Mom & Pop Home School

“Mom”, Sunshine announced at lunch last week in a very serious and ultra-authoritative manner, as if about to explain a critically important, and very solemn discovery, “did you know?” Eyes widen, she lays a hand confidentially on my arm.

“Persons…” she declares,

“…are MEAT…”

“That’s…ALIVE!”

She waits while this astonishing fact sinks in.

“And moves AROUND!” She demonstrates how the meat moves around in a rather disjointed way, reminiscent of the zombie movies I’m certain she’s never seen.

But wait! There’s MORE. She leans in, building intensity and suspense.

“And they ALSO have EYEBALLS!” she declares solemnly, eyes wide, fingers gesturing as if to show that the big, round eyeballs may be falling out of their sockets at any moment.

“And…”she pauses for effect,

“…they ALSO have BRAAAAINS!”

Her face becomes a mask of shock and horror as her fingers go to her head, where they sort of crawl through her hair like big, creepy bugs trying to find a way into her cranium to frolic in the juicy mess inside.

“AAAANNNND!” she announces, building to the climax, becoming daringly profound, about to reveal the final, unbelievable, and ultimate ingredient that goes into making “persons”.

“AAAANNND!
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“They ALSO have!”
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[dramatic pause]
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“EARWAX!!”

(Clearly she’s been giving this some thought.)

Last week I found out, through a friend, that one of my neighbors had made some critical comments about one of my parenting decisions to a group of ladies. Even though I know this particular neighbor is rather prone to gossip, and I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that I am sometimes her subject, it still hurt to know I was being discussed in this way.  Parenting may be one area in which I am a little oversensitive. We have sometimes made some rather unorthodox decisions as we’ve raised our children because we are operating in territory that’s a bit off the beaten path. The odd thing (and probably why it caught me a bit off guard) was that the particular parenting decision in question was actually one of the more “normal” decisions we’ve needed to make. This neighbor and I have different opinions as to the level of “protection” children require in going about daily life, and I had allowed my daughter to do something that the neighbor considered dangerous and irresponsible. Well, I do sometimes let my children take risks–and I’m not talking about leaping-happily-from-a-third-storey-window kinds of risks, just crossing-the-street-by-yourself kinds of risks. The decision I made was not an easy one for me, necessarily, but the thing I allowed Sunshine to do, without me hovering anxiously on the sidelines, was something we had practiced together many times, and one which I had watched her do without my help many times, and I knew she was ready to do it safely without me. Still, you know, a mother does feel a little anxious letting the little birdies stretch their wings and fly. So I’ve been second guessing myself a little. Can you say “insecure”? When it comes to parenting, I do sometimes fall into that category. I’m a good mother, but I’m a bit insecure about it.

So, it really meant a lot today when we went to see the speech pathologist, Mrs H., and she made a point of taking me aside and telling me how impressed she was with how I handled Cricket last week when he flipped out at speech and ran away from her into the office to find me and demand that we go home. She said that it would have been so easy for me to pack it in and go home (he was really worked up), or to lose my temper with him (he was engaging in some rather…obnoxious…behaviors). But instead, I spoke to him calmly, but firmly, helped him regain control of himself, determined the cause of the commotion (not always an easy thing to do with a child who has a communication disorder, and she and her assistant were somewhat perplexed, and barking up the wrong tree), helped him explain himself and negotiate a compromise, and used the incident as a teaching moment to help him understand WHY he goes there in the first place. She said she wished she had the whole thing on video to show other parents the “right” way to handle difficult situations. She said she’d discussed the whole thing with the other Mrs. H., the school psychologist/riding instructor who works with Cricket (and who’d witnessed part of the scene–it was rather loud, I’m afraid), and they both agreed that I’m an amazing mother, and she just wanted to tell me how impressed they all were.

So there, neighbor lady!

Now if I can just avoid pulling a muscle from patting myself on the back…

 I’m not sure exactly what set it in motion, but I have noticed myself developing, recently, a certain fascination with my daughter. She is truly an exquisite little creature, so like, and yet so entirely unlike myself. I watch her little ash-golden head bobbing along just below elbow height, and am reminded of myself at that size. I have, of course, limited memories of being barely five years old, but I do remember having blonde hair, and wearing it in just about the same style Sunshine insisted upon the last time we had hers cut–and besides, I’ve seen pictures. Peas in a pod, we two, thirty years apart. My daughter’s hair has almost a life of its own. Playground slides seem often to carry just the right sort of static electric charge to stand it all on end, framing her still baby-toothed grin with a sort of dandilion halo (she calls dandilions “wishing flowers” and says the seeds float off to fairy world if you blow just right). Her hair swishes and sways wildly as she dances through her day, and flows out “like mermaid hair” in the bathtub. Her eyes are a little darker than mine were, and larger, and contain, perhaps, a deep inner sparkle that I can’t imagine my eyes ever could carry off quite like hers do.

She likes to whirl. She likes to run. She likes to skip; so did I many years ago before bits of me got a little more bouncy than is quite comfortable at a lolloping gallop. When she’s happy, she almost seems to burble along like a glittering little mountain brook, and I’m never quite sure when her feet actually hit the ground–she just sort of flows along the ground in a wiggly, giggly sort of chuckly little way.

She’s always been that way. She discovered dancing before she could quite even hold her head up by herself; when she heard music, she’d sort of roll and flop her head back and forth, arms waving randomly, until the music stopped. My sister saw her doing it at church once, and thought she might be having some kind of seizure. I’m not sure she believed me when I told her my wee small baby was dancing, until she saw her do it a few more times. She was so eager to be moving with the music of the universe. That’s who she is, though. She is music and motion and magic. She  is light and fire. Even when she’s mopey she mopes with gusto! And when she laughs, everybody laughs. They can’t help themselves.

But none of this is new. She is just quintessentially herself. So what has changed then? Why the sudden, fascinating newness in the way I see her lately? 

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that we have finally left the size 3T’s and 4T’s of the toddler section and begun shopping for size 4/5 clothing over in the “big girls’” department. I never noticed before how different the cut of a size 4 is, from a size 4T. She puts on those softly curvy T-shirts and ”jeanies”, and suddenly she isn’t a little kid anymore. She’s a great big, grown-up, self-important, confident, school-aged girl, interested in nail polish and hair clips, whether her favorite Strawberry Shortcake shirt is pretty or not, and who may or may not invite her to their party. When did this happen? When did her chubby little cherub-ness turn into gangly arms and slightly knobby skinned knees?

It almost certainly has something to do with her having started kindergarten. Notes from the teacher, show and tell, what starts with letter H? Hearts and hippos (pink ones!), hands and hair, homework of my very, very own! She’s not a baby anymore. She’s not a toddler. She’s not even a preschooler. How much longer before she becomes the young woman I sometimes catch preview glimpses of behind the sparkle in the depths of her brown eyes? Not long, I think. Not long enough at all.

Perhaps lately it’s just that I’m feeling a need to capture every little girl moment we have left. They seem so fleeting now, and they will never come again. Not ever. And as much as I look forward to the wonder that is to come as she grows up, I will miss the magical little imp she has been.

This may be why I’m soaking in our newly minted walking-home-from-kindergarten ritual—hugs at the door, show Mom what you made, then down the sidewalk and across to the wobbly storm drain (which MUST be pounced on a few times so it makes that gloriously satisfying CLANK!), then balance carefully, carefully along the curb to the corner (taking the last few feet in a carefree, rolicking dance step without ever looking or missing a beat), look both ways at the corner, cross soberly on the crosswalk, “Race ya home, Mom!” wildly down the sidewalk and ’round the corner, past the neighbor’s house, up the driveway, and onto the front porch to whirl round and round the porch post until pokey old mundane Mom shows up.

I watch the flying feet and streaming blonde cloud whirl around the corner fence, and I remember running home from school like that–dancing with the wind, flying like the grey deer that came into our yard sometimes, skimming the surface of the foot path between clumps of sagebrush and tall golden grass stalks, the air kissing against my cheeks and fluttering my eyelashes, sighing past my fingertips as I slid through it, sun on my shoulders, earth underfoot, and for those flowing moments, all was right and whole. And I remember what came after that too. I remember the day I launched myself from the schoolyard curb after a dreadful, dreadful day at school, only to hear the mocking taunts of my classmates calling each other to watch the chicken run away. I remember how the wind set my shoes back on the ground and how heavy my feet felt as I walked, slowly all the way home to show them that I wasn’t afraid of them, and I remember how they followed me, tossing taunts and pebbles almost all the way. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words…sometimes they are most deadly of all. I never ran anymore after that, where they might see me. I was not afraid of them. I. Was. Not. But I let them kill a little part of me anyway.

How many little deaths lie ahead for my Sunshine girl? She’s not a baby anymore. She’s not a toddler. She’s not even a preschooler. And soon, oh too soon, she will find her joyous abandon challenged by a jaded world, and what then? Oh please don’t let them put her fire out! She will grow and change, and that is as it should be. But please let her retain that sparkle, deep down inside—that extra whatever-it-is in her that is free and wild and enchanted!

Yes, I think that’s what it is. That standing at the crossroads mothers do, looking backward and forward at the same time like in those double mirrors where you can see the back of your own head going on forever in either direction—that’s what it is that makes the little girl moments we have left seem so very, very precious to me just now.

Today she explained to me about snowmen. First, you make a big, big snowball (pantomimed with arms and eyes round and wide). Then you make a medium-sized snowball. Then you make a mini-snowball “this” big and put it on the top. Then you stick sticks in it, and the sticks should sort of look like hands. Then you put eyes on the front of the head—fake eyes, not real ones of course, that would be gross—and use raisins to make a mouth. Snowmen are GREAT!

And then over lunch she turned to me and declared, “Mom, people are a type of meat that’s alive.” Well, my Sunshine girl, that may be true to a point, but there’s so much, much more to people than that. And you, my precious little imp, you stand on the threshold of learning all about that.

This is one I just have to write down because it’s so cute, and pretty soon she’s going to grow out of that oh so quotable stage.

She just wandered in waving an emory board at me and said, “Mom, can you help me with some nail potion?”

Sunshine is, as predicted, thoroughly enjoying kindergarten…now.

She had me a little worried, as the first week and a half she carried on in a rather dramatic way when it was time to drop her off, and as I peeled her off, handed her to her teacher, and hardened my heart to her screams and tears (seriously, she’s a little overly dramatic, that one) I had flashbacks to Cricket in Kindergarten. And first grade. And second, and third…sigh. Especially on the day she refused to put her shoes on. (Remind me to tell you how I, the Ogre Mom, forced my 5 year old son to walk to school barefoot.)

BUT…

Wednesday through Friday this week she got over it and just sauntered right on into the classroom, put her oh-so-very-cool Strawberry Shortcake backpack in her own little cubby, and calmly took her seat at the “green table” to begin her day. She’s loving her teacher, who besides using a lot of music and movement in the classroom, happens to be an actual cowgirl. “For Real!” as Sunshine would say. This is handy because the school mascot is Mustangs, and all the kindergarten classrooms are using a ranch theme and spent the first week learning about cowgirls and cowboys. Mrs. L. was a rodeo queen and has an actual horse she rides barrel races on. How. Cool. Is. That!! Sunshine is enthralled.

Also, Sunshine has had TWO whole turns to be the “Weather Watcher” in her classroom, and one of those was the day it RAINED. Hey, it’s a desert, it doesn’t happen all that frequently here. Two of her little neighbor friends are in her classroom, and she sees the other two at recess, and all is happy in her little world. She even has her Very Own Homework. (And let me just say that it’s FABULOUS for Mom to have a child who’s excited about homework and doesn’t take hours of coaxing, cajoling, threats, and manipulation to do a five minute assignment. This one just takes hours and hours finding exactly the right picture of something that starts with the letter of the week to cut out and glue to the page…lol.)

Oh joy, oh happiness! Imaginary pink flowers, fairy crystals, and sparkly purple hearts twinkle and spin through the air all around us as we sing for joy and do the dance of happiness. Kaloo, kalay and all that jazz. Five year old cartoon girl children are so cute and funny. “For Real!”

Our first session was today. It was WONDERFUL!!!

After a short discussion about safety around horses, Cricket met three horses, and they all seemed to like him–he’s very calm and kind with animals. One in particular, though, seemed especially interested in Cricket, so that one gets to be the one Cricket will work with. “Oscar” is a gentle, well-behaved old fellow (and by old I mean 20 years). He is also evidently the biggest one they have and likes to keep the younger horses in line. Cricket petted him for a while, and then Mrs. H. put a halter on him and they took him up to the barn to brush him. 

Cricket was very engaged and interested, and kept asking if HE could do various things, like unlock and open the gate and close it again. It was so nice to hear, “Can I try?” and not even once his more usual, “Do I have to?” or, “Can you do it for me?”

Mrs. H.  got out two curry combs and two brushes and showed him how to brush Oscar, and where Oscar’s favorite places to be brushed were. They talked about taking care of horses and why it’s important to make sure their backs are clean before putting a saddle on. Then she showed him how a saddle goes on. Several times he asked, “But how do you get up there?” which was a very reasonable question in light of the fact that his chin was at about stirrup level on this fellow (though to be fair, the stirrups were pretty short, but the saddle is higher than ds’s head). She told him she’d show him how when they got out to the arena. So then he asked if HE could lead the horse out to the arena, and she showed him how to hold the lead properly and off they went–this big ol’ horse following that little scrap of a kid. And Mr. Anxiety Disorder Asperger Dude was as calm as a summer day, I tell ya. You’d think he’d been doing that sort of thing for years. And what a good horse! If Cricket stopped, the horse stopped. When he started walking, the horse walked. No unexpected tugging, no shying, no trying to get away with nibbling on the grass along the edge. And there were a couple of times when it almost looked like the horse was sort of encouraging him along. And there’s Cricket with a big old cheezy grin on his face leading that horse ALL BY HIMSELF. He was SO proud.

So then they got into the arena and Mrs. H. showeds him how she would have him step in her hands so she could boost him up to the stirrup. And THAT he was nervous about. Not because it was high up, or he was nervous about the horse, but because he was afraid she’d drop him or something. But he sure wanted to get up there, and after all, he’s known her for a year, so after a little hesitation and a few false starts he got up the nerve to try trusting her to hold him up long enough, and pretty soon he was sitting way up there on that big horse grinning like a jack-o-lantern.

Mrs. H. led Oscar and Cricket around the arena for awhile, chatting about various things, and then she swung up behind the saddle and showed him how she could steer the horse with the reins, “just like a steering wheel”. He also learned that HE could make the horse go faster with his feet. You’d have thought it was Christmas morning!

Then it was time to go home. He came out of the arena chattering nonstop (of course) about Oscar and walked on down the path a way ahead of Mrs. H., Oscar, and me. Mrs. H. said softly, “Well, what did you think?” I indicated my enthusiasm and asked what she thought. She said she had just seen a side of ds that she had NEVER seen at her office. He was so open and confident, and he was even willing to discuss his feelings a little (which is something he rarely does, even with me). I told her that this was the reason I had pulled him out of school. This was the “real” Cricket underneath all that stress and anxiety and sensory overload, and the longer he was in school, the less the “real” him came out to play (so to speak). But I knew this great kid was underneath all that, if we could just find a way to draw that out more, and help him keep the interference at bay. Homeschooling has really lowered his stress levels, so I’m seeing much more of my son lately. And clearly the horses are a good direction to go in for him, because he was just so much “himself” around them.

So we’re all happy with the arrangement. Cricket is evidently in his element with the horses, and Mrs. H. has a good candidate to practice being a therapist on while she gets licensed, and we can afford the price, at least for now. And it’s such an answer to prayer. I just can’t even tell you how much this means to me. And it’s not just that it’ll be good for ds,Cricket either. It’s such a precise answer to such an out-of-the-ordinary prayer, that it really brings home to me how much my Father in Heaven is really concerned and involved and on our side. I mean–this is not a new concept for me, but sometimes I just get tired, you know? When life is just one thing after another, after another, with no breaks, and very little direction, and the only thing I can do is just keep putting one foot in front of the other and trust that God will get me where I need to go if I just keep moving where He leads me, even if all I can see is just the next step and no further. And this just came at a time when I really needed it. It’s like a hug from heaven.

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I stand all amazed at the Love Jesus offers me.
Confused at the grace that so fully He proffers me.( I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, no. 193)

Today my heart is full of God’s tender mercies for my son. I am reminded that He is working for our good, even when we do not know it–and that it is through one another’s willing hearts and able hands that so often He answers our prayers.

It’s a bit of a challenge to figure out the best approach to “treating” Asperger’s Syndrome. There are therapies galore out there, but of course all the experts disagree as to what should be done, when, why, how, and by whom. (I recently saw an interesting treatise on the etymology of the word “expert” which pointed out that an “ex” is a has-been, and a “spurt” is a drip under pressure…) There really is very little in the way of actual good, solid guidance for parents of children on this end of ”the spectrum”, and we’re largely left to our own devices to figure it all out. It’s not an easy journey, and there are no easy decisions. We have tried to do “enough” therapies to keep making steady progress toward greater ability to function in life, while not letting it take over so much that we have no time, emotion, energy, finances, or focus for a ”real” life as a family. It’s difficult to balance. It’s difficult to know if we’re “doing enough”, or whether we’re overreaching.

One of the things I have sometimes eyeballed longingly for Cricket is equine therapy (theraputic horseback riding). I have read a good bit about it, and think it would make an ideal “P.E.” class for him. Physical activity involving animals that also helps coordinate the nervous system, develop better emotional regulation, improve social skills and sensory integration, etcetera and so forth? What could be better! Or…more expensive. Sigh. And naturally, not covered by health insurance either. Double sigh.

This past winter and spring it became, for me, an even stronger desire. I’m not sure why, except that I really think it would be a good thing for Cricket, and I was frustrated with trying to find some sort of physical activity for him to be regularly involved in for the sake of his physical health. (Sports of any kind and anything resembling them are out for various reasons. His coordination is not such that bike riding works out well yet. And so forth and so on…) And I remember telling my Father in Heaven about my frustration in this area; how deeply I wished we could do the equine therapy because I thought it would be so good for him, but it was just not going to work out, and I was disappointed. And I asked that if there was a way to make it work, could He please let me know, because it was utterly beyond me.

Today I was approached by Mrs. H., who was Cricket’s school psychologist last year, and will be again this year (which is great, since we seem to go through school psychiatrists like notebook paper around here) with a proposal. It seems that her family has kept horses for years, and she has thought for a while that she’d like to do something with horses and children, but she wasn’t sure what. Then, last winter and spring she came across some information about equine therapy and started looking more and more into it and getting excited about it. So, she’s working on getting licensed, and has started giving “riding lessons” (it can’t officially be therapy until she’s licensed) to some children she’s been working with, and has had some wonderful results with some of them. She said the more she does it, the more she thinks it would be a really good thing for Cricket to try, and all summer she’s been thinking she should call me, and—this is the good part—would we be willing to bring him down to her house once a week for these pseudo-therapeudic riding lessons at no charge, just so she could try it out with him and see what happens? WILLLING?! LetmethinkYES!!!

So we start Friday.

Talk about tender mercies. And answered prayers.