My Annual Before School Freak Out...You're Welcome.

We bought Junior's school supplies on Friday.

I have such a love/hate relationship with back-to-school shopping. I love it because there's just something so satisfying about buying that brand new box of Crayola crayons (or 3) and the pre-sharpened #2 pencils and the new raincoat because this year, he has to walk to the bus stop. But I hate it, too, because here we are again, my baby is not a baby and each year as I cheer him on towards manhood, he inevitably leaves his babyhood further and further behind.

Guys, sometimes I think I am not cut out for this parenting gig. Like, my heart is simply not flexible enough for all the stretching with pride and love and all the quick contracting with fear and sorrow that comes with mothering.

He's going into first grade this year. He weighs 50 pounds now and has lost two teeth and can cast his own fishing pole and bait his own hook but dear Lord, I bought  him pants that snap this year and I hope he can handle it but I am just not sure. Snaps are hard and I still have to cry out to him, "Please, son, keep your pants on until you are in the bathroom!" to prevent him from running through public places with his britches at half-mast.

I only cried once while getting his school supplies this year. I ducked into the aisle with the protein powders, my chest tight and painful, knowing  how absurd I must look, snuffling over the composition notebook with kittens on it that he picked out. My son, though, he's so used to his mom being absurd, and he's totally casual about it as he asks me if this is a good cry or a bad cry, bless him.

"Oh," I say, but it sounds more like I've been punched, because it hurts to breathe and I really do not want to completely blow what little cool I have, hidden in an aisle at Walmart. But I don't even know if it's a good cry or a bad cry.

Will his teacher be patient? Will she be kind? Will she be a she? Can Junior handle a he if she is a he? Will he be in class with that one kid who tried to pull the teeth out of his head last year? Will his teacher read his plan? Will she implement it? Will he be teased more this year? Will his teacher recognize his struggles, which are many, and meet them head-on, while also celebrating his strengths, which are also many?

And did I do enough this summer? We practiced what occupational therapist recommended, even as Junior threatened to "have Miss Bev arrested" but probably I didn't do it enough. It's never enough. We read out loud, a million books, but still, I didn't push him to sound words out, I'm not a good pusher, I should push more - is there still time left to push? Has he lost skills? Even typical children lose skills over the summer, but it takes him longer to regain them, and how do I even measure that, and he recognizes the words Texas, Atlantic, Pacific, Virginia, ocean, Italy, New Mexico, Lake Victoria, Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska...but we still cannot handle the sight words. The sight words make him cry, and while I was excited that he was willing to write out river and septic pond and reservoir, doing his letters top-to-bottom as I reminded him, again and again, but now I think I should have buckled down more for the both of us and pushed the, them, they, fun, play and it, but I'm not good at pushing. Have I mentioned that?

This was the summer that his imagination seemed to take off, and his days were filled with the type of play I have never seen from him before. "I want to be a police officer!" and so he has been a police officer and I have spent untold hours looking for the police badge he loses every single day. "I want to be a kitty!" and so I have taped a thousand black paper triangles to a black headband. He has drawn people with features and fingers and that is huge. He painted and he did clay and he built rivers and drew maps and really, when you look at it that way, he learned a lot!

The knot in my chest eases some and I look at him and give myself a mental fist bump because non-traditional learning is still learning and we nailed that...right? Maybe? In a way?

But still, we struggle with reading and math skills and I don't think I struck the right balance between indulging him in the direction which his mind naturally and joyfully goes and those things which he needs to learn and I glare at the stupid labels on the stupid protein powders in the stupid aisle in the stupid store and I worry that I have failed him before school even starts because I am so stupid.

"Is it a good cry, or a bad cry?" he asks me, standing there with the gap in his bottom teeth and his sandy blonde hair like a bush around his head because he needs a haircut but we are putting it off until a few days before school starts because haircuts are hard. "Which one, Mom?" he says, with the mosquito bites on his skinny brown legs that are impossibly long - when I pick him up now, they dangle at absurd lengths but still, I insist, because I know the day is coming when I won't be able to hoist him onto my hip and I already mourn that, already cry about it, even as I cherish the young boy he is becoming, even as I say, with absolute truth and certainty, that each age is the best age and celebrate it, but because each age is the best age, I miss the age he was, too (except for three. I do not miss three. Three was awful).

But do you see what I mean? The material of my heart isn't stretchy enough for this constant swelling and contraction.

"It's a good cry," I finally eke out, but I don't know. It feels neither good or bad, but simply inevitable.

"It's just a good cry," my son announces, loudly and confidently, to Walmart at large. "My mom is just having a good cry."

I hugged him and kissed the top of his bushy head.

"I knew it was a good cry," he told me. "Because remember? I can read minds, and yours is easy."

And I laugh, because that is what he told me the other day, while "working" in my office with me.

"Mom," he said from my elbow, casually jigging the fat on my arm because kids always grab onto the least attractive part of you, right? "Mom, guess what? I can read minds."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "What am I thinking?"

"That's easy," he said, laughing. "Your mind is so easy for me to read!"

"Well?" I challenged him.

"Your mind just says, 'I love you, Bubby, I love you, Bubby, I love you, Bubby.'"

"You're right!" I said, completely delighted in his confidence.

"Yeah, only you're not supposed to call me Bubby anymore," he reminded me. "I'm Justin."

"Oh, well, my apologies, Justin." I said. "Can you read Daddy's mind?"

"Oh yeah," he said, shrugging casually. "His is easy, too. Same thing, only also 'fishing.'"

So he pretty much nailed that one, too.

The thing is, if I had pushed him harder on sight words and math facts, I'd be mourning the loss of play and the lack of brown on his face from time in the sun. I'd be worried that I burned him out before school even began. Even if I had nailed the absolute perfect balance between work and play, something else would crop up, both valid and absurd. That's the mom life, right? We are simultaneously completely justified and absolutely ridiculous.

I have so many hopes for him this year. I hope he has friends. I hope he learns, and I hope he plays. I hope his teacher is kind and patient, and in turn, I hope he is kind and patient, as well. I hope he remembers to keep his pants on until he gets inside the restroom and I hope he loses no more than 3 lunchboxes and returns all his library books this year.

And most of all, I hope he keeps that confidence, that all the time, every day, his daddy and I are thinking about how much we love him.

Will You Still Love Him When He's Big?

Will you still see him when he's big?

Like any parent, there's a whole stream of stuff that keeps me up at night. School. How many fruits and veggies qualify as enough. Doctor's appointments. Bullies. Whether my kid's tattered sneakers can make it through the summer since I know any new pair I buy will just become mud-encrusted threads before school starts again because have you met him?

But mostly, what keeps me up at night is wondering if you will still love my son when he is big.

Junior still gets a pretty big pass in public, because people still think he's so much younger than what he is -- four is the age that most people guess, although that blows my mind because the child has gotten huge. I used to simply think that people would say, "How old are you? Are you four?" because he was a peanut, but as he hits growth spurt after growth spurt, officially leaving toddler sizes behind and with no end in sight, I have realized that it wasn't his size, because still, people ask, "Are you four? Or are you five?"

"He's six," I say out loud, tacking on the "and-a-half," in my mind, because at this age, six months still makes a difference and I know they think he's younger because of his speech, because of his mannerisms, and because right now, he's still small enough to be, well, small.

But he won't always be little. And I worry.

Will you manage not to laugh or dismiss him when he begins to monotonously repeat the phrase, "I'm a little torso," or counters what you say with, "My muscles are blue," or gags over the texture of something that brushes against him, or misinterprets something you said because he is so literal when he is a gangly, pimples-erupting, braces-wearing, awkward 15-year-old?

Will you still think he's quirky and precious when he's preseverating on a topic at age 17, when other kids his age are dating, and he can't stop obsessing over ocean depths? When other kids are going to concerts and to dances and he's at  home, watching an endless stream of documentaries -- will you still stop to listen to him as he breathlessly tells you every single piece of information he knows about hornets when he's a junior in high school?

Will you still be gentle when he finds himself in a situation that is too stimulating, and he struggles to get his words out because overstimulation causes him to stutter so badly that it renders him nearly inarticulate, when he's 20? Will you have the patience, then, to listen to a grown man try to speak, even when it's clearly painful for him to try, and certainly painful to listen?

Raising Junior has made me so aware of the men and women on the fringes of society. The odd ones. The ones who wear weird clothes but not in a cool way, who mumble to themselves as they shop, who may be stimming in the parking lot, who shuffle rather than walk, who make odd statements apropos of nothing, the ones who are making it on their own, who have their independence...but remain on the edges because we make a wide berth around them. Because they are different.

But because of Junior, I am acutely aware of them. I ask a question - do you know where the soup is? What kind of phone is that? It's really hot today, isn't it?

But what I am saying is, I see you, I see you, I see you.

Because I worry. I worry that, as Junior grows bigger, he may actually grow smaller.

Will you still love him when he is big?

Because a mother's love, while deep, is narrow, and I worry it won't be enough. I know it won't be enough.

That's what keeps me up at night.

On Losing 160 Pounds in 10 Months, or, "Does Your Husband Like Your Surgery?"

No. He hates it. He misses my chins.

It's been 10 months and 3 days since I had gastric bypass (and it's been 10 months and 17 days since the last time I had my ginormous "last" meal - a massive bacon cheeseburger with an egg on it, an order of onion rings, and an order of fried pickles, thank you very much, and I remember every glorious bite) and I've lost about 160 pounds.  (I say "about" because I stopped weighing myself religiously a few months ago when I started to strength train and learned that lifting weights is amazing and awesome but that amazing awesomeness doesn't always reflect in the scale short-term and I kept throwing my scale down in an absolute fury over a half pound gain.)

I've been open about my surgery, because I felt I had to be open in order to be successful.  I know lots of weight loss patients keep it private, and I understand that, as well.  Me, though -- I put my faith in my friends and family, that they would be supportive of my decision and new lifestyle.  And they have been.

Also, as much as being a morbidly obese woman chowing down on a huge plate of delicious food made me feel self-conscious, being a morbidly obese woman eating a mere 2 tablespoons of food per meal (because that's how it was in the beginning) made me feel even more so.  Like, I would fan myself dramatically and say, in a Southern accent, "Why, I've always eaten like a bird! It's how I maintain my slender figure!"

(Fat people are often funny.  We have to be.  It's self-defense.)

So, today, a picture popped up in  my timeline.  It was a picture of my husband and myself, a shot we had snapped (repeatedly, because "Oh my God, look at my double chin in THAT one!") before going to a friend's wedding.  I remember the day so clearly.

I had gone shopping at a plus-size store, and found a dress of stretchy material, in the biggest size the plus-sized store carried.  It fit, thanks to the stretchiness, but, being a specialty store, the price was tremendous...and I called my husband from the parking lot, after I had bought it, to confess what I had spent in case he wanted me to return it.

"No, babe, I'm glad you got it," he said, like he always does when I overspend.

And then I went to Walmart and bought a shrug even though it was June because the dress was sleeveless and my upper arms were reminiscent of Christmas hams.  And then I bought an off-brand Spanx thingie.  And a necklace and heels, because my wardrobe basically consisted of yoga pants in a size 4x and T-shirts in a size 5x, and shoes that I could slip my feet into easily, since bending over and tying laces was a challenge.

I got ready.  I did my makeup and my hair and shaved the wide acreage of my legs.  I maneuvered my body into my cheap Spanx and smoothed my rolls down with Spandex and told myself that the mirror wasn't very flattering and that no one at the wedding would be paying much attention to how I looked, surely.  I'd tell some jokes and my kid would be adorable and maybe I'd have a drink so that I could pretend I wasn't as fat as I knew I really was, deep down, but kept denying.

And my husband ironed his own shirt and shaved the amazing beard he had amassed over the winter and got his haircut and took a shower -- the man version of primping.

But you see, I was getting ready for the wedding, but my husband?  He was getting ready for me.

And since I was all fancied up and looked about as good as I could, I asked my husband to take a selfie of us, and then again, and again, and again, because with each snap, I thought, "Surely that's not how I really look."

And my husband patiently retook the pictures, and then told me how beautiful I looked.  And y'all, he meant it.

He has meant it every time.

He meant it when we first started dating and I was a relatively svelte size 22, and he meant it the day I told him we were going to be parents and my boobs ballooned to massive size overnight and I had to get my wedding dress altered, and he meant it that day, too.  And he meant it the day I gave birth, when I weighed in at 348 pounds and the nurse, completely careless of the fact that I HAD JUST GIVEN BIRTH TO A HUMAN AND WAS A RAGING MASS OF HORMONES suggested I consider gastric bypass.  He meant it when I dropped back down to under 300 (thanks, breastfeeding!) and he meant it when I gained all my weight back and then some (thanks, Sonic!).

He meant it when he took me to the emergency room over a year ago, when I weighed closer to 400 than I did to 300 and couldn't breathe because I had pneumonia and I was a smoker, and suddenly I had gone from  being "really fat but pretty healthy" to listening to a doctor tell me I had diabetes, needed to have a chest X-ray to rule out COPD (it was clear, thank God), and had high blood pressure and was actually in a lot of danger and needed to get my health under control right away.

It was at that point my husband listened to me when I said I should look into weight loss surgery.  Not because I was a size 32/34 and weighed well over 300 pounds and he was ashamed of me, but because he didn't want me to die young.

And that's what began my journey.  And because I had to quit smoking to get surgery, I quit.  And because I had to go on an all-liquid diet for two weeks that was just absolutely horrendous, I did that, as well.  And then I went and allowed a surgeon to physically rearrange my stomach and intestines in such a way that I have a much better chance of being successful - not just in losing the weight, but keeping it off.  And because the results have been pretty rapid and dramatic, I pretty much tell anyone who asks, or anyone I am going to be around a lot - I had weight loss surgery.  I can't eat much. Some foods make me sick.  Some foods I cannot have.

And because I'm open, people ask questions.  I don't mind.  I like questions.  I think it's interesting and weight loss is a big focus of my life and I don't mind discussing it, or swapping diet plans or workout plans because yes, even  though I had surgery, I still have to eat right, and I still have to work out - probably even more so, because when you lose that much weight, you are in danger of losing a lot of muscle, and so I have to work at that.

And when someone reaches out because they're considering surgery - that's my favorite.  I had someone nice enough to answer my questions, who cheered me on and told me I wouldn't regret it, that it would change my life, and she was right.

But I think my favorite question of all is, "Does your husband like it?"

And I always say, "Well, yes.  Of course he does."

And the reason why it's my favorite question is because it makes me think.  It makes me remember how my husband has never seen me as less than anything beautiful.  That even at my heaviest, he still thought I was beautiful, and so of course he thinks I'm beautiful now.

He thinks that I'm beautiful still.

The reason why he likes my surgery isn't because I look better, but because I feel better.

It's because instead of laying on the couch, watching Netflix and eating potato chips and fried chicken, I'm like, "Let's go take a hike!" or "Let's go fishing!" or "Let's go do something, anything!"

It's because instead of taking two different diabetic medicines twice a day, along with a cholesterol pill and a high blood pressure pill, all I take are multi-vitamins, instead.

It's because when I went to the doctor to see about a minor surgery, she casually said, "We'll do it in office.  You're young and healthy!" and I asked her to repeat the "You're healthy part," and she looked at me and said, clearly and firmly, "Your labs are perfect, your blood pressure is great, your heart rate is below 70 beats per minute, your oxygen level is at 100, and I wish all of my patients were half as healthy as you," and I cried.

It's because the ObGYN said she believes our fertility issues have resolved, and we can start trying for a baby soon.

It's because I have more confidence at a size 14 than I did at a size 32/34.

It's because I'm happier.

So yes, he likes my surgery.  He likes it because it means our odds of growing old together are much, much, much higher today than they were less than a year ago.

And yes, of course he meant it when he said I was beautiful yesterday when I, once again, pulled on my old pair of pants that were a size 34 and fit myself into one leg of them and stood there in the hallway while my husband smiled at me and said, "Yes, that's crazy, how amazing, I'm so proud."

And yes, I'm sure he thinks my butt looks a lot better, too.  It's just that it's all the other things I think about when people ask me, "Does your husband like it?" because I was lucky enough to marry a guy who loved me and believed in me even when I filled out both legs of the pants - who looked at me when those pants were actually a bit snug and I was starting to wonder what I would do when I was too big for even the biggest size at the plus-sized store and told me then that I was beautiful, too.

It's why I keep him around.

I'd Let My Kid Keep His Participation Trophy If He Ever Got One or, I'm Pretty Sure That Crappy Ribbon Is Not Why A Kid Grows Up To Be A Jerk

Apparently, it's a thing now to not let your kid accept participation trophies and ribbons.

I know it's a thing because I keep seeing this one video being shared, and this dad just loses his mind over his daughter receiving a participation trophy.  And I read an essay that has been shared like 103,000 times that somehow connects transgender rights to participation ribbons, and America is doomed, y'all, because your child's second grade PE teacher handed out ribbons for the kids completing their mile run.

(I run.  Sort of.  Well, I move my legs in a rather rapid-for-me fashion in short spurts over long distances.  That's a class of running, I suppose.  I would love it if someone handed me a ribbon for doing it.)

Anyhow, I guess I understand the sentiment.  We are in danger of raising a generation of coddled, entitled Americans.

But I can guarantee you that if someone grows up to be a horrible adult, it's probably due to a series of actions and inactions and parenting decisions and life circumstances and the receiving of a medal for participating in the class spelling bee is probably not one of them.

I honestly don't know if my child has ever received a participation award, because if he did, chances are, it ended up wadded up and forgotten, perhaps trampled upon on the bus or stuffed into the wrong cubby at school, like so many other things that my kid could care less about.  And I truly think it's fine and even understandable, to an extent, if you decide that your child is not to be the recipient of such awful, character-shredding stuff as a participation ribbon.

But let's get something straight.

That is one tiny, minute, minuscule decision that is a speck of sand on the infinite beach of parenting decisions you will make and if your child turns out to be the kind of human being you are hoping he or she will become by withholding such dubious honors, then 1) good job on that and 2) your child turned out that way because of a long string of good parenting decisions you made and the whole "no participation ribbons!" thing probably had like .00000000000000012% impact on that.

And let me tell you how it is for those of us who are lazy enough to allow our entitled, precious little losers to keep their ribbons and trophies that will, I imagine, end up wadded up somewhere forgotten, collecting dust like so many other macaroni projects and report cards.

Sometimes participation is as good as it gets.

Sometimes a kid just can't.  Somethings are beyond some kids' abilities, and no number of inspirational posters and "try harder next time!" and dangling of carrots in the shape of 1st place ribbons will change that.

So when you say, "Kids just need to try harder so they appreciate the victory!" you are making giant assumptions.  Because I have some hard -- and for some of us, heartbreaking -- truth for you.

Sometimes a child can try like hell and still not win.

My child's classroom teacher utilized something called "mastery cards" as a carrot to dangle in front of her kids.  And again, I 100% understand this.  I understand this because I understand that kids will work harder for a reward.  So this is not a criticism on the theory at all.

Here's what I know about mastery cards.  I know there were mastery cards for different sets of skills. I know there were mastery cards given for recognizing letters and sounds and sight words and math facts.  I know that all the skills tied to mastery cards were timed skills.  I know my son does not perform well on timed skills.  I know that my son's buddies all got mastery cards.  I know that it seemed, to  my son, that everyone in the whole world had received mastery cards.

I know what it's like to watch my kiddo beg me to drill him on his math facts because he wasn't fast enough. I know what it's like to watch him scan my face for comfort and "of course that's fine!" comments when asking if it's okay when maybe not every kid gets a mastery card.  I know what it's like to listen to him pray about getting his mastery card.  I know what it's like to reassure him that he will still be allowed in first grade even without a mastery card.  I know what it's like to see his face crumple when he hits two minutes and still hasn't "mastered" what we were trying to master in time.

What I don't know what a mastery card looks like, because my son never got one,  Not once.

Do I begrudge the other kids for getting theirs?  Heck, no.  That's great.  But I can guarantee you that there were a lot of kiddos who didn't work half as hard to get their mastery card as my kid worked in not getting his.

Should my son been given a mastery card for his sight words?  Nope.  He hasn't mastered them.  But my mama's heart would have appreciated a mastery card designed for perseverance, for trying, for participating at his fullest potential, because he gave it his all.

And would I have let him keep it?

You bet your ass I would have.

So, by all means, make that parenting decision in not allowing your kid to accept a weak, country-dooming entitlement in the shape of a cheap silk ribbon with "PARTICIPATION" stamped on it.  We all make different parenting decisions, based on our what works best for our families, for our children.

But when you hold it up as a banner of parenting triumph, it seems like it's a lot less about encouraging your child to strive harder, to learn to lose gracefully, to savor achievement and a lot more about believing your kiddo is too good for mere participation.  The first half of that is full of great lessons to learn.  The second half is kind of sad.

I would never have felt driven to even write about this if not for the fact that in the past few weeks -- I'm guessing due to Field Day and class graduations and baseball season gearing up -- I haven't had to see so many people post and re-post videos and essays and statuses about their own parenting choices.  And I'm not criticizing the choice parents make on whether or not they agree with the whole philosophy behind participation awards.  I actually get it.

But maybe that decision is one you can chat about with your kiddo while in the car, or at the kitchen table, privately, and explain the reasoning behind it, rather than grandstanding about it.  Because honestly, it seems to me that when you force your child to hand the ribbon back in front of other kids, you aren't really teaching your child about the value of working hard to actually win, but how to lose badly, enforcing that "all or none" mentality.  You aren't making a private statement to your child about the values you want to instill, but a very public statement about how you feel about other's values.  

Personally, whether or not my kid is able to "win" something outright is not the only factor driving my belief on this.  Because if I have a second child, and he or she is somehow gifted with, say, athletic prowess by some freak genetic mutation, I'll let him or her keep the participation ribbon, too. Because I don't believe in an "all or nothing" mentality.  Because I have enough faith in a child's reasoning to know that he understands that there is a difference between a first-place blue ribbon and the participation award.  Because I don't want to be the parent of the kid who turns his or her nose up at the only type of ribbon that other kids may be capable of getting, and have those kids wonder if there is something wanting in them.  That's just bad sportsmanship.

And I'm pretty sure that's not the sort of attitude that's going to ruin America, or that I am endangering the moral fiber of the universe.

Because sometimes, for some kids, participation is a victory.  Sometimes, that's as good as it gets, and it's good enough for us, and I can promise you that a lot of kids who never "win" are trying every bit as hard -- perhaps even harder -- then your kid may be trying.

And maybe instead of forcing your kid to return that ribbon to the coach, you can ask your kiddo to hand it to another kid who tried really hard, or maybe improved a lot, or was really positive during the competition, and have your kiddo recognize his or her peer. 

How cool would that be?

What Happened When We Gave Up Homework

He wears socks on his hands because gloves would be "weird."

Every kid has to do stuff they don't like.  Clean their rooms.  Clean their bodies.  Clean their teeth. (Kids are naturally filthy beasts.)

And we are big believers in personal responsibility and suck-it-uppisms and "because I said so!" around here.

But guys, I have to make my kid do a lot of things he doesn't like.  Like wear pants.  Make eye contact.  Talk about stuff other than vacuums, V-Tech phones and the Pacific Ocean.  Drink out of the red cup. This isn't just stuff that he doesn't like, this is stuff that is genuinely difficult for him. Sometimes genuinely painful.

However, we make them do all this stuff for a reason.  Clean your room so you don't live in filth.  Clean your bodies so you aren't the stinky kid at school.  Clean your teeth so you don't cause me a fortune in dental bills.

And for us - wear pants because you have to learn that pants are okay and that you will live even with material touching your skin because pants are the socially accepted norm, kiddo.

You get something for doing the thing that you don't like.

Except for homework.

I have ranted about the homework all year.  I have ranted to my husband, ranted on Facebook, on the phone to my mom, to my son's teacher, to the assistant principal, to any mom I see at Walmart.

At Junior's last parent/teacher conference, I once again confronted the homework issue. I was annoyed because, just that day, we had received Junior's homework packet back as being marked "incomplete" and my head nearly exploded.  Of course it was incomplete.  They had sent home eight worksheets.  We did three.  Three was plenty. Three was, in my opinion, definitely complete.

(And, as a brief note, let me add that we have been told it was acceptable to not complete them all. I had even asked the teacher to mark which ones she felt were most important for Justin to focus on.  I also asked if, instead of turning them in on Friday, could we turn them in on Monday, giving Justin two, school-free days to do them...I got told that it was "too much work" for her to prioritize the worksheets and that she liked the packets back on Friday so she could grade them over the weekend.)

So yeah, the "incomplete" pissed me off.

"Well, we decide, all the kindergarten teachers, what worksheets to send home," I was told.

"What makes you and the other teachers think this amount of worksheets is developmentally appropriate?" I asked, reminding her of the week that nearly 20 pages were sent home.

She dropped it quickly, and told me that the homework was voluntary.  I told her that point gets a little lost when the packet is returned marked "incomplete."

But...I still made Justin do one every night that we didn't have another activity going on. And I did it for lots of reasons.

One, he is behind.  Just...very, very behind.  The kind of behind that has his daddy and I, as well as his therapist, worrying about whether or not the school will pass Justin.  And whether or not that would be the best thing for him -- there are major implications in repeating a grade, and many of them are negative.  He is behind, and it is the kind of behind that keeps us up late at night, Googling shit at 3 a.m.  (I know every special needs parent reading this is smirking a little and nodding.  Hi, guys!  I see you, you fellow 3-a.m.-Googlers!)

I worried that if I didn't have him sit down and do a worksheet every night, he would fall even further behind.

Secondly, a part of me felt like not doing worksheets would undermine his teacher and her authority.  I may not like her, but she is in charge of my son seven hours a day, five days a week.  He needs to listen to her and respect her, regardless of how Mama feels.

Third, it's simply hard for me not to do what is expected.  Stupid, but there you have it.

And so we tried so many things.  Doing the worksheet as soon as he comes home, to catch him while he's still "in school mode."  Nope.  Tears.

Maybe a snack, first.

Well, maybe he should play outside first.

Maybe he should have a snack, play outside, and have a bubble bath first.

Let's try it over breakfast.

Tears, almost always.

"Mama, I already did this at school!"

"This is boring.  I hate school.  I hate words."

"This is hard.  I hate the way my brain is!"

"I DON'T KNOW HOW TO READ!"

And I cajoled.  I demanded.  I explained.  I comforted.  I encouraged.  I made him do those worksheets almost every day, even though it was destroying his confidence, taking ages to do, upsetting us both, ruining our evenings.

And I did it even after reading so many articles and so much literature saying that homework has no impact on a student's academic success at this age.  And then I saw more articles and evidence saying that not only does it not make any impact on academic success in young children, that it can actually damage their love of learning.  That kids, all kids, have a natural love of learning....but worksheets have a way of extinguishing that.

And so, one day, a few weeks ago, as my son came barreling in the front door after school, I took from him his backpack and he asked, "Do I have worksheets?"

"Yes," I said, and his face immediately began to crumple and I just couldn't.  Not one more time.

"Oh, wait!" I said, glancing at his homework packet like I had misread it.  "No, no worksheets."

And he made a straight line to the back door, opened it up, and played in the sunshine while I cooked dinner.  And we had a pleasant evening, and we read a mess of books and they were all non-fiction because my son loves non-fiction, and he didn't grow immediately angry and defensive when I asked him to identify letters and sounds in the books.

And it was so nice that we skipped worksheet the next night.  And then the rest of the week.  And on Friday, we returned his empty homework folder and went to Barnes and Noble and bought a new book on the world's oceans and spent the next week learning about tectonic plates and the creation of ocean floor, the difference between seas and oceans, various depths and units of measurement, zooplankton and coast formations and directions...which led us to maps.  So we bought some maps.  We got interested in Egypt.  We read about Egypt.  We talked about dead kings and cats as gods.

Instead of reading twenty minutes a day, we're reading thirty or forty or more.  He wants me to read to him while he's in the bathtub. He hurries to get ready in the morning because if he gets done early, we'll go outside and read.

And so we skipped worksheets the next week, too.  He started what he calls the Thousand Project.  He is counting to 1,000.  On day 4, and he's at 760.

My son's pre-k teacher was just magic.  He was challenged but felt safe enough with her to try.  And he grew leaps and bounds.

This year, he's been treading water.  And losing ground.

But this past month, he has, once again, amazed his mama.  This past month has reminded me that my kid is not truly "behind," but that he does need a different measuring stick. He can't read.  He still struggles to identify all of his lower-case letters and struggles even more connecting the sounds to the letters.  But he can tell you that the Pacific Ocean is shrinking at the rate of one square mile per year -- and then reassure you not to worry, because there's still 64 billion square miles left.  So yeah...different measuring stick.  Not less than or more than, but different than.

Until teachers are allowed to use different measuring sticks, I have to run interference.  I'm his mother.  And I'm saying no to worksheets right now.

But I am saying yes to one more book, and ten more minutes outside, and sidewalk chalk and building forts and watching documentaries on rainy days and yes to letting six be six and simply handing him a snack on the fly as he drops his schoolbag and heads straight out the back door to play after seven long hours of school.

I make him brush his teeth, twice a day.  He bathes daily -- almost.  And wears pants 100% of the time he is out of this house.  I do hope his teacher understands the decision we have made, and if she asks, I will explain to her that, for us, it isn't "too much work" to prioritize things in our son's life.

Worksheets simply did not make the cut,

The Problem With General Statements Spoken From A Place Of Privilege

My Lord, he's just precious.

I don't think a week goes by that I don't hear - or see - someone say - or post - that we over medicate kids.

"It's lazy parenting" seems to be a common refrain.  "Let kids be kids!" is one that is sure to rack up a lot of likes.  "We didn't have all these kids with ADHD and autism when I was a kid!" is another one (and yes, you did - they just grew up without support and self-medicated with drugs and alcohol and probably died young or went to jail but don't let that interfere with your worldview.)

And let me say that I think there is a lot to be said about the MEDICAL COMMUNITY and doctors prematurely prescribing  medications to children whom are scientifically classified as being too young for either a particular diagnosis, or for a particular medication.  There are instances of doctors diagnosing toddlers with ADHD and giving preschoolers anti-psychotics.  That's awful, and folks within the medical community who are engaging in that should be taken to task.

But instead of making statements like, "I think it's really unfortunate that a faction of doctors within the medical community have made a practice of medicating children before it is age-appropriate or when it is not medically necessary," people just say, "Kids are over-medicated!  Maybe a spanking and some time outdoors and some responsibility will clear that up!" and "Those kids don't have any medical problems - they are just badly behaved and need to be disciplined!"

Jesus save me from parenting experts.

The other day, we had (yet another) meeting at Junior's school.  It seems as though our son has some attention difficulties (not that his entire team of doctors at Children's Mercy hasn't been saying that for months, but whatever).  These issues are significantly impacting his learning and are classified as a disability.

Now, Junior is compliant.  If he is asked to sit on the carpet for carpet time, he sits on the carpet.  But, his teacher said, he may be facing the wall.  He may spend the entire time completely disengaged and focused completely inward, and even repeated redirection cannot keep him from what the staff at his school calls "Justin World."

Justin World.

I'm not a card-carrying citizen of Justin World, but I do have a visa.  I'm lucky, because I get to visit occasionally.  Justin World is sometimes lovely.  Or silly.  It's almost always curious and full of pressing questions about water depths and numbers and temperatures and electricity.  Sometimes, to me, it's overwhelming and intense.

But I understand that my son lives in Justin World because he finds much about this world to be overwhelming and intense.

My son has, among many other things, sensory processing disorder.  The very clothes on his back are a distraction to him, and noise?  It physically hurts, at times.  And lights, too - bright ones and flickering ones are just hard for him.  And maybe no one had that when you were a kid, but come talk to me about that when you see my child huddled in the bottom of a grocery cart with my coat placed over his head, giving him a dark, muffled space, tears rolling down his face because the lights in Walmart repeatedly dim and brighten.  Or watch the look of panic on his face when the Salvation Army bell ringers come out full-force during the holidays and he has to use headphones to block out the noise of their bells.  Come tell me then about how it's not a "real thing."

And my son has a brain that causes him to tic, and creates obsessions and compulsions.  He asks me 37,898 questions about frill sharks and light bulbs because his brain is sometimes like a record player whose needle gets stuck in a groove and he absolutely has to ask  these questions the same way a kid with allergies has to sneeze.

Guys, I think it has to be exhausting to him, sometimes.

I cannot imagine how hard it must be for Junior to try and process what he is supposed to be learning when he is assaulted by sensory input from without, and his mind is crowded with thoughts that he has no control over from within.  Add in a few vocal tics, such as incessant throat clearing that actually makes him hoarse at times, or the stuttering tic that viciously hamstrings his ability to speak (and just imagine having a complete, pressing need to ask a question or say a word and then not being able to ask it)...well, that he manages to accomplish as much as he does is remarkable and admirable and makes me weak-at-the-knees proud of him.

At his last therapy appointment, we went over all the "clinically significant" markers the staff at his school had given him on some observation tests that the doctor had asked them to fill out.  And my Lord, my kid is "clinically significant"on a number of levels.  When I asked a question, it became clear that I had misunderstood something rather major, and I teared up, fighting back panic because what else have I misunderstood?  Has there been some other key piece of information that I didn't grasp, and had that impacted my child?

"What else can we do?" I asked, and it was a desperate sort of plea.

But the doctor took it literally.

"We may consider medication down the road," he said.

And we will do just that - absolutely consider it.

Because we trust our child's doctor and his team at Children's Mercy.  It's not the first time medication to address Justin's attention and tics has been floated.  His pediatric neurologist, also at Children's Mercy, mentioned it as well.  But Children's Mercy does not like to medicate children before the age of 8 for tics or for attention issues.  It's one of the reasons we trust them, and one of the reasons they have such an amazing reputation.

By age 8, Justin will have had four years of various therapies, which include steady, consistent discipline and boundaries at home that are written into his plan at school.  He'll have two more years of experience in a school setting, two more years of social development, two more years of growth and learning, two more years of plans that provide him with positive feedback and hopefully help him succeed.

And if, at that time, Justin is still struggling, and the doctors think that medicine will help Justin focus, then okay.  Not because I want a magic string of straight As, or a potion that will somehow make my role as a parent somehow second place to a chemical, but because my son is living in a world that hurts him sometimes, and that pain makes it hard for him to learn and interact.

If my child had excruciating headaches that prevented him from focusing in class, I would not hesitate to give him Tylenol.

And no one would ever think about saying, "Oh my God, Tylenol?  Really?  They hand that out like candy these days.  Are you sure he really needs that?  Why don't you spank him and tell him to pay attention!"

Because that's asinine.

But guys, it's the same damned thing.

If we, as adults, were failing at our jobs because we had these very same problems, because when we tried to focus on a task we couldn't stop rolling our eyes, or contorting our face, and our minds could not stop thinking about one certain topic, obsessed about it for hours on end, and we couldn't stop ourselves from repeating a phrase no matter how much we knew it was annoying and confusing other people, socially isolating us and making our jobs even more difficult, and a doctor suggested medication, wouldn't we want it?  Would we not want to grant ourselves some sort of relief?  What in the world is noble about denying a child the same sort of relief?  And would we be lazy if we did?

I seriously do not understand it.

Just kidding.  I do understand it.  Not the actual thought process behind it, but I understand it because I don't think there is any thought process behind it, and I know that because I was that parent once, too.  Back when Junior was a fat baby, all roly-poly and fully breastfed and before I even had my first night of worry over whether or not something might be going on with my child beyond a runny nose or runny diaper, I was all smug in my amazing mothering abilities that really did not extend beyond feeding and keeping my child clean, for God's sake.

"Oh, we put a label on everything!  Sometimes a kid is just weird or active - do we have to label and medicate it?"

Ugh.

Sometimes a kid is just weird and active.

Sometimes, though, a child is physically and mentally incapable of focusing and learning without some sort of help.  Sometimes, even with early intervention and consistent parenting and therapies and support plans and everything else, sometimes a kid still doesn't leave Justin World, or Molly World, or Whoever World.  Sometimes it's not a matter of won't, but a matter of can't.  

These general statements about lazy parents over-medicating kids that now have so many parents in the special  needs community feeling as if there must be something wrong with them if they medicate their children -- and, in feeling that way, may be closing the door on a legitimate method that may help their child -- are spoken from a place of deep privilege.

I spoke from there once, too.  And I probably had no sense of irony when I took an asprin or an antibiotic, either.  I mean, obviously I needed that medicine.  LOL.  I wish I could go back and punch that version of me on behalf of now-me and every other mom who had to suffer through special needs parenting advice from people who have no idea, no clue, no common sense and, sometimes, very little common decency.

So, Let Me Tell You About The Amazing Thing My Extraordinary Kid Said (Again)

Every once in awhile, I feel the need to make a disclaimer when writing my blog.  When I take the time to write my blog, my focus is usually the extraordinary - whether it be the extraordinarily difficult or the extraordinarily amazing, which, now that I say it, pretty much sums up parenting.  But I get so  many messages from people I know and don't know - which I love - telling me what an extraordinary child I have.  And yes, with absolutely zero modesty, I concur.  He is exactly that.

He also picks his nose still, and threatened to sue me if I burned his pizza the other day.  It's just that I don't write blogs about that.

There are many mom bloggers who find grace in the quiet, ordinary moments of our lives.  Elevating what we, as moms, no longer even see or register and reminding us what acts of devotion and beauty and love folding laundry and going to work and cooking for our families can be - I admire it and I love reading them and my good dear friend Heather does it better than anyone over at the Mother Load (and if someone can tell me how to link to her blog, I would do it.)

But I cannot find grace in the quiet, ordinary moments of our lives because I'm often too busy thinking, "OH MY GOD, LOOK AT HOW ORDINARY WE ARE BEING!  THIS IS AMAZING!"

No big deal...just climbing a mountain, y'all.

Or my breath catches on the ordinary, sometimes.  My eyes sting with it, and so, you see, the "ordinary," the intentional sass and the fuss about bath and the begging for one more story, it is not ordinary for me, for us.

But my son does still pick his nose.  And the other day, I had an absolute screaming fit because my husband slept in on his day off and didn't finish his to-do list before I got home.  And I made this crap awful white chicken chili, too.  Just bad, you guys.

With that being said, OMG, GUYS, MY KID TOTALLY SAID SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY THE OTHER DAY AND IT WAS AMAZING AND I AM TOTALLY GOING TO BLOG ABOUT IT.

I think most kids say a lot of amazing stuff.  We just have to listen for it, and I have a thing about language - it is, as my son would say, my jam.  I think about language a lot, and how it is used as both a tool and adornment, the same way that a pair of khaki mom-pants and a ball gown are both clothes.  I read books on linguistics, and long before it became apparent that my son was different, I was absolutely fascinated by his own language development.

And I was thinking this morning, as I wiped little finger prints off the front of my fridge and fished little balled-up socks out from under the couch and tried my best to answer the never-ending barrage of questions from my kiddo ("How deep is Elk River? What happens if it's a thousand feet deep?  Would we float? How many temperature degrees is the sun? Does baby Jack understand that I have walked this earth longer than he has?") about how often Junior frames his emotions in the context of his heart.

"This makes my heart so, so happy," he will say...over a Little Debbie snack.  (I feel you, son.)

"I miss Mina in my heart," he will say in reference to his grandma.

And then it hit me.  He trusts his heart.  He trusts in because it never leads him wrong and because we praise it so constantly.  He is, after all, my big-hearted kid, the child whose solution to the constant bullying he faces at school is to ask them to all be his friends and give them extra graham crackers.

But  his brain?  That betrays him daily, sometimes hourly.

"I hate my brain!" he'll say, punching himself in the side of his head as he looks at yet another pointless list of sight words.

"Why does my brain do this?" he'll tearfully ask me, the words taking an eternity to form and push out, after a long day at school has robbed him of his fluency.

And I think that may be our fault, since we often "pass the blame," so to speak, onto the fact that he has a neurobiological disorder.

"It's not you, dude, it's your brain," I have said lightly, without thinking much about it, never wondering what impact my words may be having on a child who is often highly sensitive to language, who takes word into the heart that he trusts so much and internalizes them deeply.  I never thought that he would, instead of feeling relief that so many of his struggles are not his fault, begin to view his own brain as an enemy.

But his heart?  That he trusts.

And I do, too.

He found me crying in bed earlier this month, on the anniversary of my dad's death.  The light was turned off and guys, this was no delicate cry.  This was an ugly cry, the kind of cry where your nose plugs up in both nostrils and the skin under your eye feels tissue thin.  And although I needed a private moment, I don't want him to think of tears as being something he needs to hide, and so when he climbed up next to me and asked me what was wrong, I answered honestly.

I said that I missed my dad.

"My dad," I told him, "would have been amazed with you.  You would have been best buddies."

"What did Grandpa Jack look like?" he asked, and I laughed a little before answering that he was little, wore a ball cap, and had a mustache.

"I have a great idea!" Junior exclaimed, and quickly exited.  He has "great ideas" 348 times a day, and the swift dismissal after focused concentration is also common, and so I tried to get back into my ugly cry mode because, damn it, I really needed one.

A few minutes later, Junior was back.  And again, he pulled himself into the bed.  I could hear the rustle of paper and suddenly, there was a click and a small circle of light illuminated the lined piece of notebook paper clutched in my son's fist.

It was a picture of a smiling man, with a mustache (placed under the mouth, but no need to be picky, right?), drawn in ballpoint pen.

"I drew a picture of your dad so that you could look at it when you miss him," my son said.  "That was my great idea."

"That was a great idea!" I said.  "It's a really good picture, Bubby."

"Maybe someday he will come back," my son said hopefully.

"No," I said - we have been over this before.  "He died, sweetheart."

"Oh," my son said.  And then, "Oh!  I know what happened!"

"What?" I asked, wearily.  I was sad and tired and not quite ready for a Junioresque barrage of questions and strange dialogue.

"Your dad was like this," my sweet son said, the flashlight holding steady on the stick-figure picture of the grandfather he never met.  "And then, he was like this."

A small, soft click, and the flashlight was turned off.

"His special light went off, didn't it," my son said, with an odd, tender sort of confidence.

And the tears came to me again.  "Yes," I said.  "That's exactly what happened.  His special light went out."

"I wish I could make it like this for you," he said, turning the light back on.

"It's okay," I said.  "The really good thing is that, when you lose someone you love, they stay with you in your heart."

And my sweet, literal son leaned in close to my chest and said, loudly, his words muffled against my shirt, "Your daughter misses you."

No wonder he trusts his heart.  It's an extraordinary heart, after all, and I won't even pretend to believe otherwise.  And his language is so often a language of love, of connections forged and made and held, expressed perfectly and with a maturity and fluency that I sometimes envy.

I do totally wish he would stop picking his nose, though,  It's super gross and not at all cute.