parenting

The other day, we’re at the park with my mom, and Ben is playing, and I lose sight of him.  I figure he’s just on the other side of the jungle gym, and I’m just about to get up, to tell him not to climb on the rock wall, when his head pops up–above the rock wall.  Climbed up that fucker like a lil monkey.  And then proceeded to slide down the slide and DO IT AGAIN.  And I say to my mom, “well, I guess he can do THAT now.”  (see?  I’m not QUITE the helicopter mom I make myself out to be)

It was that moment when you realize as a parent that your kid can really do more than you expected. And while it frightens you, while you kinda want to take that moment back with all haste, you realize, “wow–he can DO this.”

(remember that story.  There’s a point coming.)

I’m preparing for an IEP. An IEP that is gonna be a big change.  An IEP I apparently always wanted, that yet completely terrifies me.

Next Friday we discuss placing Benji in a full inclusion mainstream kindergarten.  And it’s got me in such as state that I may run out of Xanax before the week is over.

First off, of course, is the pure shock that we have gotten to this point so quickly. I really wasn’t expecting it yet.  When Benji was first diagnosed as having a speech problem (pre-autism) we were told that the prognosis may be that  with lots of work, he might enter kindergarten with his typical peers in a general ed classroom.  And I clung to that idea like a fucking life-preserver in the middle of the pacific.

And let me be clear–it wasn’t that I wanted him to be typical, or “normal”, because that shit really didn’t–and still doesn’t–matter to me.  But I was so fearful of the stigma that would be placed upon him, the judgement of others, the battle he would have to face on a daily basis for the rest of his life if he wasn’t able to “catch up”  I can still remember with stunning clarity the moment I allowed myself to face the fear of what Autism meant–and the first thing I thought was “My baby!  They are going to be SO MEAN.”

But when the A-word was mentioned, and the subsequent evals and forms and evaluation forms, and forms evaluating the evaluations, and so on and so forth,  by the end of the diagnosis, I was numb and broken.  I put aside that life preserver and put my head underwater for a while.  I figured it was just something positive those early therapists were trying to say, because they could FEEL the ugly cry just below the surface.  And yeah, I wallowed in that for a bit.  Or a month.  Or something.

But like many parents in my situation, eventually, I snapped out of it.  And I embraced the programs in which my son was involved, and saw improvement–MARKED improvement–and I made sure he got every gods-damned service he could get by right, so that I could help him grow and become the amazing kid I already knew he was.

And I forgot about mainstreaming and inclusion.  Because it didn’t matter anymore.  I knew what my job was as advocate: not to change him, but to help OTHERS understand how “Au-some” he was.

Well, ok, and help him learn a different response to his frustrations rather than screaming.  But that goes without saying, no?

We entered Kindergarten this year, and it’s been…an experience.  He has some super sweet and wonderful classmates, and I’ve met a great group of Autism moms.  But the class just isn’t a fit.  Because it turns out it isn’t the High Functioning class I was told it was.  Nor is it on the general education track, which is where he should be according to the IEP.  So, as the school struggles to cover its out-of-compliant ASS, the powers that be observed my boy and declared him ready for all day mainstreaming.  Inclusion.  Right now.  In Kindergarten.

As previously predicted.

And, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am scared shitless.

Because those fears I had–about the stigma and battles and judgement?  Just came to the forefront.

We were insulated in special day.  Sure, the class itself might be shorted or judged, but there was a nobility in the class standing together in the face of that judgement, you know?  It was always an issue of “you just don’t KNOW these kids” when one came face to face with ignorant statements and judginess.  There is a camaraderie among parents of that class–who do not look upon your kid with a frowny chin-waggle if he chooses to simply stand there and flap with joy.  They understand your struggles, without explanation, and offer comfort or congratulations for every milestone met.  There is a solidarity, if you will, and you can always imagine yourselves “us vs them” if you have to.

But now, we lose the “us.”

And there is still the “them.”

Sure.  I’m not being fair.  All the parents of typical kids aren’t the judgey assholes one runs across online, or even at the park.  Hell, the kids in the class Ben has been part-time mainstreamed to have been super loving and supportive of Ben–so much so that that general ed. teacher has never even seen Ben even close to his worst.  And that says a lot for the parents, right?

But he isn’t going to be mainstreamed at the school he’s currently attending.  Nope.  Back to the home school.  And when I say back, I really mean, in attendance for the first time.

And who’s to say I won’t cock punch the first parent who gives me the stink eye?

what’s that? Can’t? Never heard of it!

(or worse yet, bust into a full ugly cry?)

Because what makes this so stressful is that it kinda puts us back at square one.  And all the trepidation and uncertainty, and down right intestine-twisting FEAR that I felt right after the diagnosis–it’s back, blowing cigarette smoke right in my face.  She sits there, blowing her smoke and reminding me of the stories I’ve heard first hand of teachers refusing flat out to work with IEPs, supports getting cut due to budget constraints or administrative idiocy, and students–like my own son–falling by the wayside in favor of typical kids with vocal parents and a teacher with only so much energy to give.

Mainstreaming is the right decision.  My kid is practically reading at the 1st grade level already.  He knows how to get in line and sit for circle time and hell, today he demonstrated a math problem he made himself using graham crackers.  He’s eating up knowledge like an unattended plate full of chocolate covered peeps.  And while I have very little confidence in the team I’ve worked with so far, I KNOW they are not the enemy here.  Because there is no enemy.  Only that nicotine soaked bitch known as my fear.

So, once again, I have to kick her to the curb, and advocate and make sure he is placed in the best situation possible, where he can continue to blossom and grow.  I have to put aside my need for solidarity.  I have to put aside the things that made ME comfortable, and stare fear straight in the kisser and tell it to fuck off.

And all by next Friday.

Because the thing is?  He CAN climb that wall.  Without fear or hesitation.  And slide down the slide and do it again.  And I love him to pieces for that, and for reminding me that he can always do more than my fear would lead me to believe.

I’ve realized something. I’m doing it all wrong.

All this time I’ve been thinking that I can call upon my internal reserves, my college education, my moral compass and an insane amount of pragmatism to guide my own parenting, and I’m JUST. PLAIN. WRONG.

the moral equivalency of my parenting…

Because, throughout this journey, I’ve been crazy and focusing on my child and letting him grow, instead of controlling every aspect of his life, watching every word I say and putting my own sanity at risk! How foolish of me!

And the fact that he has Autism? WELL! I am most CERTAINLY doing it wrong. Just ask all the experts. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

*whistles badly* (I never was a good whistler. Something else I should be working on)

See? THEY know so much better than I do. I mean, why isn’t my son already mainstreamed? Why won’t he eat kale and drink Kumbacha? Why isn’t he speaking Chinese fluently? And there is NO WAY he’s going to get into the Olympic trials for the 2024 Olympics here in Los Angeles, for which I should be petitioning the IOC with every spare moment I have.

If I am ever to see that elusive unicorn, puking sunshine and rainbows, I really need to change my tactics. I’ve obviously done irreparable damage so far that only YEARS and YEARS of therapy MIGHT be able to reverse, but I can start new from right now. I’ve developed this simple plan to turn me into the perfect parent, based on all my Internet readings, gleaned mostly from Facebook, blogs and parenting magazines.

First: Language.

I must be positive and loving in all things uttered from my mouth. I must never say anything about my own feelings or weaknesses aloud, and indeed punish myself if I ever DARE to think them, as anything negative from me can only be construed as abusive. The Plan: From this day forward I will not speak or write or express myself in any fashion. I will assume, and rightly so, that those around me know far better what needs to be done. Our house will only contain the noise of my son, scripting away and screaming in frustration while I maintain a placid countenance. In a lovely apron and freshly coifed hair.

I bet she doesn’t let her kid skip piano lessons!!

Second: Scheduling.

My son does not have enough of a structured day. I will plan every minute, and enroll him in 5 or more activities in order to a) extend his education to counter the meaningless public school education that is no doubt damaging his precious psyche and really getting in the way of his full grasp of Latin and the classics and b) give him the parenting role models he so desperately needs since I am obviously still a disappointment since I can’t even muster the energy to homeschool him. These activities, on top of various therapies–approved only by a knowing panel of blogging parents, advocates and celebrities–will foster mental, physical and spiritual growth. I can’t even BEGIN to tell you how I’ve failed him spiritually with my silly pagan beliefs and simple focus on the golden rule. How naive of me to think that without Christianity in his back pocket, that I would just be setting him up for failure.

Third: Diet.

Why I am even allowed in the kitchen is beyond me. Why, I don’t even have my own sourdough starter! It is simply not enough to make homemade meals and menu plan, and have fresh fruit available and a freezer full of meat. NO NO NO. I am not NEARLY vigilant enough about how far my produce has traveled, and the amount of grass eaten, or precisely how many vitamins and minerals my child ingests daily. I don’t even check the GMO status of all produce in a 5 mile radius, and I DEIGN to call myself a mother? In fact *hanging my head in shame* I give him…Gummy Vitamins. (gasp) A travesty, I know. So from now on I will keep a detailed feeding log of every item my son ingests, with a breakdown of all the appropriate nutrients of each. I will buy ONLY from farmer’s markets, where I can speak to the farmer DIRECTLY and make sure each nectarine and leaf of kale was hand picked by fresh faced virgins in the morning dew. OTherwise, i could be responsible for the downfall of our society as we know it.

his mom TOTALLY made him eat his vegetables!

And, as for my child’s picky eating and limited diet? I can really only blame myself. I mean–and the evidence is clearly out there in the bloggy world–if I would just provide a great variety of healthy foods, he wouldn’t be eating dried fruit and peanut butter sandwiches with homemade jam. NO NO NO. I obviously did not start him on healthy foods, instead allowing him to eat foods he likes like homemade pumpkin soups, which was sadly his favorite food at 12 months. No, I should have put him in front of a plate of steamed kale and not let him eat another thing until he ingested every bite. It’s really my weakness at fault here. If ONLY I could have been a better mother and fed him vegetables when he started out–carrots, green beans and peas not counting, of course. AS if they were legitimate vegetables!

Fourth: Medical.

I can really only blame myself. The vaccines. All those diseases injected into my little boy in order to protect others from getting ill. How selfish of me. How abusive. How naive of me to think that the government is trying to protect those with weak immune systems and newborns by stamping out preventable diseases that kill people. Am I not AWARE of how big pharma runs EVERYTHING in this country? Well, perhaps if I were a better parent, I would have read some of the very insightful blogs about vaccine damage and how I am entirely to blame for damaging my child and causing his autism. I mean, how could I POSSIBLY wrap my feeble brain around the fact that he never reacted to those vaccines and never had any serious regressions after the MMR vaccine or other deadly suspects? Perhaps if I had read more, and not eaten Tuna when I was pregnant, my son would be whole and perfect like those other bloggers’ kids. Shame on me, really. My lack of research and preparation should have disqualified me from ever having children, you’re quite right. Let this be a lesson to new parents–please read each and every blog you can before conception, so as not to make the fatal mistakes I have in my ignorance.

someday…SOME DAY…

Fifth: Personal Growth.

I am an imperfect human. *sob* A spider hanging over a flame, without any faith in the hand that holds me: the mommy bloggers and parent magazines. I don’t know why I am so contentious. To think that I could come to any parenting decisions BY MYSELF? Preposterous. I should have more faith in the thousands of women before me, and ALL the celebrities with an opinion on anything parental, post-natal and “having it all” oriented. This has always been a struggle of mine–doing enough. I mean, working through college, two bachelor’s degrees, teaching in South Los Angeles–I may as well have put my feet up and sipped piña coladas. But now that I have accepted the gauntlet of SAHM, I must challenge myself beyond keeping a clean home, happy husband and loved child. NO. I must perfect my brainwaves so that all I can think is perfection–because once I do so, I can be the parent my child needs me to be, and join the elusive passive-aggressive-circle-jerk group of perfect mommy bloggers. I can only hope of gaining just a small percentage of the knowledge and wisdom they have attained. I have to do MORE than try–I cannot waiver even for a second, or else it will all be a failure.

These are the goals I must set for myself–besides beauty and thinness of course (those go without saying, right?)–that will allow me to make this world a better place and create a child that will no doubt cure cancer and destroy asteroids with the power of his mind (who needs Bruce Willis with this kid around?) Because until I attain these goals, I am just a shell of a human being, and frankly, unworthy of the title “mommy”.

You guys, I’m in a quandary.

I was at the park yesterday with the squirt, letting him blow off some steam.  We went early-ish in the day so there really wasn’t anyone there except for a few nannies, making sure their charges were getting some sunshine while they chatted away in various languages on their cell phones.

I kinda prefer it this way.  And Ben could care.  As long as he gets pushed on the swings long enough, and I don’t hinder his new found climbing skills, to the detriment of my blood pressure, he’s good.

And frankly, I don’t like dealing with other parents.

Now, you may be thinking, “Oh you misanthrope!”  and you’d be right, but that isn’t why I don’t want to deal with them.  Socially, I appear fairly inapproachable, so I don’t get too many “mommy chats” that make me want to pour bleach in my ears.  No, I don’t like dealing with them because I don’t know the rules anymore.

my son’s idea of a good time…

Look–I have a boy.  A boy who craves sensory input.  A boy who is JUST beginning to understand the concept of ownership.  Who cannot understand what other kids say to him most of the time, and can’t read a social cue for nothing.

Now, he’s not some Tasmanian devil trolling the playstructure with destruction.  He’s a happy kid, smiling, scripting his own strange language, smiling, wanting to join in, smiling and running around.  He loves the slide.  The higher the better.  And he loves, LOVES, when kids wanna pile on one another in some sort of game that only kids understand.

If a kid chases him, run near him, or within 5 feet of him, IT’S ON.  If two kids are squishing against one another in a 10-foot radius, he will find them and join in.  And generally, giggles ensue.

But sometimes he engages first, for whatever reason. Because he doesn’t understand that not all kids love a good squish.  And THAT I cannot explain in words that he understands.  I’ve tried–GODDESS KNOWS–but he just looks at me all cockeyed.

But even that isn’t what confuses me.

Here’s the story.  Yesterday, my kid was wanting to go down a slide.  And there was a little girl in front of him, younger, waiting at the top of the slide.  A tall slide too–a big kid slide. and her mom was on the sidelines, checking her FB status.  I don’t judge.  My phone was in my hand too.  Off–but in my hand.  Anyway, the little girl was waiting at the top FOREVER, and seemed to be smiling and giggling with Ben, right behind her.  I reminded Ben to wait his turn, then she went down the slide and he quickly followed.  Then they ran back up the structure to do it again.  And she waited at the top, with Ben right behind her.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Now, I couldn’t see their legs, but I have to assume that Ben gave her a leg shove to move her down the slide.  and she came down the slide, physically unharmed, but crying, into her mother’s arms. (we both rushed over about the same time, so props to her for multitasking with the phone and parenting)  I grab Ben and apologize to the mother and gently admonish Ben for not being gentle with a little one–which is my rule.

The daggers that came from the mother to me for the remainder of this park adventure could have put ginsu to shame.

And I thought–when did we become such pansies?

my little Ferdinand…

Look–I am a helicopter mom.  I know it.  My kid has a tendency to lash out or do things that are inappropriate for which I try to run interference.  But he’s also a kid.  A boy, even.  There is a great deal of shenanigans to be done in his lifetime, that I will try my best to not hinder.  I’m just trying to keep him from inadvertently beating anyone up in the process.  Look–he’s strong, with some weight behind him.  He could decimate someone.  Not that he wants to, but he could.

And even calling myself a helicopter mom, I don’t hover NEARLY as much as others.  And I don’t judge–well, sorta, but only in my head as I am obviously in no place to really say anything.

And not wanting to sound like an old geezer–but when we were little, my mom wasn’t even AT the park with me (granted it was our backyard–but still).  There was no hover.  There was playground justice.  Big kids looked after little kids.  Little kids ate sand.  Bullying happened. Wrestling  and grab-ass occurred.  Monkey bars were licked.  Cuts and scrapes were acquired.  Friendships were made.  I’m in no way saying it was perfect or bucolic, but it was different.  And we were tougher for it.

Now, I’ve been annoyed with other kids and their parents at the park, here and here.  But I’ve also seen kids pile on Benji in ways that he liked and didn’t like.  If he didn’t, he usually comes running to me, and I tell him to avoid those kids.  Because that’s how that works, right?  Am I supposed to sit there in indignant anger?  Am I doing this wrong?

Eventually we had to leave because the local day-camp released the inmates, and the noise was a bit much for my boy.  But that lady didn’t quit glaring at me until I was out of eyesight.  really.

This.  This is the reason I dislike the park so. Because obviously a memo went out on how to hinder kids from playing, and I missed it.