EIGHTY-SIXED

My daughter has an attachment disorder. When she is anything but entirely comfortable she talks constantly, animatedly and without ceasing.  My son has aspergers syndrome. He talks at high volume in an unmodulated voice.

In other words, my children are sometimes rather LOUD.

Consequently, we don’t spend a whole heck of a lot of time in restaurants.  But the other day we had a family date with another mother and her aspergian son and her peppy daughter and, sure enough, the table next to us complained.

See, we had thought we could have a peaceful night out with the kids.

We had walked into the restaurant and immediately seen a large, multigenerational family in the big center table. They’d smiled big, friendly, relieved smiles to see us. They knew we, with our four potentially rowdy elementary school aged kids, would balance they and their two little guys right out. 

But we all knew we’d all be trying to keep our children as well-behaved as possible for the comfort of other diners…

Our sons were excited to see each other. They began putting on raucous, clearly innocent and dorky (vs. aggressive or obnoxious - and why do I feel the need to point this out?) plays with their chopsticks. This friendship has been a beacon of hope for both boys, who struggle socially in their own schools.

Our gals were excited to see each other, chatty, berating their big brothers for being “annoying.”

Maybe four minutes after we sat down, a server approached our table. She was super sweet: “We don’t mind your kids at all but another table is very upset…” They informed us we were welcome to eat in the other part of the restaurant. The closed part? That is usually unused?

We knew it wasn’t her fault and agreed right away, trying to leave as little mess behind as possible, taking our glasses etc. with us, faces burning.

Someone from the other family asked what was going on. Looking straight at the offending table, I informed the nice family in a clear, LOUD voice that someone had complained about our children, despite the fact that they were being relatively well-behaved. I explained that we had to move to another room.

There’s a ferocity to motherhood that once made polite, feminist me hiss the B word at a woman who sniped about my letting my young child play under the table at a restaurant (at the time he'd been diagnosed with a sensory processing disorder and I knew he was overwhelmed by restaurant stimuli). ...A protectiveness that had me retorting “What are you whistling at? You better not be whistling at my baby!” at pregnancy catcallers.

As well as that loving ferocity and protectiveness, there is a sadness when someone judges your child on his or her appearance or on other inevitable aspects of their being. Doesn’t acceptance start in the little things? Allowing children to make a little noise? Reach for their Skittles? Be included even if they are a different color or neurology or different ^$%@%^% ANYTHING?

Don’t ALL children learn through having opportunities to broaden their experiences? By moving outside of their homes and their neighborhoods to restaurants, different streets, neighborhoods, cultures??? Don’t they deserve as many chances to grow as we are able to offer them?

Children who are held to basic standards of kindness yet allowed to make mistakes in the niceties without dreadful repercussions may grow up to be accepting, no?

Post the Zimmerman verdict, I listen to my friends with sons of color talking and writing about how they instruct their sons: “Don’t act suspicious,” “Stay quiet,” “Keep your hands visible, “Don’t make yourself a target”…

A week ago I might’ve ventured to hope that we were moving away from the necessity for such admonitions.

How far are we willing to go to keep our kids quiet? How far to keep them safe????

Acting “erratic” (G) and dining out while brown (Z) are definitely things I see in my kids’ futures. I want them to feel welcome in the world nonetheless! I thought taking them to a restaurant would be a good thing, but our good thing almost got eighty-sixed along with us.

Do you think, stern people of the next table, that we have not tried to have our children fit your behavioral standards?  Do you not think we are doing our best and maybe occasionally deserve the right to go out and eat dumplings?

See those first few sentences of this post where I define my kids as their conditions? You, next-table chumps, have just gone one worse than defining my children by their conditions. You haven’t even given them a chance.

Sure, sometimes a noise complaint is just a noise complaint. But I think we owe it to ALL OUR CHILDREN to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Children raised like that will likely do the same for others.

Anyway, the restaurant had another room and we went there – and the other family actually got up and came over to hang out with us out of solidarity. (Thank you, warmhearted, inclusive, attractive, multigenerational family!)

So things ended up ducky.

Still, the next time you are in a restaurant (or someplace), won’t you smile at someone who is maybe a tiny bit out of their comfort zone? Maybe even ask to watch the chopstick drama?

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

DEAR SON

Dear Son,

Now that you are heading into 6^th Grade, there are some things you should know.

First, while style is not of the deepest importance and may never be your forte, you should at least master Preventative Style.

I bring this up because the last time I asked you to choose your own outfit, you managed to dig up the worst, bottom-of-pants-pile, horrible, teal (teal!), Members Only style, rustling parachute pants I’d gingerly received for you as a hand-me-down and hidden away for a *dire laundry emergency. *

You located them, somehow. Then, as is your custom with leg-coverings, you pulled them up to your chest. And you tucked your shirt into your underwear and pulled that above the waist of those high water pants.

You see?

No, I am afraid you don’t, dear son.

I don’t mean to even try to teach you conformity, just basic clothing safety. You need to learn to ask yourself, “Will this item of clothing (or mode of wearing said item) instantly and inevitably cause people to make fun of me?” Some possible starter red flags might include: teal, overly embellished, ill-fitting, visible underwear.

Why should you care about this? Let’s just say it will ease the next few years of your life.

Actually, I am probably the wrong person to identify fashion red flags:

Figure I – FSM, Junior Sartorialist, not much older than G is right now. NB: You cannot even see that I had rubber bands on the bottoms of the bellbottoms – just to kinda bring ‘em in and then let ‘em flare out again -- and, gosh, I think Roman sandals?

Next, darling, while I do not want to curb your loving nature, now might well be the time to learn that not everybody has your best interests at heart. I got called into a Dread Meeting after you were away at camp with your class because your teacher was concerned about your going around and giving massages to adults you didn’t know. He worried that you might be vulnerable to getting hurt because you have no idea that some people can have bad intentions. He wondered, as I do, how we can protect your sweet heart while giving you some strong boundaries as you head into adolescence.

This is hard to explain, especially to someone honest, literal and pure-intentioned like you. But everyone gets confused about this stuff at first.

In the aforementioned meeting, your teacher told me a story about how he was once in an airport with his young son when his son asked him, “Dad, are any of these people strangers?” It’s so beautiful that there are, for you, no strangers. But it is time to learn to draw the line between who is a good candidate for a massage and who is not. Time to know that no one has the right to touch your private parts or hurt your body in any way. There will come a time for intimacy, but that time is not now, buster.

So, for now I will very simply say: you should know – at least in principle - that there is danger in the world.  The best way to avoid – prevention, again, being the theme - this danger is to reserve your trust for people you know well. Also, to never, ever touch someone you do not know or let them touch you.

Finally, regarding things you should do only in an appropriate fashion to others: courting.

I remember reading somewhere about Social Coaches for this stuff, professionals who offer pointers on just how long one may appropriately look at people one finds attractive, and things to say and do in romantical circumstances. Here, sugar, as at least part of the equation, please think offense prevention, humiliation prevention…

As with the clothing issue, I may not be the smoothest mentor here, but I can say that you should not be following girls (or boys) around at length or staring at their body parts in a noticeable way.

For example, when we are at a party (Why? Why????) and the 6^th Grade (going into 7^th) girl you are crushing on (Yes, G, we know this) arrives, you should not go stand 11” away from her and talk awkwardly at her while still holding your food plate while food falls off it, while she is talking to three other 6^th (7^th) grade boys and totally ignoring you.

When you told me, “Mom, I can handle this,” well, I tried to believe you, really I did.

But, um, I am afraid you cannot.

As I have explained, Crushgirl is about a MILLION years older than you. Yes, she, too, is 11. But she is a grade above you and female, ergo, a million years older than you.

She seems to be a super nice kid, who actually sees the wonderful person you are (versus merely tolerating you as some ignoramuses do), but

1.     she likes talking to other people, too, and

2.     in a Zillion years, a 6^th grade gal will never “like” a 5^th grade boy.

So, to return to our example, when I call you over and

1.     the fellow next to me joins me in advising you that acting like a stalker is bad, and

2.     Ayi E fills you in on how her son never talks to any of the girls and they all crush on HIM…

…To be very clear, we did mean that you should maybe give Crushgirl some space and experiment with being quiet, sure.

What we did not mean was that you should go stand 27” away from Crushgirl and pretend that you are a MIME.

Love,

Your (Full Spectrum) Mama

Writer's Block?

A concerned reader sent me a link to an article about overcoming Writer's Block.

That's not the issue for me, I wrote, to reassure her. No, I don't have Writer's Block...just Writer's Children.

Onward!

Love,
Full Spectrum Mama

Summer, Summer, Summer Time

Having, now, about two hours of the school year left and counting, I went tooling around the internet and found this post: http://lostandtired.com/2013/06/19/insane-in-the-membrane/ , and got “Insane in the Membrane” (a life-mantra, if you will, for the Full Spectrum Family and Friends) stuck in my head for the gazillionth time and, so here, Daddy lostandtired, …Gotcha back? Hope so.

 

Summer, Summer, Summer Tiiime…Time to Sit Back and Unwind

Remember this Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince song?

I’ve been humming it incessantly. Because that’s what we are going to do this summer?

Yup, I am determined to show my guys the FUNNEST, most wholesome, refreshing, unwindingest summer EVER.

And so I am sure there won’t be a THING to write about.

Plus, it seems I will be busily frolicking with Z and G  24/7  all summer, except for two weeks of camp, during which I will be, naturally, sailing the Mediterranean and getting my spa on. *

Indeed, we’ll be sleeping late,* eating a wide range of ONLY healthy foods while having no stomach issues,* and taking luxurious* road trips with the whole family enjoying brain- and character-building activities,* bicker-free, of course.*

I’ll certainly be musing about ongoing topics from past concerns such as:

how “disability” can be a super useful term (a.k.a. “I’ll call you whatever you want, whenever you want,” hmm…maybe that’s the post right there?);

diarrhea (Do we still have it? Bet you’re on the edge of your seat!);

Shifting Gears parts II, III and onward;

whether bringing up the existence of Finding Fairies (http://fullspectrummama.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-finding-fairies.html) might actually have been Z’s way to give me back my necklace (i.e. whether the whole scenario was not in fact actually my brilliant idea…);

and, relatedly, about who, actually, is in charge around here anyway?

Merry summer to you, dear readers,

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* In my dreams.

Shifting Gears – Part I

Once upon a time there was a little boy who took several years to learn to ride a bicycle. When the young lad finally gained this important skill, he was as proud as can be. A year later, he graduated from the small, low-to-the-ground bike on which he’d learned to ride to a tall bike that had formerly belonged to his mother. As he began to master this grownup bike, he became interested in shifting gears. However, his Mama and her Pardner thought it best that the enthusiastic fellow learn, first, to use the brakes and steer the ve-hicle.

Though the boy dreamed day and night of attaining this prestigious skill, he waited unwearyingly until the sharing of the Secret of the Gears would be allowed.

It came to pass, before the lesson of the shifting of the gears became appropriate, that the young lad went away from home for the first time on a five-day class trip to a wonderful science camp.  Upon the morning of departure to this far away land, his little sister refused to play or speak with him. So deep was her pain at his leaving, that she found herself unable to even bid her brother adieu.

However, shortly after his departure, the girl child was overcome with the knowledge that she had her family all to herself and, forthwith, began a campaign of demanding, and then basking in, undivided attention and adoration. 

Much fun was had, and many “special” outings were undertaken as consolation. Among these, the little girl – who’d learned to ride her bicycle in a trice– was taken on a long bike ride. During this adventure, the family encountered a mighty hill, and the young lady was in need of assistance. At this time, her noble stepfather inadvertently taught the lass to shift gears.

Alas, how could this have come to pass? For the young lad would be most heartbroken should he learn that his little sister, four years younger and light years more physically adept, had been taught the Secret of the Gears before him. The unfairness of this deed would have, as the parents knew full well, filled him with devastation.

And so the parents endeavored to convince the little sister of the importance of not telling her brother that she had the Secret of the Gears without actually asking her to lie to her brother. Many twistings of the tongue and brain, such as the classic “We are not asking you to keep a secret from your brother and yet we feel that it would be best if you did not bring up this matter” were shared with the young Bike Princess by both elders.

Finally, the day of the young lad’s return was upon them. With great joy and anticipation, his Mama and sister awaited him at school pickup. They lovingly loaded his stinking, filthy trunks into the car and sped home for a feast.

Brother and sister alighted from the car and swiftly approached the house empty-handed, apparently anticipating twenty minutes’ “screen time.”

The door, however, was locked, and so they sat upon the deck and conversed, while Mama, having alone shouldered the burdensome baggage and several other items including her capacious mombag, shuffled toward them in an ungainly fashion.

Suddenly, great cries of grief and rage were heard from the land of the deck, for, during the very first moment alone she had with him, the Bike Princess had foisted her knowledge of the Secret of the Gears upon her brother.

Now, some people hear this story and laugh, some shudder or even cry. That is what Part II will be about.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

DIFFABILITY

Something tells me I am not the first person to be bothered by the “disability” label. I know it is useful in a variety of ways in terms of access and services, and that many do embrace it. Just – two quibbles:

First, as far as I can see, it is entirely too broad and general, encompassing people whose differences are so disparate as to be entirely unrelated. People with schizophrenia and people with paralysis. People with Down syndrome, people with Marfan syndrome and people with Asperger syndrome. Tourette’s and wounded vets. Environment. Fate. Genetics. Intellectual differences, emotional differences, physical differences…

Hmm. Sounds like…people.

Second, the term overlooks a crucial fact: that people with “disabilities” often have extraordinary abilities, some compensatory (the blind using other senses more effectively, for instance), some attendant to the “disability” (say, “savants” with autism or an olympic para athlete), some simply random or hereditary.

Again, what does this sound like? People?

So, while one could certainly say that a person with cerebral palsy is lacking a certain degree of mobility, one could also say that the person who yelled “Go back where you came from!” to my Chinese American friend and daughter when he almost mowed us down with his car was also lacking something most individuals might hope to share in a best case scenario.

Matter of fact, I can think of some fifth graders who are lacking a modicum of whatever car-slur dude was lacking.

Dear reader, you are probably tired of hearing this, but I do so wish the majority of people shared the exceptional openheartedness and kindness of my son, who happens to have autism. That they do not seems to me more of a “disability” than his.

I am not suggesting we throw out the useful aspects of disability as a category or identity.

Nevertheless, for general use, isn’t there something better?

After all, we are ALL “disabled” in the areas in which we struggle, and enabled both by the areas in which we flourish and by those aspects of our individual being that our cultural and social environments generally support. We all more or less successfully make all sorts of accommodations for differences and “special needs” (our own, and those of others). We blunder through all sorts of ill-fitting situations. We celebrate, ignore and denigrate myriad manifestations of the unique in equal measure.

The term “differently-abled” is so, so ungainly. Diffabled for short? A quick google search reveals I am by no means the first to think of this term, but it is one that bears disseminating.

It’s a great label – for everyone.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

The Finding Fairies

I dedicate this post to my Gram, Merlin Lorene Cunningham Shaffer, 10/20/17-5/22/13. The giant rocks on her tiny fingers from her adoring husband were the LEAST spectacular thing about her. Love you, Gram.

Z has a history of jewelry…interest.

So, when my favorite talismanic rhinestone necklace disappeared, I had a pretty good idea of the perp. I also knew it would do exactly zero good to question said individual. Like, have you ever tried to convince a narcissist of something that doesn’t fit their view of reality? Or tried to get your Tupperware back from – oh, wait, you don’t know her…

Z is the most convincing person you may ever meet. Unless I have 100% conviction to back me up, I don’t even broach any marginal subjects.

In fact, I almost took her to have her hearing checked out because girlfriend is so convincing she doesn’t even hear you if she isn’t tryna hear what you are saying. Over the course of several days her ignoring me and then saying, casually, “Oh, sorry’ [but being, definitely, not sorry] happened so frequently that I became concerned. Schedule a hearing test? Sure, until I realized she was testing me. Cheeky.

Had I asked her about my necklace, the conversation would have gone like so:

“Say, Z, you haven’t seen my special blue sparkly necklace have you”

Wide-eyed: “No.”

[Possibility that cat has batted necklace behind shelf enters mind of mother.] “Okay.” [Result: Daughter knows Mother is not omniscient.]

For contrast, let’s examine an interaction wherein FSM knows the facts with certainty:

The setting is the walk home from school last Friday.

Z announces, nonchalantly, “Mama, Mrs. S said we should tell our parents we are supposed to go to pizza night tonight.”

“Oh, really?” I query, knowing that the event in question is entirely optional – and geared toward the upper elementary classes. “Should I speak with Mrs. S about that?”

“Well, she didn’t really say…I’m not sure what she said, exactly.”

“Did she say you should go to pizza night?”

“…No.”

Did she feel like she was telling the truth when she told me what her teacher said? No. Z admitted she hadn’t been thinking about that (truth), just wanting pizza.

We don’t want our families to live in a climate of suspicion. This is a struggle when a family member has an attachment disorder! I do want to show Z, though, that lying is something that will be discovered and is not an effective means of communication. So, in this sort of context (grey areas of truth) I only want to ask her questions to which I basically know the answers. I don’t want to teach her that she can successfully fool her mother and take things with impunity. 

Also, gimme back my necklace!

Ahem.

Not only was this necklace Most Spectacular, it had been given to me by Swan Ayi to remind me of her friendship during a thorny time. I’d clutched that necklace through a series of “Clutch Pearls!” moments, trust me.

                                            Figure I – Most Spectacular Necklace (circled)

I searched far and wide. I can find anything at any time. Because my house is soooo clean. Not.

It is tiny, though, so there’s not that many places to look.

One day my precious necklace suddenly appeared on my (locked) closet floor, where it had decidedly not been before – and precisely where it might have been slipped under the door by small fingers. 

But, meanwhile, we’d begun a conversation about the existence of “Finding Fairies.” Z’s eleven-year-old brother contends that, “fairies aren’t real, except the tooth fairy,” but we gals felt pretty confident about these FFs.

I decided to do a little experiment.

Z wrote a note to the FFs about my necklace and how it had disappeared. We put it by her bed with some little gifts – flowers, sparkles, etc. The very next morning, there the necklace was!

What does this all mean? Like some other Z/truth conundra, this feels like a grey area I am unqualified to elucidate.

The whole thing, though, did feel a wee bit…fun.

Confrontation avoidance? For once not feeling obliged to Lecture? Something about magic and second chances?

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama