On the topic of hugs

I didn’t start out as the best hugger. A tentative hugger at best, I was saddled with certain reserve that prevented me from recklessly falling into an embrace. As someone of Italian decent, hugging should have been part of my DNA, like making pasta, right? Alas, not so.

Thanks to my mother, I did learn to make good pasta. Hugging was another story. Though my mother tried, I just couldn’t get past my inhibitions. I spent my formative years (and well beyond) slipping out of the arms of relatives whenever possible to avoid the awkward moment of the dreaded hug.

So how did I land with Sam, blessed with a big heart and an insatiable appetite for hugs? Good question. Maybe God has a very strange sense of humor.

Sam has always craved deep pressure. At infancy he loved being swaddled. As a toddler, a hug calmed him and brightened his smile. By 5, Sam’s most frequent request was, “Squeeze ‘em!” As such, the avoidance tactics of my childless years were no longer and option.

For the last 17 years I’ve practiced. Big hugs, little hugs, shoulder hugs, hand hugs, foot hugs and hugs in every shape and style. The more hugs and squeezes I provided, the more Sam demanded. At some point we agreed 5,000 hugs was the right amount of daily hugs.

Here’s what I’ve learned. When you shoot for 5,000 hugs each and every day, you become a lot more comfortable. It’s that practice makes perfect thing. That and a good teacher, of course. Lately I’ve even been thinking I've finally mastered the hugging thing.

This weekend, when Sam asked for his first of 5,000 daily hugs, I provided my best, down to your bones kind of hug. With that he paused, pulled up to his full height and smiled down at me grandly. Then he shouted, “Go team go!”

Has hugging become a competitive sport? Great idea. The world could use a few more hugs. Is Sam telling me I am good enough to be on his team? I hope so. 

Bring on the competition. I’m ready.

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The truth is overrated

I want someone to lie to me. Really I do. Not a big you'll end in jail kind of lie. Just a harmless little fib. Living in a house with an analytical thinker and and a brain wired courtesy of autism, you don't get lied to much. Generally this is a good – even enviable or desirable. But there are those instances when only a white lie will do.

Case and point:

Sam: Mommy is a pest.
Me: You think Mommy is a pest?
Sam: Yes. Pest.

Me: How does this look?
Tony: Kind of makes you look fat.
Sam: Mommy is fat.
Me: Thank you. You both look wonderful, too.

Sam: Stop singing Mommy.
Me: Don't you like my singing?
Sam: No. Mommy stop singing.

Me: How do you like the brussell sprouts?
Tony: They aren't horrible. They kind of taste like dirt.

Me: Sam, eat your veggies, please.
Sam: Mommy is a big pest. Not a little pest. A big pest.

Tony: Wow. You don't look so good today.
Me: Thanks. You look great, too.

Me: Do you like my shoes?
Tony: They are kind of ugly.
Me: Thank you.

Me: Sammy, who do you love?
Sam: Fiona.
Me: Good to know.

Tony: (After looking at old pictures) Wow. We look old.
Me: Thank you. Kind of you to share that comment.

Sam: Mommy is a dope.
Me: Sammy, where do you learn this stuff. Mommy is not a dope.
Sam: Mommy is a dope.

Me: Maybe they remember us because we're snappy dressers.
Tony: No. That's not it. You don't dress that well.

All I can say is thank you, Tony and Sam for sharing all those candid thoughts. I've got honesty coming at me every which way.

Now please, just for a day. Don't tell me what you are thinking. I don't want to know what's really running through your mind. Just once. Tell me what I want to hear.

Like I said, the truth is overrated. At least at my house.

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About those Vampires

Sam woke me at 4:30AM to let me know he is not a vampire. It is important to know these things at 4:30AM. World, please know Sam is not a vampire.

That was my facebook post earlier this week. When Sam read the post, he looked at me and said, “No live with the vampires, Mommy.”

Be assured I do not have any plans to send Sam off to live with vampires. I am glad he mentioned it, though. It reminds me he listens. It also reminds me on occasion it takes him a while to respond. Sometimes as much as 9 or 10 years.

Being October, most would guess Sam's comment is connected to Halloween somehow. Not so. It is actually part of a largely one-sided conversation spanning several years. Translation? There is a little more to the story. Isn’t there always?

Sam has never been much of a sleeper. From as far back as I can remember a visit or two from Sam punctuated my nights. The visits came in spurts involving a couple of hours hanging out, waiting for Sam to fall back to sleep. After a long string of sleepless nights, you are bound to say something ridiculous. Or at least I am.

When Sam was 7 or 8, we went through a particularly long spell of sleep deprivation. Finally, in frustration, I recall saying something like, “Sam, you need to sleep or find a nocturnal family to take you in. Maybe some vampires. They are up all night. Are you part vampire or what?” I am pretty sure I told Tony I was going to post an ad for a kindly vampire family on Craig's list.

In the ensuing years, it became sort of a routine. I’d ask Sam if he was hanging out with vampires again whenever he looked particularly tired in the morning. Given his sleep history, this question was asked with some frequency. Sam never responded. Not once. Ten years of vampire questions and nothing.

Until just recently, that is. Has all this vampire stuff been festering in Sam’s mind? Wow. I hope not. At the least I think I owe Sam a public apology, so here goes:

Sam,

Sorry about the whole vampire thing. I didn’t think you were listening. I know you are not a vampire. I promise I won't send you to live with the vampires (I really don’t know any.) Nocturnal or not, I want you here, with me, where you belong for a very long time.  

Love and big hugs, Mom

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A potential for stormy weather

The Weather Channel is on in Sam's bedroom. Sam has always had a fascination with weather, but it is a fascination that can spiral quickly into a challenging day. Like a TV mystery, I have a small window to analyze the situation and solve the puzzle. Like any good detective I assess the subtle clues:

            Movie/video sequences played repetitively.

Revulsion to touch.

Fixation with Dr. Seuss.

Endless eating.

Loud and random vocal outbursts.

No eye contact.

Unusually compulsive behavior.

Fingers twitching.

Abrupt hand movements.

Any of these are indications of something – or nothing. Individually, they nothing; a combination of two or more can result in something explosive.

Time ticks as I go through my checklist: Heartburn? Headache? Toothache? Earache? Stomachache? Constipation? Allergies? Sleep deprivation? Frustration? Hunger? Anxiety? It is a list of variables that grows and contracts.

"Are you sick?" I feel compelled to ask, knowing the response may be unreliable. “Feel OK,” he auto responds. His unwillingness to make eye contact and body language belies his words. But what is it? “Where does it hurt?” I ask, hopeful for an answer. He points to his chest. Is it another default response?

I quietly change the TV channel and attempt control of his iPad. I grab Tums. Speaking in a soft, monotone voice I reassure: “You will be ok, I can fix it.” I hold his twitching hands in an effort to calm. I ask him to sing with me to distract.  I wipe his face and brow with a cold compress for no good reason at all. Maybe because I don't know what else to do.

I pray the phone doesn’t ring as I strategize what to do next.

And just then, I see his body begin to relax. I see the beginnings of a smile as he leans over and coyly demands, “Squeeze him.” As I move to provide a squeeze he gazes at me making perfect eye contact. We are OK.

Today I have caught the clues early enough in the sequence. The crisis has passed.  Like the crime drama,  it would seem I've cracked the mystery. Only I don't know what I've cracked. I only know we are back to Sponge Bob and laughter. And all is right with the world once more.

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The perfect child

I sat near a young mother recently. Though I didn’t mean to, I found myself listening to her conversation. Clearly delighted by her child, she extolled his brilliance and charm. At the risk of bragging, she admitted her son was well beyond all his peers. He may even have leaped a tall building in a single bound, though I am not positive she said that. I am certain in the ensuing weeks he’s learned twelve languages. Or more.

I couldn’t help but smile at the little cherub nearby who sat blissfully unaware of his great prowess. That mother’s delight in her child made me smile too. I hope he is every bit as brilliant she thinks. I hope he can perform magical feats. One day he may hold our collective futures in his hands. I'd be foolish to hope otherwise. 

I have a favor to ask of you, mother of the perfect child.

I ask you instill in your child a compassionate heart as well as an open and inquisitive mind. Teach him  to be patient and kind and to fearlessly pursue all that is right. Bless him with acceptance of all people regardless of origin and ability. Show him how to appreciate their achievements no matter how small. Help him develop an eye for beauty in even the smallest of things. Stress the importance of giving back as much as he takes. Share with him the value of a smile.

Teach him to treasure each living creature and to value every life. Let him know it is ok to make a mistake and honorable to admit and learn from it. Help him to understand he won’t become more by making another less. Teach him to resist judging what he doesn’t understand and perhaps even what he does. Let him know he is no better – or worse – than anyone else.

Teach him to use his gifts wisely. Whether his accomplishments are grand or small, provide him with the tools to leave our world a better place. A place where your son and my son might one day peacefully co-exist. Maybe even be friends. You can show him the way, mother of the perfect child. I know you can. You can help him make the world a better place. 

Thank you from the bottom of my heart,
Sam's mom

 

Saturday morning: the terms of vacation

From a deep sleep I hear: “Mommy! No school for two weeks!” I pull the covers over my head. They are quickly peeled away for a repeat, “Mommy! No school for two weeks!”

I surrender to the urgency in this voice and look at the clock: 5:00AM. “Well good morning to you, too, Sam.” My sarcasm is lost as Sam sticks his face into mine for a third, “Mommy! No school. No school. No school for two weeks.”  “Yes, Sam,” I confirm. “No school for two weeks. Go back to bed."

“Mommy outside! Shoot hoops.” Sam demands.

“Too early for hoops. Everyone is sleeping.  And no hoops in your underwear.” I remind. I'm certain I've given an edict here and yet I still hear several more,  “Mommy! Shoot hoops.” Delay tactics are my only hope. “Sam, I have a plan. Would you like to hear the plan? It’s a good plan.”

Sam responds with interest, “Yes! What’s the plan?” Except it sounds more like “Waz the plan.” And his voice inflections don't lilt up in question.

“First, get dressed. Clean underwear, shorts and tee. Eat breakfast. Make toast. Get flip-flops. Go outside to shoot hoops.” If I stretch it out, I can preserve neighborhood peace until, oh, 7:30. I throw in a shower and shave, adding, “Then come inside, take a shower and shave.” His expression seems to say, "About that shower and shave. No." The actual conversation runs like this:

Sam: No shower.

Me: No hoops

Sam: No shower

Me: No hoops

Sam: Yes hoops.

Me: Then you need to take a shower.

Sam: No shave.

Me: Yes shave.

Sam: No shave.

Me: No hoops.

We have hit an official impasse. He takes a minute to consider his options. I help by saying: “Sam, it’s simple: No shower, no hoops. “ Sam quickly agrees to my terms. “Shower later!” he announces with triumph. 

I know Sam is simply telling me want I want to hear. I know we will renegotiate the agreed to terms later.  How does he know to do that I wonder? Where did he learn it? And then I remember. Me.

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Holding on

It’s interesting what we hang onto.

I am not much of a collector. I’ve never been one to amass scrapbooks or photo albums so it surprised me when I reached into the closet the other day for a towel and found one old and full of holes. I looked at it for a moment before returning it and choosing another of respectable shape.

Later, I thought about the towel. What was it that prevented me from tossing it into the rag bin at that moment? I knew the answer. It was the last relic from a set of towels bought for our first home. As silly as it sounds now, I spent considerable time agonizing over the choice of color and how it felt in my hands. It needed to be the perfect towel set, because we were beginning our perfect lives.

Perfection. Isn’t that what we are all taught to strive for? Perfect home, perfect lives, perfect kids. Perfection. Nothing less.

For a moment or two I held in my hand one of the very few remaining items from the year of those lofty ideals. And was full of holes, mocking the naivety of my younger mind.

Suffice to say I didn’t achieve any of the “perfection” I’d hoped for. Few people do. But with maturity I hope I’ve achieved in its place an appreciation for the exquisite beauty of the perfectly imperfect that lives and breaths within my home. 

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