Adoption and Teachers and Watching What You Say

by Ajike Akande

The weirdest thing happened the other morning when I dropped Z at school ON TIME!  Yes, I realize the fact that I managed to get him to school on time is, in itself a weird thing, but it’s not the weird thing I’m referring to.   (You’ll be happy to know if you read my posts about my encounters with the Late SlipLady last year, that Z has been late only five times this school year!)

The weird thing took place when I ran into his teacher who has been on parental leave since last January, when Z was in grade 1, and will be returning as his teacher this coming January.  We started chatting about Z’s struggles in math, which are significant and out of the “everybody learns at their own pace” range.  She said, “Well you don’t know the family history, right?”  Wait, what?  Come again? 

If you are new to my almost weekly blog posts, Z is adopted.  He came home at four months.  He was born close to Toronto, where we live and our adoption was through the public system.  He is awesome.  He is also a kid, so sometimes he hides his awesome.  I am happy to tell you all of these things.  On most days, Z is happy to tell you these things.  What I am not happy to share, nor do I appreciate be asked about, are the details of his family history.  I also do not appreciate the assumption that the more challenging things about him, such as his inaptitude for math, are connected to his family history, which, of course, is assumed to be bad. 

I am not saying that family history, medical and otherwise, is not significant, but as Z’s parents, Wife and I can, with or without asked-for support, consider the role of our son’s birth family’s history play in his current abilities and share what is necessary.  Where he comes from is important.  It’s part of his life story.  His entire life story has and will always be important but it his personal story. 

Interestingly, in this same conversation, I mentioned (bragged) that our Z will be playing a mouse in the professional production of The Nutcracker this year.  Not surprisingly, the teacher did not look sympathetically at me and say “Well you don’t know the family history!”  So his special talent in and unwavering love for, dance could not have possibly been a gift from his birth family?  Can we please stop demonizing the birth parents that place their children for adoption?  Can we please stop assuming that they have influenced their children negatively?  Please stop assuming you know where my kid comes from.  And please stop blaming his birth family.  It’s really nobody’s business what Z’s history is until he or we invite them to make it their business.

2 yr old Z ready to garden...obviously

And yes, there are occasions when a child’s history, biological and otherwise, is essential to supporting them in school, but I just wish that people would simmer down with the assumptions and trust that all parents want what’s best for the children and will share information that is relevant and important to help their children learn.  (I do know that there are parents who have kept truly pertinent information about their child, be they adopted or not, from teachers and caregivers but this is not the norm.)

Reflecting on this exchange, I wish I had told his teacher that her question/comment was inappropriate.  I also wish I had said, “What difference does his family history make? He is a student who is almost two grade levels below in math, what are you going to do about it?"  Instead of playing detective and trying to find answers for who or what caused this problem, spend some time trying to understand his needs as a learner and just teach him.  Start where he’s at (not where he should be) and teach him until he learns it.  Not easy, but kinda simple, right? 

Phew, glad that’s off my chest!  Thank you for reading my rant!

XO Ajike

* Some of you reading this may be thinking about race being a factor in the teacher’s comments.  For the record, I think it is, but I just don’t have the capacity or time to grapple with that issue in a blog post.  Additionally, I know that I really only skimmed the surface when it comes to issues around disclosure and adoption.  I hope you understand that my lack of depth here is not for lack of understanding of the issues. 

'Roid Rage

by Ajike Akande

Where I live the temperature has dropped significantly and there is no denying we are deep in the heart of autumn.  It’s either grey and rainy or brisk and sunny.  With the arrival of autumn is also the arrival of flu season.  Don’t worry this is not going to be a post about the flu shot and whether or not you should get it.  In my house some of us get it, and some don’t for a variety of reasons.  Regardless of the flu shot, however, our Mr. Lee will spend many weeks of the next six months hacking, taking his puffers and hanging out in the emergency room at our local children’s hospital.  It’s all good times for him throughout the many months of cold!

Mr. Lee has poorly controlled asthma with a side of 4 anaphylactic allergies.  He is also a buzzing, busy three year old who is otherwise healthy so I rarely shelter him from people who are sick, and therefore he catches every virus his snotty buddies have to offer.  Don’t get me wrong, I encourage frequent hand washing and request that he not lick people as a way to greet them, but he’s wee, and if licking makes him feel closer to his friends, then that’s a risk we’ll have to take!  Truth is, I would be happy if he got sick less and if every cough didn’t turn into a trip to the hospital for heavy doses of Ventolin (airway opener) and inhaled and liquid steroids.  The high doses of steroids are really, really bad for a small body (any body actually) but when it comes to breathing the benefits outweigh the risks.  It’s not just stress on his body that I am concerned about it’s also the monthly experience of spending time with a three year old fountain of energy loaded up with steroids!  I am not exaggerating when I say that my three year old has ‘Roid Rage! 

Do you know Animal from the Muppets?  This is regular Animal.  This is also essentially regular Mr. Lee. 

 

This is what I imagine Animal looks like full of steroids and Ventolin.  This is a fraction of Mr. Lee’s intensity when full of steroids and Ventolin. 

Last weekend I spent two days hanging out in the emergency unit with Animal aka Mr. Lee. 

I never forget that I’m a lucky mom.  I know that Mr. Lee’s trips to the hospital will last only a day or two.  He has never had to be admitted because we are now experienced and comfortable taking care of our sick, but pretty healthy, guy at home.  We know when to return to the hospital and they’re always open (thanks for that, by the way).  I’m surprisingly not worried about a sick Mr. Lee.  Unfortunately, my chill attitude about our little asthmatic was challenged when I took him in last weekend and his oxygen saturation was low enough that he needed an oxygen mask.  I was informed by the nurse, as she quickly got an oxygen mask on him, that my baby was apparently about to pass out.  I was surprised he usually doesn't get that bad, but he gladly took the oxygen mask and gladly tore it off when he didn’t need it anymore.  Being the weirdo that I am, as soon as I knew that Mr. Lee was okay and in good hands (i.e.: not mine), I stopped worrying about him and turned my attention to my favourite anxious thoughts reserved for when I am with my children’s health care providers: Do they think I’m a bad mother?  Do I seem neglectful or uncaring?  Do I seem totally neurotic?  And my favourite over the top thought: Do I have Munchausen by proxy?  Who thinks these things?  Anyway, Mr. Lee must have noticed that I had hopped on my crazy, anxiety train and it was up to him to get me off.  Fully loaded on liquid steroids and 34 (I kid you not) puffs within an hour of “rescue inhalers” to open up his airway, he got to work on redirecting my attention.  How you ask? 

You know who has an unnatural level of strength and anger?  A three year old on a drug that increases his heart rate.  I am not sure if Mr. Lee wanted to guarantee that I never have any more children (never going to happen) or that I never use the bathroom again without crying, but the swift kicks between my legs were a surefire way to guarantee that I remembered that he was the man of the hour.  And why stop at kicking?  He bit me, scratched me, slapped me and my favourite – he grabbed my face so hard with his razor sharp nails and held on while screaming at the top of his lungs.  I had been trying to quell the screaming (to no avail) but was grateful for it when he wouldn’t let go of my face.  A nurse – not our nurse, but a nurse taking care of a much calmer child, came into the room, wondering if I was removing hairs from my child’s head one at a time, causing him to scream out for help.  She took one look at me and leach-boy and jumped into action to release Mr. Lee’s painful grip around my cheeks.   After I told her that I loved her, as you do, she smiled and suggested that I walk the wild child around the emergency unit until the doctor could see him again.  The walk about was a good idea indeed and grabbing sterile bottles and gauze and pushing dirty linen hampers around is not at all disruptive to the families with truly sick children and the health care professionals trying to care for them!  Sorry hospital friends, I am hoping that the cost of hospital parking will cover the damages.  

Listen, I am not giving up on our goal to drastically decrease the number of times we visit the ER this school year, but considering that this is the second time since the beginning of September, the odds aren’t looking so good.  Of course the silver lining, because usually if you look hard enough, you can find it, is that nurse Anju and I can catch up every month and talk about our twins and I can watch another set of talented medical residents make it through another year. I am starting to feel a real closeness with the ER staff and let’s face it “sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name”!  

Cheers, (just kidding)

Stay healthy! 

XO Ajike

Infinity Scarves, Panic Attacks & Over-sharing

by Ajike Akande

When I was pregnant with our first set of twins my mother told me that she would pay for me to have a tummy tuck after the babes were born.  Please note she didn’t even qualify this offer with statements like “If you want….” or even the less kind “If you need…”, she just went for the jugular (or tummy, in this case) and assumed that I would both need and want a tummy tuck!  I was offended and shocked and seriously considered calling the feminist police!  This story, by the way, has nothing to do with anything, I just really wanted to share it with you folks because well, an actual person (who I love beyond words), offered to pay for my future tummy tuck.  This kind of thing warrants documentation!   Full stop. 

A few interesting things have been brought to my attention recently:

1.  I over-share on this here blog.  My brother said this.  He’s a nice guy and all, but we have never really seen eye to eye about anything.  This is not only because he’s 6’6 and I am 5’3.

2.  One of my nearest and dearest friends told me that she finds my commitment to the infinity scarf unsettling and annoying.  Something about it being a way that otherwise disheveled parents make themselves look put together.  She declared this truth as though it’s a bad thing.  I thank God every day for infinity scarves and that there is a surefire way to take leggings (yes they are so pants) and runners up a notch!

3.  My unfocussed rambling, out loud and in writing, is charming and adorable.  Nobody said this or probably even thought this but it’s so true, right? 

Okay so before you close your computer and stop reading this nonsense, I’m going to bring this all together.  

Last Saturday I had my first by-definition panic attack.  I actually had my first panic attack after our first baby Isaiah died.  I don’t really count that time because temporarily falling completely apart and shattering like glass is, in my view, not an exceptional response to the loss of a child.  I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, so I could be wrong in saying that what I had after Isaiah died was not a panic attack but I am going with it, therefore making last Saturday’s panic attack my first. 

If you have never had a panic attack, just don’t.  There are a bazillion other, less scary, things to do when you are alone in your house.  I felt like I couldn’t breath.  I couldn’t catch my breath.  My heart was racing; head was spinning.  I thought it would never end.  My mom, who I called on the phone, but could not actually speak to, listened to whole thing.  It was all she could do.  Unbeknownst to me she was getting ready to leave her house while on the phone in case she needed to come over.  I thought I would have to go to the hospital.  But after about 20 minutes the panic attack was done.  I was catching my breath and sipping water.  I was relieved to discover that panic attacks do end and don’t cause actual heart attacks.

I would love to say that my panic attack was caused by some sort of cognitive distortion - that my mind was focusing on something that isn’t real or awful or that I was letting a fear take over.  The truth is, I was trying to solve some very real problems – how to ensure that there is always someone available to be one on one with Miss O, how to approach Z’s teachers about the fact that he is seriously behind in math, how to support Wife in her efforts to spend quality one on one time with G-Dog whose anxiety goes through the roof when she is being separated from her siblings, how on earth to stop Mr. Lee from calling me a Butthead and about a million other things.   With the pressure of family time (nuclear and extended) over Thanksgiving it was all too much.  

Not that long after losing control of my body and thoughts during a panic attack, I was back to mothering as Wife and the kiddos came busting into the house after riding scooters.  We played and got on with the business of being a busy, chaotic pack.  Naturally, I dawned my infinity scarf.  I looked like I had it all together.  I didn’t, but nobody could tell.

 

On Tuesday I had an appointment with my psychiatrist (This may be what my brother was referring to when he said that I over-share!).  Feeling that feelings of intense anxiety – not full-blown attacks but serious anxiety, were becoming a consistent part of my days, I decided I wanted to ask for a prescription for Ativan.  This seemed like a reasonable thing to help me get through those moments when I couldn’t just breathe through the anxiety.  Unfortunately, the challenges of asking for psychiatric drugs is not lost on me, so I was worried about how “the ask” would go.  I posted this on Facebook:

Because my friends are awesome, I received some hilarious suggestions. 

This is what I chose to wear:

Not seen here: black skinny jeans and colourful canvas shoes (conservative with a touch of cheery)

I considered the look featured below, but with the scarf, I just thought I looked too together, and that she would think I was possibly asking for the drugs to sell not for personal use! 

I guess I passed the imaginary test.  I got me some Ativan.  I have not filled the script.  The yoga breathing, that I have never and likely will never use while doing yoga, seems to be working.  I am aware more aware than ever, how much time I spend on looking like I have it all together.  I needed my Facebook family to help me decide what to wear to the psychiatrist, after all.   The makeup and sparkly jewelry, the scarf and the well-timed sarcastic remarks make my depression and anxiety really palatable to those around me including the people who are in positions of power with the ability to directly impact how I manage my mental health.  I “pass”.  I have access.  I have education and knowledge and money.  I have confidence.  With this power and access, I am able, with far greater ease than most, to care for my babies and myself.  When not in the middle of a panic attack or one of the many frustrating and hard parenting moments I face every day, I remember this privilege. 

My take away from this post?  (I’m pretty sure I write just to find the answers to my own burning questions.) 

1.  Buy more infinity scarves and know that sometimes I wear them because well, fashion, but sometimes they may also double as a mask.  I am not the only parent using this (or another) mask to look like I've got it all together.  The parents that we see at the park, in the grocery store, at work, who look like they’re doing just fine, may not have it together at all.  They may be employing the "fake it ‘til you make it" strategy just like me. 

2.  Be aware of the privileges that I hold that make it never easy, but probably easier to deal with my mental health issues. 

3.  I am doing fine without a tummy tuck.  Thank you very much! 

4.  It is totally reasonable to cut my hair every two weeks, even if I have hardly any hair to begin with, because it makes me look like I have it all together and it makes me feel hot! 

Gotta go.  My barber is calling me to the chair.  Not even making this up.  

XO Ajike

Breaking Up Is Not So Hard To Do

by: Ajike Akande

The Silverman-Akandes have broken up.  Sorta.  On the weekends.  I think we’re onto something.  Let me explain…

Remember back in August, I wrote about how Wife and I decided we were big family parents without considering whether or not we would actually have big family kids.  You can read that post here.  (By the way, I have learned that deciding what kind of parent you are before you are actually a parent, or a parent under specific circumstances, is a waste of time unless you like being totally wrong and caught off guard.  You’ve been warned.  You are welcome.)  At least one person every day tells me that they couldn’t possibly handle raising five kids, or twins, or two sets of twins.  Basically my whole life as a parent is something most people have no problem telling me, they couldn’t handle!  This does not help me on the really bad days because on bad days I don’t think I can’t handle it either but I do handle it because, well the small humans depend on me to handle my s#*t!  

Apparently, I’ve got a parenting situation some (many?) people don’t want.  What about the kids though?  They don’t even know that their family could be different.  They have two moms, a whack of brothers and sisters - one who passed away before they could meet her.  Z has a Tummy Mommy, a mommy and a mama and little sisters and a brother who are twins.   They are mixed race, and not.  They are Jewish with a mommy who is not.  Their family is their family.  They only know that having a family of five kids is a big deal because they hear what people say when they find out!  Wife and I talk about how hard and intense it is to have a larger family, but the kids don’t talk about it.  I think we all know, however, that just because they don’t talk about how hard it is, doesn’t mean that they don’t feel it. 

Assuming that, like us, our children feel a little overwhelmed when all seven of us are together for the less structured weekend, we decided to do something about it.  Without asking the children their opinion (Why would we ask their opinion?) we decided that every weekend the Silverman-Akandes would split up.  Many families use the divide and conquer strategy for an afternoon, or a whole day or occasional weekends.  We like to take extreme measures.  (This nugget of information should not surprise you.)  Friends, until further notice, we will break up every weekend, except holiday weekends when we will grit our teeth and lean in to the tantrums!  After the children finish their 9am dance class on Saturdays, two or three of them head up north with Wife to my family’s farm and the remaining kids, which always includes Z, the tiny and heavily programmed dancer, stay home with me.   

We are about five weeks into The Great Weekend Divide aaaaaand, it’s working.  It’s not perfect, but it’s working.  The kids are happier and calmer.  So are we.  I miss Wife and Saturday night take-out in front of Netflix.  Neither of us gets a break, because we are always with at least two children.  The kids miss each other and the mom that they are not with.  But, going up north with mama means a slow, quiet weekend with no chores to be done.  Staying in the city with me means a chance to hang out with friends (if I get my butt in gear to make that happen) and definitely some kind of sweet treat while being schlepped between dance studios with the tiny dancer.  Splitting up also means that we can switch it up so that the twin sets can bond with someone other than their regular partner in crime.  The opportunity for our children to develop stronger connections with each other is the sweetest bonus of the weekend break-up. 

As it turns out friends, the Silverman-Akandes are not better - good, but not better, together.  Together we are loud love, non-stop giggles, frequent fights, high highs and the lowest of the lows.  Together we are shoulders up around our ears and kitchen dance parties.  We are extreme – the same way we are all week.  These separate weekends, the 30 hours under different roofs, provides everyone with the same good times but just enough calm to stalk up on cuddles and attention to survive another busy school week. 

Not surprisingly, every weekend, G-Dog whines to us that “we are a family and we’re supposed to be together.”  I love that she feels this way.  I also suspect that somewhere she knows that together is not always better. 

XO Ajike

P.S. I don’t want to beg (at least not in a totally obvious way) but if my peeps showed up at my house on a Saturday night with or without (preferably with) a bottle of wine, I would totally let you in! 

Me: Tree, You: Apple

by: Ajike Akande

We have all heard the expression “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”  Have you noticed that the expression is rarely used in a positive way?  It’s never like “Wow, your kid is so funny and brilliant.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”  It’s more like “Your child talks a lot (read: too much) and is super stubborn.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”  What is “wrong” with the tree is sometimes “wrong” with the apple.  Nature, nurture or combo of the two - doesn’t matter, sometimes the apple just falls right next to the tree.  We often reap what we sew.  Sometimes we could stand to cut a new pattern before getting our stitch on.    

Our marvelous and “extra” G-dog was recently diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) (why be specific about anxiety, always go for a catch-all) and Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD).  We could have a debate about the problems with diagnosing and labelling kids as well as the degree to which the people who do the diagnosing actually know our kiddos, but that’s a conversation, not a blog post.   Wife and I have chosen to let “the people” assess and diagnose our kiddos because the process and the information gathered may be helpful.  It may also be a waste of time, but hope springs eternal that it will help us, and most importantly, them. 

Assessment and diagnosis doesn’t change our kids or their behaviours except maybe
G-Dog’s. During a public tantrum (the best kind of tantrum), days after meeting with the psychiatrists at our local children’s hospital, when I asked her to speak kindly to me and not hit me, she yelled, with a familiar scrunched up, gritted teeth face, “Didn’t you hear the doctors?  I’m not like you!  I’m a different person!  I’m not like everyone else.  I hit and scream! I’m not like you!”  First of all, G-Dog you are sooooo like me!  Secondly, this scene serves as a reminder of what can happen when assessing, diagnosing and labelling kids – they start to believe their diagnosis is who they are not something that makes life, in many cases, harder and hopefully what provides them with some unique gifts.   

Fortunately, after we received the diagnosis or what I like to think of as the black and white documented reminder that G-Dog is not doing this - the tantrums, the hitting, the rigidity on purpose, she was offered a space in a therapy group for wee ones with anxiety & and difficult behaviour.  By the way, the reminder that she is not doing this on purpose is the most important part of the whole assessment and diagnosis process for me.  Anyway, for 10 weeks anxious kids get together and teach each other new things to be anxious about.  Could you imagine?  In reality the kiddos get together and learn how to manage their anxious thoughts and subsequent behaviour, while the parents learn how to support their kids who just feel things “extra”. 

At our parenting group last week, we were introduced to a temperament rating scale.  We looked at different areas such as sensitivity, adaptability, and approach to new things and had to plot ourselves, our partners and our kids on the scale.  Not surprisingly, we were asked to examine the scale after to see if we could notice any patterns.  You know where I’m going with this don’t you?  In front of me, was a temperament scale confirming that Grace’s behaviour was not her fault; it was mine!  Nurture is powerful but it seems to be that I, through nature, have passed on some of the special traits that make me totally “extra”!

Wife and Grace, are on opposite ends of the scale in every category.  They do not share genetics.  Based on the temperament scale, Grace and I share ALL the genetics!  Me: tree, Grace: apple.  She feels too deeply, I take 295mg of psychiatric drugs a day so I don’t feel too deeply!  She screams with such intensity and volume that it can be very scary.  I’ve worked hard (and succeeded) at not dealing with my anger in that way.  She is good at understanding how others feel and when she feels love, everybody hears about it.  Me too.  I “get” my baby G-Dog and maybe when she’s older she’ll get her mommy too.

Now that it has been brought to my attention that my little apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree, I want to write something that one day I will share with her. 

To my G-Dog,

First we have to get something out of the way.  Do you know how much I love you?  You will probably never really know, it’s just so, so, SO much. 

I know you don’t always feel my love for you because you see my angry face, even when I’m not making one.   You don’t always feel my love because you hear my deep sigh, that is about how tired I am or overwhelmed I feel or annoyed I am with the driver in front of me, and think it’s about you.  You don’t feel my love because you listen carefully to every syllable of every word that comes out of my mouth seemingly listening for frustration or anger or flippancy directed towards you.  You do all of these things, so you may not always feel my love.  I used to do the same to my mommy, your nanny.  In fact I sometimes still listen and look for Nanny’s unspoken feelings about me but now I don’t mention it to her, I tell Mama instead!  Mama loves having to debrief my conversations with Nanny; it may be her most favourite thing about living with me! 

The point is, G-Dog, I understand the worry you feel about how much Mama and I love you.  My sweet, you are one of my five favourite imperfect people on this earth.  (The other four are your brothers and sisters.)  I know how much you hate to be wrong, but when it comes to you thinking that I don’t love you as much as I love all the Silverman-Akande small humans, you are wrong kiddo.  Really, really wrong.  I adore you girl.  That’s just the way it is.  Aaannnnd you are imperfect (so am I) so sometimes I gots to lay it down and let you know ‘cuz that’s my job as your mommy.  But I never stop loving you even when I’m angry.

And when you complain about having to leave the house to go anywhere new, especially a party, I know how you’re feeling. I have to fight my urge to just say, “Don’t worry baby, we can stay home and cuddle up on the couch and watch our favourite shows and eat the same things we always we eat, 'cuz we hate change.”  I never want to go to parties and meet new people and eat new food.  When Mama makes me go, or even better, when I make myself go, I often have a really good time. I’ve had to learn to push past the “I don’t want to leave the house” feelings.  I hope I do a good job at showing you that I understand your fear while encouraging you to do what’s hard because I want you to know that you can do hard things. 

Here’s the thing, you are a whole lot of “extra”.  You feel deep, deep, deep.  It’s so wonderful, it can also be hard and exhausting.  You come from a long line of deep feelers.  When feeling so much is hard, know that I am sorry to have given you this burden.  When feeling so much is wonderful, know that I am honoured to have given you this gift. 

We are so much alike, but we are not the same.  You will do with your “extra” self, what you wish to and what you need to.  I hope you do better than I have with all your big feelings because you are learning about them and how they work inside of you as a little one.  Mommy had to grow up and become a lesbian and subsequently go through years of therapy before I started understanding my big feelings. (Seriously G-Dog coming out as a lesbian and then enrolling in therapy was a “thing” in my day.)

G-Dog you are extra.  Extra sweet, extra intense, extra funny, extra stubborn, extra clever, extra curious, extra sensitive and extra, extra special.  As your little sister would say, “I love you twice.”  And as your little brother would say, “I love you this, big much!”

Carry on lil’ warrior.  You can do hard things. 

xo Mommy

* “Carry on warrior” the name of Glennon Melton’s book

Special Needs Parenting - Superstar Miss O

by: Ajike Akande

For sometime on this here blog, I have been touching on what is going on with Miss O and G-Dog, without really getting into the nitty gritty.  I just haven’t felt like I could or should totally “go there” but I think it’s about time that I start talking about and naming my girls’ challenges. I recently started following Diary of a Mom, a blog written by a mom with two awesome girls, one of whom is autistic.  Sometimes I find the Diary mom way too perfect.   She never complains about the challenges of raising a child with special needs but focuses on how she manages the challenges.  She seemingly advocates effortlessly for her daughter and celebrates her beautifully.  She’s also a fabulous phone photographer and captures her ridiculously beautiful daughters perfectly.  A little bit, I hate her. 

The point is, though, her daily stories help me see my little monkeys in a different way.  Her posts make me feel less frustrated and more loving.  They make me want to do better as a mom to kids with challenges.  And for reasons not clear to me right now, her blog makes me feel as though I have a right to take up some space in the corner of the blogosphere occupied by parents of kids with special needs. 

This won’t be my last post about raising kiddos with special needs, but it’s not what I plan to write about all the time.  I also need to be clear that all children, regardless of their needs, are totally frustrating and stress inducing (and also awesome) so just because some of my children have special needs does not mean I won’t complain about how annoying they all can be.  If it makes you feel any better, I am 100% sure that they will (do?) complain about me and Wife just as much.  I should also say that I’m not a parent who feels like our children’s challenges are a blessing.  The children are a true blessing; their challenges are not.  You won’t hear me saying that I wouldn’t change anything about them, ‘cuz I would.  I would take away the part of their brain that makes a seam in their socks feel like a needle.  I would take away the part of them that makes surprises no fun at all.  I would take away the part that makes it hard for them to persevere when they are trying to explain what they want or what they think.  And while that absence of those things would make parenting them easier, I wouldn’t take away the tough stuff for me, I would do it for them.  Our Miss O is the happiest person you’ll ever meet but there are parts of every single day that are excruciating for her.  Nobody wants that for their child.  G-Dog has to push through a whole lot of worries which make her so angry and so defiant, to find her happy.  I feel for her and wish it were different. 

To write about both girls and their special needs, would take a really long time, so I’ll start with Miss O who is having the hardest time these days. 

Almost two years ago, Miss O went through a developmental and cognitive assessment as well as genetic testing.  In the end, we were told that her genetics were beautiful (thank you Mom and Dad and Sperm Donor Guy), that her results landed on the diagnostic cusp of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and that she will likely have a learning disability based on early cognitive testing.  In regards to an ASD diagnosis, we were told that girls are often diagnosed later than boys and that we may find that as she gets older and the social demands increase, she will meet the diagnostic criteria for ASD.  Watch and see.  When they told us about her results in the cognitive tests, we all agreed that it was too soon to really know anything about any learning difficulties.  It’s a little unfair to test what has definitely not been taught.  Let the child go to school before we decide she has trouble learning! 

But, of course, parents know their kids.  Before her third birthday she had received physical, occupational and speech therapy.  Being the superstar that she is, she took that therapy and told us all where to go when she reached every goal we set within the time we had hoped, but we still had this feeling that our superstar daughter wasn’t like other kids.  With a built in comparison in her twin sister, the differences were hard to ignore.

After being told that she had the characteristics of a child with autism except that she was too social and too interested in sharing her world with those around her, we learned about ways that we could support her.  We confirmed that she has Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), learned about issues of sleep and autism and starting using picture schedules and social stories to help her manage daily routines and transitions as well as new outings and experiences better.  We found an amazing school that offers an integrated program with 20% of the class having ASD, communication disorders or other developmental issues. (G-Dog has joined her sister at Yes I Can and we truly believe that both girls are getting a wonderful program that meets their needs.) We carried on as though Miss O had a confirmed ASD diagnosis, because we truly felt that that was what was coming. 

Now, almost two years after Miss O’s initial assessment, we will be heading back to the team of psychologists, therapists and nurses to repeat the assessments.  We are starting to see significant regression and loss of skills in Miss O and she is having greater difficultly getting through the day.  We are seeing our smart, funny child with excellent language skills, who expresses herself well, struggle to communicate.  We are seeing our kind and compassionate child become overwhelmed and behave inappropriately towards others.  Miss O needs more support and we need guidance and an actual diagnosis to ensure that she gets it.

Knowing that the assessment will take place in the next couple of months, I have said to close friends and Wife, that I feel as though we are on the verge of receiving bad news.  I don’t know for sure what this new assessment will reveal but I know in my heart that our awesome, superstar Miss O experiences this world a bit differently and that can be really hard for her.  And while I think the news will be “bad”, like all news, it won’t be a big deal for long.  She’ll be the same kid, that fills and breaks my heart every day, but we will, and most importantly, she will have more information about how to turn down the excruciating and turn up the joy. 

I will definitely share more as we learn more about Miss O.  Before signing off, I have to share this: One of the things that we have discovered about Miss O, is that nothing calms her hurting heart like YouTube videos, specifically Tyler Ward’s acoustic version of Rihanna’s song Umbrella.  After an epic (sorry neighbours) meltdown last Sunday evening we watched the Umbrella video 12 times in a row!  In. A. Row.  It was the only thing that would calm her down.  It was truly remarkable.    So these days, when her calm, and her joy go missing, she finds them in this video.  I actually wrote Tyler Ward a letter thanking him!  He probably won’t respond because, ah, weird mom, but I had to thank him.  He totally saved Sunday! 

Just in case you have misplaced your calm or joy, or you love a good acoustic cover of a pop song (they’re soooo great), here’s the video: 

Oh and here are the lyrics to the song that Miss O, after screaming for 20 minutes, listened to 12 times while cuddling with me with her head on my chest.  I may have cried listening to the lyrics and soaked the dear child’s head.  Just read the lyrics, you would cry too (if it happened to you)!

You had my heart, and we'll never be worlds apart
Maybe in magazines, but you'll still be my star
Baby 'cause in the dark, you can't see shiny cars
And that's when you need me there
With you, I'll always share

Because when the sun shines, we'll shine together
Told you I'll be here forever
Said I'll always be your friend
Took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end

Now that it's raining more than ever
Know that we'll still have each other
You can stand under my umbrella
You can stand under my umbrella (Ella ella, eh eh eh)  

Under my umbrella (Ella ella, eh eh eh)  Under my umbrella

XO Ajike  

Growing Out Of Babyhood

by Ajike Akande

A few months ago I took things up a notch and adopted a little “5 minute (makeup) face” routine.  I have come to truly love rosy cheeks and glossy lips, but I don’t spend the 5 minutes in front of the mirror applying makeup while trying to prevent my children, who are always crowded around me, from dumping multiple shades of blush on the floor, because I believe my beauty lives in a MAC bottle.  I quite like a natural look.  I spend the time because I don’t want the small children I see over the course of a day to be scared off by the dark circles and substantial puff around my eyes.  Quite frankly, it’s not pretty and there is nothing natural about it.  The puffy circles are the result of many years of having less sleep than required.  Sleep deprivation is not natural it’s real but it’s person-made.  Small, young person-made.  My point, because there is one, is that this morning, I should have taken a big pass on the five minutes.  I did some major weeping this morning a few hours after the makeup routine and I just ended up looking like a hot mess!   Here’s why…

This morning, being no different from other mornings I did the face thing and I was looking bright, cheery and totally on top of my sh*t, if I do say so myself.  Once all spiffied up, I packed up The Middles and The Littles to drive them (all of them) to school.  I was taking F-Jammie and Mr. Lee to their first day of Preschool.  For those of you who are just skimming this post, it bears repeating:  F-Jammie and Mr. Lee went to Preschool for the first time today.  Until now, The Littles have been left with one of three babysitters or family.  We have never set them free with other children without a grown person of their own watching over them. 

When they arrived at school and walked into their classroom, they were greeted by their super enthusiastic preschool teachers (You know, the kind of teachers who can smile through anything including a kid peeing their pants while they are holding them on their hip.)  At first my guys were pretty happy.  I told them that I would be back and left the room.  Unfortunately, I made the rookie mistake and stayed in the building - out of sight but in earshot.  When I heard Mr. Lee scream “No! Put me down! No!  I want mommy!” I lost it.  Really, really lost it.  Can we say, ugly crying?  I went over to the two-way mirror, (God’s little gift to the neurotic parent) and took a front row seat to view the movie Mr. Lee Has a Tantrum When He Realizes Mommy is Not Close By.  (Can we just pause and think about who would play the part of me?  Please post any thoughts in the comments.)  I watched him carry on while being held by a smiling, calm teacher.  I watched his twin sister, F-Jammie, follow him and the teacher around the room until he calmed down, which made me cry even more.  She was making sure that her brother was okay.  I wasn’t surprised; she is loving like that.  I felt proud that she showed so much compassion for her brother but also guilty because she felt as though she had to make sure that her sad bro was being taken care of while mommy up and left.  

 Finally the inside voice kicked in – “Leave woman!  Go pee alone, drink coffee while it’s hot, make and finish a phone call!”  I don’t often get time to myself in the middle of the day.   I left the school, still sobbing and called a friend to cry to her.  She reminded me that Mr. Lee and I are both ready for some time apart and that F-Jammie was born with her bags packed for university and her attachment to me is really about the snacks!  After the pep talk, I went for coffee and thought about how the phase of parenting babies is coming to an end.

We have been in the “baby” phase for years.  We never “saw the light”.  We were fortunate to be able to plan and have our children very close together.  Please note that these plans were made assuming that we would have one baby at a time.  Please also note that I am aware that we went for another round even after we had evidence suggesting that the assumption of one baby at a time was weak.  Point is, after asking, “What the actual f%&k were we thinking?” about a million times, we settled into the all baby all the time, way of life.  Seven years later, nobody is breast-feeding (Breast fondling – always; breast-feeding – never.)  Daytime diapers and cribs are a thing of the past.  Scooters are increasingly the mode of transportation and the stroller more often gets left at home.  Things are changing.  Praise God, things are changing.  Also, I totally hate change. 

After just over an hour, drinking hot coffee and thinking about my changing life, I went back to the school to pick up The Middles and The Littles.  These are the happy, suddenly older, proud-of-themselves, sibling-loving faces that came through the door. 

I have felt drained, the way you do after a good cry, all day.  The makeup has been wiped away by the waterworks and I can’t seem to lose the home-sicky feeling in my gut.  I guess the home-sicky feeling makes sense.  When we are home, we are surrounded by the familiar, what we are used to.  I am used to being a mommy to babies.  I have never had babies grow out of babyhood without another baby, two actually, to take their place.  I am losing a little bit of what is familiar.  It really is time, but I still feel a little home-sicky.  I wonder if my babies, The Littles, feel the same.

XO Ajike

P.S.  I am looking for excuses not to go grocery shopping the two mornings a week that The Littles are at school.  Who wants to meet up for hot coffee?