Day 31: Subject Has No Words

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Day 30: Subject Views the Light at the End of the Tunnel

 Today, Elliot starts in a new school.

Billerica (I'll say once more, bless this school system) has a program called the Compass Program for kids with behavioral issues.  It's located at another elementary school in the district, so Elliot has been moved over there for an extended evaluation that will last the rest of the school year.

He and I went and toured the school yesterday.  It's amazing.  Not only is it a gorgeous new building, filled with all kinds of awesome stuff, the staff there were fantastic.  Everyone we saw stopped and spoke to Elliot, and told him how excited they were to have him with them.  His new classroom teacher is great, and he was so taken with the Compass Program teacher that half way through the tour he started holding her hand.

I'm trying not to get my hopes up too high, but I really, really think this is going to be good for him.

 The music room has tons of xylophones, glockenspiels, and drums.

Elliot was stoked.

 Today I dropped him off, and I'm wretchedly nervous.  I hope so much that this is going to go well for him, and at the same time I know that it's silly to expect miracles.  It's left me in this weird state where I'm super happy, but I might burst into tears at any moment.  I'm like those kids who sob on Christmas morning, because it's just all too much.

Back in the car, having delivered the dude to his new room.

Anyway, send Elliot good wishes.  And if you have any positive energy left, pack up a little serenity and send it my way, so that I can be prepared for whatever kind of day he's had, regardless.

Day 29: Subject Ponders Bikinis and Bellies.

I bought some bikinis--

--Now, lest you get the wrong impression about what a big spender I am, I feel I should tell you that I purchased these bikinis at Savers.  The nice thing about thrift store bikinis is that they're only $5, which means you can get two.  Two is the correct number of of bikinis.  Two means that if you're swimming more than once a day, you don't have to try to wiggle into a wet suit.  It also means you can have one traditional bikini bottom, and one super cute boy short bottom.  Yaaaaaas--

--so, anyway, now I have a couple of months to accustom myself to the idea before wearing them.  Why, you may ask, did I buy bikinis if I didn't want to wear them?  Well, it's not that simple.

See, I like bikinis.  I have an oddly shaped torso, and one-piece suits are often uncomfortable for me.  I also have a bust size and a hip size that most manufacturers don't think go together, so generally either my boobs get smooshed flat or the bottom is a little flappy.  NOT WHAT YOU WANT IN A SWIMSUIT.  Buying bikinis solves both these problems as I can fit top and bottom separately, and my odd torso shape doesn't even play into it.

All that being said, I haven't worn a bikini in nine years.  Not since I got pregnant with Elliot.  I mean, I support all those "Want to have a bikini body?  Put a bikini on your body.  Done."  kind of campaigns that are going around, but it's one thing to believe that in your heart, and another to have the brass ovaries to ignore decades of body image issues and just do it.  I've never quite worked up the nerve.

But this spring, as I was sorting through my warm weather clothes and noticing how badly I needed a new swimsuit, I finally got fed up with myself.

After all, what is it that I'm so self-conscious about?  My stomach isn't flat?  Yeah, well, me and most of the rest of America.  So what?  

Is it the stretch marks?  Hell, no.  Those are war wounds.  I'm not going to be self-conscious about them.

So, today I am biting the bullet.  I am going to post a picture of my belly, war wounds and all.  Then, when the air warms up, I'm gonna rock my bikini, feeling secure in the knowledge that everyone has already seen my tummy, anyway.

This is mah belly.  Right here.

**I have a little belly

I like to feed it food

It jiggles when I shimmy

But still, it shimmies good

Oh belly, belly, belly

You are a little plump

But I won't let that stop me

Because I'm not a chump

**With apologies to the dreidel song.

Day 28: Subject Has Made A Tactical Error.

This morning I was in a shower that was not my own.  As it had been a while since last I washed my hair, I decided the time had come to brave the terror of someone else's shampoo.  What's the worst that could happen?  I thought.  

Just so do the lemmings think, as they plunge over the cliff's edge.

The first shampoo I tried didn't seem bad at first whiff, but as I lathered up the overwhelming smell of concentrated "fragrance for men" began to assault my poor nose.  I couldn't believe that something so powerfully scented could come from such an unassuming little grey bottle.  Hastily I began to rinse, but I could tell it was already too late.  My hair was clean, but DAMN was it stinky.

Like I'd bathed in this, actually.

With a great deal of resignation I came to the conclusion that I would need to wash my hair a second time.  I'm not much in the way of hair care--I barely wash it once a week, let alone twice in the same day--but desperate times call for desperate measures.  I poked around and found another shampoo, one with pleasantly hippy-crunchy advertising on the label.  Again I did a sniff test and could sense nothing horrendous.  Just a deep, musky smell that would likely be odd for me, but not overpowering.  With slightly more trepidation than the previous time, I again lathered up and set to washing my hair.

I do not know what bizarre alchemical process happened between these two shampoos.  I do not know why they reacted to each other the way that they did.  I am not a cosmetologist, to know such things. 

What I do know is that my head currently smells like an entire, freshly-deoderized football team has rubbed their armpits directly into my head, and that the quarterback must have been some kind of hipster, because I am currently existing in a miasma of Old Spice and patchouli.  

The face of misery.

Dear universe, please may I have my shower back?

Day 27: Subject Reflects.

It's Friday.

I've made it through the week.  Or, rather, Elliot has made it through the week, and I've wrung my hands and watched anxiously from the sidelines.  It's not just Elliot, either.  The longer this goes on with him, the more Charlotte lives in the shadow of "all things pertaining to Elliot."  My little star burns a little more sullenly every day. 

At times I think that children are born to break your heart.

Other times it doesn't weigh so heavily, but truthfully, it's hard being a mom.  There's this awful burden to solve things, and this equally awful weight of knowledge that you can't actually solve anything.  The best you can do is never give up, and always be there to hold them close when they feel like flying apart.

But sometimes, sometimes if you're VERY LUCKY, you get a moment of grace.  A moment when, out of the blue, you hear your daughter singing Stressed Out in the living room while she prances around in her pink, polka-dotted bikini, and it just changes your whole outlook for at least a little while.

Wish we could turn back time...

 to the good old days...

when our Mamas sang us to sleep...

but now we're... Mommy, what's 'spressed out?

Day 26: Subject Takes a Moment for Bito

Chimbasa has been whining at me while I work for days.  He's got food, he's got water, he's been out to pee, and still he just stands there and whines.  I couldn't figure out what he wanted, until today.

The Bito finally achieves his goal.

 Restful bliss, for his tiny little puppeh self.

I loves the Bito.

Day 25: Subject Is Bloodied, But Unbowed.

'Twas rainy, and a sullen morn
Did fret and make me frown
All fractious was my second born
And the first was like a clown

Beware the heater leak, my child!
With seams that spring and steam that's hot
Beware the spreading pool, gone wild
A fun time, it is not.

She took her laundry in her hand
And tried in vain the flow to staunch
Alas, the rupture was too grand
So she gave up, and had some lunch

And while she ate her meager fare
She pondered deep her case
And called a plumber to come there
Forthwith, and with all haste

One-two, one-two, oh what to do?
A new appliance I may require
The other's dead, and in my head
Are thoughts of woe and tire.

Hath thou cleaned the basement floor?
I praise thee much, oh weary one
There's more to do, alas it's true
But at least the one job's done.

'Twas rainy, and a sullen morn
Did fret and make me frown
All fractious was my second born
And the first was like a clown

Day 24: Subject is slowly morphing into a Troll Person.

Some days the urge to take up residence under a bridge and harass all the passing goats just really rises up and overwhelms me.

Behold, the local troll at rest.

Crikey!  She's spotted us.

The troll subsides... for now.

Okay, so, seriously.  Elliot had another rotten day, it's doing some bizarre combination of raining and hailing outside at the moment, and it took about two and a half hours to drag both children through their homework.  Someone call me when happy hour starts.

Stick a fork in me.

I'm done.

Day 23: Subject Actually Leaves the House

It doesn't happen often, but sometimes I put on my big girl clothes and leave the house.  Today's post *now with real clothes* is brought to you by Voices Of Hope and the Middlesex Concert Band.

 Liz, Greg, Me, Ed, April, and Robert

VOH was invited to come sing six numbers with the Middlesex Concert Band for their Songs of the Silver Screen show.  Above you see those of us who got tapped to sing with the band.

So many tongues.

 I had a great time with everyone, but, of course, as soon as it was over I returned to my natural state.

Goodbye, makeup.  Hello, pajamas!

And, for those of you who would like to see it, here's a clip from the rehearsal immediately prior to the show.  Yes, I put shoes on for the actual show.  But only under protest.

 

Day 22: Subject Tells Herself a Parable

Last night I had a dream.  I was visiting a famous ancient bridge--a wonder of pre-modern architecture called the Blue Mile Bridge, named after the mile wide expanse of blue between the banks.  It was a long trip out to where the bridge spanned the river.  On the way I got to chatting with a local, just talking about our lives, and after I told her a little bit about myself she laughed and said, "Honey, you're swimming the blue mile."

In my dream, she told me the story of how this bridge had been necessary, for what reason I don't know.  But it HAD to be built, only no one could figure out how.  So a sick architect, one who was dying, decided to try something no one had ever tried before.  He was going to swim the river--swim the blue mile--and try to figure out how to build the bridge.

The swim was supposed to be deadly, because the current was strong and there was an enormous waterfall only a short distance off, but the architect made it.  In fact, he not only swam the blue mile once, he did it a number of times, marking places where pylons could be safely sunk and the crooked route that the bridge would need to follow.  His illness claimed his life before the bridge was finished, but he had done enough, and the very necessary bridge was built.

The woman I was speaking with told me that to this day adventuresome locals sometimes swam the river, following the path of the bridge in honor of the architect.  She'd once done it with her daughter, and she said at first you focused on lots of things--how cold the water was, how scared you were of the falls, how tired you got almost immediately.  But as the swim went on you focused on only one thing: getting yourself and your loved ones to the other side safely.  She said that once you stopped worrying about all those other things, once you just accepted that they were what they were, and that--in that moment at least--they didn't matter, the swim got a whole lot easier.

Then I woke up, and I stared at my ceiling for a while, thinking that over.  And today... today things seem a little easier.
 
Sometimes my subconscious drops the mic in my dreams.

Day 21: Subject Offers Up a Yawn for Doris

My cousin Doris requested that I post some pictures from that super flattering angle known as "low enough that you suddenly have double, or even triple chins."

I confess that I might not actually be that brave yet.  Y'all, the triple chin angle is real.  It lurks in the shadows about 15 degrees below your face, and it waits to strike.  I will, of course, have to post those pictures some day.  What good is acceptance if it does not involve acceptance of yourself from every angle, including 15 degrees down? 

Still, that day has not come yet.  Soon, perhaps.  But not yet.

However, in honor of the spirit (if not the letter) of the request, I am offering up this series of mighty yawn photos.  Please enjoy. 

 Yawn incoming.  I do a prepare.

It begins.  The gentle swell is pleasing.

A full bodied yawn.

Oh noes.  This might be getting out of hand.

The yawn is COMING FOR YOU!!!  TAKE COVER!!!

Fin.

Day 20: Subject Ponies Up the Good Stuff

Okay, okay... I said Acceptance, right?  So, today I offer you a video of the children and I having a dance party. 

Don't judge.

What it lacks for in talent, it totally makes up for in fun.

 

And to satisfy the photographic component of this pledge, I offer you me making a face!  Seriously, I just sit around my house with my face like this roughly 56% of the time.  It's not weird.  It's metal.

Metal.  Totally.

Day 19: Subject Takes a Chill Pill

I'm not always deeply contemplative, in fact, I wouldn't even say it's my normal state.  Things have just been rough recently.  But, even in the midst of that, I cannot dwell on the issues at school all the time.  Sometimes I just have to kick back, and take a chill pill.

A morning shot with the babies.**

Charlotte, little ham that she is, has started asking to take selfies.  As this is precisely the kind of behavior I wish to encourage in her (appreciation for herself, an understanding that there's nothing wrong with sharing who you are and how you look with the world, etc) I almost always oblige.  It's a special day when I can get Elliot in on the action, though.  It's not that he objects to being photographed, he simply doesn't see the point in taking time out of his busy minecraft schedule.

 Such happy little faces.

Of course, if I'm willing to lie down on the floor and tell him that we're going to say "heck off" for the camera, suddenly he is ALL about the selfies.

Being squished by your kids isn't exactly zen, but it's certainly calming.

**Why yes, those are my pajamas.  AKA my work clothes.  Bask in the glory of being an author.  I wear slippers to work every day.

Day 18: Subject Gets Serious About Her Son

Good morning everyone.

 Behold.  My dude.

I've been having a hard time recently, and, to compound the wretched feeling, I've been pretty hard on myself, too.  You see, my son, Elliot, is what in these modern times is being called a "special needs" kid--  

--That particular label is making me cranky, because don't all children have special needs, in some way or another?  It almost seems like a dismissal of the very real and individual needs that my daughter has.  And trust me, she has them.  Needs for DAYS with that one.  On the bonus side, I think I've been failing my children's needs pretty equally recently, so at least I'm not doing a bang up job with one and neglecting the other.  Go me.--

--but I prefer the term neuro-diverse.   It's a super-modern (and, I'm not gonna lie, just a wee bit hipster) umbrella term that covers a large handful of acknowledged diagnoses and attempts to shift the focus onto them simply being seen as normal diversity in human development, instead of treating them like a disease or malfunction.  You can see why I like it.  From where I stand, my son is not malfunctioning.  He functions just fine.

Me?  Maybe not so much.

Follow me into metaphor for a minute.  Imagine with me, if you will, that we still live in a time when it's wrong to be left-handed.  Why is it wrong?  Well, you can't really write like everyone else, can you?  And you can't use all the tools designed for everyone else, either.  And, plus, there's still that small segment of the population that thinks being left-handed means the devil's inside you.  So really, it's just better for everyone all around if you're right-handed.

But my son--my beautiful, charming, thoughtful, creative, intelligent son--has been born left-handed into this right-handed society.  And I don't think that means that the devil is inside him.  But I also have no idea how to teach him to write, or how to use the tools he needs to get along in the world, because I am not left-handed.  And when I ask other people who are left-handed how they manage to get along in the right-handed world, they don't really know either.  Some of them took medicine to make them right-handed.  And some of them are still stumbling along, trying different ways of writing and using tools, never really settling securely into a way of doing things.  Mostly, though, they just shrug.  "You figure it out."

Of course, I have no clue how to do that, so we struggle along, trying to "figure it out".  I want to burn the world down and rebuild it so that my neuro-normative daughter and my neuro-diverse son can get along equally well, but even if I were willing to wipe the slate clean and start over, I don't know how to build such a thing.  I can't even make my home like that, let alone the entire world.

And thus we come to the crux of the issue.  Because it is bad enough to send my son out into the world knowing it is not suited for him--knowing that they will ask him to be "normal", or, at the very least, to try to do things in the normal way.  But it is so much worse knowing that I am complicit in all this.  After all, the world exists as it does.  I cannot burn it down, nor can I wave a magic wand over it and have it be as I want it to be.  So I, too, continue to try to teach my son how to be right-handed** in a left-handed world, and it makes me feel horrible.

I am trying to shove my kid into a mold he wasn't meant for, and it feels like a betrayal.

Why am I writing about that here in Acceptance365?  I suppose because it's a thing I'm working on accepting.  I cannot fix it, no matter how much I want to.  And I cannot do anything other than my best, even if there are days when my best seems terribly, terribly inadequate.   

Elliot will have to continue to try to get along in a world that was not created with him in mind.  And I will have to keep trying my best, even when I'm not sure if my best is helping or hurting.

If someone is passing out the serenity to accept that which we cannot change, I'd like to get my name on the list for some of that, please.

A kiss for my dude, who I love so much.

 And who loves me.

** Elliot has an intense form of ADHD, which leads to severe behavioral issues in school.  I am clarifying just in case anyone thought I was this torn up about my son actually being left-handed.  He isn't and I wouldn't be.

Day 17: Subject Brushes Her Daughter's Hair

When I was a girl I had long hair.  I mean, really long hair.  From the earliest memories I have until I was a Freshman in college and decided to cut it for the very first time, I had hair that stretched well past my butt.  It wasn't curly, or red, or anything like that, but by GOD it was long, and I loved it.

As you might imagine, with such long hair on such a young girl, there were times the maintenance grew tedious.  My mother threatened to cut it off more than once, if I didn't keep knots out of it, and I remember many a torturous hour sitting at her feet, having her yank the snarls out.  Now that I'm older with a daughter of my own I have a little more sympathy, but at the time I felt certain she was being hideously cruel to me.

Which, of course, led me to a solemn vow.  That, if I should have a daughter, and she should have tangles in her hair, I would do everything within my power to get them out in a painless and easy way, no matter the cost to my time or patience.

Today's lesson, I suppose, is that one should never make solemn vows about what kind of a parent one will be until one actually HAS children.

Anyway, for the most part I do a decent job.  And we have a bit of a ritual surrounding Chaz's brushing.

The detangling spray.  Step one in getting through this madness with as few tears as possible.  Chaz actually loves the detangling spray.  Check out that grin.

Application of the brush.  On normal days, after detangler, this goes fairly well.

Sometimes, on Mondays, it does not.

A post brushing picture.  Chaz is ready for school, 

and I am one step closer to drinking my giant vat of 

morning coffee.

Yeah.  That's just how we roll.