Super Lizzy - Into The Darkness... and Back Out

"Let me give you these," the doctor says as Lizzy sits banging some blocks around, supposedly ignoring us (she can hear everything), "you and her father fill out one each and here are two for teachers".  They are Vanderbilt surveys.  For ADHD.  We've already discussed Occupational Therapy, an IEP, her therapy and  what her school counselor and teacher have said about her "stimming" in class.

From Wikipedia: Self-stimulatory behavior, also known as stimming^[1] and self-stimulation,^[2] is the repetition of physical movements, sounds, or repetitive movement of objects common in individuals with developmental disabilities, but most prevalent in people with autistic spectrum disorders.^[2][3] It is considered a way in which autistic people calm and stimulate themselves.^[2] Therapists view this behavior as a protective response to being overly sensitive to stimuli, with which the individual blocks less predictable environmental stimuli.^[4] Sensory processing disorder is also given as a reason by some therapists for the condition.^[4] Another theory is that stimming is a way to relieve anxiety, and other emotions.^[5]

I'm in tears, but understand, they are tears of relief.  Mostly. I've been noticing this for years.  She's not easy.  Lizzy.  She's not.  Never has been.  She stood out.  In preschool, in gymnastics, in swim.  Now in first grade, she can't sit still, can't focus, appears not to hear her teacher's instructions, tries to follow them, only to forget or get distracted. She's becoming sad and discouraged and despondent.  She says she's lonely often.  And it kills me.  And I descend into the darkness.  You see... she's me.  And now the guilt comes.  Some tears are from guilt.

"Is there a genetic component to ADHD?" I ask her doctor, "because 3 different friends, all of whom happen to be doctors, say I'm classic ADD."  The doctor looks at me and smiles gently.  "Yes," she replies, "to both."

Two weeks ago this is me cleaning my apartment.  I always intend on doing one thing at a time.  I start by folding laundry only as I put the towels in the bathroom I begin to clean the toilet.  But while cleaning a toilet I spot a toy in the tub and return it to Lizzy's room where I decide her toys need reorganizing.  Only I find one of William's toys and begin reorganizing his closet. Only to find a cup he used for water and walk it into the kitchen where I begin doing dishes.  When I realize I'd actually started with laundry so I head to my room to put some more away and try to do things one by one, but I spot some books that I take to put on my shelf on the living room and decide the carpet looks terrible so I begin to vacuum.  I'm now frustrated at my number of undone tasks.  Sigh.  Start over Mariska.  One room at a time.

"I gave all the money to your sister to hold at Knott's Berry Farm, you'll only lose it."  It's my mom, sending us off for a fun day at an Amusement Park with my cousin.  I know what she says is true.  I lose or forget everything.  My books, work, pencils, permission slips.  I can never remember to bring home my homework or whatever handout I was to give my mother.  I start out listening to the teacher and realize I've lost track of what she was saying.  Where did I go then? I'd forget my head if it weren't attached.  Teachers say I'm smart if I'd stop staring out the windows.  School is painful and lonely, even though I tell my mom it's "good" or "fine" when she asks.  I hear this same "good" from Lizzy when I ask about her day.  I'm in the darkness.  It didn't get better until I was 12.

"Let's start with these surveys and if they come back as I think they will... let's begin talking about solutions for ADHD.  I don't know yet about Sensory Processing Disorder or anything else, that's for the OT, but I don't think it will be too hard to help Elizabeth".  I come back into the light.  I did okay.  I excelled in school and made friends.  Eventually. She's getting help early.  Doctor is on board, teacher THANKED me for taking this step, school counselor is full of wonderful tips and solutions, private therapist will help any way she can. I can help her want to go to school.  My wonderful friend, who is experiencing this with her son, is full of encouragement.  Her son now LOVES school, is making friends, is thriving.  I can do this.  ELIZABETH can do this.  She is amazing.  

Lizzy, at home, while she has trouble completing tasks because she gets distracted by... well... anything, is so loving and funny and bright and cheerful.  She is my sunshine.  She reminds me of my own words if I forget - "You say there's always something to be thankful for" or "mom, be positive, you always tell us if you're positive, you'll find something to be joyful about."  I want that Lizzy at school.  At soccer.  I told her I'm developing a story about "Super Lizzy" and her alter ego "Shy Girl" so we can learn how to being Super Lizzy everywhere.  "I want her at school mom, not shy girl," she says.  

The Tooth Fairy (aka her father) left her a note saying she has a little magic in her.  She does.  She may be difficult.  She may have an uphill battle her classmates don't.  But she is magical.  My little fairy.  She makes signs in my office for people to join her "love and hugs" club so everyone can feel loved.  She reaches out the girl who bullied her when the girl gets stung by a bee and they become friends.  In soccer, after she melted down and she's over heating and I tell her then if she's to stop playing, she has to stand by and cheer on her team, not leave to play with her friends, but I AM proud of how much she did play - she gulps water, cheers her team and shouts "coach!  I'm ready to go back in," looks at me and says "mom, I'm not a quitter." The teacher she totally responded to at her summer program said yesterday, as I dropped off the Vanderbilt survey, "of course she's sad at school... she's special.  no one understands her."

But I am blessed.  That teacher SEES her.  Her 1st grade teacher SEES we can help her. My boyfriend Jason... perhaps due to his own ADD or his years of working with special needs students... has a way with her.  He's amazing with her.  She responds to him like no other.  She's becoming rather bonded to him.  She says he understands her.  And I'm blessed FOR her.  This little mirror of me.  The tools I had to develop have made me stronger.  If there's more than ADHD... we'll tackle that too.I'll give her the same tools and more, only younger, and she'll be stronger.  So much stronger than I am.  And so magical.  I'm seeing the light again.  Perhaps it's her wings or her fairy dust.  She'll be stronger.

She'll be SUPER LIZZY.

Patience, Baseball and Imaginary Friends

Patience.  It's what I'm learning, what I'm teaching, what I need more of.  Patience.

"Children create elaborate imaginary worlds when the real world is too stressful to deal with."  The words of the counselor this week as Lizzy had her first counseling appointment.  Defeat.  That's what I felt first.  Defeat.  I've made some hard choices over the past couple years, in the belief that in the long run, they would be better for all of us.  It would allow us all more peace.  More space to be ourselves, find ourselves, become better versions of ourselves.  And with one sentence, I caved.  Not then, not there.  Later.  Alone.  I cried.  My daughter, my Dizzy, my little shining light of positivity and love and fun and laughs... she's created a deep inner world full of imaginary friends because the real world may be too much for her.

Patience came only after defeat.  Sadness. Confusion. Anger. Doubt.  Then came the patience.  But not in that moment.  In that moment I couldn't see that she was already so stressed at the age of two that we went into occupational therapy for eating issues and noise issues and sensory issues.  In that moment, I didn't remember that the elaborate fantasy world began before the divorce... or did it?  When was she just a girl with a huge imagination and when did it cross into an escape?

Patience.  It's here now.  I must remember that I, too, as a child preferred escape.  Fantasy worlds, books, the stories I wrote, movies... anything that wasn't me.  Wasn't real life.  Wasn't a mirror.  i hated mirrors.  Still kinda do.  Patience.  With more counseling, she can keep that wonderful imagination without escaping to it so much that she says she's lonely often.  The trade off between choosing imaginary friends over the real ones who reach out to her is loneliness.  The result of such overwhelming shyness that ANY attention, positive or negative, is embarrassing is loneliness.  I know, I was that shy.  I wanted approval, don't get me wrong.  From teachers, coaches, parents and friends.  I would just rather it came quietly, privately.  I see that same shyness in her (one I've worked to overcome somewhat) and want to talk her out of it, train her out of it, show her how hard it makes life.  Patience.  This counselor is an amazing one.  She has helped William immeasurably.  Patience.  We'll get there.

William has made it so far in this past year.  But like our dog (no I'm not comparing children to pets, let me finish), who after one bad encounter made my stomach clench whenever I felt him tense at another dog, I forget how far William has made it when he has one moment that rings too familiar of the past.   I forget he's only EIGHT. My stomach clenches, I try to rack my brains for quick fixes.  Patience, Mariska, patience.

William's year started out rough.  Football wasn't what he wanted and that on top of being in a class with none of his friends, his anxiety shot through the roof.  We had referrals, fights, lost recesses, special "social group" counseling at school, sleepless nights, yelling blow outs.  Pain.  We're in baseball now.  His counselor says he doesn't need her any more, he has made such strides on controlling his anger or frustration or disappointment or anxiety.  Parents at school have complimented me (well him, to me) on the amazing strides they've seen him make.  And then he strikes out at baseball, his true love. And then again and he throws a bat and my stomach clenches.  Patience.  I must remember that I snap too, it doesn't mean I'm a time bomb who needs help.  It doesn't mean he is. I've just slipped.  So will he.  So will we all.  My dear friend Annie reminded the other day as I beat myself up, that I'm HUMAN.  I have to let us all be human.  And not let my stomach clench and that evil voice rise that says, "Mariska, you've failed.  Your choices are making the anxiety worse, not better".  Patience.  Breathe, unclench stomach, have faith.  I can do this.  I can set the example of patience, so my children don't learn to beat themselves up.

As much as he loves baseball, William is tired.  His hitting has taken a dive like it does at the end of every season and it's already his weak point.  Patience.  I tell him this as he hits one today and has a nice bunt.  Patience, I tell him.  Don't let it get in your head. Don't be convinced that you'll strike out.  You KNOW how to hit.  You've done it the whole season. I'm a hypocrite in that moment... as I let the past get in my head and convince myself I'm striking out. Patience.  He and I will learn together.  I won't tense and he won't tense and we'll love and forgive ourselves.   Lizzy and I will learn together.  We won't escape so much, but face the mirror and love ourselves. We have our future ahead.  Time to work NOW on what I buried and didn't work on for 40 years.  I'm letting them work on it young.  We have a future ahead.

Patience.  Lizzy is headed for first grade, excited and happy for it... for a full day of school. And  she's THRILLED she gets to see a counselor like her brother did.  Have her own private time.  William and his team are headed for playoffs.  Summer is here and Jason and I talk of swimming or fishing or camping with the kids.  Patience.

"Steps up the mountain," Jason used to tell me in our first heady days of dating... when I would panic or think too far ahead or worry that he would be freaked out by our connection.  He was so calm.  "Steps up the mountain."

  I'll remember his words now.  In the swirl of imaginary friends and counselors and baseball and strikeouts... I'll focus on the steps up the mountain instead.  Laughs in the pool.  A calm night.  Teasing each other with funny nicknames we've all made up.  Art on the art wall.  A good hit at the plate.  A beautiful fairy Lizzy drew in counseling.  Steps up the mountain.

Patience.

An Art Wall, Kind Words and Tiny Moves

I'm sitting here, staring at the start of the Family Art Wall I'm creating in my apartment dining room and I remember...it's the little things.  I forget that sometimes.  It's the little things that build monuments or erode mountains.

I feared, when I divorced and moved out, how the changes in our living space would affect my kids.  I moved from a large house with a playroom and an enormous backyard that was within walking distance of a park and their school... to an apartment.  Granted, this apartment is larger than the first house I lived in as a child.  The kids have their own rooms (never mind that they still choose to sleep together each night and just rotate rooms). It has a fun double length balcony that looks out over a large grassy courtyard area where the kids can play safely.  It has a pool where we swam all last summer and had friends over for swimming and dinner.  It is within walking distance to the river where we can skip stones and cast a line in the water to fish and where there is a bike path.  But even those things don't matter as much as this little art wall.  It's the little things.

"It's good to be back," said William when we walked in and he took a look at the train tracks from his train set in his room while he set down his backpack.  "Can I sit at my desk to play on my computer?" asked Lizzy as she headed to her pink and purple and turquoise room.  We began our Friday night tradition of finding something to watch and having a TV "floor picnic" on the living room rug.  And then I started the Art Wall.  It will be nicer one day.  Not just taped up pictures.  I want to find board or cork or some other funky and fun method of letting them place their art on the walls.  But right now it doesn't matter.  I looked at the wall and suddenly this small apartment became joyful.  "look at all the memories" William said.  And then it became more than joyful.  The apartment became huge.  And it became home. Because it contains what I love inside.  My family.  My lights.  My children.  How can something that contains the little things that amount to the enormity of love I have in my heart be anything but huge?

I read today a quote that said, "It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire."  I talked to the kids a bit about this.  How, for me, it's not things or riches or luxury that make us happy... but the little things.  Saying thank you when they clear their plates. Letting them know I'm happy to see them. Learning to fish again and fishing together.  Hiking to waterfalls even in the rain and assigning points on our path funny names.  Playing a silly electric football game that makes us laugh.  Making an Art Wall with nothing but scotch tape and items they made here or at school.  Being lucky enough to find my boyfriend Jason, who is a fellow "shell collector".  He too doesn't have huge wants, but instead finds joy in things like fishing, making up silly nicknames, baking cookies with his kids, playing dolls with Lizzy when William needs a moment alone with me, educating William on the finer points of WWE wrestling. He doesn't know it, but he's a champion of building beauty with small words.  He always asks us about our day.  He says thank you if I help with dishes like I've done something huge, even after he's cooked AND coached his son's practice AND worked a hard day as a Life Skills teacher.  I hear him talk to his kids about their homework or the book they're reading.  In spite of others always thinking he's disengaged or anti-social because his ADD leaves him often needing the TV on AND his laptop open AND his phone in hand...he'll ask me about some client or friend I mentioned a while ago when I thought he wasn't listening. He inspires me as much as he says I inspire him.  All of us...we're collecting shells... little things.  But we'll build something huge with them.  A lifetime of joy and memories.

I forget, though, that this pendulum swings two ways. As Lizzy and I hung up the pictures, she wavered a bit as she tried to stand on a chair.  "I'm clumsy," she said.  My head snapped up. "No Lizzy.  No... don't say that.  Don't call yourself that and don't ever let me call you that again.  Don't let anyone.  You hear it enough and you'll be what you hear.  You're a 5-year-old on a wobbly chair honey, that's all."  Just like all those little pictures taped up on the wall make something huge, little comments can erode like tiny drops of water can eventually erode mountains.

This week was a lesson in that slow erosion for me as I watched someone I love very much struggle with how comments that were echoes of what he has heard often in life can break someone down quite easily.  And as we talked about how the negative words can be all you come to believe... I suddenly became aware of how much negativity I grew to believe of myself.  Little words... thrown out in passing, as jokes, as advice... they became huge.  I believed and became the girl who was weird, clumsy, awkward, ugly, sloppy, messy, careless, forgetful.  And I realized, I'm doing the same to Lizzy, both kids really, if I'm not careful.  I lovingly call her my tornado.  Tell people how you can tell where she sits at a table from the mess, etc.  To me, those qualities are endearing.  But to her, they are tiny cuts that make her doubt herself and her self worth.  Tonight I focused on complimenting her kindness, her creativity, her humor.  I must remember to do the same with William.  Not call him my "drama queen" or my "serious one" or my "little old man".  I must remember to praise his thoughtfulness, his hard work and his huge heart that often, in his discomfort, he hides away.  Little words can cut.  I must make my little words ones that build huge monuments, not ones that diminish huge lights.  I will consider my words like my art wall.  I will throw out small pieces of beauty to make one huge picture that makes me and my children joyful.  Rather than ripping little pieces away slowly with negativity.

Tonight, as she hopped out of her shower in a hurry for us to get to squeeze in one more family show, Lizzy said, "I made up a song and dance for you mom."  Lizzy can get pretty detailed at times, so I sat and waited for some crazy-long song while she merely da-da'd a couple notes and shimmied a little.  This time, her song and dance were tiny.  But her huge smile, the look of expectation in those enormous green eyes, made that tiny song and dance a huge moment of joy for me.

It's the little things, folks.  Remember to tell your kid good job the one time they remember to put their shoes in the right place rather than saying "ugh! you always forget."  Remember to say to your partner, "that was thoughtful of you to be careful not to shrink my shirt" rather than "you never do ANYTHING right" the time a red sock sneaks into the whites.  Remember to praise the thoughtful hug your kid gave you rather than tell them they're always your trouble maker.  Remember to stop and listen to the story about your child's imaginary friend even if it means you start dinner 5 minutes late rather than telling them not to say that or people will think they are weird.  Remember the fact that your partner mowed the lawn or took out the garbage or emptied the dishwasher or took an extra 5 minutes to make sure you walked out the door with a cup of coffee, don't lump the one night they are too tired to do more than sit into the entirety of their being.  Don't focus on the size of your house, but the enormity of love and memories you can fit in it.  Don't worry that you can't buy your kid every toy, because the half hour you played Candy Land with them instead of washing dishes means more than that toy that they'll forget about tomorrow.  Take walks with your kids and let them bring home a rock.  Spread paints or dough or frosting or whatever out and make a mess WITH your kids.  Pick up worms.  Find lady bugs. Splash in puddles.  Watch something your partner wants to watch even if it isn't your cup of tea.  Try their interests or at least LISTEN with interest when they talk about them.  Don't "hmmmm" absentmindedly, ASK them about their interest.

Collect shells folks.  Explore.  Build huge riches out of tiny little moments that cost nothing or very little except some of your time or creativity.

Some of the tape is already peeling a bit from my art wall.  The wall doesn't resemble something nifty and perfect you'll see on a Pinterest page or a Pottery Barn catalogue.  But it contains tiny brush strokes and crayon markings and a couple of my first attempts at painting a canvas.  And it's so beautiful to me right now... I really don't want to move.  I think I may fall asleep right here on my couch.  Looking at all the memories.

What My Mother Used To Say...

Forgive me mom.

My mom used to say some things that would elicit an eye roll, sarcastic comeback, snicker or anger. I thought she was being dramatic, a martyr, unsympathetic, silly, trying to make me laugh... you name it.

God, in His infinite wisdom has made the curse "I hope you have one just like you" come true.  For my mother.  Karma has given her a gift in the form of my children. So she can laugh.  And me a gift in the form of my children... so I can learn.

I hope one day to hear my children say the same thing I'm about to say now.  "I'm sorry, mom".  Man, I totally get it now.  I do.

"What am I talking to?  A brick wall?"  - this little gem of my mother's either cracked me up or pissed me off, depending on my mood.  What the hell?  I can hear her.  Or so I thought.  I've recently had a number of friends, two of whom are doctors, ask me if I'm ADD and tell me that perhaps I should seek a diagnosis for it.  I apparently exhibit many of the signs.  One of which is the ability to COMPLETELY space out.  Either disappearing into my own imagination, a book I find engrossing, the shiny object just over your shoulder when you're trying to talk to me, the chip in my nail, my grocery list... you name it.  And suddenly, it's not that I'm ignoring you.  I LITERALLY cannot hear you.  CANNOT.  Unlike my boyfriend, whose own ADD means he can hear every word I say (I shit you not) with the TV on, phone in hand AND laptop open, I CANNOT hear you.  He (like my son actually) can APPEAR to be ignoring me and yet repeat every word I say.  I am the opposite.  I'm apologize if you encounter me like this.  But I slip into la-la land and I cannot hear you.

Well kids, my Lizzy is the same.  I can ask her the same thing 5 times.  Each time raising the volume of my voice and she CANNOT hear me.  She can even be looking at me and she CANNOT.  I finally find myself yelling, "LIZZY!!!!" and she snaps out of her Lizzy-Land and looks utterly confused at my frustration.  She hasn't even heard me as background noise.  She HAS NOT HEARD ME AT ALL.  And so, very recently, I found myself in a moment of utter frustration, asking myself "Jesus!  What am I talking to?  A brick wall?" She laughed.  And I became my mother.

"It Hurts To Be Beautiful" - this is what my mother uttered as she would rip a brush through my tangled hair while I swatted at her or ran or screamed, etc.   It's what she said while she pulled our ponytails so tight we had face lifts.   Quite frankly, even as a small child, I thought "what a load of shit."  I figured there has to be a way to do this without killing me.  I was wrong. (enjoy that, mom).  You see... when you have a daughter like me and like Lizzy, short of shaving her bald, she will have tangled hair.  This girl CANNOT eat pancakes without getting syrup in her hair (never mind what lands on her shirt, chair, skirt, the floor... agh! topic for another blog).  She can manage to get oatmeal on top of her head.  She literally THRASHES herself to sleep so her hair is a rat's nest in the morning.  No amount of conditioner, detangling spray, what-have-you, can defeat the mess powers of Miss Elizabeth Plavin.  And so, when combing her hair, I feel like texting my downstairs neighbor lest she think I am dismembering my daughter, "no worries, I'm only armed with a hairbrush, not a rusty saw."  And as Lizzy swats at me, runs from me, yells at me... I find myself uttering the words of my mother, "It hurts to be beautiful."  Lizzy responded with, "NO it doesn't" and "then I don't want to be beautiful!!!" and, my personal favorite, "Mom, beauty is on the INSIDE."

"Eat Over Your Plate" - OH MY GOD.  I get it, mom!!!  I get it!!!!  HOLY CRAP.  When observing my children's places, particularly Lizzy's, after a meal, I find myself wondering just how much made it into their stomachs.  Granted, when out for dinner with friends a few years ago, mine was the ONLY place at the table at a super fancy restaurant where the guy had to pull out his table cloth scraper... but I digress.  I look over at my children while they are eating and they are sitting partly sideways, one-cheeking it on the chair, spoons and forks dangling over their pants/skirt, the floor, their homework, ANYTHING but their plate.  And THEN, it travels the LONG distance to their mouth and I see food falling off/out of it at an alarming rate because they neglect to eat over their plate.  It's amazing.  I can say it 5, 6, 12, 100 times during a meal and I'm greeted with frustrate "I Ams!" as I see them lean back, sideways, away again and more food fall. AAAGGGGHHHH.

"Chew With Your mouth Closed" - Okay, even if you're not a total sensory-problemed-psycho like me who LITERALLY plugs her ears at the sound of people chewing... NO ONE wants to see what you're chewing.  NO ONE.  I keep trying to express this to my children.  Even if the SOUND does not make people batshit crazy like it makes me (and it makes me CRAZY... like I want to punch you in the face for that smacking noise, crazy), the sight is ICK, ICK, ICK!!!!  Dude, how hard is it to put food in mouth, SHUT MOUTH and chew that way?  Apparently, it's really damn difficult.  Because I spend entire meal times alternating between "eat over your plate" and "chew with your mouth closed".  Seriously.  Forget conversation.  I need to record myself on an endless loop saying these to things so they can get mad at the recording and stop yelling (with their mouths full... see next mom quote) "I AM!!!"

"Don't talk with your mouth full" - What is this about?  This need to put the bite IN the mouth before answering me, asking me a question or deciding it's time to tell me about their day.  They can ignore me for HOURS and suddenly, food in mouth = begin talking.  "don't talk with your mouth full" is invariably answered with an indignant "I mnioaw!" (which is "I know"... when said with a mouth full of food). I love it when they tell me they know not to talk with their mouths full with a mouth full of food.  This is like yelling at them to stop yelling.  We are an ironic house apparently.

Last but not least is "You just do".  This is what my mom said whenever I asked "how did you do it?" How did she start over after her divorce?  How did she manage twins by herself?  How did she work and drive us a half hour away from home for school and shuttle us to everything and, and, and.

I used to think she was brushing me off or downplaying her role or being a martyr.  Forgive me mom.  You were just being honest.  You see... when you're breastfeeding one child in a squatting position to help the potty training older child on the toilet, it's not planned ahead.  When you stay up too late packing lunches and reviewing the contents of backpacks and putting out clothes and reading school calendars ahead of time so that you don't fall apart the next day, you don't pat yourself on the back.  When you're vomiting and weak, but staying up all night with a feverish child doing the same... you don't map it out.  You just do it.  Because you have no choice.  Because you are a parent.  Because you signed up for this.

I have a friend who calls me Iron Woman.  He thinks I carry a lot by myself... sometimes just because I'm too stubborn to ask for help, other times because I have no choice.  He thinks I pour a ton of time and energy into activities and learning and just bonding time with my kids and can handle the bumps life throws at me.  I don't consider myself Iron Woman.  I'm a woman and a mother who is just trying to provide structure and routine to help my kids feel safe, yet provide the fun and the memories and the creativity that will bond us.  I have a younger friend who is new to this mommy thing who has asked me what I once asked my mom.  "How do you do it?" And before I could think about it, I said, "you just do".

It's funny how things come full circle.  How your parents words become your own.  My newest phrases also comes from Mom.  "Life is short" and "I'll Sleep when I'm dead" - these were the words she used when she went the extra mile even when she was exhausted and what she said to encourage us to go for our wishes and dreams.  When she wanted to let us know it was okay to be truly ourselves no matter what anyone thought.

Life is Short.  I'm working on making sure I make the most of it... and that I quote my mother along the way.