The positive trend

It’s been a few weeks of steadily improving behavior. I think this requires a celebration. Or a footnote mention on the nightly news. It may not sound like much but in our world this is huge. It means we may be breaking a difficult cycle. Or maybe it’s just summer in the offing that makes me feel more optimistic. Whatever the reason, I'm hoping for more sunny days ahead.

We are emerging from a three-month streak of unpredictable behavior. That, too, may not sound like much. Trust me it is an eternity.

When we are within the aura of good, one day rolls into the next with little notice. After a long enough streak we begin to take it for granted. Even expect it. But the very minute – no, the very second I see a certain dark look linger in Sam’s eyes everything changes. Suddenly the entire future becomes uncertain. 

Breaking a cycle of challenging behavior is difficult. For Sam, self-control is grueling work. The angst in Sam’s eyes during these times is heart wrenching. It is emotional to watch him crumble into failure. It is exhausting to bear the brunt of his sudden anger. It is frustrating not knowing why. 

Each day I take a deep breath and force myself to believe we can get there again. Each morning I wake and think, maybe today as I bargain with every god. I watch the pain and determination in Sam’s eyes when he barely hangs on to control. I see his brief relief when he has made it through with his composure intact; when he makes all the right decisions. Those are moments of triumph you can’t imagine.

We document the difficult days, looking for trends and those elusive clues. We note the good days with equal importance. Maybe as a means of getting through the tough stuff. Maybe it’s my inner Pollyanna. Or all the positive re-enforcement we’ve been trained to provide. 

On marking our first successful week in a while I asked Sam, “How was school?” “Is good.” He said. I prolonged the conversation by offering, “You had a perfect day. How you feel?” Sam continued to busy himself on his iPad, glancing up only quickly. He seemed disinterested.

But then I saw it: the corners of his mouth began to slowly turn up into sly, smug smile he reserves for the important moments. It is a smile that says, “I did well.” It's a very contagious smile. “Feel proud,” he finally said.

Sure, there will be tears in the days ahead. But there will be triumphs, too. Life is too short to miss the triumphs.

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The good mom

I took Sam to church the other day. He hadn’t been for a while but there was a mass for my father. It felt it important he attend.

We arrived early to allow time to settle in. Sam spent his time traveling back and forth between reality and fantasy: sometimes blessing himself and talking about the large cross before us other times talking about the 30 tons of grubs he’d apparently just won.

Sam needed frequent reassuring during the mass, asking in his distinctively loud and low voice, “What’s the plan?” Though he dwarfs me, he intermittently laid his head on my shoulder and wrapped himself in my arms for reassurance.

With this as my backdrop, I tried to focus on the words being said while periodically reminding Sam to be quiet out of respect for the people around us. This has been our life for so long, I sometimes forget its peculiar nature.

People are kind at this church, though. When I glanced up, I saw them smile and nod at us. I appreciated their patience and tolerance. Though I did not know some of their names, The familiarity of their faces was comforting.

After the mass was over, several came over to talk to us, some because they knew my father, others just because they were thoughtful people. Each tried to say something kind and reassuring, mostly centering on what a good mother I am and the connection between Sam and me. It was nice to hear their words; to briefly believe I was all they saw.

Later that day I watched Sam struggle in distress and I pondered their words. His connection to me was evident as he looked to me pleadingly to right his strife. Though I tried, I could not fix what tormented him. I did not know the source of his pain. And at that moment I didn’t feel like a good mother at all but rather like a fraud. 

Employee of the Month

Last night Sam said me, "Mommy is Employee of the Month." I thanked him for that honor. Then a few minutes later he said, "Slugule Mommy.” (Translation: Slug Mommy) and proceeded to try. Ah, it was a fleeting honor at best. Or maybe it’s some kind of Employee of the Month initiation ritual.

Either way, Employee of the Month isn't all it's cracked up to be.  

If Sam is indeed my boss, he can be an irrational one. The volatile nature of the last two months is certainly evidence of that. Even during better times it's a job filled with unexpected ups and down: Some days I’m lavished with affection for the smallest deed; other days my Herculean efforts are met with indifference. Or worse.

Still, there are those perks. As Employee of the Month should, I have the parking spot closest to the kitchen. A good day is like basking in warm sunlight. I never lack for entertainment. And if you like the twists and turns "I sure didn't see that coming" mystery, a week at my house could be nirvana. 

There are those nights when I am certain I can't make it through another day; days when I've had quite enough. Sleep coupled with a new morning brings optimism for a string of good days.  

I don't expect a plaque for this recent recognition, though the words alone were kind of nice. Thank you, Sam. I accept the honor. I'm going to pass on the 'slugule' though. You can give that to Tony.

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For Dad

“Ah, Jin,” I can hear him say. “No one ever said life would be easy. But you have to pick up the gauntlet. Life goes on.”

He taught me well. But right now I am having trouble remembering how to take those first steps without him. I thought I was ready. I thought I knew so much. I thought I had prepared.

I had him for so many years. Still, I am selfish. I want to hear his irreverent laugh again. I want to watch him break into his slow, easy smile. I want to have coffee with the tall, rugged and handsome contactor from Massachusetts one more time. I want to hear a story about a wizard, the ancients, Roman soldiers and firing up those 88s. I want to hold his hand a little longer. I want the comfort of his being so the world will feel right. I want to look into his eyes and see their light.

I want to tell him he was the best Dad. That I couldn’t imagine him any other way. That no one will ever make me laugh as he did. I want him to know for a very long time, the sun won’t shine as bright.

I can hear him say, “Ah Jin. Tomorrow will be better.” I know he is right. “You have to carry on.” I see his gauntlet laying before me but before I pick it up, before I take those first steps forward it must be said, carved within the depth of my heart is a place where I will carry his voice. Where I will hear him say, "Jin! You’re here!" And I will say, "Yes I am. Always and forever."