College Memories

"Failure. Anyone working toward meaningful change will taste it often. When that happens, the frustration we feel turns inward, and suffocates. Self-loathing and a toxic sludge of shame can follow.

If frustration is the fuel for the engine of change, then grace is coolant that keeps the thing from exploding. When we fail on the path to New, extending grace to ourselves is vital. It is only with grace that we can stand back up and keep walking, smiling and laughing at how we fell."  -"Science" Mike McHargue

Commencement May 2002

I have an uneasy relationship to my alma mater.  I am a college graduate, which makes me proud, but I don't use my degree, which makes me feel bad.  I am an alumni, but not one who is able to make generous financial contributions.  And because I don't have a "job", I don't really need to network or make connections through mixers and alumni events.  But I still read the magazine that comes in the mail and check the emails.  It's how I got this lovely computer that I am typing on.  With that positive experience in the recent past, I decided to accept an invitation to bring my family up to Kent for the annual "Tray Fest" aka sledding down the hilly Front Campus.  This sounded fun.  And since I didn't do social activities when I was actually a student, it would give me the opportunity to create memories with my kids.

But the yucky feelings began as we loaded up the car with gloves and sleds and extra clothes.  I got on the familiar road that I traveled so many times alone, this time with my whole family.  And I felt a sense of dread.  It has been almost 13 years since I graduated, and at least 10 since I've been on the campus.  College was easily the worst few years of my life.  It was a time when I was the least healthy version of myself, when I was chasing all the wrong things and dissatisfied with what resulted.  I lost myself in the crush of brick buildings and well-dressed girls and heavy books and emptiness inside.

Apple Hall girls

Why was my reticence so linked to this place?  I mean, it's not the location that caused my depression or deprived me of friendship.  It's not like anyone actively sought to destroy my happiness and peace of mind.  It was merely the setting, the backdrop of my misery.  I ran through the usual list of regrets, all the things I should have done differently.

Upon arriving, there was a jarring sense of worlds colliding: thirty-something me with kids in tow revisiting where young adult me used to walk.  My irresponsible and immature past overshadowed by the people who depend on me everyday.  And, inexplicably, a fear that no one would talk to me or even say something mean.

Daredevils January 2015

Then my kids worked their magic.  They eagerly climbed aboard their sleds and shrieked and laughed and hollered as they rocketed down a very slippery and very steep hill.  We took turns riding down with them and helping them mount their plastic chariots.  People talked to us, mostly to comment how much fun was being had and how determined and brave the boys were. (They really are. Wow. So proud of these kids.)  By the time our fingers and toes and noses were red and stiff with cold, I was enjoying myself.  I was filled with a sense of nostalgia, remembering the classes I took in the buildings around us.  I found myself wondering if the boys would come back here someday as young men.  I pointed out the places I used to go as we drove around the campus.  I showed them the library and the parking lot that I was only lucky enough to use about four times, as it filled quickly each morning.  We passed the massive gym, "the Rec", and they begged to go inside.  Chris told them they would have to grow older and become students for that to happen.  It didn't fill me with fear for their tender hearts.  I think these kids are going to be okay.  Sure, they will struggle and fail at times, but their struggles and failures will be their own; they won't be mine.

We drove home with french fries and laughter, and I felt my memories reset.  Yes, I could have done things differently...but I know that now, only because of the pain I experienced to learn about myself. Is it fun to be lonely?  NO.  But it helps point me in the direction of healthy relationships.  Is it exciting to feel your mind sink into despair and lose sight of the future?  NO.  But I am grateful for each day since then that has dawned and the life that continues to grow and evolve out of that desperate place.  Is it pleasant to grasp at the pieces of yourself as they disappear and realize that you are left with nothing?  NO.  But sometimes we need to empty ourselves for better thoughts and ideas to take root and grow.  My years in college were miserable, but my college didn't make me miserable.  I was suffering the pains of growing and becoming something new.  And you guys, I love who I have become.  I am so glad to be the woman sledding down the hill with her wonderful boys and laughing with her husband.  I love the friends who surround me and encourage me and redeem all the hurt from toxic relationships in the past.  I'm glad for the distance from who I used to be, and the promise of who I am becoming.

Future student? January 2015

Let me end with a quote from Mikey, who is very eager to plan his future and experience EVERYTHING:  "When my teeth fall out, I get big, and I grow tall, then I can go to the gym and be student at college."

My Fear

"So the good boys and girls
Take the so called right track
Faded white hats
Grabbing credits and maybe transfers

They read all the books but they can't find the answers."

I went to that cookie-cutter high school John Mayer sings about, the one that teaches the equation abc=xyz, with abc being Take these classes, Get straight A's, Graduate with honors, and xyz, you will Get into the top college of your choice, Graduate summa cum laude, and Get the best job ever.  And that's it, that's the meaning of life.  But I was lucky, because my parents didn't believe in conveyor belts, and they encouraged me to chart my own course.  They never shied away from being "weird" or different.  If I wanted to take a class that went away from the mold, they said do it.  If I liked reading science fiction novels instead of the "classics" required in AP English, they said drop the class.  If I wanted to wear clothes from Goodwill or my grandma's attic, they shrugged and went on with it.  They showed me how to figure out exactly who me was, with no right answers, no strict guidelines.

Well, I never lived the dream of the prom kings
And the drama queens
I'd like to think the best of me
Is still hiding up my sleeve

Sometimes when I mention something that my parents did really well, they'll scoff and say they weren't doing it on purpose.  They were flying by the seats of their respective pants, with no map to show them where to go.  So maybe it wasn't sheer bravery that caused them to let me be weird.  Maybe they were just clueless about what they were supposed to be doing.  But isn't that courage in and of itself?  To plow ahead, not looking to the side to see where the other parents are, if they are on the right course or headed for a cliff, to push me into the wide open world instead of on a narrow path to the Ivy League?

"I think what must have frightened my parents most 

of all [about my diagnosis] was the possibility that I would

not be able to lead the "normal" life they really wanted for me.

Like many parents, they equated normality with

being happy and productive."

Daniel Tammet, Born on a Blue Day

So why then, coming out of a home that placed so much importance on individualism, have I become that parent who is constantly checking what the others are doing, wondering if my kids are missing out, not measuring up?  Because I'm afraid.  I'm scared that my kids will show up at school reeking of different, and that will lead to bullying, low self-esteem, resentment toward me.  If they haven't had swim lessons by age 5, did they miss out on important childhood memories?  If I buy their shoes for $4 at a consignment sale, will other people be able to tell?  If our idea of family fun is eating popcorn and watching movies, if I buy them Skittles or let them drink Sprite, am I setting them up for obesity and isolation?  I just want to fit in, to blend in the crowd so my kids will be safe.  But that's not good parenting.  I know it isn't.  I was taught from such an early age to do what is best for me, to clear a path if none existed, to go where I need to go.  And why should that be any different for my kids?  I confessed this to my friend, and she laughed and said, "Oh, you SO don't fit in."  Wow, and that was when I was trying.  So I decided to shut out all the noise, all the websites and commercials and statuses that made me feel like I wasn't measuring up.  I called to mind John Mayer's young adult anthem, the song I identified with so well as a 19 year old nontraditional student.  Because my boys don't fit in boxes.  They are so much more than a list of grades or accomplishments or failures.  They are little people with passions and hopes and dreams.  And I want them to learn what I learned, how to create a life of one's own choices, how to arrive at one's own destination.

I wanna run through the halls of my high school
I wanna scream at the top of my lungs
I just found out there's no such thing as the real world
Just a lie you've got to rise above

Great Expectations

I felt like a different person last night.  I offered up an invitation on facebook..."Any ladies want to come over and watch Pitch Perfect after 8pm?" and three of them said yes.  The boys went to bed, my husband made popcorn and then disappeared upstairs, and we watched a funny, girly, grown-up movie together in the middle of the week.  One thing I've lost in motherhood is this time to sit and watch together with girlfriends.  The last time I watched a movie with a friend at home was a year ago when I spent the night with my best friend in Columbus, and after karaoke and Taco Bell, we stayed up ridiculously late to watch Bridesmaids.  Before that?  I think I had one kid, and I watched Mad Men at a friend's house.  I miss that friend time.  Because, of course, once the movie ends, the girl talk begins.  We talked about pregnancy and shared belly photos.  I ran upstairs to get my pregnancy album, and then started flipping through James' baby pictures, and then I got lost in memory.  Seven years ago...

A newly pregnant Rachel thought and planned for her future.  She thought about all that she would do with her child, where they would go, who he would become.  The plans for the child were as high and far-reaching as the plans she made for herself.  And then came the day when the doctor sliced her open to bring the baby into the world, and her heart and her mind were ripped open too.  There was nowhere to go in the hazy days of her son's infancy.  Just to the changing table, the bathroom, the couch, and back to bed.  Over and over and over.  And the child she brought home was not the empty vessel she had planned to fill with all her loves and passions; he came fully-formed with a voracious appetite for breast milk and a primitive religion that worships vacuum cleaners.  He didn't want to lay in the air-conditioning and watch Gilmore Girls or sit quietly in his stroller while she browsed at Borders.  He wanted to be outside, on the move, learning about this great world.  And so Rachel took him outside.  They walked around the neighborhood, they explored the flora and fauna in their very own yard.  She found a book about trees so she could say "This is a spruce; feel its soft needles" and "This is a maple; touch its huge leaves".  He learned to roll over on the grass, he played with sticks and pinecones, and as he grew, he chased squirrels in an attempt to befriend them and join their society.  And so it was that the child became the teacher, and the mother became the student.  She learned to see up close what had all been background.  She began taking in the stillness of a summer morning and existing in the simple moments motherhood offered, instead of planning for the future and running off to do.

The son grew older and learned new ways to have fun: video games and cartoons, bowling and swimming.  But he remains a lover of the outdoors, as he spends his days spread on a blanket in the yard, watching the birds that fly from tree to tree, and exploring gardens and parks.  And he was followed by two little brothers who shared his appetite for milk, his reverence for the vacuum, and his need to be outside.  So this morning, when my plan for a morning outing went sour and we returned home to regroup, I found myself once again exploring the yard with my youngest.  It started as him streaking, running through the still-wet grass, free as he has never been before, and delighting in the chance to watch his pee stream forth unchecked by a diaper.  But after a while, I dressed him, and then he took my hand and said, "Walk."  So we made a tour around the front yard, then back past the garage to check on the garden.  We picked flowers and pulled leaves off the tree and he made his own garden.  The big boys were inside with their electronics, but out back we simply delighted in the fresh green space we've been given, the calls of the birds and the swift movements of the squirrels.  I left my phone on the picnic table, because I didn't need to connect with anyone outside of our yard.

Its the biggest lesson the boys have taught me: to be and enjoy, to slow down and look at all the beauty and differences in the world.  To leave deadlines and schedules and expectations behind.

Teaching

Its the end of another school year, which means it is time to evaluate, gather information, make important decisions that will affect the years to come.  This year has been so wonderful, my son has made so much progress, but will a different classroom make next year just as wonderful?  Will a new teacher, a new school, completely throw him off and send him into a tailspin of behavior?  Will he lose out on that last available spot?

I went to school like most kids...when I turned 5, my parents signed me up for kindergarten.  The next year I went to first grade, then second, and so on until I graduated high school.  When I became a mother, I figured I would do the same as my own parents had done, and didn't give the school question much thought in the hazy days of breast-feeding and diaper changes.  And then the bottom fell out and my son was diagnosed.  I didn't even know what options there were.  I searched my mind, trying to remember where those special kids were during my own education.  What did they learn?  What were their test scores?  I was always so concerned about who was ahead of me, whose grades were better, who was going to be class valedictorian.  I never thought about who was behind me.

Now I think about it every day.  I'm raising one of those kids who is "behind".  And I am endlessly grateful for the teachers who take the extra time and care that is needed to educate him, and those like him.  The ones who take pride in a student who started the year non-verbal, and is now participating.  The ones who know when to push, and how far to push.  The ones who see the accomplishment in just standing through an entire kindergarten concert.  The ones who are constantly learning and adapting, trying to find the best way to reach every single kid.

Psalms 126 says, "Those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy."  I think it means that anything worth doing will be difficult.  There have certainly been many tears throughout the past few years, mothering these small children, figuring out who they are and being astounded at what they are capable of.  Things got pretty biblical during potty training, as I gnashed my teeth and tore my clothes and lay on the bathroom floor in misery.  But my sons use the toilet now, they flush and (sometimes) wipe and wash their hands.  I have faced off with James about writing his letters (and I'm sure his OT has similar battle scars), but now he can do it.  And the craziest thing is, I have no indication of when to push.  When the time is right to start something new.  Just a Mommy-sense that he's ready, and then we go for it.  I used to be afraid of that, scared that I was imposing my own timeline on him.  And that's definitely part of the struggle, not to compare him to others.  But he doesn't belong shoved in a corner, playing with blocks.  He's ready to go forward, ready to read and add and before we know it, conquer quantum physics.(I'm going to have to find someone else to push him there, though, this Mom doesn't understand anything past 8th grade science class)

I didn't expect to have to work so hard so that my son could learn.  I expected to just jump on the parent auto-ramp and cruise through high school.  But I'm holding on to the promise of harvesting with a shout of joy, knowing that all the tears will be worth it someday.