friday haiku (and some thoughts on Elliott)

Having a good day?
How is your family doing?
Love he shows strangers

::

I haven't encountered many 10-year-olds with a more generous heart and empathetic nature, especially around strangers and animals. One moment that really stands out from our recent family trip to Edinburgh was on the last day in the late afternoon when we were checking out of a store.

Elliott studied the cashier and then said, "How are you doing? Have you had a long day?"

The shopkeeper was a little taken aback but responded in a lovely Scottish brogue, "Well, my little has been keeping me up a wee bit at night. Makes for a long day."

Elliott nodded, looked her right in the eye and said earnestly, "How is your family doing?"

"Why, very well, thank you," the shopkeeper laughed. "What a kind young man you are."

It's so true. He annoys the heck out of his brother and can be stubborn as all get out at home, but he's always the first to say "hello," greeting passersby in the street, showing an interest in the lives of others, picking up on the moods and struggles of strangers. Partly I think he's just hyper-observant. (Favorite line of the trip was when he leaned into me while walking down a crowded street and said quietly, "So, when I grow up, I can smoke?" Clearly he had observed that only adults were smoking!)

Elliott has always been an enigma. He processes academic information with a significant delay. He has trouble distilling the "why" of a given situation. He goes blank when asked to parrot back the details of a story he's been told. But he surprises everyone with his keen pitch and rhythm. His penmanship and eye for detail in coloring and drawing are praiseworthy. He blows his brother out of the water playing video games. He can read upside down. I have no idea what any of this means.

I do know that he also genuinely loves interacting with people. I used to think it was his way of connecting and trying out his verbal skills. I now see something deeper. Elliott seems to innately recognize one of the greatest lessons my mom taught me: "Everyone has a sign over their head that says, 'Make me feel important.'"

I think about this adage often and try to act on it. No one taught it to my son. It appears that he was just born knowing it.

paying attention

Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity. –Simone Weil

Although our six-year-old is too young to be diagnosed with ADD, most of the experts he spent his days with last fall were convinced he had it. Not recognizing the boy they described, we asked to see video of a typical classroom scene. The mute, distracted, fidgeting child was not the Elliott we knew. This disheartening visual aid should have been enough for us to pull him out of his self-contained classroom, but I, at least, was still convinced that the experts could probably do a better job coaxing letter recognition and basic math facts out of a brain focused primarily on blankie, Curious George and his best friend Mia. An end-of-the-year conference led by an exasperated teacher who had quite literally given up hope gave us the shove we needed to bring Elliott home. He was clearly a failure at black-and-white printouts.

Since January, we have been homeschooling Elliott. For the most part, I come up with the ideas, and Andrew (and sometimes my mom) executes them. We incorporate art and music, beads and matchbox cars. We've found that Elliott knows far more than his assessments showed. He can identify all his letters and numbers and is even learning to read. He can pay attention to scholastic activities, but he needs a lot of breaks—walks with the dog, sledding, dancing and, yes, an episode here and there of Curious George. Our child's growing mind can only happily endure structured learning in short bursts. We don't see this as a problem.

Elliott is a homebody, a comedian and a deeply intuitive and caring soul. His anxiety over school— the constrictive environment, being away from us (he still regularly and rather mournfully sings to himself the refrain "grownups come back"), enduring a very long six-and-a-half-hour day of direction with one 20-minute recess—was making him difficult to teach. I am sure now that the attention deficit regularly hinted at had more to do with the sheer exhaustion of trying to hold it together.

Early one morning last week, I was scrutinizing my freshly washed face in the bathroom mirror, silently bemoaning the noticeable dark circles and growing collection of wrinkles, when I noticed Elliott standing in the doorway studying me.

"Mom," he said, his sleepy face gleaming. "You look beautiful."

Just because my son can't sit and complete an activity on a piece of paper doesn't mean he's not paying attention. He is one of the best students I know.

the art of understanding a child

Hi Andrew and Amy, 

     I just wanted to check in with you to see if there is anything going on with Elliott lately. He has been making a lot of faces and needing to put things in his mouth. He is chewing on gloves, hats, his shirt sleeves, licking his hand and tissues. It is very difficult to get him to focus on any work as well. I have been doing a lot of assessing this past week and he had difficulty remembering his letter sounds. Let me know if you have any insights... 

(e-mail from Elliott's teacher 11/13/13)

Recently I taught an art class to a bunch of first graders. The assignment was to paint like Michelangelo. I had already taught the lesson to fourth graders, third graders and second graders and it had been a fairly successful project. But I was skeptical about how well six year olds would manage the logistics of the task. Especially Elliott.

The directions went something like this: Put on a smock. Select six paint colors. Take them to a designated spot at one of the tables, where there would be a paint brush, a dish of water and some paper towels. Put one paint color on your brush, then carefully lie down on your back and slide under the table. Find a line drawing taped to the bottom of the table and start painting. When your brush is dry, carefully come out from under the table, stand up and get more paint. To change colors, get your brush wet and wipe it on a paper towel. Try not to get paint all over everything, especially yourself.

With the level of planning, precision and caution required, I didn’t expect much from anyone. Especially Elliott.

The first grade group was the largest one yet. Since I was preoccupied for much of the class time repeating instructions, wiping spills, refilling paint dishes and redirecting the lost and confused, I paid very little attention to Elliott. He took his paints straight to a spot at a table and slid under. He never asked for help. I had no idea what he was doing.

Toward the end of the 20-minute painting time, I checked in on him. I squatted down and peeked at his painting. I held back my tears.

“I did it, Mom,” he smiled proudly.

After regularly receiving reports from teachers like the one that came in yesterday’s e-mail, I never expected to see what my son had accomplished in less than 20 minutes with no direction or help whatsoever. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.

Lying on the floor, painting on a paper taped to the underside of a table, my six-year-old experiences movement, novelty, inspiration, expression. He is fully engaged and motivated. Sitting at a desk, staring at a black-and-white print out, he experiences tedium, frustration, confusion, fatigue. He is fully bored and lost. Unfortunately, my kid just can’t learn in scenario two. He’d rather lick tissues.

When it comes to public school education and traditional assessments, I don’t know how to change things to help my child succeed, but I do know this. My kid is no dummy. He’s not ADD or retarded or difficult. He’s simply uninspired. Please, dear educators, find a way to understand the difference.

what you have for breakfast?

This weekend Elliott made it his mission to find out what every soul within earshot ate that morning. Friends, family, librarians, cashiers, random grocery shoppers we passed in the aisles. His approach was so bold and so perfectly innocent, I swelled with a mixture of pride, awkwardness and heartbreak each time he asked his well-rehearsed question.

"What you have for breakfast?"

Most of the people he bravely accosted had to get him to repeat the question. Probably a combination of the consonants missing at the ends of words and the fact that a five year old had never thought to ask this of them before. But everyone gave him an answer.

"Ooooh," he'd always respond. As if it were the first time he had been told toast or oatmeal.

Although I recognize this line of questioning as Elliott's way of making a connection with everyone who crosses his path, I also think he got a lot of pleasure out of answering the question the few times it was tossed back to him. He'd proudly say he ate a cookie. I would step in to explain. It's not really a cookie. It's a healthy cookie. More like a muffin. A healthy muffin.

But it really doesn't matter. My son is going straight for a meaningful exchange. None of that small talk. No simple hellos. What were you doing this morning before you put your face on for the rest of the world? You know, in your pajamas, your real self? How well did you fuel yourself for the day? Me? I ate a cookie. Oh, and here's my irresponsible mother. The parent who gave me a cookie for breakfast. Bye.

"So, what did you have for breakfast?" the checkout lady at the grocery store, our last public encounter, asked this afternoon after Elliott had brazenly drilled her on her own morning routine.

"A cookie!" Elliott practically shouted.

"Wow," said the cashier, glancing at me. "Aren't you lucky!"

I resisted the urge to explain and simply smiled and handed her my money.

Every day this kid teaches me something beautiful. Today I learned that connection matters far more than appearance. And that cookies make a very happy breakfast.

Elliott's (Healthy) Breakfast Cookies

2/3 cup honey
1/4 cup coconut oil
2 eggs
1 t vanilla
1 T orange zest
1/3 cup raisins, dried cranberries or chopped dried figs
1/3 cup chopped nuts
3/4  all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup oat bran
1/4 cup almond meal
1/2 cup shredded coconut (we use unsweetened)
1/2 t baking soda
1/4 t cinnamon
1/8 t ginger
1/8 t nutmeg

Blend honey through nuts. Stir together dry ingredients and incorporate into wet ingredients. Drop large spoonfuls onto lined cookie sheets. Bake 12 minutes at 350. Makes about a dozen large cookies.

embrace

"Here's the thing about trains, it doesn't matter where the train is going, it matters that you decide to get on." —The Polar Express

I have been thinking a lot about a word for 2013, a little exercise I've done at the beginning of every year since I've had this blog. Looking back I find it kind of funny that of all the words I've chosen, I am not any closer to achieving anything than when I started. I still forget to breathe all the time. I need to simplify more than ever. Considering all I'd like to accomplish this year, a little intention would be helpful. And, especially due to some darker days lately, I really need to be sunshine. Because I have basically accomplished nothing, I will just take that as a sign that I choose really good words. And that I am very aspirational.

For a few days I've been trying to find a word that encompasses all that I'd like to do this year. I'd like to write more and start knitting again. I'd like to clean more and save more and play games with my kids more. I'd like to complain less. But I've realized I can't just will myself to do these things.

Sitting on the couch with Elliott this morning watching The Polar Express for the thirtieth time in as many days, it occurred to me that despite his limitations, as far as I can tell, my five year old doesn't wish his life were different. He doesn't have a laundry list of things he'd like to do. He also doesn't simply accept where he is, he embraces the challenges and opportunities in his life with gusto.

I, on the other hand, am all about acceptance. I have accepted the fact that we have some major financial troubles that will take a while to set straight. I have accepted the fact that I have next to no free time anymore. I have accepted the fact that my house is disorganized and stuff needs to be purged. I have accepted the fact that my five year old wakes up at 4:30 a.m. almost every morning. I have accepted the fact that writing the book in my heart will now take a herculean effort. I have accepted the fact that my son may never thrive in a traditional school setting. I have accepted the fact that the 29-year-old girl who used to gaze at me in the mirror is no longer there. But here's the thing about accepting, it usually comes with a bad attitude. Just because I've accepted these truths about my life, doesn't mean I can't whine about them or be pissed about them or wish my days were different.

Acceptance and joy rarely go hand in hand.

Every morning I give Elliott an awful concoction of whole-food supplements our chiropractor has determined his skinny little body needs to thrive. They taste horrid but he doesn't understand how to swallow them whole. So I crush them up and try to mask the flavor in smoothies or yogurt. This morning as we watched Polar Express, he put a big spoonful of his vitamin-laden yogurt in his mouth and looked over at me.

"This good," he grinned, bouncing with a bizarre pre-dawn energy that doesn't seem to fill any other human I know. "Thank you, mommy."

What a crazy kid. His yogurt is terrible. I know, I've tasted it. But for some strange reason, Elliott does not reject it (and I know from the occasional times he does turn up his nose that he knows it's gross). The stranger thing is that he doesn't just accept it either, which is how his brother faces undesirable tasks and challenges—he'll do them, but grudgingly. Instead, Elliott embraces his lot in life. He finds the joy where the rest of us would find something to complain about.

And so I have decided to claim 2013 as the year to be more like Elliott. I claim 2013 as the year to embrace my life, the challenges and the opportunities. To stop whining and feeling sorry for myself. And, thanks to the example of my son and his favorite movie, no matter where the train is going, to decide to get on—with expectation, gratitude and joy.

not what we expected

It's 4:30 a.m. and I'm sitting on the couch with Elliott who's getting his fix of peanut butter toast and Mr. Bean. Although he still requires a blankie, struggles to form answers to open-ended questions and says many of his words like he has marbles in his mouth, I have never met a five year old who enjoys and understands humor like Elliott. He sees nuances even most adults might miss. For a long time I thought it was a fluke, that somehow he was just made to laugh at most anything.

When Elliott was nearly two, a neurologist ordered blood draws to test for some of the most severe genetic conditions. She was deeply concerned that our non-talking, non-walking boy was never going to progress beyond the intellectual level of a three year old. The tests, of course, were negative, but the dread of that suspected diagnosis has never fully lifted.

Two weekends ago I pulled out a take-home project from school - a pumpkin his kindergarten teacher suggested we decorate at home and send back to hang in the classroom. I got out some stickers and markers and urged Elliott to do something to the pumpkin. We worked quickly as I knew Elliott would lose interest after a sticker or two and I'd have to restrain myself from decorating the pumpkin myself. When I could see he was finished, I suggested we write his name and I put a marker in his hand and held it in mine.

"No," he said adamantly. "I do by self."

"Okay," I shrugged, expecting a couple little lines and scribbles on the paper.

Instead, Elliott slowly and deliberately wrote out his name, all by himself.

I am embarrassed to admit that name writing, like reading and thoughtfully answering questions, is something I have doubted my son might ever be able to do. Which, I suspect, is the reason I cried when the last T was crossed.

Only God knows what each one of us is capable of. And I am humbled to have the great privilege of witnessing one child becoming so much more than we ever expected.

school is where we practice being brave and kind

I heard a statement once that I think about all the time: “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” How true and how amplified the day a new school year begins.

On Wednesday Elliott started all-day kindergarten at a new (to him) school across town, with a new bus driver, a new teacher and new friends. My stomach was in knots on Wednesday imagining how petrified he might be at all the newness, including eating lunch at school and interacting with a broader school community than the small self-contained Early Childhood pre-school class he was in last year. I felt like we were throwing him to the wolves. And I ached knowing I couldn't be there for him.

He survived, but not without a seizure-like episode that night (episodes which we now see so clearly are triggered by anxiety) and a full-on tantrum the next morning about boarding the bus. I should have known trouble was brewing when he marched off the bus that first afternoon and boldly declared, "I all done school!" Like he had tried it and found it not to his liking.

Sending him back put a little dagger into the heart I wear around outside. 

My son would love nothing more than to lie on the couch with his blankie and watch Alvin and the Chipmunks or play with his cars for hours on the floor. In a perfect world, his mom would be home 24/7, we'd take a daily trip to the pool and the ice cream shop and never visit a doctor. Going to school would be completely out of the question.

In a perfect world, I could put my heart back in my chest cavity. Instead, I ache and bleed for a worried, confused little boy who dreads hearing that "yes" there is school today.

But he has a wonderful teacher and has been put into a classroom where he can get the help he needs to succeed academically. As an added bonus, he gets to practice being brave. As much as it pains me to see him stretch, I know that the courage he musters will just add to the incredible beauty this boy already shows us.

Eventually he will like school. Until then, I just hope my heart can survive.

::
For all moms sending kids back to school this year, I highly recommend this wonderful letter Glennon Melton of Momastery wrote to her third-grade son. I read my own version of it to my third-grade son, knowing that he will meet many "Elliotts" in his school career.

It doesn't matter how smart my third grader is or how popular. It matters that he's kind, and brave. The brave that's not required but that can change the world. To practice bravery in all its forms and to extend kindness when it's not the cool thing to do—that is success in school.

he keeps us laughing

Although Elliott has a ways to go when it comes to creating original sentences, he is a master imitator. We have been warned told several times that between the crazy faces he makes to entertain us (and himself), his sense of comedic timing and his ability to mimic so precisely, we quite possibly have the next Jim Carey on our hands. Lord, help us.

Here are a few of the hilarious things coming out of his mouth these days:

:: When he gets frustrated, such as when his push mower (that he pushes all over town) gets stuck, he yells at it. “No, meanie!” he says exactly in the tone, say, his mother might shout no. It's probably about as effective with the mower as it is with the child.

:: One of Andrew’s phrases is coming back to haunt him. Elliott has been exerting his authority over the cats when they don’t obey him (which means all the time) by furrowing his brow and bending over them and admonishing, “You cheeky bugger!” My favorite, though, is when he gets frustrated with his dad and stubbornly admonishes him. When you hear this British phrase with a slight British accent coming out of the mouth of a five year old, it’s terribly hard not to laugh.

:: Speaking of laughing…the past couple of weeks we’ve been treated to a lot of mooning, accompanied with the bold command, “Feast your eyes!” I think he heard his brother say this once (who saw it in the movie Brave) and, not surprising to us, it stuck. The funniest part, besides the little white butt in the air, is that he knows he's hilarious and it just cracks him up.

:: Perhaps not as funny (to us) is the influence Ricky Gervais has has on our son. When Liam was born, a good friend of mine gave him the book That's Disgusting. Again, no surprise to us, it's become Elliott's favorite. Thus, we do not believe it is any coincidence that last week Elliott came to Andrew and earnestly begged him, "Dad, smell finger. Smell! Smell!" Just like a page out of the Gervais book, Elliott stuck his finger in the cat's behind. And he loved how "gross" it was. 

Oh, Lord, help us.

cake

To make the weekends a little more special, I've been trying to bake. I recently found a cake recipe that uses a 6 oz. yogurt container as the main measure, making it easy for a child to prepare the batter. So this afternoon, I enlisted Elliott's help and we whipped up the easy French yogurt cake. After a perfect dinner of BLTs (perhaps the only thing that keeps me from becoming a full vegetarian) and an after-dinner walk downtown to watch the Prairie State Cycling Series, a thrilling professional criterion right in our own backyard, we ate the Elliott-made cake with fresh peaches and créme fraiche while watching the Olympics. Pretty special, I'd say.

Yogurt Cake a Child Can Make
From Bringing Up Bébé by Pamela Druckerman

2 6 oz. containers plain whole-milk yogurt (use container to measure other ingredients)
2 eggs
1 container sugar
1 t. vanilla
Little less than 1 container coconut oil (or other oil)
4 containers flour
1 1/2 t. baking powder

Mix together ingredients. Spoon into greased and floured 9-inch round pan or cast iron skillet. Bake at 375 for 35 minutes. Batter will be very thick; cake will be very delicious.

thank you

Elliott never passes a dog without stopping to say hello. When he spots a dog, he does a little happy dance, quickly glances at me to make sure it's okay, trots over and stops dead in front of the owner.

"What his name," he asks eagerly before touching the animal.

If the owner answers, which is almost always, Elliott repeats what he hears and engages, either simply patting the dog's behind or nuzzling his whole face into the animal's neck.

Sometimes that's all he needs. Other times I have to call him away. He never complains or argues, and no matter how brief the encounter or how friendly or gruff the owner, he always, always turns back with a smile and a wave and calls, "Thank you!"

I don't know where he learned this. We have raised our boys to be polite but not excessively so. Elliott just seems to have a gratitude meter that surpasses most adults.

He doesn't always remember to thank when it's culturally appropriate to do so, such as when a friend shares a toy or his mom refills his milk. Instead he offers his thanks when it's most unexpected.

A couple of weeks ago we visited the doctor for Elliott's kindergarten check up. After the awful 48-hour EEG experience, visiting a doctor never comes without some level of apprehension. On most occasions now I can honestly tell him that we are "just going to talk" to the doctor who may also weigh him and tap at his knees and listen to his heart, and this calms him. (Although he will still ask hopefully every couple minutes, "I be done soon?") This time, however, immunizations were on the bill and I tried to clue him in without freaking him out, but his anxiety was palpable.

Elliott cooperated through the appointment but broke down as soon as he saw the nurse. I tried to hold him chest to chest on my lap as the now two nurses recommended, but he would have none of it. A third nurse was brought in so she and I could hold a screaming Elliott down while the other two did the injections. As soon as the ordeal was over, I snuggled the sobbing boy on my lap who fought the bandaids and any other advances from the remaining nurse like a wild animal. So we quickly got dressed to leave.

I took the hand of my sniffling, tear-stained-face boy and walked out of the exam room. As we got to the door, Elliott turned around and in the most pathetic, sincere, cracked voice called out, "Thank you, doctor," to our nurse.

I will never forget the shocked look on the nurse's face as she turned to my son.

"Oh, honey," she said, "thank you."

This is why I call Elliott my blessing boy. Even at his lowest, he looks beyond his own discomfort to make someone else's day. I don't know how he learned it, but his thank yous are a gift to us all.

because someday he won't want me like this

I am typing this post one handed while mama's boy snuggles on my lap. For the last 72 hours, Elliott has refused to let me out of his sight. He insists on keeping his shoes on so he can follow me out of the house on a moment's notice. Other than when he napped yesterday and Liam and I snuck out for a date at the movies, Elliott has gone everywhere with me since I've been home on vacation the last three days. He probably figures he'd better soak up all the mommy time he can before I start answering yes again to the pleading, daily "mommy no go to work today?" question.

Over the last few days, I've had some fairly grandiose plans. Papers to sort. Closets and drawers to organize. Garden to weed. Blog posts to write. Yoga classes to attend. Recipes to try. Instead I've spent most of my five consecutive days off sitting on the couch and in the pool with a five year old clinging to my neck, or running errands - very slowly - with the same child glued to my side.

But really, how can I complain? Accomplishing anything pales in comparison to watching the sweetest, friendliest, cutest boy in the world sleep in my lap or stop to greet everyone he sees. After all, blog posts can be typed with one finger. Everything else can wait.

blessing boy in the quiet service

"How often we are embarrassed to do and say the things that really affect us. Perhaps this is because we cannot defend ourselves while they are happening. Or perhaps we have a corporate agreement that we will not embarrass each other, even if that means never going very deeply into the things that matter most to us." —Barbara Brown Taylor

I struggle with church. For years I didn't go at all. And for years I felt guilty about it. I grew up in a family for which churchgoing was paramount. But I felt closer to God talking a walk in the park, teaching English to Polish immigrants, lying prone on my mat in shavasana. I felt that anything anyone said about God was inadequate and that too many spoke for God when it was clear they had their own agenda. I got the message that God is chiefly interested in religion and good behavior and that he could only be found within the four walls of a particular church. This bothered me. It still does.

But I still go. Because even though I know now that the whole world is God's house, I still often find him in church.

In the summer, though, we spend more time in the church outside. On the riverbank and under the stars. One reason is that the whole world feels so much more open to us in the summer. There is hardly time to drink it all in. Another reason is that there is no Sunday school in the summer and Elliott has no interest in sitting in the house we built for God when God's whole wide world is waiting. 

After missing for two weeks, however, I felt compelled to return for a Sunday. I decided that rather than go through the exercise of filing everyone into a pew only to have Elliott start talking loudly and crawling into the aisle so Andrew could take him on a walk around Geneva just minutes into the service, I'd go alone. 

I hadn't been to the early, quiet, contemplative service in a long time and felt that would be the right kind of worship for me. But when I got dressed Elliott became clingy. I knew when I told him I was going to church he'd be happy to stay behind. But he insisted on going. 

"But honey," I said with a concerned face. "I'm going to church."

He brought me his shoes. I sighed, knowing that I'd surely have to take him out and miss the sermon. What was the point of even going?

"Okay," I said. "If you really want to go. But you will have to be very quiet and sit until it's over. Okay?"

"Okay," he grinned.

I wasn't convinced. But I took some gum and his blankie and buckled him into the car.

Incredibly, he sat through the service, and other than a small string of self-induced burps, biting off the pew pencil eraser and several "I done soon?" rounds of questioning, he remained quiet and semi-angelic. He even put his head in my lap and cuddled his blankie for most of the sermon. It was the music, however, that won his attention. 

Our friend Jen sang a solo mid-way through the service and Elliott sat still beside me. When she was done a few people quietly said "Amen." Elliott, however, spontaneously applauded her. He repeated his glad, clapping approval after the piano solo during the offertory as well. No one joined him. It's not appropriate to clap in the quiet service. He couldn't have cared less. 

My son is never embarrassed to do the things that affect him and he certainly doesn't mind a bit about embarrassing others by doing them either. Whether it's walking repeatedly past a row of baseball spectators with his hand out for a high five (when most just look at him cock-eyed), yelling "hi geese" at the top of his lungs to every waterfowl he passes in his bike trailer or applauding in a silent room after a beautiful piece of music, Elliott bestows his blessings without a second thought. He doesn't take advice on what to care about, he just seems to know. He makes some people uncomfortable, but most catch a glimpse, I hope, of God's own audacity. Something that is rarely found within the four walls of the houses we build for God. Something that, sadly, we all knew when we were young, and then forgot.

Thankfully I have a blessing boy—who I took to the quiet service against my better, grown-up judgement—to help me remember.

disarming

I saw her out of the corner of my eye, hobbling on black heels, not quite stilettos, but close. A spandex animal print skirt, if one could even call it that, just barely covering her skinny bottom, a black tank dipping between her small yet surely growing breasts. My boys and I were sitting outside Grahams working on our cones. It was 9 p.m. on a Thursday in Geneva. Not the time or place to see a 13-year-old hooker. It was extremely difficult not to stare at her unabashedly, because that’s exactly what she looked like.

After taking in more of the scene, I noticed another two middle-school-age girls in tight short skirts on the bench across from us and another small group of them huddled around a gangly crew of similar-aged boys. The boys were sitting in Adirondack chairs eating ice cream. The girls stood in a semi-circle around them, eating nothing, their necks, arms and upper thighs awkwardly exposed. Not one looked like she was convinced the outfits were a good idea. Not one looked comfortable.

Do parents really let their pre-teen and barely teen daughters dress this way?

The parade of young female flesh troubled me, but other than gather the 8 or 9 girls together and conduct an intervention, I had no idea how to let them know that dressing and acting more than a dozen years older than you are won’t make you happy or desired the way you long to be. You are losing a free and beautiful hunk of your childhood, I wanted to shout. Don’t do it! Put those stupid heels back in your mother’s closet. Wipe that black eyeliner off, go find a tin can and a flashlight and get a game of kick the can going. At the very least, put some clothes on.

I continued eating my ice cream and glanced over at Liam. Just eight and self-conscious enough not to want to be noticed, he eyed the boys cautiously. Then he turned his attention to the black-heeled girl as she stood off to the side, arguing on her cell phone with a person I guessed was her mother. Piecing together the story, it sounded like a girl named Olivia was having a sleep over and the mother was not agreeable to the plans. The black-heeled girl wasn’t taking no for an answer. Frostily, she hung up and wobbled over the flagstones back to her friends on the bench. That’s when Elliott saw his opportunity.

Cone dripping, he blocked her path.

“Hi!” he said with gusto. “It getting dark out.”

She looked down at him disdainfully, but was clearly surprised that a five year old had spoken to her.

“Um, yeah,” she agreed. “It’s dark.”

She tried to step around him.

He stepped with her.

“What you name?” he asked with a goofy grin plastered on his face.

She furrowed her brow and shrugged.

“Haley,” she said.

At that moment, Elliott noticed his shadow, cast by the light pouring out of the shop. Double-fisted, he crossed his arms in front of himself, thrust out his hip, stuck out his tongue and said, “Blah!”

In spite of herself, Haley laughed.

Fueled by the attention and pleased with seeing his silhouette in the shadows, Elliott struck pose after pose, making the silliest faces and noises into the growing darkness. A small group of short-skirted preteen girls stood and watched and giggled. For one minute they forgot about longing to be noticed and liked. For one minute they let their guard down. They were kids again.

A van pulled up and the girls grabbed their overnight bags. Like newborn calves finding their legs, they awkwardly hobbled to the van and tumbled in.

We threw out our napkins and headed to our car.

“Ugh,” Liam sighed. “Elliott is so embarrassing.”

I smiled.

“Actually, honey,” I said. “I think sometimes he is just what everyone needs.”

Then I said a silent prayer for the girls—that they would remember what it felt like to forget about themselves for a minute and watch a human who is truly happy to be exactly who he is. Special outfit not required.

five

Dear Elliott,

Yesterday you turned five. What a fun and special weekend - all the more so because you knew we were celebrating you and because after three weeks of your questioning, we could finally say, "Yes!" You get thrilled over the simplest things like blowing out a candle or a card that plays a song. I love this about you. Nothing is too small to escape your notice or your delight. If I only had one quarter of your joie de vivre. And lucky me, because I live with you, I do.

In this last year, you have become quite the adventurer, daredevil and explorer. We ran across a carnival on the night of your birthday and you wanted to go on every ride. Watching you climb up the huge slide with your brother was incredibly nerve racking for your mama. You didn't think twice about it. Earlier in the day you not only happily tried fermented beet-garlic-ginger juice at a neighbor's house (when no other kid could could even be bribed to do it), you liked it and asked for more! Nothing phases you. Except maybe a bug in the house.

Today you brought five little friends on the train for a birthday adventure. You were beaming—a model train show, ice cream cones, presents, duck duck goose in the park. Your friends, your party, your favorite things. As much as you enjoyed it, you loved seeing your friends enjoy it. More than presents or treats or even blowing out that candle, nothing made you happier than knowing your friends would be along. The same goes for your mom. Every morning you ask me so earnestly, "Mama no go to work today?" And when I answer in the affirmative, the answer you don't want to hear, you ask the question again, with even more gusto. As if your repetitive asking of the exact same question in the exact same way, your very longing for my company, might elicit a different answer. It's heartbreaking to turn you down, but you recover like a champ. Your open-hearted resilience has been schooling me. You love people better than almost anyone I know.

Here you are five years old. You are as cute as can be. And you're a pistol. You love trains, taking endless photos and movies of yourself, pinching your brother, snuggling your blankie, making the craziest faces imaginable. You just learned to wear flip flops and will happily pee anywhere you see fit, including on the sidelines of a girls' soccer game and into the bathroom sink. You confidently ride the little yellow school bus every day and call the driver by name. You're such a fan of shaking your booty that one friend gave you a disco ball for your birthday. You are a clever, funny, daring, beautiful boy. I love you like crazy, my Incredible Mr. E, and feel so lucky to have you to teach me how to look at life through a better lens—a happy, people-loving, self-abandoning, life-embracing lens. You are a gem.

xoxo
Mama

photo booth

Recently Elliott discovered a new program on our home computer called Photo Booth. He adores it because it's just like a mirror. And anyone who knows Elliott, knows this boy loves a mirror. He may be delayed in most areas, but he is quite advanced when it comes to comedic expression. Improv, standup, slapstick. He can make a million different faces. And crack himself up, which is why we're really not worried much about him. Even if academics and life skills don't come easy, it's comforting to know he doesn't need much to make himself happy.

love is love

We forged through the falling snow today to get to and from the University of Chicago so we could have our appointment with a new neurologist. Although nearly every day Elliott asks in a trembling voice, "No doctor today?," he was a trooper. We aren't any closer to knowing more about Elliott physiologically or how to address his conditions, but spending a day together was special, even in a hospital.

When I read back through the letters and assessments from past doctors and therapists, the lab results, the recent MRI report, I could be sad. I could think about all the struggles my son will probably face as he gets older. I could think about how far he lags behind. I could think about how many tests may still yet loom ahead. But I don't anymore.

I just see sweet and funny Elliott. The boy who gives an imaginary name when the doctor asks him for his. The boy who tells the nurse he's six, with a sparkle in his eye, when he knows the correct answer is four. The boy who keeps his feet in the air when both his hands are being held. The boy who refuses to potty train, but suddenly claims he has to go pee in the middle of the appointment and walks to the bathroom and goes. The boy who just cannot sit in a chair to eat lunch when there is a fish tank in the room. The boy who asks more than two dozen times, "I done soon?," to give himself the courage to be happy when he's scared.

I love this boy. And that was just all I could think today. No matter if a speech therapist reports that he cannot follow simple directions. No matter if he can ask me "What his name?," but just cannot understand how to ask the little boy in the waiting room directly. No matter if IQ is a measurement doctors are always going to ask us.

This boy is a gem. He's not a genius on paper. But when we finally got home, right before dusk, we ran inside to put on snow clothes. I pulled out the snow pants Elliott's papa and gigi sent him for Christmas and as I pulled them up his legs, he said, "I got gigi?" We haven't looked at the pants since we pulled them out of the box at Christmas and, although we told him where they came from, we've never repeated it since. He just took that information and stored it away so he could wow us later.

I love this boy. I would cut out my heart for him. Because no matter what shows up on any paper, love is love. And that is that.

grace that comes before

One thing I love about Methodism is the belief in prevenient grace. The beautiful idea that divine love precedes any and all of our conscious decisions. The steadfast hope that God always goes before us, making a way before we even know that we need one.

Two weekends ago my dearest friend from college flew me out to Durham. We try to see each other once a year if possible and my birthday was as good excuse as any to get a visit in. Lauren and I ate great meals, chaperoned a 12-year-old boy's sleepover, hiked along the Eno, cheered as the underdog Duke women's volleyball game upset the undefeated conference champs, threw a little party and laughed and talked and laughed and talked.

The week before I left, Andrew and I both had ended up in bed with Elliott on two separate nights and both accidentally fell asleep after soothing his bad dream or whatever wakened him. And we both were awoken around 4 a.m. to Elliott having a seizure.

We know that Elliott has had seizures in his sleep in the past. This summer we saw a neurologist who took him through a whole battery of awful tests to try to determine the specifics of these episodes. But the results were inconclusive. Although he had a 20-minute seizure while enduring an EEG, nothing abnormal showed up. The best the neurologist could offer was a drug trial. For many reasons, we decided to wait. My gut said that testing anticonvulsants on our son was not the answer.

For months, after upping his B6 intake and making some other small changes to his diet, we thought perhaps the four seizures we had seen in a 3-month period over the summer were a fluke. The week we slept with our son, however, alerted us that the episodes were probably happening a lot more often than we imagined. But we had no idea how to find a neurologist who would be able to look at Elliott's condition any differently, and who wouldn't subject him to the same barbaric EEG testing regimen, only to come up empty-handed again.

So, I went to Durham, looking forward to the break and some quiet time to both think and forget.

During my visit, Lauren had invited a bunch of women from work and church to come over for a party on Saturday night. Although I knew a few of her friends, most were new to me. One woman was very quiet. It seemed clear that she didn't know many people either. So I started talking to her. She told me her friend had invited her to come along and she didn't know anyone there, including Lauren. Somehow we got onto the topic of work and she told me that she was a clinical dietician for an epilepsy center. That she worked for one of the top pediatric neurologists at Duke.

As we talked, I shared about Elliott, his condition and his seizures, and our uncertainty about what to do next. She told me to give me her email address and she would ask the neurologist who we should see in Chicago. And I knew that this moment—where I fly halfway across the country to meet a woman at a party who wasn't even known by the hostess—was a moment divinely arranged long before I could have ever known I needed it.

The party woman emailed me a couple days after I returned home with the name of a neurologist at the University of Chicago who specializes in both cerebellum issues and seizure disorder. After looking him up online, I discovered that the U of C Children's Hospital is one of the few in the world with non-invasive EEG technology that pinpoints even the peskiest seizure disorders. And, miraculously, I connected to the department in one ring and was able to get an appointment the first week of January with a specialist who normally schedules new patient appointments 6-8 months out. Even the scheduler was surprised.

Some may call it coincidence, serendipity or simply good luck. But more and more I am seeing that God goes before us, making a way before we even know we need it. Prevenient grace. Divine love. Whatever it's called, I just see one more amazing gift to be thankful for.

friday haiku

my son's phobias:
the vacuum, bugs in the house,
crabs, nests in bare trees

the bliss of innocence

My son is in love with the girl across the street. And, for the most part, she returns his undivided attention and devotion. We parents laugh at how cute and silly they are, screaming repeated hellos from the windows, giggling with glee whenever they are in each other's company. But this mom also worries.

At 4 1/2, my son does not play with any neighborhood peers his age. He prefers to spend time with kids who are 12 to 24 months his junior, kids who are still learning to speak in complete sentences and who ride their bikes with training wheels. Yet as the months go by, I see the gap widening.

My son mixes up his pronouns, commanding me to "Carry you!" or asking "I tired?" when I stifle a yawn. He has not yet mastered any wheeled ride-on. He struggles to answer unfamiliar questions. He still resists the potty. Even his youngest friends seem to be passing him by.

One sunny afternoon last week, Elliott and I went walking. We ended up at the neighborhood schoolyard where his girlfriend Mia happened to be playing with friends. Elliott screamed her name from the sidewalk and then rushed onto the blacktop to greet her. Mia was riding her scooter and paid no attention to her suitor. My stomach lurched. It's beginning, I thought. The months of mutual affection are coming to an end.

I watched as Elliott followed scootering Mia around the basketball court. His persistence never wavered. Neither did his joy. He kept laughing and calling her name. She kept riding and ignoring him.

Eventually Elliott left Mia for the slide. Then, he happily trudged home.

Our neurologist cannot give us any prediction about how Elliott will progress or where he'll end up intellectually. His condition is rare, complex and completely individual. So as a mom, I provide as many opportunities for him to develop as possible. I watch and pray. And, although I try not to, I worry.

I've always known that Mia would tire of Elliott's advances long before he'd be ready to step back. That she would begin to surpass him in conversation and intellect and activities. That she would eventually move on.

What I didn't know is that my son doesn't seem to mind. He is an "all in" kind of guy. At the schoolyard he seemed blissfully unaware that the object of his affection had stopped participating. He just continued to love her.

I am discovering that what my son lacks in development he makes up for in contentment. He never compares. He just is. And although I worry that he could experience many disappointments and rejections in his lifetime, I'm not sure he'll view them as such. If his first 4 1/2 years are any indication, he'll see opportunities and, strangely, happiness. He'll love without condition or demand. And he'll keep teaching us a better way to live.

When it comes to love, St. Paul said that we see through a glass darkly. Some days I am convinced that my boy already sees the other side.

friday haiku

stealing rotten pears
to feed the donkey—today's
farm misdemeanor