Tag Archives: Children

January

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I’m having an interesting time with January so far. I’ve been going nonstop from Halloween through the end of 2013 — holidays, snow days, presents, clutter cleaning, cards, lights, tree, the ambition to do “holiday related” activities; the ball drop at midnight. It was a big rush to New Years.

The self care that I’ve written about before got pushed way to the back burner. I just put my head down and GOT THINGS DONE. Writing is very therapeutic for me, but even that  went straight to the bottom of the list. I actually felt guilty glancing over at my stack of books about writing. I’ve been working on a memoir about the past two years and, if it gets finished before 2045, it will be a miracle.

So, with all the craziness of October-December, I slid into January needing a complete recharge. It was hard for me to get back into writing right off the bat, but I cleaned out the clutter in the study, which is always a precursor to SOMETHING happening. And then I sat down with a few writer friends last week and, wow, did that feel good. It’s funny how some of us completely ignored our writing during the holidays, while others were actually productive. The productivity of others helped ignite that fire within me again. The words of encouragement from friends “You have to finish this book” also moved me forward.

But there’s something else stopping me too. When I write about the past two years, I want so badly to capture how I initially felt about Emmy’s diagnosis, how that feeling sat with me for a good six months and was only chipped away at little by little, and how that feeling is so far from what I feel today. As I move away from that feeling, it’s harder for me to go back where. Was I really devastated by this diagnosis? Really?? It’s hard for me to believe looking at the sweet, funny, good-natured, lovely daughter that Emmy is today. When we sit down at the breakfast table every morning, she gives the biggest, brightest smile and announces what she’s eating. I’ve never seen anyone that happy in the morning–ever! “Yogurt!” she declares, holding it up for me to see. Was I really upset for 6 months about Williams syndrome? Really?? It’s hard for me to even believe it myself.

In order to write about it accurately, I have to go back there in my mind. I somehow have to put aside the smiling cutie pie that I see in front of me and sink back into that mindset. Because even though I’ve moved on from that early time and changed my views on Williams syndrome by 180 degrees, I still feel like the story is inside of me. It’s just sitting there, waiting to come out. It’s been sitting there for 2 years now. I’ve changed, but the story is still heavy on my mind.

It’s the story of how I thought I would never smile again. It’s the story of how I bought every book I could find about having a child with special needs and read them through tears thinking, Is this really happening to me? It’s the story of how I thought my marriage was going to crumble because that’s just what happens, right? And it’s the story about how it was so hard to connect with Emmy for 6 months because I felt as if she were underwater. There was a barrier between my daughter and me and, during one Early Intervention meeting, I broke down sobbing and said, “I feel like she’s underwater. I feel like there’s a veil there, and I can’t break through. I don’t know how to connect with my own daughter.”

Those feelings have completely dissipated now, and the child that was once “underwater” now runs into my arms and says “Huggie!” But that story is still sitting there, and I remember it well.

The thing about writing memoir, though, is that it can hurt to go back there. If I were writing fiction, I don’t think I’d end up in tears just thinking about Chapter 2. And because I don’t want to feel that hurt again, it keeps me from sitting down and writing. Though if I don’t write, I still always think about writing, and that just drive me nuts…

I haven’t written fiction in a long time. I also haven’t read fiction in a long time (except for my friends’ pieces), though I’m starting to get back into it now. Memoir and personal essays really speak to me. A couple years ago, I wrote a very painful, true piece for a writing group. It was difficult to write but, boy, did it feel good to get it out. At the end of the night, we were all filing out into the parking lot, and this woman held me back to say that my piece really touched her because it was so raw and it brought her right back to things she’d experienced as well. That’s when I’m writing at my best–when I can go to that place and not sugarcoat. To me, the words don’t matter as much as the feeling behind it. I can always go back and change the words. But I can only revisit those feelings so many times before I can’t go there anymore. Or, in Emmy’s case, before I become too far removed from those early months and completely forget the pain that I was in.

Emmy will be 3 in July. Can I finish this memoir before then? Before I completely and utterly forget what it was like when my daughter was “underwater”? One of my writing friends suggested keeping a daily word count. That way I won’t get bogged down in revising Chapter 1 (as I’ve already done 100 times…). I just need to keep moving forward–get the story off my chest. Get it DOWN on paper. And, no matter where it goes from there, I will have gotten it out of me. For me, that is therapy.

Tradition

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Tradition

My husband is really into tradition. I mean, REALLY into tradition. Actually, the very first post I wrote was about how he buys green bagels every St. Patty’s Day: https://williamssyndromesmile.com/2013/03/17/green-bagel-morning/

He doesn’t just keep old traditions alive, though. He also spontaneously creates new ones! I was heading home with the kids when he called to say that he put the holiday lights on the house and wanted Charlotte and Emmy to turn them on when we arrived.

“It will be a tradition!” he declared.

I love that Dan doesn’t live by the same imaginary rule book that I have in my head. My rule book says that I preserve the traditions that were handed down to me, but I don’t create new ones. Who am I to create a tradition? Those things were carefully thought out by my ancestors! But Dan has no qualms about creating a tradition TODAY.

And I’m ashamed to say that I kind of brush them off (sorry, babe). Traditions are not as weighty for me. I have a few precious traditions surrounding Christmas that remind me of childhood but, other than those, I don’t really think about traditions for the rest of the year.

Over the weekend, I found myself really appreciating the fact that Dan keeps traditions alive when we got the tree and decorated it. And as the kids put ornaments on the tree, I was so aware of how this tradition forces you to be present. It forces you to put down the phone, look at every ornament, tell stories about the ornaments, find the perfect branch, take photos to capture the moment, admire how your daughter is so careful with the precious ornaments when just last year she would’ve been the opposite, notice how your daughter carefully stands on the stool to reach the top branches, and realize how much taller she is than the year before. When you’re decorating the tree, you are forced to be in the moment.

How many times do I swear I’ll appreciate every moment–and then still let all of them pass me by?

And how many times do I swear I will PUT DOWN MY PHONE…and then will see it calling to me from the table?

“Put it down, woman!” I want to shout. “Put it down!” Because when I’m looking at my phone, I am anywhere but in the moment.

I think it doesn’t matter so much when I’m in the check-out at the grocery store and the person in front of me has 1,000 bags of candy to ring up, and I am just passing the time by looking at my phone. I think it DOES matter a lot when my kids need my undivided attention.

On Saturday, I was at a kids’ gym with Emmy, waiting for her class to start. I was watching the previous class wrap-up through the large, glass windows. And here was a boy, probably less than 1 year old, throwing a ball to his dad. And here was his dad, looking at his phone. The ball just fell in his dad’s lap, and he didn’t even notice his son’s effort. Ugh. What are we becoming?

So if traditions, like decorating the tree, do nothing more than force me to put down the phone and be present, then I am incredibly grateful that my husband creates new traditions every week. The more, the merrier! This time with our kids is precious and fleeting. The celebrity gossip and articles with snarky comments that I read on my phone will be around forever.

Thanksgiving

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Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving has been my favorite so far, and the actual day isn’t even here yet! Just listening to Charlotte recite what she learned at preschool every day has been a lesson in life. At four years old, she’s full of amazement, wonder and fun facts (yesterday was something about white and red blood cells that even I didn’t understand).

I love watching her face as she laughs her way through “The Thanksgiving Song”: “I’m glad I’m not a turkey…They stuff you and bake you, and then they all taste you! I’m glad I’m not a turkey on Thanksgiving Day.”

And every day this week, when she’s climbed in the car after school, she starts excitedly talking about gratitude.

“Guess what I’m thankful for today?” The appreciation for life literally pours out of her.

As I was driving her home, I thought, “At what point does this change?”

Because I’ve certainly experienced it myself. As a child, I had that feeling of amazement and gratitude on a daily basis. I remember bouncing a tennis ball against the side of my garage for hours–just enjoying the sun and the feel of the ball in my hand. I was just happy to be alive. Of course, I wasn’t consciously thinking about being alive. But I was enjoying the moment–taking pleasure in the littlest of things.

And as I got older, that feeling began to seep away. First, there were some mean girls (ugh), and I allowed my spirit and sense-of-self to get crushed. Then there was the sinking feeling that came with getting C’s on Math tests. And then there was the pressures of bills and jobs and life. Sure enough, that incredible feeling of being in the sun with a tennis ball in my hand faded and, in its place, came thoughts of “Why me?” and “I can’t do this” and “Life is so hard.” I kept feeling as though life was just dropping things on my doorstep, and I had to deal with them.

I finally realized that it wasn’t healthy to live that way–to always feel as if life owed me something, and it was my fault for not getting the best out of it. My four year old doesn’t feel that life owes her anything. On the contrary, she enjoys all that life has given her, and she voices her gratitude aloud.

I don’t want that shift to happen for her. Is it inevitable? Gosh, I hope not. How can I help her stay grateful for what she has instead of always reaching for something more? Because that’s where true happiness lies–in looking at what’s around us and saying, “Thank you.”

Today I can make a choice. I can always reach for something more, different, or better…or I can land right where I am. So here’s where I am today: I’m in my soft, colorful pajamas on a Wednesday morning. I’m typing away in the study, listening to the soothing sound of rain on the window. My husband is in the kitchen making mac-and-cheese for the Thanksgiving party at school. My two-year-old is still fast asleep in her bed. And the sound of a happy four-year-old playing make believe floats through the air. Thank you, life.

Pint-Sized Professor

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We’ve been knee-deep in questions lately. At four years old, Charlotte wants to know everything about everything.

I LOVE her curiosity and sharp memory. She really tries to delve down into the essence of any topic. However, the ongoing questions often cause me to realize that I am pretty clueless about the world in which I live. Or I know the answer but can’t explain it very well (especially when it’s, like, 6:30 am).

“What time exactly do skunks come out at night?”

“What does the word ‘theme’ mean?”

“Who are all of the characters in Batman?”

At the zoo, we saw a sign in front of the empty wolf cage that said the wolf was out for surgery. So she asked, “Can you tell me all the possible reasons that a wolf would have surgery?”

WOAH!

And this one was my absolute favorite:

She asked me if I played video games when I was a kid, so I said that I used to play a game called Super Mario Brothers.

Then she asked, “Can you tell me everything about Super Mario Brothers?”

So I replied, “Well, there were 8 levels…I think. And you had to rescue a princess…”

And then she said, “Can you tell me about all of the bad guys?”

I’m pretty sure there were about 500 bad guys in Super Mario Brothers. And most of them are hard to describe, like that brown mushroom thing that you jumped on…but I tried to tell her about every one I could remember.

Here’s the thing: Even though she’s the one asking the questions, she ends up teaching me more than I could ever learn on my own.

We were at my friend’s house this summer, and Charlotte wanted to try swimming in her pool. She is still very much learning how to swim. We practice every once in a while, but she’s just in the beginning stages of learning.

When she got in the water and wasn’t able to swim PERFECTLY, she freaked out. She bawled hysterically and said, “I want to do it! I want to swim!” She had only practiced a couple times and already wanted to be an expert.

I said, “Charlotte, you just started swimming, honey. It’s going to take some time to get really good.”

And she cried, “I don’t want to wait. I want to be perfect now.”

This is SO me. I want to be an expert at everything I do right off the bat. I get frustrated when I can’t master something after 2 seconds of trying. I don’t have a lot of fortitude in the face of adversity. After years and years and years of living like this, I am trying like heck to change. I don’t WANT to be a perfectionist. It holds me back. To me, being a perfectionist doesn’t mean being perfect at everything. It means fear of failure to the point where I won’t try new things unless I know I can succeed.

The strange part is that I was sure I hadn’t passed this down to Charlotte.

I’m conscious of this trait, so I don’t even utter the word “perfect.” I encourage her to just have fun. I am incredibly aware of this thing that I have — this drive for perfection — and how much it holds me back, so I am careful about everything I say to my kids in this regard.

Now that I’m learning more about genetics, I’m convinced that I’ve passed my traits down to Charlotte without even intending to. I think she got the perfection gene.

On the long drive back to our house, I tried to reiterate to Charlotte that she should just have fun and put in hard work and not worry about being perfect because, frankly, there is no such thing! I told her that it’s also ok not to be the best at everything. I was very proud of my speech! Life lesson #375 in the books!

Then she said, “Mom, have you ever not been the best at something?”

ARG ARG ARG. And, now, we turn it around on me.

I have such a hard time admitting the times when I’ve failed. These are certainly not my proudest moments.

But my pint-sized professor wanted an answer.

So I responded, “Sure, it’s happened a lot.”

“Can you give me an example?” came the voice from the back.

ARG. ARG. ARG.

Swallowing my pride, I cheerily said, “Of course! Let’s see…there was the time that I didn’t make the All State Band. That really hurt. But I also realized it was because I didn’t practice my scales.”

Phew. It was good to get that off my chest. And now we could move on to —

“Mom,” came the voice from the back. “Can you give me another example of a time you weren’t the best?”

I took a deep breath and put on a smile. “Sure! There was the time that I got a bad grade on an essay, and I was disappointed because I worked really hard on it.”

Ok, now for another topic —

“Mom…can you give me another example of a time you weren’t the best?”

My ego was officially crushed. For the hour long ride, I had to come up with every example I could think of. Charlotte wanted it all. A perfectionist doesn’t like to admit defeat, and I had to spell out all of the failings I could remember — in excruciating detail.

When we arrived back home, I thought about paying her for the therapy session. A teacher and a therapist in the same package!

Charlotte doesn’t just want to hear the talk. She wants me to walk the walk. If I tell her to just have fun and not worry about being the best, it’s meaningless. I have to show her how I’ve done it in my own life. And, gosh, I’m still working on that one.

What I love is that she’s the teacher as much as she’s the student. Her beautifully probing, curious questions get right to the core of who I am. And, for my pint-sized professor, I’ll do anything.

I’m Counting on You

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One of the many, many things I love about Charlotte is how she drops phrases that I’m not expecting. I remember so clearly holding this little baby in my arms and wondering how she was going to act when she was older. I would try and picture her–in the future–sitting down to eat dinner with us or sharing details about her day, and I would come up blank. I wasn’t able to envision this baby any other way than snuggled up in my arms–sleeping, crying, or gazing curiously at her surroundings.

Well, at 3.5 years old, she has proven that she has a mighty personality. She’s independent, witty, observant, and has a sharp memory. She picks up on phrases from her teachers or from us, and she waits for the right time to use them.

Yesterday, I was driving her to school, and she mentioned that she wanted me to read a particular book for story time before bed. Still tired from waking up only an hour before, I said, “Ok, I’ll try and remember.”

She got very serious and replied, “I’m counting on you.”

I instantly perked up. She’s counting on me! I better deliver the goods.

I could picture her teachers using that same phrase, and I love that she tucks these words away and brings them out at the perfect time. She’s a little adult in many ways–an old soul.

Of course, as soon as I got home, I found the book and dutifully put it on top of her toy chest–in preparation for story time that night. You can count on me, Charlotte.