting books from my local library, revisiting my love of reading.  Relishing in the complete escape I feel as I open the door to a different world.

My heart lifted reading about Stephanie Nielson falling in love with her husband at a young age, and then ached to read of her journey back to herself after a plane crash which burned over 80 percent of her body in her book, Heaven Is Here: An Incredible Story of Hope, Triumph, and Everyday Joy.  Laughter bubbled up and then exploded as I read, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson.  Both of these books I requested after reading Stephanie and Jenny’s blogs.  Somewhere online I saw the title for Claire Bidwell Smith’s memoir,  The Rules of Inheritance, and it sat on my nightstand for two weeks while I attempted to read a novel.  The urge to read about real life kept beckoning.

*

Tears slip down my cheeks and dry where they fell, leaving a tightness around my eyes and in my throat.  The water cools and I add more hot, I am not ready to get out, to stop reading Bidwell Smith’s words.  Her loss is staggering and I feel cracked open reading her pain.  This book is real, honest, and at some points so raw that I cannot see the words swimming in my tears.  I will finish it less than 48 hours after starting it.  Beautiful words to describe this book escape me, but I know this book will stay with me for a long time.

*

Now I find myself following links and spending time in front of my laptop again, no longer skimming my facebook feed, instead I am looking for more memoirs.  More real life stories I can dive into.

A different kind of connection.

 

Roc-isms, Part XI

The Roc has been in the shower for about 5 minutes.

“Have you started to wash yet Roc?”

“I will.”

I wait 30 seconds…

“Are you washing now?”

“Not yet, I’m still watering so I will keep growing.”

***

GC to the Roc:

“Roc, you need to drink some water, your breath smells really bad.”

…The Roc smiles at GC and says,

“Well, get away from me then.”

***

“Mommy, I’m going to do a joke on you.”

“Are you playing a trick on me?”

“Yes.  Now listen.  I’m going to play a joke on you.  Do you want a kiss?”

“Are you tricking me?”

“Yes.  Do you want a kiss?”

“So you’re tricking me?”

“Yes.  Now you have to answer yes or no!”

“Okay, yes I want a kiss.”

He leans towards me, lips puckered…

“NOPE!” he yells, rearing back, grinning.

“Did I get you?”

***

“I’m going to be so excited to open my presents on Christmas.  I think I might explode!  But not the bad exploding like when I’m mad.  This will be a good exploding.  Bright yellow stuff will fly out of me because I will be so happy!”

“That sounds messy Roc…and you know that it’s March right?  Christmas won’t be for another nine months.”

…

“When’s my birthday?”

***

“Mommy, I’m going to tell you a joke.”

“Okay, go for it.”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Orange.”

“Orange who?”

“I’m a MONKEY!”

***

At Qdoba for lunch the Roc says,

“Whew!  I’m all filled for now!”

“So you’re full then?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.  I’m filled.”

“You can say that.  Or you can say I’m full.”

“That’s what I said.  I’m filled.”

“I’m full.”

“Yes, I’m filled.”

“Okay then, me too.”

 

 

 

Lack of Ease

I like to document the progress the Roc makes.  It makes me happy to record the little leaps and the big.  To tell the more of our story, I sometimes write down the harder stuff.  Last Sunday night was one of those harder times.  I revisited the angry phase of the grief cycle, a place I do not visit nearly as often as I used to.

***

Winter is hard for the Roc.  He needs activity and exercise, and it’s hard to get what he needs stuck indoors, especially this winter with it’s lack of snow and plummeting temperatures.

The end of last week was hard.  Lots of yelling.  Lots of screaming.  A few tantrums.  Lots of battles over homework, and dinner, teeth brushing, and going to school, bedtime, and the dog.  Did I mention lots of screaming?  Lots of screaming.  We had some bright moments, but they were mellowed somewhat by all the screaming.

On Sunday night neither GC nor I wanted to be the parent.  Neither one of us wanted to be “on.”  It was, or should have been the end of the Roc’s day, as he had just been put to bed, complete with his extensive goodnight routine.  But he was out on the landing overlooking our family room, screaming and fighting, fighting with us.  We tried to remain calm, we told him to go to bed, we tried to reason with him, and then we told him to go to bed some more, with louder, angrier voices.

“I just feel like I have nothing to give anyone right now,” I told GC as I stepped into the kitchen.  “I don’t want to be on right now.  I just don’t.”

“Do you ever wish you could just hand this over to someone else for awhile?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I answered immediately.  “It’s this constant state that wears me out….and it isn’t this way for so many people I know.  I just wish for some ease.”

I started down that path.

“Right now other people, people we know, are having rational conversations with their children,” I said over the Roc’s guttural screaming coming from upstairs.  “They are saying, ‘Okay kids, time to go get ready for bed,’ and their kids do that.  They get ready for bed by themselves and then they GO TO BED.  None of this awful screaming hysterical stuff.”

I slammed the refrigerator door shut.

“And they have no clue how lucky they are, how hard this is.  I’m so fucking tired.” GC said as he stepped onto the pity path with me and matched my stride.

Something big crashed upstairs and more angry screaming followed.

“I just feel so angry sometimes,” I said as I sat down heavily on the couch.  “Angry that this is our life.  That this is our family.  That the dog is shaking in the corner and our child is out of control, screaming his brains out over…what?  This isn’t what I dreamed about…and it makes me angry.  I don’t often go to this place anymore, but sometimes it wells up and I cannot stop it…and it burns.”

“This anger burns right here,” I said pressing on my sternum.  I sighed loudly, letting all the air whoosh out of my lungs, wincing at the screaming still going on upstairs.

“I get angry too,” GC said as he looked up at the Roc, red-faced and angry, banging his toys.  Suddenly he bellowed, “JUST GO TO BED!” at the Roc…and the Roc screamed right back.

“You know, we aren’t helping anything right now,” I said to GC.

I knew what needed to be done.  I knew what the Roc needed.

I swallowed my anger and felt it dissolving as I climbed the stairs.

“Mooooooommmmmmmmyyy!”

The Roc was in his room, throwing his stuffed animals.  I motioned for him to get into bed.

“Are you mad at me Mommy?” he asked me, his voice shrill.

“Let’s talk Roc,” I said as I sat down on his bed, taking in his red, tear stained face.  He is a beautiful child.  My heart hurt for him.  To let your emotions get out of control is never a good feeling.  I knew he didn’t feel good, and he didn’t mean the words he had said.

I remind myself:  If he could do better, he would.

So we talked.  Me quietly, him very loudly until he calmed down.  We talked about our feelings, about what makes us angry, about choices, about all the things he does well, and all the ways I am proud of him.  I told him I love him.  I hugged him and told him I love him again.  I kissed his cheeks and told him I love him.

***

Five days later, while I remember my conversation with GC, my anger and grief at the surface, burning the words into my brain, I cannot remember the exact words the Roc and I shared.  We talked for awhile.  I remember snippets.  I remember the anger and stress leaving his face and voice while we talked, to be replaced with tears and worry, until he finally relaxed and looked tired.  I don’t remember what words we exchanged.

Until the very end.  We hugged and kissed, he told me he was ready to fall asleep, and we did our goodnight routine:

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

As I stepped away from the door he said,

“Mommy…?”

“Yes baby, what is it?”

“Thank you for coming back.”

I steadied myself against the door frame.

“Always Roc, I’ll always come back.”

Here we go Again: Basketball

Basketball started a couple weeks ago and this year there were no tears shed on the way to the Roc’s first practice.  The nerves were still present, but the tears were absent, a little less anxious this year.  It helps to have an idea of what is going to happen.  The fear of the unknown is one of the Roc’s worst enemies.  It also helps that the Roc has the same two coaches from last year.  At basketball opening night back in December only one of the coaches had signed up, and when the other dad arrived and realized that his son was on the Roc’s team again, he asked the first coach if he would like some help again this year.  His wife had signed his son up, and hadn’t signed her husband up to coach.  My eyes filled up with tears when I heard him ask the first coach if he’d like some help, I knew he would be helping the Roc during games as he did last year.  GC told me later that he asked the first coach how he came to be the Roc’s coach again this year, and apparently at the coaches meeting, the first coach asked to have the Roc when he found out the Roc was playing again this year.  Hearing that brought tears to my eyes, again.  There are some good people in this world.

It’s been fun to see the Roc during practices this year.  They separated the kids out this year so only two teams are in the gym where he practices.  Therefore there is a lot less noise, movement, and general chaos.  This year there is a bit more of an ease about the Roc during practices.  He doesn’t look as lost, he listens to the coaches instead of looking to us, he concentrates, and he smiles!  I often see him do his “happy hop” while he is waiting in line during a passing or shooting drill.  He tries so hard!

Last year the games were harder.  He looked lost, kept his arms down by his sides, and was very rigid in his movements.  He never knew which end of the court he was supposed to be at and he was always at the back of the pack when the boys ran from one end to the other.  He never got in with this kids, preferring to stay on the outskirts, and he was never passed the ball.

There is definite difference in the Roc’s comfort level during the games this year.  This year the second coach has been helping him during games, and we added a couple phrases the coach says while out on the court with him, “Defense Roc!  Guard your guy!” and “Offense Roc, Get open for the ball!” to help him remember what he is supposed to be doing.  He stays with the pack and is quicker to move with his team from each end of the court.  The Roc requests to guard the same guy when it is his turn to play, a huge step in speaking up for himself, and he tries hard to stay with him.  A few times the ball has come near the Roc, and he looks so surprised to see it.  The shock when the ball bounces right in front of him or off his fingertips (because he always has his arms in the air) is apparent (and adorable.)  He tries to get open while on offense, but so far he has been fairly easy for the opposing teammates to guard.

Last Saturday, about halfway through the game the Roc was open and a teammate passed him the ball…and he caught it!  He looked surprised to have the ball in his hands and because he was near the hoop GC and a couple other people sitting near us shouted out, “Shoot it!  Shoot it!!”  I felt the collective pull for the Roc as he raised the ball and released it…and it went IN!!!  I cheered, GC cheered, his coach cheered, and I heard the parents around me cheering.  But his reaction to the ball going in was priceless.  His face split open into a big grin and he was beaming pride.  He stopped and looked at us sitting on the sidelines before he realized he was supposed to run down to the other end of the court.

“Oh, that was adorable!” one of the mom’s who knows about the Roc leaned over and said to me.

“I’m going to cry!” I told her, waving my hands in front of my eyes as they filled up with tears.

I am grateful that so far, at this age, it has been about learning the game, practicing the skills, trying hard, and having fun.  The score is not kept during the games, and the parents I have sat near have been positive, clapping for good plays, giggling when the boys end up rolling on the floor grabbing for the ball, and groaning at missed baskets, no matter the team.

This has been a wonderful sport for the Roc to try.  He is learning so much and it is helping him in so many ways.  I am so grateful to the coaches who are so positive and really encourage him.

I’m so proud of him for all that he has done and that he keeps trying.  I know it isn’t easy and he is nervous and anxious and the pace of the game is overwhelming for him.  But he keeps trying.

He is amazing.