Our daddy is a soldier, and he’s gone to a faraway place called Afghanistan.
He’s teaching people how to farm,
And helping them get clean water,
So they can take care of their sick babies..
We are proud of our daddy for doing soldier work.
We pray each day to Jesus that he will be safe from the mean people
And we count the days until he comes home.
Mommy does her best to take care of us, but we miss a lot of things about daddy.
Like we don't have perfect Saturday morning pancakes.
Or grilled pork chops.
Or homemade bread or biscuits.
(Frankly, daddy’s just a better cook all around).
Daddy is much stronger.
We can’t ride on mommy’s shoulders,
Or swing like monkeys from her arms,
Or hang upside down by our feet while she carries us around the room.
We have ALL kinds of questions
Like why the sky is blue
Or if a snail is actually a bug
Or how they make Cheetos.
Mommy just doesn’t know the answers because she’s not good at those kinds of things.
(But we know daddy will tell us when he gets home.)
We miss rubbing his furry arms
And his fuzzy hair, especially after its freshly cut.
And he’s a very good tickler. (Mommy, not so much.)
Daddy is really smart.
He knows how to make all kinds of things,
And he knows how to fix all kinds of things.
Too bad he’s not here because our refrigerator is broken.
(And he’d let us help him fix it.)
Daddy knows how to speak German
And Arabic
And Pashtu.
Ethan loves this. Abby could care less.
(Mommy can only speak English, but she is a better speller.)
We miss helping him shoot arrows in the backyard.
And throwing footballs in the tall bushes, then shaking the limbs to get them down.
He’s better at throwing a Frisbee as high as the trees
And he’s not afraid to climb on the roof if the frisbee happens to land on top.
We miss it when he prays at mealtime. And says "gesundheit" when we sneeze.
We miss the way he gives baths, and reads us books, and tucks us in at night.
We miss it when he accidentally falls asleep next to us, then snores so loud that mommy can hear him across the house.
We miss you daddy.
We love you!
Happy Father's Day!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
A good walk (almost) spoiled
Last night, Ethan’s grandpa (a.k.a. my dad) told Ethan over the phone that he would take him to play golf today…if it was not raining. Naturally, Ethan’s selective hearing somehow did not process that last part. So when he woke up to sprinkles, it did not matter. Grandpa had said he’d take him. Period.
“It’s ok. It won’t be raining this afternoon,” assured my little optimist.
When I spoke to my dad this morning, he informed that even if it wasn’t raining, they might not be able to play because Ethan wanted to ride in a cart and the golf course often would not allow carts after a rain. “Ugh.” I cringed, thinking, “Please, please, pleeeeeeeeez don’t do this to me.”
So, of course, I hung up the phone then tried to relay my dad’s message to Ethan, adding that if they couldn’t go today, they would go tomorrow. To a logical adult, this made sense. To an impatient 6-year-old with autism, I might as well have been relaying the message to him in Martian.
They were supposed to go play golf today. Grandpa said so last night. End of story.
Then came the mini meltdown, complete with a few little hits (his hits and kicks are usually minor these days compared to when he was a wee lad) and a lot of angry climbing on my lap and sulking and hitting the desk. So I pulled this one out: “Ethan, if you can’t behave, I’ll tell grandpa not to come at all.”
Like that really worked.
During the mini-meltdown, he kicked a portable CD player off the table and it crashed to the floor. Ethan found that ridiculously funny and started giggling, snapping him back to reality.
Suddenly – and it really was suddenly – a light broke forth and the sun peeked through the clouds. The rain had ended. A new day -- albeit it a hot and humid day --- had dawned.
Part of me was relieved; part of me feared that if dad backed out now, I’d never survive the day with no rain to blame.
At noon, I picked up the phone to the most wonderful question: “What time should I pick Ethan up this afternoon?”
Happy sigh.
I'm learning that with children, you don't tell them you'll do something unless you are able to carry through. I've had to back out of plans with Abby before, and although she takes it hard, she usually bounces back fairly quickly. For Ethan, however, it's a different story. Children with autism do not easily handle change in routine or changes in plans.
I will say, however, that my little man is growing up. He had a major disappointment yesterday when he learned that the Dollar Tree no longer carries Junior Caramels, his favorite candy (which I could only find at Dollar Tree). But after a few tears, he said he wanted to try one more Dollar Tree. If they didn't carry the candy, he'd "be ok" and choose something else. "I like a lot of kinds of candies." So he settled for peanut butter cups instead.
Fortunately, today worked out all around. He and grandpa had a wonderful time sharing their favorite pastime together to boot.
(Thanks dad!)
“It’s ok. It won’t be raining this afternoon,” assured my little optimist.
When I spoke to my dad this morning, he informed that even if it wasn’t raining, they might not be able to play because Ethan wanted to ride in a cart and the golf course often would not allow carts after a rain. “Ugh.” I cringed, thinking, “Please, please, pleeeeeeeeez don’t do this to me.”
So, of course, I hung up the phone then tried to relay my dad’s message to Ethan, adding that if they couldn’t go today, they would go tomorrow. To a logical adult, this made sense. To an impatient 6-year-old with autism, I might as well have been relaying the message to him in Martian.
They were supposed to go play golf today. Grandpa said so last night. End of story.
Then came the mini meltdown, complete with a few little hits (his hits and kicks are usually minor these days compared to when he was a wee lad) and a lot of angry climbing on my lap and sulking and hitting the desk. So I pulled this one out: “Ethan, if you can’t behave, I’ll tell grandpa not to come at all.”
Like that really worked.
During the mini-meltdown, he kicked a portable CD player off the table and it crashed to the floor. Ethan found that ridiculously funny and started giggling, snapping him back to reality.
Suddenly – and it really was suddenly – a light broke forth and the sun peeked through the clouds. The rain had ended. A new day -- albeit it a hot and humid day --- had dawned.
Part of me was relieved; part of me feared that if dad backed out now, I’d never survive the day with no rain to blame.
At noon, I picked up the phone to the most wonderful question: “What time should I pick Ethan up this afternoon?”
Happy sigh.
I'm learning that with children, you don't tell them you'll do something unless you are able to carry through. I've had to back out of plans with Abby before, and although she takes it hard, she usually bounces back fairly quickly. For Ethan, however, it's a different story. Children with autism do not easily handle change in routine or changes in plans.
I will say, however, that my little man is growing up. He had a major disappointment yesterday when he learned that the Dollar Tree no longer carries Junior Caramels, his favorite candy (which I could only find at Dollar Tree). But after a few tears, he said he wanted to try one more Dollar Tree. If they didn't carry the candy, he'd "be ok" and choose something else. "I like a lot of kinds of candies." So he settled for peanut butter cups instead.
Fortunately, today worked out all around. He and grandpa had a wonderful time sharing their favorite pastime together to boot.
(Thanks dad!)
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A looooooooong Day
I’m feeling pretty low tonight. It was just a long day, and I know it’s one of many long, long days to come over the next few weeks known as summer “vacation.”
I hear a lot of mommies talk about how much they’re looking forward to having their kids home with them for summer. I admit I’m not one of them. I find it exhausting, and I’m not sure why it’s so much harder for me than those other super moms.
Maybe it’s because mine have been home with me, for the most part, for seven years now. Maybe it’s because I’m here alone while Mike is in Afghanistan. And it’s his second year-long tour in two years. Maybe it’s because the only form of freedom I get is dependent on my own mommy’s help, and being 40 years old myself, it’s hard to not feel grown up.
Maybe it’s because my children have such different interests and personalities. Ethan is all things golf. Abby can’t stand golf. Abby is all things animals. Ethan is terrified of animals. Abby wants to go next door and swim. Ethan is afraid of the pool. Abby wants to go places; Ethan wants to stay home – unless it’s to go play golf, and Abby hates to go play golf.
The one thing they do have in common is that they constantly want their mommy. I only wish I got paid a nickel for each time they called for me during the day. I’d be a rich woman.
To boot, I’m supposed to somehow find the energy and joy of maintaining my household, i.e., cleaning, and I’m constantly under the microscope for failing to do so. Tonight, rather than go outside and watch Ethan and Abby play in the yard, I chose to stay inside and clean up. In the meantime, Ethan whapped Abby in the noggin with a golf club. The both ran home screaming and crying. I never figured out what happened – if it was an accident or on purpose because I cannot trust what Ethan tells me. So I tried a “typical” discipline approach and took his golf clubs away.
Only Ethan is not typical. He is autistic. So he hit me and then darted across the street in rebellion as I had to run shoeless after him then carry him home.
Yet to many close to me, none of this matters. What’s important is that the laundry and dishes are washed and put away. This is what determines whether I’m a good mommy. And this is why I feel like a failure.
I feel so alone right now. No one to call on. No one to help me.
No one but the Lord.
Fortunately, His love is enough to sustain me. His mercies are new every morning (and "morning" technically starts in about 20 minutes).
So I praise God that tomorrow is another day.
I hear a lot of mommies talk about how much they’re looking forward to having their kids home with them for summer. I admit I’m not one of them. I find it exhausting, and I’m not sure why it’s so much harder for me than those other super moms.
Maybe it’s because mine have been home with me, for the most part, for seven years now. Maybe it’s because I’m here alone while Mike is in Afghanistan. And it’s his second year-long tour in two years. Maybe it’s because the only form of freedom I get is dependent on my own mommy’s help, and being 40 years old myself, it’s hard to not feel grown up.
Maybe it’s because my children have such different interests and personalities. Ethan is all things golf. Abby can’t stand golf. Abby is all things animals. Ethan is terrified of animals. Abby wants to go next door and swim. Ethan is afraid of the pool. Abby wants to go places; Ethan wants to stay home – unless it’s to go play golf, and Abby hates to go play golf.
The one thing they do have in common is that they constantly want their mommy. I only wish I got paid a nickel for each time they called for me during the day. I’d be a rich woman.
To boot, I’m supposed to somehow find the energy and joy of maintaining my household, i.e., cleaning, and I’m constantly under the microscope for failing to do so. Tonight, rather than go outside and watch Ethan and Abby play in the yard, I chose to stay inside and clean up. In the meantime, Ethan whapped Abby in the noggin with a golf club. The both ran home screaming and crying. I never figured out what happened – if it was an accident or on purpose because I cannot trust what Ethan tells me. So I tried a “typical” discipline approach and took his golf clubs away.
Only Ethan is not typical. He is autistic. So he hit me and then darted across the street in rebellion as I had to run shoeless after him then carry him home.
Yet to many close to me, none of this matters. What’s important is that the laundry and dishes are washed and put away. This is what determines whether I’m a good mommy. And this is why I feel like a failure.
I feel so alone right now. No one to call on. No one to help me.
No one but the Lord.
Fortunately, His love is enough to sustain me. His mercies are new every morning (and "morning" technically starts in about 20 minutes).
So I praise God that tomorrow is another day.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
What Defines "Gifted?"
Last Friday morning I was supposed to meet with Ethan’s school to discuss possible placement in the gifted and talented (GT) program next year. Now, while every parent wants their child to be “gifted and talented,” I honestly am not messed up over the label. I just want him to excel.
Ethan is a smart, smart little boy. By 2o months, before he could speak, he knew his letters. I mean KNEW them. A TV commercial would come on with text and I’d say, “Ethan, do you see the letter Q?” He’d point to it. On a street sign, “Ethan, where’s the letter M?” He’d point to it.
His first real words came around 22 months – the numbers one to 10. I should have known I was in for a ride because he was so excited about those numbers. He would stay up for hours in the middle of the night counting from one to 10 (and I had to lay right there next to him listening.) Again, he KNEWthem, and he was adding more numbers to his vocabulary just as quick as his little language development allowed.
These things just came naturally to him. He taught himself to read by age 3. To add triple digit numbers together by age 4. This past year, it was the world map. He literally taught himself the countries of the world and their capitals. All with very little help on my part. His reading is well beyond that of his peers. (They’ve got him reading chapter books.) He can recognize numbers to infinity and beyond. His mind is just amazing.
OK, so back to my meeting. I made plans to have someone watch Abby so I could attend. When I arrived, the school administrative assistant said, “Oh. (Teacher’s Name) isn’t here today. Didn’t she call you?”
Then today, I got a note in Ethan’s folder saying the school decided to just go ahead and meet without me, and they decided to just observe him for the next year. Turns out his IQ test came out at 103, which is around the 57th percentile.
Flashback: When I was a child at this very same school, I was given what was probably the very same IQ test. Mine came back around average as well. I was not allowed to enter GT. A few years later, I was again tested, given a creativity test. They in turn told my parents that I had one of the most creative tests they had ever seen. Guess what? I qualified.
I'm not telling this to brag. I'm saying that the first test did not fit my skills or "giftedness." The second one did.
Again, I’m not as upset about the fact that he did not get in as I am the reason he did not get in. There is something wrong with a system that focuses on standardized testing and avoids common sense. (Not to mention the fact that they decided to exclude me from the meeting!) Autistic children often don’t do well on standardized tests. He was also given a creativity test. I don’t’ know what it consisted of, but I’m sure it was based off of “typical” children. Ethan may hate playing with dolls or playing cops and robbers, but you can’t tell me he’s not creative.
I thought, “Yeah, but did you ask him to design golf courses for you? Or create a new font? Or see letters and numbers in everyday objects?”
One final point. A friend told me that in her school district, they don’t like to test disabled children for GT because then they don’t qualify for special education. Since when does being disabled mean that you can’t be gifted or talented? I believe Beethoven would disagree. Or Helen Keller. Or Franklin Roosevelt. Or Temple Grandin. Or Albert Einstein, Leonardo Da Vinci, Steven Spielberg, or Bill Gates, all of whom were diagnosed with, or suspected of having autism.
So what’s the answer? I honestly don’t know. I don’t even know what to do about my own situation. I do know that this cookie-cutter system of one-size fits all is failing, especially in a nation where now one in every 110 children is diagnosed with autism.
I’d love to hear suggestions. And more than that, I’d love for us all to create solutions.
Ethan is a smart, smart little boy. By 2o months, before he could speak, he knew his letters. I mean KNEW them. A TV commercial would come on with text and I’d say, “Ethan, do you see the letter Q?” He’d point to it. On a street sign, “Ethan, where’s the letter M?” He’d point to it.
His first real words came around 22 months – the numbers one to 10. I should have known I was in for a ride because he was so excited about those numbers. He would stay up for hours in the middle of the night counting from one to 10 (and I had to lay right there next to him listening.) Again, he KNEWthem, and he was adding more numbers to his vocabulary just as quick as his little language development allowed.
These things just came naturally to him. He taught himself to read by age 3. To add triple digit numbers together by age 4. This past year, it was the world map. He literally taught himself the countries of the world and their capitals. All with very little help on my part. His reading is well beyond that of his peers. (They’ve got him reading chapter books.) He can recognize numbers to infinity and beyond. His mind is just amazing.
OK, so back to my meeting. I made plans to have someone watch Abby so I could attend. When I arrived, the school administrative assistant said, “Oh. (Teacher’s Name) isn’t here today. Didn’t she call you?”
Then today, I got a note in Ethan’s folder saying the school decided to just go ahead and meet without me, and they decided to just observe him for the next year. Turns out his IQ test came out at 103, which is around the 57th percentile.
Flashback: When I was a child at this very same school, I was given what was probably the very same IQ test. Mine came back around average as well. I was not allowed to enter GT. A few years later, I was again tested, given a creativity test. They in turn told my parents that I had one of the most creative tests they had ever seen. Guess what? I qualified.
I'm not telling this to brag. I'm saying that the first test did not fit my skills or "giftedness." The second one did.
Again, I’m not as upset about the fact that he did not get in as I am the reason he did not get in. There is something wrong with a system that focuses on standardized testing and avoids common sense. (Not to mention the fact that they decided to exclude me from the meeting!) Autistic children often don’t do well on standardized tests. He was also given a creativity test. I don’t’ know what it consisted of, but I’m sure it was based off of “typical” children. Ethan may hate playing with dolls or playing cops and robbers, but you can’t tell me he’s not creative.
I thought, “Yeah, but did you ask him to design golf courses for you? Or create a new font? Or see letters and numbers in everyday objects?”
One final point. A friend told me that in her school district, they don’t like to test disabled children for GT because then they don’t qualify for special education. Since when does being disabled mean that you can’t be gifted or talented? I believe Beethoven would disagree. Or Helen Keller. Or Franklin Roosevelt. Or Temple Grandin. Or Albert Einstein, Leonardo Da Vinci, Steven Spielberg, or Bill Gates, all of whom were diagnosed with, or suspected of having autism.
So what’s the answer? I honestly don’t know. I don’t even know what to do about my own situation. I do know that this cookie-cutter system of one-size fits all is failing, especially in a nation where now one in every 110 children is diagnosed with autism.
I’d love to hear suggestions. And more than that, I’d love for us all to create solutions.
Monday, May 31, 2010
A Tribute to My Soldier
It’s Memorial Day– a holiday that for me primarily indicated an extra day off of work, some fireworks and a possible picnic. With my husband Michael on his second deployment in two years, the holiday takes on a whole new experience.
Michael has served the U.S. Army National Guard since he was 17 years old. That’s just shy of 23 years total.
When I met Michael in 1996, he had recently moved to Arkansas to teach sniper school. (I admit I found that incredibly intriguing, not to mention downright sexy.) Mike is an amazing shot with an extreme understanding and love for guns and ballistics. Beyond that, though, he simply is one of these solidiers with “Hooah” in his blood.
Those “grunts” who are truly called to infantry, like Michael, are an unusual breed, and it’s a mindset I honestly don’t get. There’s something in these men that makes them salivate at the idea of battle. During training, it’s what makes them laugh at things like “getting smoked” (a.k.a. “Drop and give me 20”), sleeping in freezing rain or bug-infested heat, eating nasty chow with a spoon (that’s all they get – a spoon) and so on. It’s also what allows Mike to now laugh and eat peanut butter crackers when his vehicle is dodging IEDs and under fire by the Taliban.
Mike left the infantry about 10 years ago, something that was honestly very painful for him to do. But he had a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity to work full-time for the Guard in their Marksmanship Training Unit, building guns for the national shooting teams. And he also had a wife to think of, and later children. So while in many ways he got his dream job, he had to give up on other dreams, like going Special Forces.
Since February, Mike has been on his second deployment. The first was in Iraq and it was a horrible experience. Not because of the war, but because of the boredom. An infantryman swept away from his wife and two young children then stuck overseas behind a desk. Downright miserable.
So when we decided to take his current deployment to Afghanistan – and yes, it was an optional deployment – many thought we were crazy. We had our reasons, and while they were all legitimate, perhaps the biggest reason was that he was actually needed for this one.
Mike grew up in a small town in Iowa where farming is second nature. The community’s primary job source, however, is the meat packing industry, and Mike served his time both working in a plant as well as helping build one of the facilities. He’s also an amazing machinist and fabricator. Beyond all of that, however, he’s just plain smart.
So he’s in Afghanistan where he and his fellow troops will hopefully be teaching the locals better farming techniques so they can break free from growing poppies for opium and begin to feed their families.
It’s a noble cause. A pretty concept. And while I’m proud to have him serve, the truth is, it’s nowhere near fairytale land.
When Mike’s unit arrived in Afghanistan, it was as if no one remembered they were coming. The troops had no place to stay. They sat around for weeks while Mike traveled to location after location just to find room for them to stay. Then they were put in tents with no electricity. (Mike thought that was funny, fyi.)
After finally setting up shop, the troops slowly began with their mission.
Many of the Afghan locals live in mud huts. They have no food or water. They have no sewage systems. Their babies are starving because their mommies cannot produce enough milk. They need the Americans’ help. If they accept that help, however, they risk getting their heads chopped off by the Taliban. And the Taliban are rampant where Mike is serving.
For awhile, I only heard from Mike about every other day. I’ve learned to recognize that when I don't get an email from Mike, it usually means there is a blackout, ie., somewhere closeby a soldier has been killed. (He's late writing me tonight, so I'm just wondering and trying not to worry.)
Perhaps this hit home most closely to Mike a few weeks ago. At lunch, he teased one of the independent contractors about eating so much ice cream. “What can I say,” the guy chuckled. “It’s my one vice.” Later that day, the guy was blown to bits by an IED.
But Mike is infantry. He misses us, yet he’s pretty happy over there truth be told. And for that, I’m pretty happy too.
I’m proud of him for all he’s doing, More than that, though, I’m proud of him for all he’s being. Things that are completely opposite of who I am and often beyond my understanding. These are the things I fell in love with almost 13 years ago.
Little things, like eating goat liver and heart with the locals and actually enjoying it. Taking cookies and tea to the Afghan truck drivers stuck on the base and unable to contact their families. Making fun of the guys whining about the lack of electricity or limited showers. Wishing he’d been on the truck that flipped and almost went off a cliff after being fired upon by the Taliban. (And yes, he was supposed to be on that truck.)
These are the things that make my husband my soldier. For these things, and so many more, I am proud to be his Army wife.
Michael has served the U.S. Army National Guard since he was 17 years old. That’s just shy of 23 years total.
When I met Michael in 1996, he had recently moved to Arkansas to teach sniper school. (I admit I found that incredibly intriguing, not to mention downright sexy.) Mike is an amazing shot with an extreme understanding and love for guns and ballistics. Beyond that, though, he simply is one of these solidiers with “Hooah” in his blood.
Those “grunts” who are truly called to infantry, like Michael, are an unusual breed, and it’s a mindset I honestly don’t get. There’s something in these men that makes them salivate at the idea of battle. During training, it’s what makes them laugh at things like “getting smoked” (a.k.a. “Drop and give me 20”), sleeping in freezing rain or bug-infested heat, eating nasty chow with a spoon (that’s all they get – a spoon) and so on. It’s also what allows Mike to now laugh and eat peanut butter crackers when his vehicle is dodging IEDs and under fire by the Taliban.
Mike left the infantry about 10 years ago, something that was honestly very painful for him to do. But he had a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity to work full-time for the Guard in their Marksmanship Training Unit, building guns for the national shooting teams. And he also had a wife to think of, and later children. So while in many ways he got his dream job, he had to give up on other dreams, like going Special Forces.
Since February, Mike has been on his second deployment. The first was in Iraq and it was a horrible experience. Not because of the war, but because of the boredom. An infantryman swept away from his wife and two young children then stuck overseas behind a desk. Downright miserable.
So when we decided to take his current deployment to Afghanistan – and yes, it was an optional deployment – many thought we were crazy. We had our reasons, and while they were all legitimate, perhaps the biggest reason was that he was actually needed for this one.
Mike grew up in a small town in Iowa where farming is second nature. The community’s primary job source, however, is the meat packing industry, and Mike served his time both working in a plant as well as helping build one of the facilities. He’s also an amazing machinist and fabricator. Beyond all of that, however, he’s just plain smart.
So he’s in Afghanistan where he and his fellow troops will hopefully be teaching the locals better farming techniques so they can break free from growing poppies for opium and begin to feed their families.
It’s a noble cause. A pretty concept. And while I’m proud to have him serve, the truth is, it’s nowhere near fairytale land.
When Mike’s unit arrived in Afghanistan, it was as if no one remembered they were coming. The troops had no place to stay. They sat around for weeks while Mike traveled to location after location just to find room for them to stay. Then they were put in tents with no electricity. (Mike thought that was funny, fyi.)
After finally setting up shop, the troops slowly began with their mission.
Many of the Afghan locals live in mud huts. They have no food or water. They have no sewage systems. Their babies are starving because their mommies cannot produce enough milk. They need the Americans’ help. If they accept that help, however, they risk getting their heads chopped off by the Taliban. And the Taliban are rampant where Mike is serving.
For awhile, I only heard from Mike about every other day. I’ve learned to recognize that when I don't get an email from Mike, it usually means there is a blackout, ie., somewhere closeby a soldier has been killed. (He's late writing me tonight, so I'm just wondering and trying not to worry.)
Perhaps this hit home most closely to Mike a few weeks ago. At lunch, he teased one of the independent contractors about eating so much ice cream. “What can I say,” the guy chuckled. “It’s my one vice.” Later that day, the guy was blown to bits by an IED.
But Mike is infantry. He misses us, yet he’s pretty happy over there truth be told. And for that, I’m pretty happy too.
I’m proud of him for all he’s doing, More than that, though, I’m proud of him for all he’s being. Things that are completely opposite of who I am and often beyond my understanding. These are the things I fell in love with almost 13 years ago.
Little things, like eating goat liver and heart with the locals and actually enjoying it. Taking cookies and tea to the Afghan truck drivers stuck on the base and unable to contact their families. Making fun of the guys whining about the lack of electricity or limited showers. Wishing he’d been on the truck that flipped and almost went off a cliff after being fired upon by the Taliban. (And yes, he was supposed to be on that truck.)
These are the things that make my husband my soldier. For these things, and so many more, I am proud to be his Army wife.
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Not-So-Happy Meal
Ethan is about all things golf. Golf courses. Golf Channel. Mini Golf. Computer golf.
One of his favorite places to go is what we've named "computer McDonald's." This particular restaurant has a separate indoor play area with air hockey, foosball and Ethan's favorite, the touch-screen computers that include a variety of golf games. The restaurant is located within walking distance of Ethan's school, so we meander over there more often than I'd like to admit.
Yesterday was such a day. As is our ritual, Ethan rushed into the playroom while I got his cheeseburger Happy Meal -- meat and cheese only with chocolate milk and a cup of water. He was already on the computer well into his golf game by the time I brought him his food.
This day, however, there was another little boy around Ethan's age sitting at the computer next to him. Playing alongside this boy was a lady I'm guessing was his grandma. I'm going to call her Grandma Grumpy.
The little boy was playing the same golf game that Ethan was, and the grandma was playing too. The young boy, trying to help his grandma, was explaining how to make the ball go farther. The grandma was not appreciative. "Why don't you just leave me alone and let me play my own way?" she snapped.
Ethan is the biggest cheerleader I have ever seen, and when he realized these two were playing golf...well, he couldn't just mind his own business. He tried to keep his focus on his own game, but the temptatin was too strong. He just HAD to watch.
So he peered over their shoulders. Yes, invading their personal bubble a bit too much. He would comment on the game in his mumbly manner that often only Ethan and I understand. He would jump up and down when a good shot was made. He would shout "oh, that was soooo close" when they didn't quite make it in the hole.
Abby and I observed all of this while cuddling in our normal spot alongside the windowsill across the room. (The sun shines through that particular window, making it the only semi-warm spot in the otherwise frigid gameroom.)
Finally, Grandma Grumpy turned and snapped at Ethan: "Why don't you just let us play it our own way and leave us alone?!?!"
Whoa. Now surely, you didn't just snap at MY son. Every ounce of my being wanted to go over there and let her have it. Nothing ignites a fire in a mommy like having someone be hateful to her child. I debated for a moment. I wanted to tell her that Ethan has autism. That he loves golf. That he struggles with social norms and he is only six years old, so get over it lady. I wanted to. But I decided she probably didn't care and that was her loss.
Fortunately, I don't think the Grandma Grumpy phased Ethan. She snatched up her grandson, fussing at him over something, then angrily stomped out the door.
The whole thing just made me feel sad. I felt bad for the little boy, but even more, I felt bad for Grandma Grumpy. Hopefully she was just having an off day. Otherwise, to get so angry over a stupid computer golf game -- I can only imagine what it's like when the big bad stuff hits.
So as I'm reading back throught this blog, I'm saying a special prayer for Grandma Grumpy that she can have a happier meal tomorrow.
One of his favorite places to go is what we've named "computer McDonald's." This particular restaurant has a separate indoor play area with air hockey, foosball and Ethan's favorite, the touch-screen computers that include a variety of golf games. The restaurant is located within walking distance of Ethan's school, so we meander over there more often than I'd like to admit.
Yesterday was such a day. As is our ritual, Ethan rushed into the playroom while I got his cheeseburger Happy Meal -- meat and cheese only with chocolate milk and a cup of water. He was already on the computer well into his golf game by the time I brought him his food.
This day, however, there was another little boy around Ethan's age sitting at the computer next to him. Playing alongside this boy was a lady I'm guessing was his grandma. I'm going to call her Grandma Grumpy.
The little boy was playing the same golf game that Ethan was, and the grandma was playing too. The young boy, trying to help his grandma, was explaining how to make the ball go farther. The grandma was not appreciative. "Why don't you just leave me alone and let me play my own way?" she snapped.
Ethan is the biggest cheerleader I have ever seen, and when he realized these two were playing golf...well, he couldn't just mind his own business. He tried to keep his focus on his own game, but the temptatin was too strong. He just HAD to watch.
So he peered over their shoulders. Yes, invading their personal bubble a bit too much. He would comment on the game in his mumbly manner that often only Ethan and I understand. He would jump up and down when a good shot was made. He would shout "oh, that was soooo close" when they didn't quite make it in the hole.
Abby and I observed all of this while cuddling in our normal spot alongside the windowsill across the room. (The sun shines through that particular window, making it the only semi-warm spot in the otherwise frigid gameroom.)
Finally, Grandma Grumpy turned and snapped at Ethan: "Why don't you just let us play it our own way and leave us alone?!?!"
Whoa. Now surely, you didn't just snap at MY son. Every ounce of my being wanted to go over there and let her have it. Nothing ignites a fire in a mommy like having someone be hateful to her child. I debated for a moment. I wanted to tell her that Ethan has autism. That he loves golf. That he struggles with social norms and he is only six years old, so get over it lady. I wanted to. But I decided she probably didn't care and that was her loss.
Fortunately, I don't think the Grandma Grumpy phased Ethan. She snatched up her grandson, fussing at him over something, then angrily stomped out the door.
The whole thing just made me feel sad. I felt bad for the little boy, but even more, I felt bad for Grandma Grumpy. Hopefully she was just having an off day. Otherwise, to get so angry over a stupid computer golf game -- I can only imagine what it's like when the big bad stuff hits.
So as I'm reading back throught this blog, I'm saying a special prayer for Grandma Grumpy that she can have a happier meal tomorrow.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Baptism Sunday
Yesterday at church was a baptism service. If I'd only known I would have brought Kleenex.
You see, witnessing people proclaim life change is emotional enough as it is. But the second person baptized -- a boy, who I'd guess was probably about 12 years old -- hit me square in the heart.
Before each baptism a short video clip was shown with the person talking about accepting Christ. When I saw this boy, I knew something was different. Others were taken aback when he eventually said he had autism; I recognized it right away.
What a huge step for this young man. Speaking to a film crew. Standing in a baptismal in front of a large audience. Being in an unusual place, out of his routine. Taking this massive step in front of God and our church body. I found myself cringing and praying at the same time as I imagined Ethan up there someday. And then I wept.
The boy was baptized by a man who had served as his mentor for years. The man told the story of how when he was younger, this boy would sometimes lose control at church in violent fits of rage, at no fault of his own. We who are familiar with autism recognize this as the "meltdown" and it is an extremely traumatic experience. This boy would get out of his mind until his system finally regulated itself. Then he would exhaustedly crawl up into his mentor's lap and just sob over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And the mentor would hold him tightly, rock him gently and whisper, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Guess what? To God, we often probably resemble this young boy in his out-of-control state. Yet He patiently waits by us as we work our way through the meltdown, until we eventually "snap out of it" and return to our senses. Then He longs for us to crawl into His lap and let our Daddy comfort us, gently reminding us "it's ok. Nothing you can do will ever make me stop loving you."
What a beautiful image of our heavenly Father.
You see, witnessing people proclaim life change is emotional enough as it is. But the second person baptized -- a boy, who I'd guess was probably about 12 years old -- hit me square in the heart.
Before each baptism a short video clip was shown with the person talking about accepting Christ. When I saw this boy, I knew something was different. Others were taken aback when he eventually said he had autism; I recognized it right away.
What a huge step for this young man. Speaking to a film crew. Standing in a baptismal in front of a large audience. Being in an unusual place, out of his routine. Taking this massive step in front of God and our church body. I found myself cringing and praying at the same time as I imagined Ethan up there someday. And then I wept.
The boy was baptized by a man who had served as his mentor for years. The man told the story of how when he was younger, this boy would sometimes lose control at church in violent fits of rage, at no fault of his own. We who are familiar with autism recognize this as the "meltdown" and it is an extremely traumatic experience. This boy would get out of his mind until his system finally regulated itself. Then he would exhaustedly crawl up into his mentor's lap and just sob over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And the mentor would hold him tightly, rock him gently and whisper, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Guess what? To God, we often probably resemble this young boy in his out-of-control state. Yet He patiently waits by us as we work our way through the meltdown, until we eventually "snap out of it" and return to our senses. Then He longs for us to crawl into His lap and let our Daddy comfort us, gently reminding us "it's ok. Nothing you can do will ever make me stop loving you."
What a beautiful image of our heavenly Father.
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