Category Archives: parenting

Dining Well

  

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. ~Virginia Woolf

Weekends in our home usually include made-to-order breakfasts.  Well, they’re made by me in response to the individual requests of my son and husband.   [And I’m truly grateful for the opportunity and ability to do so.]  Conversely, my breakfast is a hastily, yet nutritiously concocted meal of oatmeal with ground flaxseed, chia seeds and pecans.  It’s a quick, easy, nutritious and satiating go-to for me, most every day of the week.  

This morning, after serving the men of the house, I decided to treat myself to a breakfast of French toast.  What a thoroughly decadent treat it was, not only in the deliciousness of the meal, but in the sitting down and truly treating myself for a change facet of it.  To not rush through breakfast, but to savor the meal and the moment was so good for my harried soul.  Why is it, we oftentimes care for the needs of others, without tending to our own?  

I [and perhaps you, too] need to remember, our greatest joys, pleasures and treasures are found in the threads of life’s tapestry, and not necessarily in the tapestry itself.  

Unfettered

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This post is somewhat of a follow up to my most recent post, “Untrammeled,” in which I spoke of the ways off-road biking has impacted our family. In this post, I’m writing to express just how much the people we’ve met along the way have impacted our family.

If you’ve read more than a few Sing. Dream. Hope. Pray. posts, you’re well aware of my thoughts and experiences regarding autism and the challenges and complexities of life as it relates to parenting a child on the autism spectrum. I’ve also written as to isolation (for both the child and parent(s)) as a high-ranking by-product of autism. The past seven years have run the gamut of these experiences—from good to bad and all points in between. Some groups and activities I thought would be beneficial have turned out to be detrimental. Conversely, there have been other endeavors we’ve undertaken with more than an ounce of guarded ambivalence and have been pleasantly surprised at the outcome. Without a doubt, mountain biking falls into this latter category.

I can’t speak for my husband, but for the first time in seven years, I feel like I’m part of a community, or village, if you will. For once, I feel like we’re not alone in this phase of life. Over the past seven years, I’ve witnessed Jackson being berated by adults for his behavior. We’ve been ostracized and literally turned away from places and events, going so far as to have doors closed in our faces. Unless you have a child with developmental challenges that, on occasion, manifest themselves in “undesirable” behavioral quirks and actions (sensory overload=flight response), you simply have no idea as to the stress a family can experience. A “thanks, but no thanks” mentality has been a prevalent theme in our lives. Until now, that is.

Our local biking community unwittingly and unintentionally provides a sense of belonging and inclusion. It’s a “safe” space and place, for not only Jackson but for our family. We’re accepted just as we are—warts and all. In typical Jackson fashion, he has the rule of the roost at our local bike trails. He’s the proverbial mayor of Club Scrub. He knows everyone and everyone knows him. When he’s at the trails, it is his domain. And the folks who share his domain couldn’t be more gracious. If you know Jackson, then you know he is all up in your business. People on the autism spectrum have difficulty realizing and navigating social boundaries, and Jackson is no different. It’s part and parcel of who he is. Blessedly, the folks we meet and spend time with, aren’t offended by this. Hallelujah! For the first time in seven years I’m not making excuses and apologies. I don’t leave the trails with tears of embarrassment, humiliation or indignation.

The grace doesn’t stop there, however. In addition to welcoming and embracing this little trio of merry makers, folks have literally taken it upon themselves to free Greg and me up to ride and participate in events singularly and as a couple by watching over Jackson at the trails. For the first time in years I’ve been afforded opportunities to socialize, participate in conversation and dare I say, make friends. Unless you’ve been marginalized by a life event, you simply cannot comprehend the overwhelming impact this gift has on a person’s quality of life.

For this acceptance and grace I offer my profound gratitude. Thank you, fellow MTBers. You are a blessing.

 

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Kickoff to Summer (And, cancer sucks.)

The school year ended and summer has immediately come into full swing. Jackson is already halfway through his first of four weeks of various summer camps he’ll be attending.   The following is a text I received the first day of camp from one of Jackson’s many A.R.T.S. Camp counselors.

“I can’t believe it! I am beyond proud of him. Oh, my goodness! He’s been going to all his classes and made many friends today! He’s doing the group cheer too! I’m so happy for him. He’s come so far!!! #teamjax” ~K.S.

This is the second year in a row Jackson has attended Dreyfoos School of the Arts’ summer camp.  Photo courtesy of The Muse DSOA

Photo courtesy of The Muse DSOA

This report is vastly different from updates I routinely received from last year’s camp director and dear friend, Lea Jefferson. Lea, I’m grieved to report, is no longer with us. She passed away in March after bravely and valiantly battling breast cancer.  Heaven gained an angel when Lea departed this life. She was, in my experience, a saint amongst the living. Lea’s selfless and tireless dedication to not only the kids at Alexander W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts, but to various underserved children in Palm Beach County as well, stands as a testament to her loving and giving character.  Those who knew Lea carry the treasure of her in their hearts. We are better for knowing her.

Lea literally dogged me to allow Jackson to participate in A.R.T.S. Camp. She began her campaign long before he was even of age to do so. Despite (my) great reservations, Lea was positively relentless. (I was certain Jackson’s sensory prohibitions would result in a waste of everyone’s time and efforts.) I am eternally grateful Lea didn’t allow me to blow her off. Not only Jackson’s life—but also OUR lives—are richer for her tenacious efforts. We hold the camp counselors near and dear to our hearts. Not only have they worked magic in Jackson’s life, but have become family. There are only two days of camp remaining. And once again, I am preparing to ugly cry.A.R.T.S. Camp Counselors DSOA 2 DSOA 3 DSOA 4 DSOA 5 DSOA 6 DSOA 7 DSOA 8DSOA 9

A Pencil Box and a Broken Mold

The Tell Tale Pencil Box

I knew what was in munchkin’s backpack as soon as I picked it up. The sound of something rattling around in hard plastic painted a clear auditory picture. I knew it was going to be munchkin’s pencil box. And my breath caught in my throat. It was a bittersweet realization that the school year officially ends tomorrow.

Star StudentI could not be more pleased with how this year turned out.   Jackson’s teacher has far surpassed any hopes or dreams I had for a teacher.   Heading into kindergarten, my teacher characteristic wish list read like this:

  • Kind
  • Understanding
  • Nurturing
  • Passionate about teaching children
  • Committed to bringing out the best in kids
  • Tenacious (won’t throw in the towel when the going gets tough)
  • Creative
  • Energetic
  • Experienced
  • Seasoned, but not old
  • Young, but not too young
  • Well-versed in the land of IEPs
  • Fun
  • And most of all KIND

Yep. If asked, those were the qualities I was seeking in a kindergarten teacher. (And yes, I realize that list sounds a bit like a Match.com ad.)  And you know what? We got that and a whole lot more. Jackson’s teacher was AH-mazing. She brought out all the best in him over the past ten months. By the end of the first week of school, she calmed many of my fears and assuaged most of my anxiety. And with the exception of one little hiccup over “seat work” early in the term, Jackson positively flourished. And here we are at the end of the school year, and I don’t want to see her go.

He adores her.

This past Monday made me revisit my past anxieties. Jackson had a substitute teacher. As always, his actual teacher was very diligent in writing copious notes to the substitute, explaining Jackson’s tendencies and what to expect and how to be effective in reaching/dealing with him. En route to school, I informed Jackson of the situation and gave him reminders of what to do in the classroom. I knew the kind of day he had, however, the second I laid eyes on him at the end of the school day. “Mom, I have to tell you something,” he said. “Did you have a bad day?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied. And the tears just started flowing from his big brown eyes. Apparently he had blurted out an (or possibly more than that) answer in class. According to Jackson, the teacher raised his voice at him and told him he was being rude. And, yes. I’m sure that’s how it appeared. But it wasn’t intentional. It never is. Most often, Jackson simply cannot help himself. He is effervescent. (Think of a soda shaken and opened and you’ll have a pretty accurate illustration of Jackson. All day. Every day.)

Classroom birthday celebration

All this to say, what happened to Jackson Monday brought it all home for me. It made the end of the school year a realization, as opposed to an impending happening. The desperate hope I experienced last summer resurfaced just like that. I was again face to face with the fraught, all-consuming desire for Jackson’s next teacher—his first grade teacher— to “get” him, to understand him, to see his potential, and perhaps above all else, to be a tenacious soul who will never give up on him. In other words—a desire for Jackson’s next teacher to be a carbon copy of this year’s teacher. But I know that’s not possible. It’s just not. There is only ONE Mrs. Peterson.   The good Lord broke the mold when he made her. She’s just that special.
Trivia

One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings. The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child. ~Carl Jung

There was no time and half in the contract for this gig.

There was no time and half in the contract for this gig.

Daisies and Butterflies

I don’t aspire to be a writer. I have no desire to be a well-known, gal-of-the-moment blogger with a million followers. Lord knows I’m not equipped for any of that. I simply write because sometimes I feel God puts something on my heart I’m meant to share. I’m usually pretty good at following His prompts. The one thing I absolutely do not ever in a million years want to do is pen posts solely about daisies and butterflies. In other words—I want only to keep it real. The good. The bad. The ugly. Real.

I write a lot about munchkin’s achievements. And they blessedly are ever increasing. But my heart was really pricked this past Wednesday at Jackson’s weekly equine therapy session at Hopes, Dreams and Horses. It was a lackluster day at best. The instructor, Miss Kristy, had the same basic commands on repeat this day. She could’ve simply recorded a voice memo and pressed the repeat button, with an amplifier attached. “Sit up straight.” “Butt down.” “Elbows in.” “Heels down.” Hands to pockets.” “Keep those elbows in!” “Keep that butt in the saddle!” “Sit up!” Bless her. No, really. Bless her!

When you have no control, just sit a spell.

When you have no control, just sit a spell.

Jackson has been riding here weekly for two solid years. And he loves it here. He loves horses. He loves to ride. But sometimes, he just can’t put it all together no matter how many times he’s heard it or done it. It’s as if it’s his (let’s be honest without hyperbole) third or fourth time on horseback. These are the days I take a deep breath and remind myself that we’ve come a long way with a long way to go.
Walk
So why am I sharing this non-newsworthy drivel? Because someone out there needs to know that it’s not all daisies and butterflies all the time. It’s two steps forward and one step back. Or one step forward and two steps back. All that matters is that you’re making progress. Whatever that progress is, own it. Own it! Did you hear that? Own it! Don’t let me or anyone else out there whose stuff you read on social media (the interwebs!) cause you to feel less than you (or heaven forbid, your child) are/is.

I’m just sayin’… You’re awesome. Continue to fight the good fight, no matter what that fight is. Just keep moving. It’s gonna be okay.

The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today. ~Franklin D. Roosevelt

A Cup of Cold Water

A Cup of Cold Water

Giving someone a refreshing drink of water is representative of the smallest act of charity one could practice. And love is never absent from charity.

According to scripture, a cup of cold water is the minimal requirement for hospitality, the definition of which is: friendliness, helpfulness, warmth, kindness, geniality, courtesy, generosity, etc. Or perhaps more simply put at its base level, the love of others, including strangers. (Hebrews reminds us, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers for some have entertained angels. Unaware.”)

Jesus, in speaking to the disciples, states each act of service is unto God and has its reward. We are all servants of God Almighty. All of God’s servants will be rewarded, even a person who gives a simple drink of cold water to one of God’s “little ones”—especially when given with a smile. (Matthew 10:42)

God calls us to love and has tasked us with making strangers into neighbors and friends. Jackson, my sweet son, I pray you always rise to your Almighty Father’s call to love, and may others always see Jesus in you.

We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. ~Charlie Chaplin

She runs. [How moms are like Marines.]

Guest post by Ashley Dickens

Ashley Wedding

Hello friends! Today, I’ve invited Ashley to write about Mother’s Day from a different angle: through the eyes of an adult daughter. Her reflection on her mom’s love might surprise you, and we can only pray our kids say the same about us someday. Enjoy!

When I think about my mom, I think about the Marines.

It’s an unlikely pairing, given that the only uniform my mother has ever worn is a cringe-worthy little number from her high school cheerleading days. However, several years ago my husband’s dog-eared copy of It Happened on the Way to War by former Marine Rye Barcott radically altered the way I thought about motherhood. It’s a gripping read that made me forget to breathe more than once, arresting my attention with the repeated refrain, “Marines move toward the sound of guns.”

The fierce imagery of that captivated me. The defiant, almost irrational courage of unquestioningly running toward what others are running away from makes my heart beat wildly. I see that same unflinching courage in so many mothers across the globe—women who run toward danger simply because that’s where they’re needed. It’s a universal truth that transcends culture, race, and socioeconomic status—from suburbia to the Sahara, where you find a mother you will find a woman fighting fiercely for her children.

My mom isn’t a Marine. She’s a world traveler, an unapologetic risk taker, a passionate activist, and a killer chocolate-cake baker. Pint-sized and with an unflappable conviction that both zebra stripes and sequins are neutrals, she imparted the delicate art of sarcasm to me like it was a precious family heirloom and taught me that walking with Jesus is about infinitely more than being a “nice girl.” You’re far more likely to find her in a pair of feisty red heels than combat boots and fatigues—and she is the single bravest woman I’ve ever known.

Screen Shot 2015-04-29 at 6.11.48 PM(photo credit: USMC archives)

Every year when Mother’s Day rolls around, Hallmark tells me to buy her a flowered card with a cotton-candy-fluff sentiment penned in careful cursive—something the Ingalls sisters might have given to Ma. The absurdity of it puzzles me—something about a generic pink card has never quite seemed right for my mom. Or, I think, a lot of moms.

My mama is a force to be reckoned with. I remember standing wide-eyed and nauseated in our kitchen as a little girl when, without warning, I began to projectile vomit all over the white-tiled floor. The whole scene looked like something from The Exorcist—minus a Catholic priest or two. Indelibly etched into my mind is the memory of my mom running toward me, her hands irrationally cupped open.

She’s been running toward me my entire life.

My mother’s unflinching bravery carried her from the comfortable little town she grew up in to a doll-sized apartment in the post-communist city of Kiev, Ukraine. She packed up three children under the age of six and as much Jiffy peanut butter as she could stuff into her carry-on and moved our lives to a place where the only thing she knew how to say was a hopeful, “Do you speak English?” In a city with no workable educational options, where those who had come before her had thrown up their hands in surrender and left, she opted to start a brand-new school for her children to attend—one that still exists today. Her bravery has carried her into crumbling refugee camps and crumbling marriages—to the places that looked irreparably dark and broken. Very hardest of all, two years ago it carried her into a dark ICU where she held her 21-year-old baby’s hand as he died of cancer.

It’s what mamas do, isn’t it? They run toward the hard, the ugly—they run toward the sound of guns. Our mothers bravely dive into dark and splintering brokenness with us and show us who Jesus is over and over again. They’re the first on the scene when our bones and hearts are shattered, when savage insecurities rear their ugly heads and our dreams feel worn out and hollowed. They hold the midnight watch beside cribs and cancer beds, speaking life over our dead places and believing on our behalves when nobody else will. Our mamas love wildly and fiercely, mirroring the God who runs toward us as they teach us to be like Him—second-chance-givers, hope-bringers, restorers.

Screen Shot 2015-04-29 at 6.12.45 PMMy belief in the power of motherhood is an enormous part of why I love HOPE International so much. Through the power of the gospel and a small loan, HOPE empowers mothers around the world to keep running toward hard and holy things, to keep bravely fighting for their children, their communities, and the broken world around them. At HOPE, we have the breathtaking privilege of watching mothers trapped in poverty harness the power of a small loan and a safe place to save their money, and run toward the most broken places in their communities. Day after day, they courageously step into the hard work of building stronger families, neighborhoods, and churches, one person at a time.

Mamas and marines—they have more in common than I ever imagined. This Mother’s day, if a generic pink card doesn’t quite reflect the valor of your mom, consider joining me in framing this for her instead. “There is no fear in love”—moms across the globe put flesh and bone on it every day.

If you’d like to join me in giving this digital print to your mom, you can snag a free download here.