I was wrong

When our twins were little our sensory seeking duo repeatedly pounced on our cat from different angles until one day the cat disappeared and never returned.

I thought our house just had too much going on for anything more than a fish.

I was wrong.

Our kids are older now and their needs and reactions show up differently.

Within 24 hours of the arrival of our 2 kittens our oldest has smiled and snuggled more than the past three years combined.

Instead of spiraling into a melt down our son recovered from frustration within one minute of hugging our new fur balls.

What are your pet stories and preferences? Share below!

Life is better together (re-post from 6/1/18)

Here is the opportunity to check out the post I mentioned in my recent TV interview on Channel 13 with Frank Towner, the CEO of the Tompkins County YMCA. (The interview can be found here: https://youtu.be/RsR5in4tulY)

One of my first years as a special education teacher, my principal scolded me for being too inclusive. I am so proud of that accusation. I truly believe we all belong together. Maybe that is why I keep going to yoga classes at the YMCA.

Although there are a few elite yogis with six packs and perfect form, there are also grandparents and moms with lots of different bodies and abilities from different parts of the world and one big middle aged woman with special needs who comes with her helper. ‘Paula’ sits on a folding chair and occasionally joins in by moving her arms up and to the side. She thanks everyone profusely for their help and gives me a wink paired with a thumbs up when I smile in her direction during class.

Then there is ‘Maria’. This young adult with autism starts the day by taking blankets and blocks from the supply area to set up a comfortable yoga habitat. Her helper lends her arm for balance during the standing postures and gently guides Maria back to the mat when she seeks out more supplies during the class. There is something about the dim lights and meditation ending in a group chant of OM that is particularly powerful for Maria, at least that is how I interpret her squeals as the lights dim.

One day after class, I was rolling up my mat when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maria approach our yoga instructor in the front and sit cross legged in front of her. Without a word, Maria put her hands on our teacher, Lisa’s head. Either Lisa had done this before or just had an intuitive sense. She began to repeat the OM again and encouraged Maria to feel the vibration in her skull. Then Lisa prompted Maria to put her hands on her own head and give it a try, Maria’s body wiggled with glee as she attempted to produce the resonant sounds.

I unrolled my mat and sat down again, tears streaming down my cheeks as Maria’s OM entered the room. Life is better together.

Welcoming Grief as a Guest

Last night I got that call that no one wants. It was my best friend of 36 years explaining through her tears that her dad’s recovery from surgery went from optimistic to sudden death in a matter of moments. This is the guy who lovingly greeted me as “Lid the Kid” (regardless of whether I showed up at the door as a preschooler in pigtails or a mom of four kids with as much silver hair as he had).

As with any sudden loss, today came with a change of plans, moments of productivity, and planning paired with blankly staring at walls and my TO DO lists lying around untouched.

As parents and caregivers, I believe it is critical to allow grief to enter when it knocks on our door. Grief is a guest who arrives to model what it looks like to laugh at old memories, cry beautiful, ugly tears, ask for help, and show vulnerability.

When we name and model the full range of human emotion, we give permission for our children to do the same. We give them words to express it and ways seek support. In the end, we are strongest as our most authentic selves.

Questions for Kindergarten

Our twins have their backpacks and outfits laid out for Kindergarten.  After knowing their amazing teacher for years, my mind is still spinning with questions:

1. Will they make friends?
2. Will they eat anything at lunch or will they get “hangry”?
3. Will they have enough stamina to make it through the whole day in one piece?

This was the one question my son had: Why are people here on earth anyway?

His query brought me back down to the present and out into the timeless universe at the same time.

Now that was a question worth asking.

 

Windshield wipers and gratitude

Every day I am grateful for how far I have come since my brain injury. Sitting in the car pulled over between two state troopers and my daughter in the back seat, I kept repeating out loud, “Our job is to take deep breaths.” The message was just as necessary for me to hear as my eight year old daughter with heightened sensory responses.

The hail pounded our Toyota’s roof as if we were parked in front of the target of a driving range. As our highway hid underneath the falling debris, the alert on my phone informed me the uninvited ice cubes were part of a tornado passing by.

A year ago, moving windshield wipers meant my eyes were closed and I white knuckled my ride with any driver willing to transport me.

As the golf balls quieted and I pulled out behind the officers, I could not have been more grateful for the swish, swish of my wipers at full blast. They seemed to chant, ” hardest part is over, hardest part is over”. Two hours later, we danced with riotous joy at my cousin’s wedding shouting, “L’haim! To life!”(the hardest part is over). And truly meaning it.

Plug in conscience

My commute used to be a rare moment of solace. Then a seemingly innocent package arrived in the mail from our new car insurance company. The “gift” included a plug in conscience with instructions to install it to the computer under our dash board. Now my car tattles on me whenever I don’t come to a complete stop or turn too suddenly.

The first week I shuddered with irritation every time the rule breaker alarm dared to interrupt my rare moment of silence. By the second week, I nearly threw the obnoxious judge out the window. My perfectionistic brain needed no help to think of things I could do better.

Then something In me shifted. Instead of the beep sounding it’s disapproval, I heard it as a wise voice from the universe reminding me that it is okay to come to a complete stop, both on the road and in my daily life. As for shifting directions, this could happen with more ease as well. Any rush is self-inflicted.

Slowly but surely my ride is getting more silent. At times I take a corner a bit too fast just to make sure my loving teacher is still with me. Sure enough, beep. Slow down, love. Beep. It is a good thing to stop and take a breath, you deserve it.

A pile of gratitude

I work with a magical three year old named “Amari”. On beautiful days we take walks and I teach her how to say all the captivating things she sees. Fire hydrant! Sticks! Flagpole!

While I tend to power along the sidewalk, Amari prefers to pause here and there to take in something special like a dog’s water dish or a forgotten bicycle.

The other day she spotted a huge pile of raked leaves waiting by the side of a quiet neighborhood street. With glee she looked at the pile then at me and raised her arms up high in hopes I would pick her up and throw her in. I tossed her in at the count of three then joined her crashing into a crunchy soft bed of orange and brown.

Shortly after our landing, I was eager to get up and get going but she had other plans. Following her gaze, I looked up above the street and houses to the almost bare Sycamore tree standing regally above our heads. The strong branches held lightly the last leaves of autumn made even more stunning by the blue sky.

I started driving down this street fourteen years ago and this was the very first time I looked up. Amari did not need any words to introduce me to the beauty of the white and gray dappled tree bark against the radiant sky. All she had to do was teach by example; jump in fully, take your time and look up.

Joy for keeps

When I was a kid we had pretend cameras made of wood with a fake external flash cube that rotated around with each picture. In the tiny viewing glass it didn’t matter what you were aiming at, the images rotated through cartoon like pastoral scenes. The subject on the other side of the camera could strike any pose they wished without ever having a witness.

Tonight at my sister’s east coast wedding party, my preschool son snuck off with my phone and began taking shots of all our beloved family friends milling about my parents’ backyard.

Apparently, posing for a three foot tall photographer comes with its own rules. These ordinarily contained people stuck out their tongues at odd angles and scrunched up their noses in ways I did not know to be humanly possible.

For a millisecond, the partygoers became their four-year-old selves.My son captured these tiny moments of joy for keeps.

I am a grateful witness.

Not (yet) illuminated

I have turned right, onto my street countless times. Driving home in the dark tonight, I noticed something new. I flipped on my blinker, showing my intention to head in a new direction before the light fully illuminated my way. I was heading home without being able to see home.

How would this moment of transition from recovery to new work be different if I trust I have enough light to guide me home- even when the path is not yet fully lit?

Life is better together

One of my first years as a special education teacher, my principal scolded me for being too inclusive. I am so proud of that accusation. I truly believe we all belong together. Maybe that is why I keep going to yoga classes at the YMCA.

Although there are a few elite yogis with six packs and perfect form, there are also grandparents and moms with lots of different bodies and abilities from different parts of the world and one big middle aged woman with special needs who comes with her helper. ‘Paula’ sits on a folding chair and occasionally joins in by moving her arms up and to the side. She thanks everyone profusely for their help and gives me a wink paired with a thumbs up when I smile in her direction during class.

Then there is ‘Maria’. This young adult with autism starts the day by taking blankets and blocks from the supply area to set up a comfortable yoga habitat. Her helper lends her arm for balance during the standing postures and gently guides Maria back to the mat when she seeks out more supplies during the class. There is something about the dim lights and meditation ending in a group chant of OM that is particularly powerful for Maria, at least that is how I interpret her squeals as the lights dim.

One day after class, I was rolling up my mat when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maria approach our yoga instructor in the front and sit cross legged in front of her. Without a word, Maria put her hands on our teacher, Lisa’s head. Either Lisa had done this before or just had an intuitive sense. She began to repeat the OM again and encouraged Maria to feel the vibration in her skull. Then Lisa prompted Maria to put her hands on her own head and give it a try, Maria’s body wiggled with glee as she attempted to produce the resonant sounds.

I unrolled my mat and sat down again, tears streaming down my cheeks as Maria’s OM entered the room. Life is better together.