Thanksgiving and thank you

I remember my first Early Intervention meeting. A small room full of parents, all from different backgrounds with one commonality: our kids. I remember looking around warily at the mish mash of faces. Who were you?

I didn’t wonder too much, though. I wasn’t planning to stay long. Nothing personal. Special needs just wasn't on my agenda. But as so often happens, fate had other plans. So we stayed a little longer.

As Sam began his preschool program for kids with educational challenges it became clear his issues wouldn’t be resolved quickly. We lingered longer in this place. We started to know you and your families. I met your beautiful children and marveled at their sweet brave hearts. I began to understand we couldn't do this alone. 

Some of us only crossed paths briefly, some became permanent fixtures. Still I remember you all. 

You provided the knowing smile across the playground, the reassuring words, the voice at the end of my phone, the irreverent laughter I grew to love. You magically appeared on the darkest days offering a kind word, a hug or a nod of understanding.

You didn't compete for best mom or best kid. You cheered Sam's accomplishments as enthusiastically as your own. You sympathized when challenging days stretched from weeks and months. You openly admitted mistakes and offered suggestions based on those experiences. You shared your life openly and in doing so helped me find my balance.

To every special parent out there: those I've already met and those I've yet to meet, thank you, thank you. Thank you for your patience; for indulging my fantasies in the early days. Thank you for the nod of understanding, the wry comment to help me laugh. Thanks for the coffee, the care packages, the Charlie Brown Christmas tree, the shoe racks, the friendship, the hugs, the kindness, and for never judging us too harshly. Thanks for every act of kindness no matter how grand or small. Thank you for the acceptance and waiting patiently while I figured out I was a here to stay. 

Most of all, thank you for never saying, “I told you so” when you could clearly see what I could not.

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A Dunkin Donuts kind of day

It was an ordinary weekend morning, Tony outside back doing yard work, me still in PJs in “slow-mo.” Sam was busy multitasking with assorted electronics in his room.

The phone rang. I chatted for a minute or two and hug up and then glanced in Sam’s room to check on him. No Sam. I looked downstairs and found the garage door wide open. My heart sank. “Tony!” I yelled. “He’s gone!” We covered the yard. No luck. I ran into the garage, hopped in my car to look on the street. Tony ran down in the opposite direction.

About 4 houses down, I spotted Sam. He was straddling his bike, a bike he hadn’t learned to ride. He awkwardly made his way down the sidewalk. He was dressed in what I’ve come to think of as his running away outfit: a tee shirt, underwear on backwards and barefoot. Relieved to see him, I pulled up along side. Rolling down the window I calmly asked, “Where are you going?" With is eyes focused on the sidewalk he answered, “Dunkin' Donuts. Choket munchkins.” He continued to walk. His refusal to make eye contact showed his determination.

He kept walking and I slowly followed along.

A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind. What if I hadn't found him so quickly? What made him wander this day? Why the bike? Would he have actually made the mile walk to Dunkin' Donuts? What's with the backwards underwear? How did he plan to pay for the munchkins with no pockets in that outfit?

Finally I asked, “Would you like a ride?” He paused for bit, still unwilling to look at me and laid his bike on the curb. And then he sat, refusing to move. I parked and waited. After a few minutes I walked over and sat with him on the curb. We sat and we sat barefoot in our underwear and PJs, knowing one false move would result in a bolt into the woods.

Sam hung onto his self-control. He threw pebbles methodically into a nearby catch basin. I followed suit. It was inexplicably calming. Finally, he looked up a little teary eyed saying, “Sorry Mommy,” “Sam, if you want something, you just have to ask.” I said. “Can I go a Dunkin' donuts please?” he replied.

Any other day I would have set some small penance to re-enforce you don't leave home alone. But this day I couldn’t. It didn’t feel right.

“You know Sam, I think just for today we can.” I said. “Let’s get in the car.” His face began to brighten as we got in the car. We found Tony. As I sent him to retrieve Sam’s bike he asked where we were going. I said, “Sam, tell him!” and together we yelled, ”Dunkin' Donuts!”

“Dressed like that?” Tony asked. “Yup. That’s why they invented the drive-thru.” And off we went: me in my PJs and Sam in his backwards underwear. And it was good. 


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A very small corner

On a sunny Sunday this year in mid September we took on a small corner of the world. Right around the corner of Park Ave and Pleasant Street to be exact.

Courtesy of Seven Hills, Sam shared a table with several other artists at stART on the Street selling the note cards and drawings he’s been producing for the last couple of years.

It couldn’t have been a more beautiful day. The Park Avenue was filled with shoppers and street vendors. The neighborhood was alive: bands, people and the scent of foods all vying for attention. It was questionable how Sam will tolerate an environment so complex. There was a time when none of this would have been even possible.

But over the years when opportunity presented, we’ve tried. And we tried again. Taking baby steps. Sometimes lasting a few minutes, sometimes longer. Bit by bit we made progress, though sometimes it was near impossible to see.

This was Sam’s most successful venture ever. Many people stopped by to chat with Sam, see his artwork – some even making purchases. Nearly all were complete strangers to us, buying either because they liked Sam’s cause or maybe his smile or his artwork. In a best case, they might have liked all three. He raised a fair amount of money for charity, too. In all it was a perfect afternoon.

I thought of the days when every venue was a challenge, those were the days of meltdowns and awkward stares. I am so proud of Sam. He's come so very far. It didn't happen over night; we still have a long way to go. Sure, there will be challenging days ahead. But so much is possible, isn't it.

PS: Sam will be at the Millbury Council on Aging Center, One River Street, Millbury, MA on Saturday, November 10, from 9 AM to 1:30 PM selling his note cards and drawing… all proceeds going to charity. Stop by and visit us!

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Sam and Nana

Today is my mother's birthday. November 1. All Saint's Day. But this isn't about her birthday or the fact she was a saint (trust me, she was). This is about fondly remembering a night together almost 13 years ago.

It was a night like any other. Straightening my mother's kitchen, me at the sink, admonishing my mother to sit. My mother responding, "Janet I am not an invalid."  

I remember it now as a series of snapshots: the ever present crossword puzzle. The sparkle of my mother's ring. Her white china. Her casual elegance. The steam on the windows from the February cold. The blue denim of Sam's overalls. Carol. The hazel-green of her eyes. The smile that accompanied her low laugh.

It was a happy night. We were talking of spring and planning for when the weather improved. We spoke of of ordinary things, most long forgotten.

Soon it was time to go home. "Say good bye to Nana," I said expecting Sam to plant his usual goodbye kiss on her cheek.

This night's goodbye was different. Sam cheerfully dashed across the kitchen and climbed onto my mother's lap. Wrapping his legs securely around her waist, he grabbed her forcefully by the ears and yanked her face tightly into his. Then he planted a lengthy and exaggerated kiss on her lips, accompanied by the obligatory smacking sound.

Satisfied with his efforts, Sam pulled his face back. Locking eyes with my mother, he flashed a big smile and said, "Good bye, Nana!" He scrambled down and ran to meet me at the door.

With a bemused expression my mother said, "Well! I've just been kissed." “Yes you have!” I responded as I began to laugh, “Like you've never been kissed before.” “True,” she acknowledged. Within a moment she was laughing, too. We parted then, still laughing.

I didn’t think much about Sam’s goodbye once we left. There wasn’t any reason too. It was simply one in a series of greetings I expected to continue for many more years. It wasn't to be, of course. It was Sam’s last goodbye to my mother.

Today on her birthday I am remembering that comical goodbye, the delight of my mother's smile and I am smiling too.

Happy birthday, Mom.



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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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