Just Breathe...and Notice

A birthday gift

Ean turned 10 yesterday.  Ten.  Double-digits.  A "tween". 

Don't ask him how he's feeling about this unless you want to watch him wrestle with his anxiety about how time is slipping away, each birthday representing another year lost.  Another year closer to dying. He didn't want to celebrate this birthday.  He begged us not to make a big deal about it.  He steadfastly changed the subject every time we brought it up.  Fortunately, he did manage to find some moments of joy throughout the day -- when he ripped the wrapping paper off the giant water blaster or felt a tug on his fishing line (we spent the morning deep sea fishing), and when he was blowing out birthday candles that kept re-lighting and filled the entire kitchen with waxy-smelling smoke.

His struggles were painful to watch.  We tried to keep him distracted and in the moment.  Sometimes we talked about what he was afraid of, our hearts twisting as we watched the tears stream down his face.  We reminded him to curse at his worries.  We went to the movies and splashed in the pool.  We strategized -- together -- new ways to keep the anxiety from creeping in.  I bought a guided-mediation DVD and said "of course" when he asked if it would be OK for him to talk to D. (his therapist).   His party is on Sunday.  I'm hopeful that a little bit of time, combined with 10+ kids, disco lights, and the general din of a bowling ally will provide enough distraction to coax him out of his own head and into the joy of the moment.

Ean and I -- we're cut from the same cloth.   I am so grateful that his complicated little soul was entrusted to me, to someone who completely understands how and why he works himself into worrying about things like the passage of time and the inevitability of change.  I get it. I understand why he can't sleep because he unsure about what happens after we die.  I also know why he nearly explodes with excitement when he has even the smallest bit of good news.  I get why he feels the need to share each and every wondrous thing he learns.  I know why he gets red-faced with indignation in the face of any injustice, his or not. 

I know. 

I know what it is to be so easily moved.  So easily awestruck.  So easily frightened.  So easily overjoyed.  So easily hurt.  So easily inspired.

I know.

If I could give him any gift for his 10th birthday, it would be courage.  The courage to continue to live with his arms outstretched and his heart exposed.  The courage to continue to vibrate with joy, even when people laugh.  The courage to continue to welcome fear, hurt, and uncertainty as part of the complex beauty of life.  The courage to continue to be outraged by injustice.  The courage to continue to be himself. 

It takes courage to live this way, especially in a world that seems to value unaffected cynicism over unbridled emotion.   But the world NEEDS people like Ean (and me).  We need people who marvel and awe to remind us that we're surrounded by miracles.  We need people who embrace fear and hurt to inspire us to find our own fortitude.  We need people who are outraged by injustice to keep tyrants and bullies at bay.

Keep on being you, I promise you'll always find the courage.

Happy 10th Birthday, Ean.  The world is lucky to have you.

 

An open letter to my children

Dear Spawn:

First -- it goes without saying (actually, I say it every day.  at least once), that I love you both very, very much.  And because I love you, I am offering a few pointers to help get us through the next 10+ years of co-habitation:

1)    There is a difference between an "inside voice" and an "outside voice".  I start to twitch when you confuse them.  Here's a hint:  if you look up and see ceiling, turn down the volume a bit.  Exceptions include gushing blood (not to be confused with oozing blood), outright flames (not to be confused with a simple smolder), and Ed McMahon at the front door (not be be confused with the nice Irish neighbor).

2)    When I ask you to be quiet for a bit,  I'm not just asking you to stop talking.  Quiet also extends to humming, snorting, finger snapping, hilarious attempts at whistling, and the intentional release of gas from any orifice.

3)  The intentional release of gas is never appropriate at the dinner table.  The same rule applies to  the lunch table and the breakfast table.  It also applies to car rides, airplane rides, and when we're under the covers together.  We have multiple bathrooms.  Use them.

4)    Vegetables will always be served.  Stop looking so surprised.

5)    There's a reason I don't let you troll around YouTube without supervision.  Someday you'll understand why.  Sometime after that you'll thank me. 

6)    Asking you to clean your room is not code for asking you to shove everything under your beds and dressers.  I understand that it's your duty as a child to employee this cleaning strategy.  It's my duty as a mother to bust you.

7)  You begged and begged and begged for a dog.  We spent a small fortune on the little asshole and now you complain about having to play with him.  Everyone told me to expect it, but I still think it's pretty shitty.  Unless your arms are broken, I expect you to throw him a ball for a little while every day.

8)    The answer to "wanna smell my butt/armpit/breath?" will ALWAYS be no.  Save your breath.

9)    Stop asking if the tooth fairy is real unless you really want to know the answer.

10)   Another thing to stop?  Stop writing school essays on how we take you to bars.  It makes us look bad.  Besides, we take you to PUBS, not bars. 

11)    Don't hug me and then tell me you love how soft and squishy I am.  That soft and squishy was the direct result of 46 hours of labor (31 for Ean and 15 for Zoe).  The more often you say it, the more often your ungrateful butts will get dumped the the gym childcare.  Tread lightly.

12)   You're only 9 and 7 and you've been to 20 of the 50 states.  I hope you appreciate this.

13)   Ean:  I don't care if you're "going for distance".   When you miss the toilet and pee on the bathroom floor, things start to smell.  It's gross and I'm the one who has to clean it.

14)   Sometimes Mommy and Daddy kiss.  It's not *always* and invitation for a family hug.

15)   Not all family hugs have to include the dog.  He licks his ass and has bad breath.  Sometimes it kills the moment.

16)   I do, in fact, have eyes in the back of my head. 

17)   I hate homework too.

18)   Know what else I hate?  Chuck E Cheese.  Please, please, please stop asking to go.  Stop trying to tempt me by reminding me that they serve beer. 

19)   Know what I love?  Seeing how much you love each other.  Hearing you laugh.  Watching your kindness and empathy.  You know what I don't love?  How your sweetness can turn on a dime and transform you into mini psychopaths.  Listen,  it's not rocket science:   when your brother/sister says "stop poking me", remove the offending phalange.  Immediately.  It'll save us all a lot of hassle.

20)   Just so you know, I come in your rooms when you're sleeping.  Your sleeping faces bring back memories of how helpless you once were.  I miss those days.  If you ever catch me, please don't ask me to stop.

Hope this information proves helpful to you both.

Love,

Mom

Best Laid Plans...

You know those moments when you imagine your day going in one direction (and that direction includes dry clothes and only minimal amounts of sand being tracked back into your house?)?  And then, despite your best laid plans and intentions, dry turns into wet and your clean floors become a respository for sand, shells, and tiny bits of sea weed?

And, even though you have to vacuum (again!) and do extra laundry, you look back on the moment when the well-planned right turn veered into an unexpected left turn -- and whisper a silent thank you. 

 

 

He may not be Kareem --- but he's not an idoit!!

The kids are doing a community basketball league (Ean is playing basketball, Zoe is cheerleeding).  It's actually a church league, which we normally wouldn't do given that we're not Christian -- but the program is very well-regarded and offers every kid (even the spastic ones) equal playing time.   

A funny side story before I get to the point:  we were in a small room with the coaches after a game and someone mentioned Christ (as occasionally happens at churchy-type events).  Ean -- such a good Jew -- asks (out loud!) "who's Christ?".  I nearly burst a vein trying to keep from laughing.   We've told him about Jesus, but apparently neglected to mention the Christ part. I figured he would have picked it up from all the time I spend screaming at the dog....

I wonder if they're praying for us...

So back to my point:  God love him, but Ean isn't going to be winning any sports scholarships -- he'd be eaten alive in a truly competitive league, so the kind and gentle church league made good sense.  And really, it's fantastically well-run.  In addition to  teaching basic skills and sportsmanship, they also focus on building self-esteem and self-confidence.  

Who can argue with that, right?

I wouldn't argue with it either, except that like many children's programs today, this program panders to the annoying, overly PC  idea that kids are hothouse flowers, and are incapable of handling disappointment or criticism or even the slightest suggestion that the sun does not, in fact, orbit around their precious little selves. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm about as far from a Tiger Mom as one can get.  I used to own and operate a non-competitive motor-skill program for children which was specifically designed to build self-esteem and confidence.  I get the value of nurturing those qualities.  What bugs me is when we attempt to nurture those qualities ways that are dishonest and inauthentic. 

Case in point (and the impetus behind my rant):  Ean's game yesterday.  As usual, Ean was bubbling over with excitement.  And, as usual, his skills didn't quite keep pace with his enthusiasm.  The only time he touched the ball was the during the 5 or 10 seconds he dribbled it across the court.  To the wrong basket.  But he smiled the whole time and told everyone how much he loved basketball!

If it had ended there, I would have considered the entire experience an unqualified success.  But it didn't end there.  After the game, the kids, parents, and coaches all gather to de-brief and distribute stars.  There are several different colored stars, each corresponding to a particular positive attribute or contribution:  sportsmanship, leadership, offense, defense, etc.  

Want to know what Ean's star was for?    Offense.

The kid who touched the ball once, only to dribble it towards the wrong basket got a star for his offense skills.  Really?

I get what they're trying to do.  But these kids aren't stupid.  Ean knows full well that his contribution was NOT his mad offense skills.   When I asked him what he thought about the star he said "it was nice".  When I asked him if that was the star he would have given himself he said "no.  I would have given myself the effort star".  

I have no doubt that Ean contributed to him team's win.  But his contribution came in the form of his contagious energy and enthusiasm.  Not his ball handling.  I know that  -- and so does Ean.

I'm using Ean as a specific example, but this attitude is everywhere you look.  In an attempt to protect our children's self-esteem we have created a cultural construct that values protecting their egos over teaching them how to fail.  We're horrified at the thought of telling our children that they're less than brilliant, perfect, precious creatures.  But instead of fostering authentic self-confidence, we're creating a generation of praise junkies who have no idea how to accept the fact that they might not excel at everything they try.

When Ean was presented with that disingenuous (albeit well-intentioned) praise, his REAL contribution was undermined and devalued.  He was stripped of his opportunity to feel authentic pride and accomplishment.  Equally as unfortunate is the fact that he was also denied the opportunity to hear what he could do to improve his skills and actually get better. 

Instead of working so hard to protect our kids from failure and disappointment, maybe we should be teaching  them that it's OK to suck at some things.  And that they can fail gracefully and laugh at themselves. 

We want our children to love and accept themselves, but genuine self-acceptance requires that we  accept the the totality of who we are -- good and bad.  Likewise, genuine growth only comes when we are aware of our need for it.  Protecting our kids from such knowledge of themselves does not serve them now and will not serve them as adults.....

 

It's 3:20 a.m.. Do you know where your 8.5 year-old is?

Mine was outside in 25-degree weather watching for Geminid meteors. 

I get some sort of Mommy prize for getting up with him and laying on the cold hard patio?  Right?!?

P.S. --- It was beautiful -- and we had a (cold!) blast!!

Saturday -- in the park

After a week of cold, dreary weather (well, as cold and dreary at it gets for those of us living in the sub-tropic -- we woke to temps in the 20's!), we had a return to our glorious South Florida weather yesterday.  It was sunny, breezy, and in the low-70's -- and we had a wonderful day that started with a long (and solitary!) morning walk.  While Ean was at karate, Zoe and I re-donned our short sleeves and headed for the park.

Look at that joy!!  Remember those days when that joyful abandon was so accessable to us?  When we could swing so high we scared ourselves silly?  And then did it again, just for the thrill?  And we never worried about whether or not the swing made our butts look fat.  Or if we laughed too loud.  We didn't worry about the possibility of skinned knees or bruised egos.  We just allowed to moments of rapture to carry us -- and we went along, without hesitation.

I consider myself a pretty happy and open person, but I have to admit that I have really lost touch with that part of myself.  I can't remember the last time I experienced a sense of joy and abandon that was TOTALLY free of self-consciousness. 

I suspect I'm not alone in this loss --- and what a sad thing for all of us. 

 

Happy Birthday Zoe!

Dear Zoe --

Happy 7th Birthday!!!

What a wonderful year you've had -- your confidence and determination continue to amaze me!!  I love, too, that you think of yourself as such a big girl -- you came home recently chattering about how "cute" all the new kindergartners were.  You said that you simply couldn't get over how SMALL they all were!

You probably don't appreciate how funny that sounds coming from a 6 year-old!  You will someday...

You continue to be a girly-girl, but you can still hold your own with the gaggle of boys we spend time with!  I love watching you play pretend Harry Potter and Star Wars games -- complete with sticks, swords and sparkly pink nail polish!!  I love how you insist on matching your hair clip with your outfit. 

I love watching you tear down the sidewalk on your brother's too-small, hand-me-down bike (PS -- we got you a new PURPLE bike for your birthday!  You're going to get it tonight!). 

I love how, despite your new found independence, you still look forward to Friday nights when you get to fall asleep snuggled up next to me in the "big bed".  I'm not sure I've ever told you this, but I look forward to those Friday nights, too.  Maybe even more than you do because I know they won't last forever.

Here's a little secret:  last week when I dropped you off at school, I slunk around to the far side of a pole and just watched you.  I watched as you saw your friends, and I listened as you explained to them why you got dropped off instead of riding the bus that day.  I watched as you walked along  and fell in stride with them.  I watched as you threw your head back and laughed at a joke.

I felt both proud and wistful as I I saw how grown-up you've become.  I stood there, behind that pole, and cried with joy. The joy of seeing how happy you are, and how easily you move through your world.

I know we've told you this before, but your name means "life".  And regardless of what we call you on any given day: 

Zoe,  Zo,  Zo-Zo  Zoe-beth, Zoe-a-licious...

you OWN your name. 

You are full of life, and you make sure our cups overflow with it as well!  This has been your greatest gift to our family -- we had no idea what we were missing until you came along!!

So, thank you, dear Zoe for being the laughter and life in our family!!

I love you.

--Mom

 

Then:

 

And now:

IE-yip-P. Advice for newbies. Plus one other crazy tidbit!

The meeting went wonderfully well!

I always walk away from these meetings feeling so good about the fact that Ean is surrounded by a group of educators who really enjoy him, really understand him, and (most importantly) really want him to succeed. 

We're very, very fortunate.  I wish I could give them all a big fat raise!

So, apparently, third grade is not going as badly as I thought -- or, at least it's not going badly in the WAY I thought.  Our biggest struggle this year has been math.  Not only has math homework caused innumerable hours of agony and tears, but Ean has also failed every single math test.  Every single one.  And he failed them SPECTACULARLY -- with 30's and 40's.  Third grade is an FCAT year (Florida's version of the NCLB mandated testing) -- which means he has to pass the math and reading standardized test in order to be promoted to 4th grade. 

The first thing we learned at the meeting was the Ean was far from the only kid struggling with math this year.  Apparently the district adopted a new math curriculum and rolled it out for every grade -- this curriculum is more advanced than the prior curriculum and the kids (especially those in 3rd - 5th grades) are all lost.  The teachers, it seems, are just as frustrated as we are -- and, sadly, there's very little they can do about it. 

Ean's still failing math -- which is a problem we have to address -- but it's a relief to know that his struggles are at least partially due to a poor curriculum choice (as opposed to being solely related to his learning challenges).

So, his accommodations:  he will continue with speech/language twice a week for articulation and pragmatic language;  his OT was dropped from 30-min/week to 60-min/month;  he will continue to get the option of 50% more time to complete tests.  Other random things that stayed the same:  directions will be given a step or two at a time (as opposed to all at once), teachers will verbally confirm that he understands all instructions, he will be allowed to take tests in small group settings if necessary.  We added "sensory breaks", which means that, when he's starting to fade and get spacey and inattentive, his teachers will have him engage in activities that help him re-focus (carrying heavy books across the room, do jumping-jacks, balance on one foot).  He will also be allowed to use special columned paper for math tests and assignments.  Oh -- and since it's an FCAT year, he will also have someone to sit with him to make sure he's coloring in the right bubbles on the testing sheet (a key accommodation for a kid with extremely poor visual-motor skills!!). 

All good stuff!

The best part of the meeting was hearing all the great stories -- stories about how funny, smart, and creative he is.  How interesting and unique his thoughts are.  How much he's grown since we first started this crazy process. And while we still have miles to go and hills to climb, we're getting there.

His ESE-inclusion teacher (who has known him since kindergarten) ended the meeting with a great statement that was not only funny -- but a clear demonstration of how well she knows him.  She said "Ean's mind is a lot like his desk -- they're both pretty disorganized,  but contain tons of great stuff.  Our job is to help him figure out how to find it."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

So, to all you moms and dads just starting out on the special-ed journey: 

• Take a deep breath and bake some cookies. 

• Bring them to your child's teachers/therapists/aides.  They work hard and get paid poorly.  You won't always agree with their opinions or methods, but they are the most important partners you have.  Get annoyed at them if you need to, push back when you have to, but create a relationship with them.  Remember you're on the same team, and treat them as valued team mates.

• But -- remember YOU know your child better than anyone else.  Trust that.

• Learn as much as you can about your child's disabilities.  Do not be a passive member of the team.  Share what techniques work at home.  Offer up solutions. 

• Your child may need pencil grips, special paper, or colored overlays -- if those things are in the IEP, the school is *technically* required to provide them.  But, as well all know, education is sadly underfunded and those things may take a while to get.  If it's at all possible, just plan on providing them yourself.  And try to get them before the teacher goes out and spends her own money on them. 

• Ask to hear about the things your child does well.  Your heart will be replenished by the stories that follow.   Plus, telling those stories will remind the teachers how awesome your kid really is!

• Finally -- remember your child's disability is just one part of who he is.  Don't forget about the other parts.  Enjoy and honor them all.

 

OK -- so my other big news.  My parents (mom and biological father) divorced when I was a toddler and I have not seen nor heard from my father in over 35 years.  I have attempted half-hearted searches over the years, but I've never actually found him.   Fast-forward to this past Sunday evening -- I got an email from him.  I'm still stunned and I sort of feel like my world has shifted on its axis -- I haven't responded yet.  Crazy, crazy stuff.

I (Eeeeep!) P

Ean's IEP meeting is this afternoon.  For those of you not familiar with the alphabet soup of the special ed world, IEP stands for individualized educational program.  It's our yearly chance to sit with Ean's entire educational team -- which, for Ean, consists of his 2 mainstream teachers, his ESE  (exceptional student education) inclusion teacher, his speech therapist, his occupational therapist, and the district autism specialist. 

Anyone who's been forced to listen to my fretting for the past 2 months knows that 3rd grade has not been easy for us -- which makes me especially nervous about this meeting. 

Oh -- and by the way -- sorry, everyone, for all the fretting, I bet I've been annoying!

So, today.  I'm going to ask for some changes to the services and accommodations outlined in his IEP.

Ean no longer seems to be struggling with the decoding aspect of reading (phew!).  In retrospect, I now think that his reading delays were likely a function of a delayed neuro-developmental readiness.  That delayed readiness may or may not have had anything to do with his other neurobiological issues -- I suppose it doesn't really matter at this point, because he's turned into a decoding (and spelling!) whiz! 

Yay for that!  But third grade.  God, third grade.  Apparently it's something akin to the 4th or 5th circle of hell.  You know, when you have to start using the basic skills acquired in K - 2 to start synthesizing and integrating higher-level skills. 

Yeah, that's not going so well. 

If you asked me to describe Ean's challenges, I would probably break them down into 3 key domains (which all have some overlap):  1) sensory modulation; 2) visual-motor deficits, and 3) organization (both with regard to physical space and executive function).

His sensory modulation issues manifest as a general spaciness and a decreased attention span.  Essentially, his arousal state is typically just under what it needs to be to process information (which manifests both receptively and expressively).  He needs instructions broken down into very small, very sequential bits.  He needs to have things repeated and, when possible, presented in a multi-sensory way.  He needs some extra time to express his thoughts -- without facing frustration from the teachers or other kids.  In addition, he needs frequent reminders to engage in activities that will help modulate his sensory system (ie, getting up to stretch, going into the bathroom to do some push-ups against the wall, carrying some heavy books, standing on one foot).  These activities will keep him in a state of alertness that will help him focus and learn -- he just needs to be reminded/encouraged to do them.  I am going to request that his IEP include a provision for these reminders -- and that they come both verbally (from all members of his team) and in the form of a reminder on his desk.  

His visual-motor delays are well-documented (he scored in the 99th percentile for IQ and in the 8th percentile for visual-motor integration).  This affects his writing -- particularly copying from the board.  This year, his V-M challenges have also really starting to affect his math -- they are working with 6-digit numbers and trying to keep them lined up has been a disaster.  He already has accommodations for writing (including limiting the amount of writing he has to do on tests), and I intend to ask that he be allowed to use primary graph paper (to keep his numbers aligned) for all his math tests. 

His organizational issues (with regard to his physical space) manifest most obviously in his desk!  There are papers, pencils, books (and probably a feral cat or two) all shoved in with no discernible system.  I am going to ask that he be allowed to use some sort of organization system (like different colored bins -- which we will provide) to help him keep everything where it belongs.  I am also going to ask that I be allowed to come into the class (after school) every other week or so, to help him re-organize.

His organizational issues with regard to executive function are a bit tougher to work on -- these challenges can't be managed with multi-colored plastic bins or a few jumping jacks.  Executive function refers to one's ability to engage in tasks that require planning, and integration of information.  It's what helps us determine which details are meaningful and relevant (and which to discard) and to organize our thoughts into a cohesive whole.  Kids like Ean (with Aspergers' or non-verbal learning disabilities) really, REALLY struggle in this domain.  Ean can now decode a story with aplomb, but will have a very difficult time telling you what it was about.   He can describe (with eerie accuracy!) some random feature about one of the characters (likely something everyone else missed), but he will struggle to tell you the sequence of events.  Ean gets lost in random (and often unimportant) details and, as a result, he often misses the big picture.  This causes him to seem a bit out-of-sync -- the kid who's not quite on the right page.  What he needs, at least for now, is to have his teachers point out the main idea for him --- before they start feeding him the details.  This will help him by allowing him to start learning to understand how the details support the big picture.  I'm not sure how to ask for this to be represented in his IEP --- mostly because it applies to some many different domains.  I'm  hoping his team will have some ideas.

Wish us luck....

Grandma's on the roof...

When I was in graduate school, my adviser used to have this....thing (story, fable, ominous quip?) about grandma being on the roof.  I don't remember the exact details -- it was something she pulled out when things were Not Good.  I think it had something to do with waiting until the last minute, when you had no choice but full-on crisis mode.  Or it might have been something we weren't supposed to tell her, lest we stress her out too much.  I don't remember.  But I do know that grandma on the roof was a definite problem.  And if she was talking to you about it, it was most definitely your fault.  As in, you forcibly dragged grandma up to the (outrageously pitched, and probably ice-slicked) roof by her thinning blue hair.  And left her there in her house coat and support hose.  Smoking Marlboro Lights and fiddling with the dials on her oxygen tank. 

Whatever.  My point is that Grandma is TOTALLY on the roof right now.  Along with the rest of the family.  And a handful of people I've never met.

I've made a conscious point of not using my blog as a platform for complaints and whining.  I don't like complaining or whining.  I don't like venting.  But it's a Friday afternoon and I've had a long, hard week.  I'm going to break my own rule. 

I'm not even sure where to start.  I have my general wife/mother duties:  water, food, clean underwear.  Most of the time I can skirt by.  I can generally manage to cobble together some reasonably nutritious array of foods to throw at Rich and the kids.  We never actually run out of toilet paper and I can usually find the checkbook.  Clean underwear sometimes requires a bit of a treasure hunt, but it's usually around.  

Then there's the basic nurturing/staving off code-red marital disharmony/criminally impolite  children/ anything that will require significant therapy to be undone .  I can generally only manage to stay one step ahead of disaster in this category.  Zoe recently went through a major anxiety phase where she was convinced she had some sort of hidden fatal disease.  We went to bed every night repeating "my body is strong and healthy".  It took about 8-weeks, but she seems past it and I'm considering nominating myself for a Nobel Prize. 

Oh -- and Ean's school issues.  Oy.  There's not enough chardonnay in the world.  To put it bluntly, I am terrified for him.  Third grade is beating us both down.  I don't know if it's the expectations or the teacher.  I'm not sure I like his teacher (although I'm reserving judgment) --- in one of our meetings, she refereed to the non-ESE students in the class as the "regular kids".  IN FRONT OF EAN!  And she's a special-ed teacher.  It was probably just an accident -- we've all said stupid things before, right?  But, it upset me and colored my opinion of her.  She's also not very forthcoming with the accommodations  that are outlined in his IEP.  But, again, I have mixed feelings about that.  On one hand, his IEP represents a lot of hard work by a lot of people who know Ean pretty well.  He has the RIGHT to the accommodations.  But, on the other hand, he needs to be pushed.  I would love nothing more than to have him totally mainstreamed and he won't get there if we continue to accommodate his challenges.  In addition to his genuine disabilities, I think he has a bit of learned helplessness going on -- I think he's grown used to be accommodated.   And, in a way, I think it's undermined his confidence --- I'm not sure he believes that we believe he can succeed in the say way other kids do.  After all, every time things get too tough, we back down and set the bar a little lower for him.  What message is that sending?

Argh.

At the same time, I can't even begin to describe how much it hurts to watch him struggle.  Homework has become a trauma.  He tries.  He REALLY tries.  But, boy does he struggle.  I'm not a natural teacher -- I don't understand why he's not getting it and I can't seem to conjure up any helpful ways to make it easier.  I start off patient and supportive and (somewhere during hour 3) I transform into a shouty shrew.  It's not helpful.   Not at all.  Then we both cry.  Then I climb up on the roof with grandma.

And all the while this is going on, poor Zoe gets shoved to the sidelines.  The kitchen has to be quiet for Ean to work.  We can't distract him.  Zoe has to read or play quietly or watch iCarly for the millionth time.  Oh -- and sometimes she has homework she'd like supervision for.  Not that she needs help,  because that girl just gets it -- she's been bringing  home 100%s and notes of praise. 

She just wants the same attention that her brother gets. 

I hate myself for putting her off.  And today?  Her spelling test.  She told me about it.  All week.  More than once.  I told her I'd study with her as soon as I finished with Ean.  Time and time agian she slunk away while Ean and I sat at the kitchen table and cried.  I forgot about the damn spelling test.  Again and again.  She got in the car today, handed me the graded test.  And cried.  

I did everything I could NOT to cry.  Not to steal any of her grief. 

Because I was so wrapped up in Ean that I forgot about her.  She can re-take the test on Monday. And, as God as my witness, she will be ready and she will feel every single bit as important as her brother.

Have I mentioned that I'm also juggling a consulting business? 

I wish I knew how other mothers do it.  Yes, Ean has some special needs that require more time and energy than typical kids.  But, MY GOD, so many other parents have some many more challenges.  And somehow they manage.  They seem to pull it all off with aplomb.  They don't show up to a 2 pm school pick-up unshowered (with spinach in their braces!) -- thinking about the mountains of laundry, the smell of dog-pee in the dining room rug, and the project that still has to be finalized.  They don't wait until 6:45 pm to think about what to have for dinner.  They don't confuse dance class day with Hebrew school day.  Or forget to remind a 1st-grader to practice her violin.  Or lose a karate uniform. 

They don't cause their daughter to fail her spelling test.

Sigh.

Grandma is on the roof, and I think I need to pour a glass of wine and join her.  Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.