Dealing with Pests

My children can be pretty picky eaters at times.  Alright, let's face it.  They are pretty picky most of the time.  There have been a handful of meals in which all of them will actually enjoy every item on their plates.  But the one thing I can always count on is their love of fruit.  All four of my children adore fruit and will eat the whole batch the day we buy it if I'd allow them.  

It's not too shabby of a deal, truth be told.  They may not eat all the meat or the veggies or the starch.  Hey, these days, my oldest is boycotting pizza.  But fruit has almost all the vitamins and minerals they need, with a few exceptions.  So far none of them are lacking in Vitamin D or iron, the main concern of their pediatrician. So when they decide to reject their meal after taking the mandatory three bites, I still have the good ol' fruit to fall back on, and it makes me feel good that they are definitely not going to starve, neither are my children going to be malnourished.

Thing is, they are not the only ones who are getting their fill.  We have had some unwanted guests the past few weeks, and it's getting to be a chore ridding our kitchen of them.  Fruit flies.  Here I interpose (probably to the chagrin of my English teachers) that though fruit flies is not a sentence, it could be in an imaginative way if I allow the exaggeration of an imperative.  I.E.  Fruit flies - you finish the sentence.  Ok, back to our regularly scheduled program.  Fruit flies have become an annoyance in our kitchen lately.  Though our fruit never is left uneaten long enough to go bad, these pesky gnat-like creatures invade our space for the desire of this greatly appreciated food.  I suppose I should be grateful we don't have a bat infestation, as other people I know in Georgia have had, but the itsy bitsy little fruit flies bother me.  

They like to fly around the kitchen as if they own it and settle down on some surface.  When any of my family goes near to swat them, a whole swarm gets up and flies about our heads again for a few moments before settling back down again, as if to say, "You got some food for us; you're not going to make us leave that easily."  They think they own our kitchen.

I guess from a certain point of view, they did for a while.  For a time, I resigned myself to having them in our house.  I thought since I had fruit I was going to have to live with them.  I mean, they are such a tiny creature after all, and what harm are they, really?  So I would shoo them away and then just sigh and go on with my business.

Then one day I woke up.  I looked at the pesky little swarm and thought, Enough!  Aside from the fact that they drive me nuts when I’m trying to clean or cook, they do in fact leave an unhealthy legacy behind.  They, like all other flies, eat from the surface and then regurgitate their food back onto the surface.  Just the thought was appalling enough to make me say, Enough!  So I took my first step in purging my house of these little fruit flies.  I bought a Venus Fly Trap.

That won me tons of brownie points from my son, Nathaniel, as he has a fascination with the carnivorous flora and has been asking for one since last year.  I wouldn’t put it past him to have prayed those little buggies in just so I’d get him one!  The only problem is that these Seymours will only eat a certain number of insects before that particular head dies off.  Granted, ours has been constantly growing new leaves and mouths, but it hasn’t kept up with the pests. 

So, glad as we are to have our new familial addition, we had to take more drastic measures.  Because of Nyssa’s allergies, we have a pest control company that comes out once a quarter and however more often we need them.  So I decided to ask our case worker, as it were, about dealing with our infestation.  The problem, it appears, was quite simple.

We simply had to find a solution that was more appealing to them than the fruit.  He gave me a little covered cup that had a solution with red wine vinegar in it and told me to place it on the windowsill inside.  It was quite a simple answer, really.  Red wine vinegar is like honey to those flies and they flock right up to it.  

Some days I get so busy with housework or am so exhausted that I mentally think of my children as those fruit flies.  I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's true.  They come flocking toward me and climb over me and do all they can to get my attention.  On those days, especially when I'm hurting badly, I initially want to swat them away and tell them to go play somewhere else.  But they keep coming back and swarm all over again.

But shooing them away does not help any more than trying to shoo away the fruit flies.  They love me, they want to be with me, and they are not going to leave.  Even in the moment of the times I give in to the impulse to send them off, something in me goes sour and my whole attitude shifts.  Deep down, I realize that, so I stop myself from sending them into another room and try another tactic.  I give them something:  I give them my time and my heart.





If I'm cleaning, I give them simple chores that take just a minute or two and turn it into a game.  I let them sweep the kitchen floor and make the choice to not comment too much on the peas or carrots they missed.  I count slowly so they can run up and put their clothes in their dresser before I get to twenty and then praise them for winning.  We clean for 15 minutes and then we take a break for 5, where they go do their own thing for a while.

If I'm hurting and they want to climb for hugs and kisses, I lead them over to the couch where we can all sit together.  I sit on the ground in front of the couch, my youngest sits in my lap, the boys come in under my arms, and my oldest sits on the couch behind me, hugging my neck.  We read a couple books together until they get tired of being still and then they go off to play, chirping along together.

Yes, I can give my beloved offspring my time, love, and attention and they will be happier, as will I.  Luring my lovelies in for some quality time works a lot better than shooing them away.  It gets better results because then all of us are happy.  The children get the affection they need.  I get to smile and laugh with them, enjoying their company in a less harmful, more controlled setting.  Usually, they will make some remark that makes my day!  Most importantly, we get to spend a few minutes together making good memories that I hope will last a lifetime.

Just Blowing Smoke

Rare is the person in this day and age who hasn't heard the addage, "he's just blowing smoke."  It's a common enough term, but what does it mean?  Well, simply put, it is a metaphor for some harmless comment or action.  After all, smoke without the fire is rather harmless, is it not?  If there's not a fire then all is well and no danger is present.  Or is there?

Interestingly enough, I have been rather much of a clutz lately.  The entire summer has been filled with bumping this or that, falling here or there, and I was thrilled on Monday when I actually started to feel more like myself again.  The children were back to school, all but Gabriela, so I had time to actually get some housework done.   I've had to take it easy for quite some time, and it felt good to get down and dirty again.

Since it's been a very long time, I decided I was going to make some fried chicken.  I had corn and fresh garden beans and I was going to have an honest to goodness down home Southern cooked meal for a change.  I had everything ready and I felt like I was earning my keep again, if you know what I mean.

I shucked the corn and got it ready to boil, had the beans about ready to go, and all that was left was to fry the chicken while all else was cooking.  So I poured the oil in the deep cast iron pot and turned on the heat.  While I waited for it to get to the appropriate temperature, I set about making the batter for the chicken.  I had all the spices and ingredients on the counter in front of me and had already added the flour, salt, and pepper when suddenly the pot started putting off an extremely insane amount of smoke.

My instant reaction was to turn off the electric eye, but I already had a weird feeling in my gut.  No sooner had I put the lid on top then the entire right side burst into flames from the handle to the eye and on up to the bottom of the vent overhead.  I grabbed the baking soda and had a sudden blank:  Was I supposed to use baking soda or baking powder?  I grabbed the phone to call the fire department but all I got was a busy signal.  I figured it wasn't an emergency and could put it out myself if only I could remember.  So I called my mom who immediately told me it was the soda.

Looking back, I'll never forget:  you douse it with soda (as in pour it on), which I threw in great quantity at the stove.  After several attempts, I had thrown enough on to completely saturate the stove and put out the fire.  Whew!  The fire was out.  But the smoke was insane!  White billowing rolls so thick that I could hardly see and I was coughing from it already.

The older 3 children were outside playing and Gabriela was in the family room.  I knew by the facts that my eyes were watering and that I couldn't see my shoes that I had to get her out of the house before her little lungs got filled with the smoke.  I ran into the family room but didn't see her there.  I called to her but got no answer.  I grabbed a cloth and wet it, covering my mouth and nose as I called and searched for her.  Finally I heard Nyssa say that she had wandered outside already.

Thank goodness for that!  I quickly ran outside.  By this time, the garage was also filled with the white, dense smoky cloud and I told the children to move far away and onto the other side of the tree line in the front yard.  No way were we going to eat inside the house after that.  I told the kids to stay put and then, with the damp cloth in hand, ran back inside to grab my purse, keys, and to open the front door and a couple windows.  By time I ran out the front door, I was in another coughing fit, no matter how I held my breath while inside.  My throat felt like I had screamed myself hoarse and was burning lightly.

I did get the fire department to come let me know how long before it was safe to enter again.  When they got there, an hour later--I had actually waited for my mom to come help watch the kids and drove over to the department down the street since the emergency was over--white puffs were still billowing out the garage and out the front door, rolling into the garden.  Poor Sajak II, the stuffed dalmation in the front hallway was not visible from where we stood because of the roils.

Of course the firemen had me describe what happened and show them the kitchen so they could report it.  The pot on the stove still registered on the stove at over 300 degrees!  They took it, armed in their garb, and set it on the driveway, ready to extinguish any fire that may have threatened to appear.  One of them led me back to the truck to give a statement and to check me out.  He, along with his chief a couple minutes later, asked me if I was a smoker, which I am not.

Amazingly enough, in that very short amount of time, my carbon monoxide levels from the smoke inhalation was high enough to be concerned.  An hour after first exiting the house, my levels were over 7%.  I was put immediately on some oxygen to help bring it down.  To put things into perspective, anything over 2% is not desired but acceptable, 5% is unsafe, and smokers who average 2 packs a day may have a range of 9%.   Because of my levels, the fire chief called an ambulance to have the hospital check me for internal damage.

Three hours after admittance, following oxygen, albuterol to keep me breathing right and to keep my pulse up (even with the albuterol my heart rate was 87), 5 electrodes stuck to my body, an oxygen monitor on my right ring finger, and an artery stick to check my blood levels, I was pronounced safe enough to go anywhere but home, in order to give the smoke time to clear, as long as I promised to avoid smokers like the plague while my lungs and throat heal.  Fortunately, there was no major burns from the heat since the fire didn't last very long.  The carbon monoxide and cyanide were the big culprits in my burning breathing.

I came home for a few minutes yesterday to get some things but stayed too long. I could tell when it started to burn while breathing and my left hand swelled up all red and itchy and burning.  My hand returned to normal an hour after I left, though it still burns to breath at times.  After having the windows open and the attic fan running for 2 days, my children and I have finally been allowed back in my own home.

So as far as the cliche' that there's no trouble if there's smoke as long as there's no fire, I'm not too sure about that anymore.  See, even the smoke itself can cause poisoning, in the center of life where you breathe, in your bloodstream.  Just because one has no external scarring from the burns of a badly said word or negative action, even if done in jest, that cannot show the internal damage that has been done, whether temporary or permanent.  Either way, it takes time to heal from that kind of wound as well.

I am grateful that as soon as I saw the smoke I was able to act.  Nyssa started to come in the house to see what was going on when she saw the thick billowing clouds.  I had to be forceful with her to let her know that even though the fire was gone, the smoke that remained was still harmful and that she needed to stay away from that danger.  With her sensitive airways, it could have been very costly.

At first my children were like the people who can ignore the dangers of metaphorical smoke because they didn't realize the harm it can cause.  They saw no fire.  They just had to trust me when I told them that the smoke which was being blown was dangerous and deadly just the same.  In the same way, it is safest to stay a safe distance from the house that is enveloped by the poisonous gases so that we don't get burned and to heed the warning of those we trust.

Free Flowing Baby Powder

The last few months have been one big blur.  I wake up to find that the rest of the school year has passed me by along with most of the summer.  In less than a week, school begins again and I will find myself alone with only one child at home during the day.  Oh where has the time gone?

Has it been an empty half of a year?  Has nothing interesting occurred?  On the contrary, it has been so busy that the time flew before I knew what was happening.  I must say that I am somewhat ashamed of my silence.  I know there are a few out there who read my blogs and I feel I have failed you in some way.  This was not my intent; I simply didn't feel like writing.

I know that doesn't sound like me.  Normally I love expressing myself on my keyboard.  But life has been rather interesting to me and, well to put it bluntly, I don't like to be a downer.  It's been rough and I like to be encouraging, uplifting, instead of an old stick in the mud.  I have found it hard to find the silver lining at times, though I know it's there.  I guess it's like Pollyanna, if you've ever seen the movie, in which she finds herself unable to see the positive in life for a while.  While I do find those good things, I have been either too tired to type when I do, or unable to get to the computer.  In fact, until this week, I hadn't even checked my facebook in several months (which is very unusual for me).

As it turns out, though, I did find myself at the bottom of the stairs last week, stunned into silence, with my children gathered around me and giving me gentle hugs.  I was in a bit of a daze at the time, and I was shock still, seeing absolutely nothing.  Of course, I suppose it was so dark because my eyes were shut tight.  Perhaps I should go back a little further.

Last Tuesday evening I was at home recovering from some shots in my neck, downstairs watching the Olympics.  The children had all been tucked in their beds, except for Nathaniel, who was sound asleep on the couch next to me.  Aside from the games on the television, there was not a sound in the house.   You know, come to think of it, that should have been my first clue.

As I was saying, it had been a peaceful evening when we heard the smallest of sounds emanating from the upstairs.  It was the sound of our youngest, making a gleeful noise.  Richard and I looked at each other and realized that perhaps not all was as still as we had supposed, so he started making his way upstairs.  I got up slowly from my seat as we both noticed a scent wafting down the stairs.

"They're playing with something," he stated.  He has a gift for stating the obvious at times.
"It's baby powder," I shrieked with certainty.
"Yep, I see it now."  Then, in his booming daddy voice, "Somebody's about to be in trouble!"

Well, by this time, shrieks were let out from all directions upstairs and I looked at the ground below me at the landing.  The white residue was already staking its claim on every visible surface...and this was downstairs!

It was easy to see the room of origin.  Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan were covered from head to toe in their pajamas swelling as baby sweet as can be.  The boys' room was a cloud of white so thick we could not even see to the beds.  Talcum snow lay thickly on the beds, carpet, and toys.  There was no way anyone was going to sleep in that room that night.

Nyssa and Gabriela were stripped down and set in one bathtub while Benjamin was left with not even his skivvies and placed in the other.  While they were busy making white mud, hubby and I were left to vacuum up the carpets and get as much of the powder up as we could.  The poor betas in the hallway had to have their water changed thrice because of the thickness that had saturated their tanks.  Even the inside of the aquarium stand had to be cleaned out; the powder had even saturated through the cracks.  The toys had to be wiped down, as did the stairs and the downstairs floor.  The children, complete with pruned hands and feet were eventually rescued from the milky water and put to bed a second time, all in the girls' room.

Meanwhile, through the sound of the shrieks, past the running water of both bathtubs, and in spite of the vacuum cleaner roaring over his head, our dear Mr. Man lay unsuspecting in a deep, peaceful slumber.  Normally he is the one who jumps at any odd sound.  He runs out the door from a noise too loud.  Yet this time he lay there, hearing nothing, sleeping contentedly inside the cocoon of his thick orange blanket on the couch in the family room.

The next day nobody was allowed in the boys' room until I had given it a thorough wipe down and washing.  I vacuumed the floors once again and wiped down the stairs a couple more times, as well as the wood on the first floor.  While Nathaniel was allowed to play on the computer, and watch a video, the other three were denied that privilege and had to help me wipe down the downstairs hall yet again.  I thought we had done a pretty good job at getting rid of most of the baby powder.

Evidently, pretty good is not the same as good, excellent, or effective.  Friday morning, after breakfast, I went upstairs to get the boys' clothes.  The way I came back downstairs was not the way I intended.  All it took was one slippery spot and down I went.  I went down them as surely as if I had decided to go down a slide, hitting my backside on every single step as I slid.  I did try a couple times to catch myself, but all I succeeded in doing was breaking a few blood vessels in my arms and whacking my neck.

"Oh God, please help me stop falling!" I cried at one point.  Well, he did, once I hit bottom.  'course it would have been a real miracle if I had kept falling at that point.  By that time, all four kids were at the bottom of the stairs checking on me.  There was no way to miss hearing the elephant crash.  Poor Nathaniel came over to me and gave me a gentle hug.  I knew it was him not by sight but rather by his voice in my left ear saying, "You're going to be okay, Mommy."

I knew he was worried because he almost never calls me Mommy anymore, nowadays it's just plain Mom.  The other kids crowded around but took his cue and were gingerly touching me and asking if I was alright.  I slowly opened my eyes and said, "Yes, Mommy's going to be fine.  I'm very sore right now, but I'll be ok in a bit.  I'm just going to sit here for a minute."

Benjamin asked me how I fell and it was one of the hardest things I had to do, but felt it was the right thing to say.  I just looked him straight in the eye and said, "You know the baby powder?  We tried to clean it all up, but some fell on the stairs and I slipped on it."  A trip to the ER and a couple days later, the children are seeing the effects of their disobedience and I'm reaping the consequences.

Sometimes we do things rashly, impulsively, caught up in the moment with no regard to the consequences.  Often we make those choices when we know we should be somewhere else.  To put it bluntly, we often make those choices while walking in disobedience or in doing what we know is wrong.  There are times when we get away with it.  There are times when we suffer the consequences.  Then there are times when others suffer the greater consequence of our actions.  Sometimes, the consequences themselves can be quite painful and take a while to heal.  When we take something that we know is off limits, that we have been told is off limits, and go out of our way to get it and play with it, it just may end up in a cloud of residue that leaves a lasting impression that can hurt more than just ourselves.  It can end up crippling someone else.

Running Away Together

This evening, after putting together the girls' bunk beds and sending the children off to sleep, my husband and I sat down for a little quality time together.  We had already enjoyed a full evening of labor and were ready to simply relax.  We settled in for an hour of watching The Amazing Race on the computer when one of our little hearts walked sullenly down the stairs.

We could tell right away that Nathaniel was most unhappy.  What we could not tell, however, was the cause of his sour disposition.  His eyes were red, his face was downcast, and he looked like he was halfway between crying and knocking the tar out of someone.  Naturally, we put our minds to the task of discovering the reason for his disgruntled outlook.

We were quickly able to dismiss the notion of a bad dream.  Next came the denial that he was angry with his brother.  After determining he was not hurt in body, we were able to decipher that his heart itself was hurt.  He wasn't angry with us, though he was wanting to hit us because we wouldn't leave him alone.  Of course, the fact that he came in the room with us and sat in front of us was the tale tell that he definitely did not want us to leave him alone; quite the opposite was true, as a matter of fact, for he wanted us to help him feel better.

After a few more minutes of questioning, we learned that he was mad at God.  He was nervous and anxious, and has been frustrated quite a bit recently and felt that God had deserted him, that God had chosen not to help him.  We reminded him of earlier in the day, when he had been so angry that he wanted to run away but didn't.  God had helped him to control his frustration enough that he didn't just take off.

He angrily stormed off and walked toward the door.  I could tell he was thinking about running out past the garage, so I gently asked him if he wanted his daddy to go for a walk with him.  He didn't exactly smile, but his immediate answer was, "yes, I think that would be a good idea."  So I asked Richard if he would want to go for a walk with our son.  Now, this was at 10:00 at night, mind you.

Just before they stepped out of the house, I asked Nathaniel if he wanted me to come or if he just wanted his daddy.  His answer was to hold his hand out to me.   I smiled, took the offered hand, and closed the door behind us.  We all walked out the garage, hand in hand and barefoot.

The next few minutes, we just all talked about the sky, the stars, and asteroids hitting the earth.  Evidently, Nathaniel had stirred his imagination into worrying that a meteor would hit the earth and cause a big hole in the land.  Then he pondered on the possibility of one hitting the water and causing a great big flood.  We reminded him that while there was always the possibility, God had already promised that he would not destroy the entire earth by a flood again.  That had already been done.    We walked back to the house, discussing dinosaurs and stars.  When we went inside, he said goodnight and walked upstairs to bed.  his last comment was, "I wish I could sleep with you tonight."

What a heart tugger!  He's here right now, laying to my left in an orange shirt, head on my pillow, with the face of a sleeping angel. I have missed so much the last few months with my children, that I am grateful for the moments shared with them.  I think our time tonight will hold a special place in my heart.  I will always cherish the time that we three just ran away together, hand in hand, in the dark of night....and found our way home again.

Someone Who Loves You

I've always been an active person, so when my get up and go just got up and went, I f ound myself in a very precarious position.  I mean, I have a family to take care of, mouths to feed, laundry to do, all sorts of daily tasks tht sudenly became increasingly difficult to do.  So I was very put off.  I thought, "Ok, so you needed a rest, everyone knows that, but you can handle it for a couple months."

A couple of months turned into 3, then 4, and now 5.  So I'm trying to concentrate on the positive.  My son is so sweet that every evening before he goes to bed, he comes into my room and lays down with me for a few minutes.  That is truly one of the highlights of my day, to see my son so caring and gentle.  It means we are doing something right.

That doesn't mean to say that all I am able to do every day is just stay in bed.  I have some days in which I can move rather well; I just can't overdo it.  But I will confess there are days like yesterday in which I am in bed for all but 3 hours.  It does tend to put a damper on things.  But on those days, my children come into my room and just talk or play gently.  I have to laugh because sometimes my bed is just too tempting for the wee ones and they have to jump a bit before I have to calm them by giving them the choice to sit with me and play gently on the bed or get down before they get bouncy again.

My dearly beloved husband is also very sweet with me.  He knows the days that I just can't master the stairs and follows me up so that if I lose my balance he is there to catch me.  That is so wonderful to realize...to know that I have someone who will always be there to catch me if I start to fall.  He warns me if he thinks I am doing too much.  He sees it in my eyes, in my walk, or in my movements.  He knows me well enough to be able to read me often.

Sometimes he will gently say to slow down or to not pick up that item.  If I ignore ihm and do it anyway, he is loving and avoids the "I told you so" comment.  Instead, he just takes it away and leads me to a chair or lets me just stand there while he finishes what I started with good intentions, but was unable to complete.  He picks up my burden and walks with it.  Many days it makes me feel embarrased for not having listened to him in the first place.  But if I'm in a jovial enough mood, I will joke with him saying, "I know, you told me so."  But the most amazing thing happens every time I say that.  He just smiles at me and, with a sincere face, says, "I wasn't going to say anything, love."

Then, this morning, it hit me, like a neon sign or a brick wall.  We are all like me.  We all have things that we need to do, that we must do, that have to get done, but for some reason, are uncapable of doing them on our own.  We all need that special someone in our lives that can help us remember when we need help.  We all need someone who will take the burden from us, gently, not begrudgingly, but with selfless love, with nary a word of, "I told you so," but rather, "I love you and want the best for you.  I want to help you with that which you cannot do on your own."  We all need someone we can trust to stand by us through the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Even in the Garden of Eden, where everything was beautiful, perfect, without spot or blemish, Adam could not make it on his own.  He needed Eve to complete him.  But it's not just about him needing her, it's about them needing each other and the perfect one who created them.  Then that serpent had to go and ruin it all.  But even in their punishment, there was no "I told you so." There was only sadness with them through the trials and a voice that said, "One day..." Even then there was the hope and help offered.

Just now my son came in and offered me a blanket to keep me warm.  He covered me up in it and then we shared a breakfast bar together.  He told me I'd get better soon.  He's just a little boy, dismissed by many as the least of these, but full of so much gentleness, life and joy!  Faith, hope, and charity. but the greatest of these.

Counting My Blessings

I have found this new era in my life to be most thought provoking.  I have spent the last few months healing from an injury that could be very commonstance, yet when mingled with just the perfect brew of trouble can cause life altering circumstances.  I have alternated between being bored, sad, angry, frustrated to tears, disconcerted, depressed, and finally, just plain content.  That does not mean to say that I wish to live in my current state for the rest of my life; it simply means that I refuse to mope around mentally just wondering "why" and "when" and "how long" and all those other questions that can entrap a person into hopelessness.

There are some things I find I cannot do regularly anymore for now.  I cannot pick up my two year old daughter off the ground.  I cannot drive a vehicle.  I cannot turn my head quickly.  I cannot lift up a basket of laundry to carry it into the house.  I cannot let my children climb on my back to play horsie.

But there are things I can do.  I can listen to my daughter tell me about her day at school.  I can read with my children cuddled up with me in my bed.  I can watch my son grow ever more tender and caring, considerate of my needs.  I can watch my toddler dance and sing a new song of delight.  I can sit and enjoy these wonders called my children, because I do not have the ability to rise up and do all the housecleaning which is necessary and yet calls me away from my little prodigies.

I am also getting more help with my house.  I am gaining a husband who is ever caring (my son well gets it by watching his father) and more attentive to the little things.  I am watching my children develop better habits with cleaning their rooms and their toys.  I have someone who is able to come over and help me sort things and prioritize my needs.  I am learning how to downsize some of my wants to ensure I have all my necessities.

I am also learning new things and remembering the old.  I am learning once again how to take a nap when I have done too much.  I am learning to listen to my body when it says it has had enough instead of trying to push through one too many jobs.  I am learning how to steal little moments with my children.  I am learning how to take care of myself and let someone else worry about the children from time to time.

I am learning how to see things in a different light.  I am learning how to appreciate the little things in life that I used to take for granted.  I am rediscovering how to look into the sky and see a planet or the Big Dipper.  I am learning the smell of an Easter Lily.  I rejoice when I am able to hug one of my little one's neck without cringing in pain.  Perhaps that is the greatest blessing of all.

I am learning how to appreciate the moments without the pain because of the moments with the pain.  It is in realizing when I am given a precious gift because I have felt life without it that I am ever the more grateful for it.  I am exceedingly thankful for second chances, for I have been given a second, and a third, and more; only this time it is different.  This time I have truly seen the desolation without and the beauty within...and I will never forget.  This is the blessing I have received from the pain.

A Princess Who Knows Her Place

Most girls I know love all the fairy tales and princess stories.  They fantasize about all the ever afters and wonder at the ability to find true love and their very own prince charming. They want to dress up like Cinderella and to feel special.  But sometimes they also need the balance to understand that a princess is not in charge; the queen and king are still in authority over her.

My daughters are no exception.  They both want to dress pretty and wear fingernail polish and bows.  They love to wear crowns and rings and necklaces.  They love to twirl around in their dresses, allowing the skirts to flow fully as they spin in delight.

Recently, we bought a Cinderella dress up outfit for Gabriela.  She loves that dress with all her heart and never wants to take it off.  She dances and sways and swirls with unbridled joy and innocence to the tune that is playing in her mind.  At a young 2 1/2, this girl loves to accessorize and to make everything look absolutely perfect in her eyes; she even searches for just the perfect pieces and shoes to complete her look.

About a week ago, she tried desperately to sleep in that full dress.  But the lace in it was stiff and made it difficult for her to lay down comfortably.  She knew she was a princess and nothing was going to sway her from dressing like one, even in her sleep, regardless of the scratchiness of her clothing.  The problem was that there was no way she was going to be able to sleep in that beautiful gown, not even in the bed and arms of her beloved Grandma.

So I devised a plan that would hopefully allow them both to rest peacefully.  I went in her room and searched in her drawer for a special little nightgown that we had found on sale.  It was an adorable little piece that had a crown on the bodice and a long, flowing skirt that was soft as a baby's skin. It reminded me a little of Sleeping Beauty's dress.  I said a short prayer for help as I walked back into the room where she was trying desperately to get comfortable enough to sleep.

I said to her, "Gabriela, baby, you make a beautiful princess!"

"Yes, I do!"

"Princesses need to get a good night of sleep just like every other little girl."  She just stared at me, eyes rolling as she was so sleepy, but agreeing with me.  "So even though you love this blue dress, it was not made to sleep in."

"But I want to wear my princess dress!" she insisted softly.

"I know you do, sweet pea, but this dress is rough and hard to sleep in.  But I have a special little dress that is made for a princess.  But you can only wear it to bed.  It is not made to play in.  Would you like to wear this special princess nightgown?"

With baited breath, both my mother and myself watched Gabriela's face as she surveyed the soft material in front of her, uncertain.  Then, we saw the gleam in her eye as she noticed the little silver design right in front.  We knew the deal had been done.

"A crown!  It is a princess dress!  OK.  I can wear that," she said contentedly as she let us help her out of the blue gown and into the pink.  She was sound asleep within 5 minutes.

Now, I realize that even if she hadn't agreed, I would have had to insist that she take off the first dress and put her into her pajamas, but I was so glad when she readily agreed and put on the night shift.  Even though she was hesitant at first, I was able to coax her with kindness to get her to obey for her own good so my precious Gabriela would get a good night's sleep, not to mention my mother and I.

I do truly hope that both of my girls grow up to be the princesses that I see inside of them.  I want them to grow in confidence and maturity.  I want them to have a good sense of self worth, as well as an observant eye of kindness toward others.  I want them to be able to find their prince charming.  Part of that comes due to the positive character that they develop in life.  Part of that comes by learning obedience to that which is right, for only one who has been subject to, and submissive to those in good authority over her can truly learn to respect and move into the position of becoming a great queen one day herself.

Roly Polies and Butterflies

As a little girl, I loved playing in the dirt.  I loved to dig out the worms and play with them. I loved all the little creatures out there.  I even had a little house that I filled with dirt and roly polies that I carried back to my room so they could live with me.  They would crawl in my hand and on my arm freely, but if  I tried to get hold of them with my fingers, they would roll into a little ball in my hand.  I would patiently wait until they felt the danger was gone, and then they would start crawling again.

I also loved to watch the butterflies when they came near.  Sometimes, if I was patient, one would land on my shoulder, hand, or head.  I tried to conceal my joy, so as not to frighten them, for if I so much as moved, they would flitter away.  They have always been such a delight to me. 

Little did I know that years later, roly polies and butterflies would take on a whole new meaning for me.  I was a grown woman, and even though I still enjoyed the occasional roly poly, I no longer went digging for them.  And even though I still delighted in the butterflies, I no longer sat in wait for them.  I just pleasured as they happened along.

I was pregnant with Nyssa, approximately 28weeks along when I had some tests done.  Now, any woman in the USA who has had a doctor's care while pregnant in the last 15 years at least, know the specific tests to which I am referring.  I had to drink this icky orange drink to determine my glucose tolerance.  Unfortunately for me, I failed.  How did this happen?  I hadn't even gained 5 pounds as I had had morning (and evening and late night) sickness for 4 months straight now.

The next step was simple:  at 29 weeks along, I had to go to a lab and have my blood drawn.  First, I had to fast for 12 hours....at 29 weeks...shall we say starvation here?  I had to drink the syrup.  There is no other name for it, pure sugar with a little carbonation, I suppose to make it more bearable, but it tasted pathetic, no less.  Then I had to wait for an hour. 

Next, a nurse drew my blood.  It was painfully hard, as my veins were small and about dehydrated, and were being very difficult.  It took the nurse 4 times sticking that needle in, moving it around, taking it back out, and frowning, to get to the veins so she could draw blood.  Then, I had to wait 2 more hours and the same thing...with nothing to eat or drink between.  Then, another hour, same thing, and another hour.  By time the last drawing of the blood, I was hungry, the baby was hungry, I was thirsty, and I was irritable.

This nurse was so sweet, though, and helped my curmudgeonly mood to calm somewhat.  Before sticking me with her needle, she had that tourniquet at the bottom of my bicep and was tapping the inside of my arm. 

"Oh, Lordy," she said, "Poor thing.  You don't have any veins left.  You and that baby are just plumb dry."

Finally someone understands, I thought.

"We just gotta deal with some roly polies and butterflies!"  she said ever so sweetly, and went to grab a needle to suck the remaining blood out of my arm.

Now, I just looked at her like she was the craziest thing on this earth, but I laughed at her comment and asked what she meant.

"Well, Mrs. Dunlap, your veins are just like roly polies.  They're rolling around, not knowing which way to go.  I've got just the thing that will help me get one in just a single stick.  Don't you worry, none."  Then she held up the tiniest needle I have ever seen.  "This is a butterfly."

Sure enough, it looked like a butterfly, with the plastic edges sticking out so far away from the needle.  She further explained that it was a needle usually reserved for children because the bigger needles can poke through their veins.  She swabbed alcohol on my arm and faster than I could brace for the stick, the needle was in and the blood was flowing.

Ever since then, whenever I've had to go through a blood test (diabetes runs in my family, so we have to check it every year), I sit down and say to the lab technician, "roly polies and butterflies."  They give me the same look I must have given that one sweet lady 8 years ago, and then I explain.  Sure enough, when they check my vein, they agree and give me the butterfly. 

It's interesting.  My veins were just like those roly polies that were in plain sight if left alone, but would try to roll up and hide when someone tried to touch them.  That butterfly, just like it's insect counterpart, was light and painless as I just sat still, waiting for it to flutter away.   It happened again this morning, when I went in for a cervical injection.  They had to put an IV in my hand and the nurse watched my little vein roll away.  I smiled and just said, "roly polies and butterflies."  We both had a laugh afterwards.  But boy, am I ever so grateful for those butterflies when I've got roly polies hanging around!

My Reason to be Thankful

Yesterday, I lay in my bed with so much to do and yet realized it must remain undone by myself.  Not allowed to do so much as wipe a kitchen counter, I have found myself getting more and more frustrated with my current situation.  I have four darling children and a husband who loves me, and yet I spent all but an hour and a half in bed.  My mother had to do my job; I was having a lovely little pity party with my aches and pains.

And then I got slapped in the face with a harsh reality.  My littlest daughter, only barely 2 1/2, wanted to come see me.  But she wouldn't come to my bed because she thought I was sleeping and did not want to disturb me.  When she finally did fall asleep, my mother brought Gabriela and lay her in bed next to me.  Wheneve she started to stir, I just put my finger in the palm of her hand, and she would close it around my finger.  Now that may not sound like such a big deal to anybody else, but to me it meant the world! 

Winter's Fire Glow

My feelings regarding the winter season have always been a conundrum to me.  I'm not much for the cold weather; I personally have no use for it but for one occasion: snow.  Those that have known me well over the years know that one of my favorite sayings is, "If it's not going to snow, then there is no reason for cold weather."  If I am going to be cold, I want to see beauty in the mix. 

Yes, snow is the purpose of winter.  There is nothing quite like making snow angels in the dead of winter.  Bundling up to go outside, packing tight snowballs, building snowmen, and making snow cream is where I find the cold's purpose.  I have no purpose for the cold, except for ice on the occasional burn, such as the one on my right arm from making pancakes the other night.  Even when I am injured, I abhore the ice on the site and look forward to the moment I can put heat on my boo boo.

Heat.  Now that is one thing I like about winter.  Say what?  What does heat have to do with winter, you ask?  Everything.  It is my second favorite thing about it.  There is nothing I like better on a cold winter's night than sitting beside a nice, toasty fireplace.  It gives off warmth, nostalgia, and a sense of safety.

Laundry Day

Sigh.  I have 6 loads of laundry to do and I can no longer escape the inevitable.  The mountain is here and there is nothing I can do but to remove it, one load at a time.  Did I let it build up over time?  Not really.  It is merely the culmination of taking a break from laundry since we got back into town on Sunday.  It's really not as bad as it sounds, though if I just look in the washroom I have to fight the compulsion to run and hide. Fortunately, I am learning, slowly but surely, how to overcome that kick in the gut and just get in there and do what I need to do.

Generally speaking, I have around 2 loads a day.  When the kids wet the beds, it adds another load or two, depending on how many wet their beds.  And, thankfully, these days I am not doing it on my own.  Nyssa has been a doll about putting things in the washer for me in the morning and running a couple loads for me in the afternoon.  I am glad to say that she is learning very well how to do it, with a little supervision lest she get too generous with the detergent. 

The rest of the family are also starting to help.  Benjamin takes the dirty clothes from upstairs and puts them all in the laundry baskets in the morning, at least all that he sees.  Occasionally I have to follow and show him some things that he missed.  Richard carries the loads downstairs and Nathaniel carries them to the laundry room.  Benjamin then sorts the clothes.  Once Nyssa moves the clothes from the dryer back into the baskets, Nathaniel carries them back into the house.  Anita often helps me fold and put them on hangars, and either she or Richard carries the clean clothes back upstairs.  Then, we all put the clothes away....sometimes.

The laundry really is becoming a family affair.  Sometimes they don't kick in, but it is becoming a habit.  The good news is that for some reason, the laundry is something the kids all enjoy doing.  Even Gabriela enjoys putting her dirty clothes in the basket.  Now that I'm not doing it all, sometimes clothes end up in the wrong drawer and I fight the OCD that says they must be folded just this way and go on that side of the drawer.  I tell myself I am content when they just get into the right child's drawer these days.  I still get frustrated when the clothes in my room don't get put away for a few days, but I am also learning to say, "Richard, I need your help please now to put these clothes away."  Lo and behold, usually when I actually ask, he helps!  What a concept!

It's like everything else in my life.  A situation arises and it needs to be taken care of pronto before more gets added to the pile.  No it's not always fun, and it can be a hassle carrying those loads up and down the path of life, but it does help when others help me carry the load.  After all, part of the reason I'm in this boat is because I forgot that I needed to ask for their help in the first place.  Plus, when we all work together, we have so much fun laughing and joking around that the chores of life sometimes become a game.

The Depth of a Child

So often lately, I have focused a majority of my writing on Nyssa and Nathaniel.   Today, however, my heart ponders on the wonderment of the understanding of my youngest.  Not quite 2  1/2, Gabriela never ceases to amaze me with her words, her thoughts and expressions, but I think I am still in shock over her countenance and her words last Friday.

It was the day we saw my father for the last time.  Family was gathered at the funeral home.  Young ones met each other for the first time, while my generation of cousins hugged and caught up on old times, reminiscing together.  Gabriela, bringing Richard and I in tow, walked up to the open coffin.

"Is Pops in there?" she queried.
"Yes, he is," I said.
"I want to see him," she told Richard as she lifted her arms for him to pick her up.  Gabriela looked at the body of the man who she had hugged but who had never spoken a word to her.
"That's Pop," she stated simply, rather than questioned.  We both nodded in assent.
"Is he sleeping?" she wondered.
"This is just his body," Richard said gently to our daughter.  "Pops is in Heaven."

She cocked her head in the most peculiar way.  I can't explain it, but she squinted her eyes.  They glazed over as she looked off, contemplating his comment, and pieced it together with the sight of her grandfather in the dark red walnut casket.  I sat there and physically watched Gabriela age right before my eyes.  When she spoke, it was simple, with puzzlement, yet understanding and clarity.

"He's dead."  It was as if even she was amazed at her own ability to grasp the concept.  My eyes watered.
"Yes."
"He's gone.  He's not there."  Again, I wondered at her comprehension.  She sighed and just stared for a  moment and then asked to be let down.  That was it.

The funeral service was nice, more like a celebration of Dad's life.  I think he would've liked it.  We all laughed at the hilarious moments and welled up at the sentimental ones; Gabriela was asleep before my brother even delivered the eulogy, but she had already said her goodbyes that day in the nursing home.

There are moments in our lives which are pointed, signs of growth and maturity.  For my Gabriela, this was one of those.   A single moment in time passed right before my eyes. My baby girl was no longer a baby, or a toddler even.  She was past the days of just going with the flow, reaching whatever conclusion someone else gave her.   This was her moment, and she grasped it.

My Children's Viewpoint

Man. Woman. Birth. Death. Infinity. We enter this life empty and we leave this life with whatever truths we have gained. We choose how we are going to see life, in peace or in strife. We learn from that which surrounds us. Sometimes we learn from the elder, sometimes from our peers, and sometimes we experience the joy of learning through the mouths and actions of babes.

This last Thursday morning, my family packed up for a trip to Texas to visit my family. I had gotten used to the phone calls coming at least once a year for the past 9 years, telling me that the doctors wanted my mom to prepare the family for my father's eminent departure from this world. Each and every time my dad has come back fighting. He's been a scrapper since day one.

Last Sunday, though, when my mom called, I could sense a difference. Though everything looked bad, my dad was fighting back and seemed to be recovering. Still, I couldn't help the nagging feeling in the forefront of my mind telling me that my dad's long battle was almost over.

For the next couple of days, my husband and I discussed whether, with my back, I needed to fly or take the train. Both of those options would take too long, we felt, given the availability, so we decided to pack up the clan and drive to Pearland. I am glad we decided to come then rather than wait for the train that would have arrived in Houston this evening.

When I first saw my dad, he slightly opened one eye in acknowledgement that I was here, but that was the most he could muster. My uncle and two aunts, my dad's siblings, stayed with my mother, brother, and myself in the room at the nursing home where Dad was in hospice care. Having already talked it over with Richard, we agreed that we would give Dad a chance to see our children one more time, thereby giving them a chance to say whatever they wanted to say to him as well. I am so glad we did.

Nyssa walked in first, boldly beside my dad's bedside. "Hi Pops! It's me, Nyssa!" She was bubbly to see him, but when he didn't respond, she turned shy and was a little shaken. She then whispered in my ear things to tell him. Just before she left the room, she touched his arm tenderly with her hand and said, "I'll see you in Heaven. I love you." When she left the room with my Mom, one of the nurses followed behind with tears in her eyes.

A few minutes later, after discovering he was crying insistently that he MUST see Pops, Mom brought Nathaniel in as well. He walked up to my dad and smiled his big, bright smile that outshines Reba McEntire's smile. Nathaniel stood next to Dad's bed and waved excitedly at him. "Hi Pops! I'll see you in Heaven. Bye Pops! I love you!" He put his hands to his ears because the rattle in my dad's breath was too much for him and he walked happily out of the room with me back outside to see the ducks in the pond.

Richard went in next, with Benjamin and Gabriela. Though I didn't witness what happened, I was told that Benjamin stayed back but waved at him and said, "Bye Pops, see ya in Heaven," and that Dad wiggled his toes in response. Gabriela sat in his lap a on the edge of the bed and started calling to him. "Pops. Pops. Pops!" At first she started to get mad that he wouldn't answer her, then tilted her head, looked worried, and just sat with him for a minute and said, "Bye bye, Pops." Apparently, a nurse walked out then as well, with tears in her eyes.

Yesterday morning, Dad passed away in his sleep with myself, my brother, and my mom in the room. We told the kids, who all thought for a moment and said that he is in Heaven now and can walk and talk and sing again. They extemporised on all the things he can do now that he couldn't just a couple days ago.

Though we will all miss my Dad, just leave it to my children to put everything into perspective. We know where his heart is. Though he wasn't perfect, as none of us are, he did receive Jesus as his Savior and so we know he is in Heaven and we will see him again one day. He is happy and free. He is where he belongs.

Perspective

Life is what it is.  But what it is to you and what it is to me are two entirely different entities.  In fact, there are as many views on life as there are people in this world, close to 7 billion, I believe.  It all depends on a simple word:  perspective.  Definitions for the word are as follows:  A particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view; true understanding of the relative importance of things; a sense of proportion.  Aha!  These two definitions seem to be contradictory, don't they?  A particular attitude versus true understanding...well you just may be about to find out, as I did two weeks ago, they are and they aren't.

Two weeks ago was a little rough.  Here it was, Monday afternoon, and Nyssa was in one of her usual bull headed moods while we were in the car, no less.  The sad aspect of the story is that I can't even remember what it was about anymore, but it unnerved me to no end.  She and Nathaniel were having a spat and she wouldn't cave one iota.  I tried reason.  I tried reasoning with her.  I tried explaining the situation to her.  I tried telling her just to stop.  I tried telling them both to stop.  I tried telling them to stop or I was going to pull over.  I did.  I was almost pulling my hair out trying to get Nyssa to just leave the subject alone and to stop trying to get Nathaniel to see it her way...because she was wrong.

By this point, I was a very unhappy camper.  Gabriela was tired because she had been awakened from her nap to pick up her siblings from school.  Benjamin was hungry.  Nathaniel had been in a very good mood but was now starting to have a meltdown due to his sister's attack, and Nyssa would just not give it up.  I almost pulled my hair out (remember that phrase in a couple days' time, will you?  Just stash it away somewhere in your brain if you don't mind) and had crossed the "enough" line 2 miles back.

I looked at Nyssa and just threw my hands in the air.  "Nyssa, just let it go!

"But he's wrong!" she insisted.

"No, he's not.  You are.  Regardless, I told you to behave and to be quiet.  That is enough!"

She would not stop.  I am not proud of the following words that proceeded from my mouth.  I said something to the effect of growing up, behaving, listening to what I said, obeying, and to "stop acting like a baby" who didn't know better when she is obviously old enough to obey the words "stop" and "be quiet."  I told her even Gabriela could follow those simple instructions and she needed to just obey.

"But," she began again.

"I don't want to hear it.  I don't want to hear another word come out of your mouth until we get home," and I started the minivan again and got back on the road.  There was finally silence, though I cannot say it was peaceful.  At least, there was momentary silence.  What came next just brought me chagrin and complete shame.

"You're a baby," Gabriela said, to nobody in particular.  "You acting like a baby, Nyssa."  Uh-oh.  "Taniel, you're a baby.  Benjamin, you're a baby.  Mommy, you acting like a baby," she giggled away.

At first, I was just angry.  In a too controlled voice, I said, "Gabriela, that's enough."  That only egged her on, not seeing my face or hearing the frustration emanating from my mouth.

"You a baby.  I not a baby.  You a baby.  You and you and you and you a baby.  Mommy's a baby."

Yeah, out of the mouths of babes.  I had lost it and now given my youngest something to say to bring me to shame.  It was new territory for me, because I had forgotten the power of words on a child.

Due to the Autism spectrum, none of the other three had ever just repeated what I said like that.  If I told them to say something, they would parrot me, but they never just picked up what I said and started repeating it back to me.  In fact, they had trouble processing what I said to them period, losing half of my words or more.  Only through therapy and hard work have they finally gotten to the point where they are able to process things better.  At least, I knew this was the case with Nathaniel.  I never knew Nyssa had any trouble with it, but at this moment it dawned on me that she had never parroted what I said randomly.  There was always a preexisting concentration on what the words would be before she would repeat after me.

That was Monday.  Tuesday was my visit to the Marcus Institute, the follow up from the testing Nyssa had done there a couple of weeks prior.  I was to receive their findings.  That day will be forever etched in my mind, because my entire perception regarding my daughter changed.  The results rocked my world.  I never saw it coming.

As expected, the doctor concurred with the diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome and the ADD Inattentive.  What wasn't expected was the fact that all her Executive Functions are rather lacking.  Her will power is very high and set, almost incapable of moving once her mind has been determined, to an unusual degree.  Her ability to process verbal stimulus is low.

Ok, so now what does all this mean?  We'll take it one step at a time.  Executive functions are those functions that help us to navigate our way socially, emotionally, organizationally, and environmentally.  They help us connect past actions with the present.  They help us with planning skills and navigating our way through time and in space.  Executive functions give us an innate awareness of everything around us and the ability to process that knowledge to our advantage.  They help us learn visual cues that tell us to not speak until it is our turn and to stop speaking in order to let someone else have their say.  They help our working memory, allowing us to be able to do more than one thing at once or to follow multi-step directions. 

Think of a company.  It has a Chief Executive Officer.  That officer is responsible for making sure the proper plans, implementations, and goals are executed.  If the company has a bad CEO, the officer can bring the corporation to its knees.  If it has a good one, the CEO can bring the company to newer heights.  That is why they get paid all the big bucks.  If the company gets in hot water, the CEO is usually the one who gets axed.  If the CEO is attentive to the company's needs, both in entity and in employees, he will be able to adjust, plan, and repair a problem mid stream.  If the executive in charge refuses stubbornly to bend in the right direction, he will destroy a company.  Interestingly enough, in the same way, the executive functions are directly related to the ability to shift gears in the mental capacity. 

That brings us to Nyssa's willpower.  It's high.  Very high.  I've mentioned before in my rantings how she will just not yield, regardless of the situation, unless she is shown, logically, infallibly, to her understanding, that her course is wrong and needs to be adjusting.  Then and only then is she able to be persuaded to change her mind.  Without that, you may as well just throw in the towel, because she is not going to budge.  No form of bribery, threats or punishment will sway her, neither will your own reason.  She's not trying to be disrespectful.  It's not because she wants to see what will happen if she pushes my buttons.  It is the way she is wired.  She's a rock.  Where does she get this from?  The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

As a kid, when it came to character traits, I always got the certificate that said, "determined."  I was not easily swayed; I couldn't be budged.  I was harder to be moved than a hardhead catfish that you hit over the head with a hammer to kill.  Under specific circumstances, I would accept any punishment, not in defiance, but in my firm belief that I had done nothing wrong.  I have been painstakingly honest about my natural disorganization, my messy house, and about my own struggles to keep it clean.  I have only in the past year begun to overcome my weaknesses in spacial organization.  As for time management, my mom can lose track of time, thinking only 5 minutes has gone by when it has been 2 hours.  Fortunately, I can at least stop and judge what time it is and usually be correct within 10 minutes...when I actually stop.  If I'm not being conscious of the time, it can fly by.  I know where my daughter gets it. 

I have told Nyssa on occasion to try to do her best and she states that she is trying her best.  On the piano, I would tell her to practice.  She would sit there on the bench doing nothing, not even putting her hands to the keyboard, but she was doing her best.  She was sitting there, even though (as I now know) everything within her told her to leave the bench.  I saw it as defiance.  The doctor let me know it's not.  She is just sometimes unable to see a different viewpoint, incapable of changing once she has made her decision, and sometimes it is all she can do to just try to figure out one instruction at a time.  She pulls on her hair, hard, if she is given more than one direction at a time.

Of course, that makes part of our job as parents more difficult; we have to find a way to help her see things our way on her own.  We have to give the right nudge here, the little suggestive message there.  We have to learn why she sees things the way she does.  That will help us to draw her to a better conclusion on the occasions she is wrong.   I suppose it comes along with seeing the glass as half full or half empty.

In life, we can get caught up in situations that are beyond our control.  We can get caught in a rut because we cannot see any other way.  There may be a way to escape but we are so caught up in the view which we have that we lose the ability to adjust our focus and look at it from the grand scheme of things.  Somebody else may have a better view but because we refuse to budge on our perspective, we make things harder on ourselves.

When I discovered these traits about Nyssa, a part of me felt so bad about my attitude toward her that day.  She was truly incapable at that time of seeing things from another point of view.  In her eyes, it was absolute truth.  My job as her mother is to help her learn the difference between the truth and her point of view and to direct her towards that infallible truth.  If she can see things as they truly are, then she will have a distinct advantage because once it's in her noggin, it's like Prego spaghetti sauce:  it's in there.

The same truth goes for whether she has done her homework correctly or if she truly knows how much we love her.  Sometimes there are only two perspectives:  the truth and a lie.  I want her to be able to discern the truth from the lies.  I want her to know that, regardless of her difficulties, she is special and she is important, that she matters.  I want her to know that book smart doesn't mean wisdom.  I want her to know that she can come to me with a problem and I will never turn her away when she really needs help.  I want her to be able to look at that glass and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that, because there is water in it, and it reaches the half way point, that it is half full.  I don't want her to just see things from her point of view:  I want her to be able to see things in truth.

Musical Chairs

When I was a child, I used to love to play Musical Chairs.  All the children started out in a circle, chairs facing outward.  There was always one more child than chairs.  The music would begin and we would all circle around the chairs, anticipating the time when the music would stop and we would scramble to sit in a chair before they were all taken.  We hardly ever sat in the same seat twice due to the nature of the game; we moved around a lot and landed wherever we were when the music stops.

Poor Nathaniel has been playing musical schools for the last 3 years.  He was at one school for Pre-K, he moved to a different school for Kindergarten, yet another school at the beginning of this school year, and has finally found his chair this January.  He has had 3 incidents so far, every single one of them minor, has not been to the principal's office, and only yesterday went to the sensory room for the first time; this, not because his behavior warranted that he needed it, but because he had been curious to see it, so his teacher took him. 

 He told me today that he had a mostly good day.  He had some difficulty, but told me that he got to go to the Quiet Zone.  What is this magical place in his room that kept him from flaring up and turning into the Incredible Hulk?  It's a desk against a wall that has a set of soundproof earphones.  He simply sat there with the headset on and got to escape from the noise until he was ready to return to his work.  He chose that zone, just like he chose the mini trampoline yesterday.  He has completed his work almost every single day and doesn't even have homework because he completes that as well!  What a turn around from last month, even!  He is truly flourishing there.

Every day for the last two weeks, I have seen the return of my happy little boy who I haven't seen truly since pre-k.  He loves school, he is happier at home, and he smiles.  Oh how he smiles!  I am reminded of the scene from Hook when the little boy looks at Robin Williams' all grown-up and grouchy Peter Pan and plays with his face for a while.  Then, he twists the face into a smile and says, "Oh, there you are, Peter!"  That is exactly how I feel now when I see my older son get off the bus and meander into the house. 



Seeing my children happy or sad affects me, deeply.  How can it not?  They are my own flesh and blood.  But he is a reminder of myself, as well.  The last few years I have been wandering around in a daze, trying my best at times to hold my head above water, getting glimpses of that joy from time to time, knowing that it's there, somewhere, and I have just had to trust that the flight of happy thoughts will return someday to stay.
But I am learning, once again, remembering how to be able to silence everything around me and to ignore the chaos around me, not letting it bother me to endless distraction.  I am seeing that it really is alright to get off the merry-go-round from time to time and do my own thing for just a little while.  It doesn't take too long, just a 5 minute logic puzzle here, a 3 minute song on the piano there, or, gasp, a 7 minute opportunity to use the restroom by myself with the door locked!  Aah, now THAT is a peaceful moment if I can find the earplugs to ignore the cries of children who have suddenly realized they must have me that very moment and are disturbed that I deign to lock them out.

Just as Nathaniel is learning how to cope, slowly but surely with those things around him, so am I.  I am even enjoying playing with them again.  We've been painting on the art easel the last couple of days, painting with the dot paints or the brushes that came with the easel paints.  We've been singing together and building blocks together.  Who knows, maybe tomorrow we'll even play musical chairs with a twist...no chairs taken away because in this household these days, everyone is a winner.

Winter's Nap

Many creatures in North America, and other continents alike I am sure, like to take long winter naps.  They eat their fill in the fall to get a nice, good layer of fat and insulation, find some cozy little den into which they can possibly just barely wriggle, and then hunker down for a blissfully sweet slumber through the coldest dark of winter.  These animals avoid the hardest frosts and the coldest snow by staying peacefully in their hidey holes, slumbering sweetly with whatever sentimental dreams come their way.  They wake up a few months later and quite a few pounds lighter, refreshed and ready to face the dawn of a new year, with all the excitement and rebirth of the wonder of the world in the spring about to surround them. 

I am happy to announce that Nathaniel has received a new start in the dead of winter.  He had quite a rough time this last semester and, in spite of the wonderful, patient help of his teachers, though the entire staff of his school worked lovingly with him, he was still not ready to make the transition to that kind of classroom.  I took note of the extra effort his educators and the administration, amazed at their resourcefulness throughout the year as they went above and beyond the call of duty to help him.  I am utterly grateful for all they did for him.  He was somewhat of a celebrity around there; he had his own flyer and everything which was passed out to the entire staff. 

My dear little Nathaniel sat in a chair, giving his sweetest smile for the camera, posed on the paper looking as if he had not a care in the world.  Beside the picture was his name with a message beside it. It was a warning that he runs.  If he ran passed any of the staff members, the paper listed a set of guidelines to follow to help lead him back to his home base of safety.  Since he does tend to run, great care was taken to keep him as safe as possible and out of the street, away from the woods, and out of the businesses nearby.  Throughout the year, it was hard to imagine that this fanciful little smiling boy was quite the challenge.  Both he and the staff learned quite a great deal.  In the end, however, we all had come to realize that he just needed something more than what they were able to offer.

One of the women in the system who has worked tirelessly with Nathaniel understands my struggles.  Her son was a lot like mine, and she has been a true pioneer in working to help high functioning Autistic children find their niche in the school system.  Without compromising their education and realizing their potential, she has helped bring about a program, a very new program, in fact just begun this year, in which they have their own classroom but can still be integrated in the classroom. The system is this:  a classroom for highly functioning Autistic children, highly intelligent, without academic difficulties, with behavior difficulties due to sensory and other processing issues.  There are 4 such classrooms in the North Fulton area.  She invited me to visit one such classroom, a mere 2 1/2 miles from my home, to see if we thought it would be a good fit for Nathaniel.

I was utterly amazed!  In the classroom itself was a small array of sensory related items:  a mini trampoline, a beanbag, some cushions, a set of silencer headphones, computers, and other stations.  Twice I noticed signs that boys were getting overloaded.  Both times, I watched as the boy went to a sensory outlet of choice for a minute or two and then went back of his own accord to do his work.  A minute or two!  That was all it took for them to calm themselves!  I think about the times when it would take 15 minutes just to get him to stop running or fighting to run and here I was watching these boys showing the same signs of putting hands to their ears and rocking, mumbling motions that I have seen my son do countless times, and yet they were able to self regulate inside the classroom. 

I was shell-shocked beyond belief, holding baited breath, eager to see what other wonders I would discover.  The sensory room was just as large as the classroom with many other devices to help them, a room into which they would go once or twice a week, alongside a speech therapy room which was connected and divided merely by a tough floor to ceiling pull partition that could be opened up if needed.  For the first time in a while, I began to have the hope that Nathaniel would be able to have a place he could go to where he would feel free to be himself and yet be able to learn how to control his emotions.

Of course, even after I saw the classroom and ecstatically agreed hopefully that this was indeed an environment in which I thought Nathaniel would thrive, I knew the decision was still up to the entire panel of the Support/IEP group.  Two days later we all participated in a three hour meeting that culminated in the agreement that my son should try this option.  The wonderful aspect was that he would be in the same classroom we visited, at that very school so close to my home.  It was also the home base of this wonderful woman and another Autism specialist who helped with more insight into my son's anxiety and fight or flight difficulties.  I knew then he would be in good hands.

Nathaniel started his new classroom at his new school, riding a new bus, after Christmas break.  It has been a week now and he has had no meltdowns.  He started to try to run twice, but saw something in his room that would help him feel better and went to it for a short time.  He has received smiley faces in all 6 areas every day for 7 days...except for the two I mentioned.  40/42, 7 days straight with no big tantrums, no fights, no spitting or kicking, no leaving his safety room.  That is better than his record has been since pre-k.

His struggles are much like my own in my quest to be the best mother and wife I can be.  I have tried, but often found myself falling short, disappointed at my failures.  I had to readjust, find a way to bring more helps into my realm of influence, in order to keep from treading water.  The tools I have found are sitting at the computer, writing and focusing on the positive; I have been putting on the headphones of singing and ignoring the negative voices.  I find myself bouncing to the trampoline of different ideas and options to take in dealing with my children and talking about the issues that really bother me.  I use the cushions of my faith to help soften my fall when I throw myself down in the beginnings of frustrations.  Most importantly, I am allowing myself to be squeezed in a beanbag of support from other parents with ASD children and finding out that I can also be a beanbag for them.

As a family, we were not able to hibernate through the long winter that has lasted for two years.  We have had to weather the wind, taste the cold of the snow, and receive the brain freeze that comes with taking in too much ice at a time.  But, like those woodland creatures, we are beginning to stir to a new sight, listening to the rebirth of hope and watching the joy and wonder return to our Nathaniel's face as he explores the spring of a new era and looks expectantly at the adventure of the awakening path opening up before him.