Perspective is Everything

This morning was one of THOSE mornings. While I got up on time and got my shower before the kids got up (a rare treasure during the Summer), that was about the only thing that went right until we were in the car. Jackson didn't want to come down for breakfast. He didn't want to eat what I fixed. He didn't want to wear the clothes I picked out for him. My other children were exacerbating the problem, picking at Jackson and whining about him whining. Every transition was a struggle, and I found myself extremely frustrated. We finally make it to the car and are on our way to our play date. Yes. I was stressing about leaving late to play at a friend's house who would have been more than understanding of our tardiness, and for that matter, a friend that would have been totally fine with Jackson coming in his pajamas, bed head and flip flops. It was somehow too hard for me to just take it all in stride this particular morning. The tension filled my body, stiff and numb trying to clear my head so I don't end up complaining to the other mom the whole play date, I turned on the radio and began to listen to Addison Road's What Do I Know of Holy. Then we pass a funeral procession, and just like I do every time I see one of those, I prayed, "God, help them." Then I'm suddenly overcome and start balling like a baby.

There has been so much death in our friend and family circle lately. Some lost precious children, some fathers, mothers, brothers. Still others are facing deadly diseases threatening to take a loved one away at any moment. I couldn't help but compare my morning and all its frustration to the morning of those following that hearse. One of those mortal moments when the frailty of my own human condition and the fragility of the life in my care brought me to tears. The next few moments passed as my mind was flooded with the remembrance of so many blessings. The blessing of my son and all he is, autism included, stood out in those blessings. As hard as it has been adjusting to the special care he requires, this disease will not take him from me too early, and as hard as it is to handle the frustration that builds up from the life we live, I'm not following a hearse.

Perspective is everything.

Note: I shortened this after rereading it the next morning.

Let Me Hold Your Hand

Pulling in to the sensory gym to pick Jackson up from his OT appointment today, I saw a mom (assuming she's a mother, could have been an aunt, foster parent, caretaker) I've not seen at therapy before. She was sitting on the concrete steps in the sun with her head bent, resting in her hands. By the time I got my kids ready to go inside, she had already gone in. Upon exiting my car, I could hear her son (again assuming her son) screaming from inside the gym. Then I understood. Everything inside me wanted to go hold her hand and tell her what I desperately want to hear in my moments like that. Since she and her son's therapist were handling the situation, I didn't know if it would help or hurt. I had to get Jackson and get us home for lunch and the rest of our school day. So, I didn't. But, I thought I would share this for those of you who know what this woman was facing today, who know that feeling all too well, desperation and exhaustion mixed with a little shame, suffering through a melt down at the playground, the bounce house, the grocery store, school activity, birthday party etc.

Let me hold your hand and tell you. It's going to be ok. I know you're a good mom because if you didn't care, you wouldn't be here, and you certainly wouldn't be fighting this battle in public. The sting of the daggers thrown at you from dozens of glaring eyes will only hurt for a little while, but if you give up and give in to that voice in your head that just wants it to be over, that might set your child back and undo the painstaking hours of work you've already put into overcoming this obstacle. There is light at the end of the tunnel, and there are many, many parents who know what you're going through. If one of us sees you out in public in a situation like this, we'll be routing for you. You can make it. You will survive it. And, I want you to know, I'll be praying for you and for that precious child of yours. I can tell you from experience. You will reach a day when progress has been made, obstacles have been overturned, and the road ahead made just a little bit smoother. You will learn more about life, love and humanity caring for your amazing child than you could learn from a dozen typical children. He is yours! You are his! You've been called to walk this road together, and God will never call you to something He won't give you the strength to handle WELL. Hang in there, and when you don't think you can make it, grab a hand and hold on tight. You are not alone. Let me hold your hand and tell you. It's going to be ok.

Mommy Meltdown

When you look up meltdown in the dictionary, at least the one I have on hand, it is listed as a noun referring to what happens in a nuclear power plant when the fuel in a reactor melts the core and the shielding.

In my house, however, it is used to refer to the irrational, unpredictable and often uncontrollable reaction Jackson has to changes in schedule or expectations (transitioning between activities mostly), and objects or people that scare him (the most recent being stuffed owls at the nature center). Any parent of a child on the spectrum knows exactly what I'm talking about.

There's one other type of meltdown in our house, though. One I don't like to talk about or admit to. That would be the Mommy Meltdown. This is my irrational, unpredictable and often uncontrollable reaction to the events of the day or my expectations for the future. It occurs most often in the quiet of the night when the house is still and I should be sleeping like everyone else. It is often in this stillness that I struggle to calm my mind and my heart. There might be one particular thing that sets me off, but more often than not it is a combination of things resulting in me feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. That's when the tears seem to explode out of me, and I put the Holy Spirit to work translating all my sobs into prayers. If I were to attempt a translation, it would usually be that I can't. I just can't do it. I'm not strong enough. I'm not organized enough. I'm not patient enough. I get frustrated and overwhelmed too easily. Jackson isn't getting what he needs. My other children aren't getting what they need. I'm not enough, and I can't be the mother I want to be.

Now, if I were able to articulate how those prayers usually get answered, I would say that God agrees with me. I'm not strong, organized or patient. I am easily frustrated and overwhelmed. I'm not enough, and I can't give my children everything they need. Now if God just left it there, I think this post would be basically pointless. But, here's the thing. I'm not enough, but God is. He's enough for me and my kids, and he never gets tired, frustrated or overwhelmed. He is strong, organized and infinitely patient, and He offers grace and help for the asking.

There's a transaction that takes place in this meltdown process, a transaction between me and God. I trade my frustration for His peace, my weakness for His strength. I give Him my mess, and He gives me back a blessing. I tell Him I can't keep going, and He tells me it's ok, He'll just carry me for a while.

I wish I could say then I fall asleep and wake up to perfection, but I think that would be missing the point. I've learned a powerful lesson through these mommy meltdowns. I'm not perfect, and I don't have to be. God's love for me and pleasure in me has nothing to do with my performance. He wants to help me do everything He has given me to do, and I don't have to do one thing alone. He's all I need.

It would be nice to learn this lesson well enough never to meltdown again, but I guess it's going to be a work in progress. I'll have to glean a little wisdom from Jackson and his meltdowns. Growth is sometimes slow but always happening. With each day, therapy and incident will come new levels of tolerance and understanding. We'll just have to grow together.