And then I returned to gym class

For Heaven's sake, why would I do such a thing? I was a geek in school. I'm a geek now. Gym class was the worst part of my week. Not only was I picked dead last for every single everything, sometimes the teams would argue about who had to take me. The best part of college was no gym class.

Granted, since then I have discovered yoga, and also Pilates. So I'm not morally opposed to exercise. But planned group team sports are still not precisely my thing.

And yet there I was, in kiddo's gym class, for Healthy Heart Day. Exercising.

It was cute and all. In one game, if someone tagged you with a noodle (representing junk food), you had to sit on the floor and yell "I need a healthy heart!" until someone else handed you a ball (representing said heart) and you could get up and run around again, passing on the ball to someone else who needs it. In another, there were teams, and pins lined up at either end of the gym, and your job was to guard your pins while trying to knock down the other team's pins with balls. Also, the balls were smallish and super-squishy, not the rock-hard kickballs I remember from my childhood. And the gym teachers were playing No Doubt and other '90s faves the whole time, so that was nice.

It's just, I thought I was showing up to watch kiddo play these games. And then the teachers handed out the noodles to all the parents and I thought, oh no.

Fortunately, I was wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, because I can. Less fortunately, I was afraid to take the hoodie off, because I was wearing my Elfquest T-shirt. Remember how I'm a geek? Elfquest is a much-beloved indie-gone-mainstreamish comic book that features, well, elves. And wolves. And the female elf on my shirt, who in my defense is my favorite character, happens to have a bare midriff. A Captain America T-shirt is one thing; people know who he is. Only fellow comics geeks know what Elfquest is. I couldn't figure out how to explain my slightly racy shirt to the other grown-ups. The upshot? I was unnecessarily sweaty. Bleah.

I even got to play more than kiddo did. We've had some less-than-stellar weeks around here, and as a consequence for acting out -- and then refusing to leave the room when he was asked -- kiddo spent the first few minutes of gym with the guidance counselor. (My request. I didn't like the idea of him sitting there, the "bad kid," watching everyone else play.) So I was already out on the floor, having just been tagged by a kid with a noodle, because the kids got the noodles in the second round and some of the ones I'd tagged came after me for revenge. Those kids are fast. I was just starting to sit down when kiddo came barreling into me, and we went down in a heap together. Then he jumped up and became my protector. "My mom needs a healthy heart! You have to help my mom!"

In the second game, when we were supposed to be protecting the pins (I have no idea what they were representing. A low BMI maybe?), kiddo guarded his pin so intently he didn't move from the spot. Probably not a good choice, because one of the dads shot a ball right through kiddo's legs to get the pin down. Well, at least kiddo is just as athletic as I am.

I guarded the pin in the next couple rounds -- once knocked down, once stayed up -- and I was getting into it, crouching to catch the balls, using one to stop another, diving to my knees, that sort of thing. I don't think we won, but I also don't think it mattered that much. Kiddo had a grand time, and gave me about 20 hugs before heading back to class. "I'll miss you," he called after me.

He's such a sweet kid sometimes. It makes up for so much.

Unfortunately the next morning, all that crouching and diving and running caught up with me, and I woke up sore. Thanks for the warning, gym teachers.

So if you feel your workout isn't challenging enough, I have a suggestion: Join your kid's gym class. Have a heat pack ready.

On being Ferdinand's mother

Ferdinand the bull, that is. She's a pretty cool mom, as fictional cows go. She sees that Ferdinand would rather sit by himself under the cork tree and sniff flowers than run around with the other bulls.

His mother saw that he was
not lonesome, and because
she was an understanding 
mother, even though she was 
a cow, she let him just sit 
there and be happy.

That was both a wise and a brave choice. She knew her son wasn't acting like the other bulls, and wasn't fitting in, but she decided not to care and not to push him, because he was happy. 



I try to remember that a lot, when I'm dealing with kiddo. 



When to push him? When not to push him? Is he social enough? Not social enough? Is he listening in class? Is he OK on the bus? Is he learning how to take care of himself? Is he happy?



Sometimes I worry even when he does seem happy. When he's building Legos, for instance.



He's utterly obsessed with Legos. He builds these fantastical things. He's got a how-to book by a Lego artist (yes, there are such things) named Sean Kenney, and he's decided that he's going to have Sean Kenney's job when he grows up (though he, adorably, insists on pronouncing the name "Seen" no matter how many times I correct him). Every chance he gets, he's at the Lego table, itty bitty pieces strewn across the floor, building. He's good.



I'm happy to let him do that as long as he wants. Except when he has to get ready for school. And when he needs to set the table for dinner. And when it's bath time. And bedtime. 



Transitions have always been tough for him. He fights it every time. I've had to talk him into leaving the Legos. Occasionally I've had to take Legos away. It's not an enjoyable scene. But it needs to be done. 



And when it doesn't need to be done?



Kiddette wanted to play in the snow yesterday. Kiddo didn't. He wanted to build Legos. We pointed out it would get dark soon and he'd lose his chance. We said he wouldn't get hot chocolate unless he went outside first. He didn't budge. 



I debated. Ferdinand's mother would leave him alone. I almost did the same thing. And then I thought, he really needs to get some exercise today. And I caved. "Go outside," I told him. 



I'm still not sure it was the right call, though he did have fun once he got out there (and had his hot chocolate afterward). I want him to do what makes him happy. But I want him to be part of the world, too, or at least to remember there is a world once in a while. It's a tough balance. 



He'll probably want to build Legos tonight. I'll probably let him. If his homework's done. 

In the waiting room

Waiting rooms occupy a good amount of our time these days. At the behavioral therapist's office. At the social skills group. At the psychiatrist's office. They're fascinating places.

For one, when there are other parents about, there's almost this tacit agreement not to chat. (Rarely, at the occupational therapy facility we attended, you could get a good conversation going with another parent. But this was more the exception than the norm.) I'm guessing, no one wants to know what's up with your kid. No one wants you to ask what's up with their kid. It's like "Fight Club: Pediatric Edition." The first rule is, don't talk about the diagnosis.

That's OK by me, because I've either 1. brought a book, 2. brought a notebook to work on something, 3. brought my phone to play on or 4. all of the above. But the quiet can be eerie.

Of course, if kiddo is also in the waiting room, that changes things. Because he likes to chat with whoever he sees, and play (not quietly) with whatever toys are available or with whichever Matchbox car or Lego creation he's toting around that day. If there's another kid playing a handheld video game of some sort, he zooms in as if drawn by a tractor beam, and watches over that kid's shoulder, eyes locked on the screen, until it's time to drag him away.

The office of the previous psychiatrist offered a vending machine downstairs, near the entrance. This of course was a perennial draw for kiddo. I could bring all the snacks I wanted, but what he really wanted was something from the machine. Maybe putting money in and watching the prepackaged junk drop into the slot was endlessly fascinating to him. Maybe food you buy is just cooler than food your mom brings from home. Who knows? The new office has a machine too, but I've been able to walk him past it fairly successfully so far.

There is of course no food allowed at the social skills group, on account of allergies. I was betting this was the case, and when I brought kiddo there last time, after his car snack of peanut butter pretzels, I made him use hand sanitizer before entering the office. Sure enough, I saw the giant NO FOOD sign as soon as we walked in, and the word "anaphylaxis." Special needs and allergies, occasionally, go hand in hand. Kiddo was most peeved he couldn't finish his pretzels during group. Eat faster next time, kid.

One of the benefits of our current setup is that one of us can take kiddo to whatever his next appointment is and the other can stay with kiddette. She was spending a lot of time in waiting rooms. She's a fairly self-sufficient kid, perfectly willing to entertain herself -- one time I brought her clothes shopping with me and she sat happily in the dressing room, making one toy talk to another toy, to the amusement of everyone within earshot -- but we still didn't love doing this to her. Bad enough one child has to spend so much time in waiting rooms; there's no reason the other one should too. So she's been granted a reprieve.

Maybe at some point we'll be able to ease up on the waiting rooms. Maybe at some point kiddo (and we) won't need quite so much help. It's nice to think so. But I'm not complaining. Far worse would be if we needed the help, but couldn't get it. And I'm sure that's the case for far too many families.

In which she reappears

Wherever did I go? Well, first I took a month to work on a novel. And then it was the holidays. And then I left my job. So, how have you been?

I had a few reasons for the move. One was to focus on getting published finally. Another was to actually be around to parent my children once in a while. Have dinner before 7:30. Be awake enough to handle my special-needs kid. Things like that. Because parenting neurotypical kids is difficult enough when you work full-time. Parenting a kid with ADHD, who is physically incapable of brushing his teeth without getting distracted about a thousand times? It takes so much more patience. I'm barely capable of that as it is, let alone when I'm exhausted from working.

So after much strain on the family, I finally made the decision that any number of loved ones had been suggesting I make for, oh, I hate to even tell you how long. I kept delaying because I had visions of singlehandedly bankrupting the family and getting thrown out on the street. I'm a worst-case-scenario kind of thinker. But actually we should be all right financially. And already kiddette is over the moon that I'm picking her up at night and we're making dinner together. She insisted on helping with the chicken pot pie last night, and the salad, and on eating whatever slivers of avocado didn't make it into the salad.

Kiddo? It's hard to say. He's having major issues with transitions again. He's refusing to do things at school. He doesn't get dressed in the morning unless I repeatedly walk into his room to nag him about it. He's defiant when he's upset. "I don't have to listen to you!" That sort of thing.

It's possible my being home has upset his routine, and he doesn't know how to process it. Or just going back to school after a lovely, gift-filled holiday is too much to bear. I'm not sure.

We did finally get our insurer to reimburse for a social skills group, so he's started that this week. He's doing well with his behavioral therapist. Something has to work, right?

The important thing is, whatever happens, I'm here to deal with things. And that should make a difference in the long term, for all of us.

Happy ADHD Awareness Month?

Which I'm slightly dubious about. I like the idea, let's say, but the execution, in past years, has seemed ... a bit circular. Are we raising awareness among each other or the general public? Because if the general public hears the same conversational checklist every year about why ADHD is real, isn't the general public going to get annoyed and tune out?

Also I think the general public might be more concerned with Ebola right now.

And the thing is, I don't need my awareness raised. I'm pretty well aware. What I could use is some advocating. Like, can some awareness-raising expert also explain why I can't find a social skills group that takes insurance? Or why the one group my insurer recommended that allegedly does take insurance explained to me they'd just hired several facilitators that wouldn't be covered, and there's no way of knowing whether the person who'd be running my son's group would be someone covered or not covered, but hey, want to schedule an intake appointment anyway, because why are you getting hung up on whether this group is affordable, you self-centered mom who only cares about paying the bills? Isn't your son worth all your savings?

Sorry, I might be over-extrapolating.

After the enormous debacle of the private occupational therapy company that swore they'd take insurance but really meant they'd screw up three months' worth of invoices and then nag us to send them the cash, I'm not interested in taking on another facility that kinda sorta maybe well-it-depends takes insurance. I'm interested in dealing with actual experts who know how to file paperwork. These do not feel like high expectations.

My point? If we're going to go on and on how ADHD is real and get archly defensive about how medication is sometimes necessary, shouldn't we also go on and on about how potential alternatives to medication, or at least supplements to medication -- like OT, like social skills groups -- are either not covered by insurance or are completely unattainable? Shouldn't we also describe how trying to do the right thing for your child can frequently mean wanting to throw something at the wall? (Usually the phone.)

And our family is in a relatively good position, comparatively speaking, in that kiddo has a behavioral therapist, an IEP, a special education teacher who seems to be trying hard to do right by him and relatives who support him without carping that ADHD isn't real. Yet still some days are a trial.

So you'll forgive me if I'm not precisely on the awareness bandwagon. I guess I'm sitting in the corner going, "But what does all this mean to me?" And if that's self-centered, well, so be it. Possibly I'm not the activist type. More of the "get things done so I can go to bed" type.

Anyhow. In the interest of absolute fairness, here's the official link to ADHD Awareness Month. By all means, decide for yourself about it.

On spooky things

One of the utterly fun (and by this I mean frequently exasperating) things about parenting a kid with anxiety issues is that he is scared. Of. Everything. Of being in a room by himself, anytime, ever. Of unexplainable noises. Of seeing "The Wizard of Oz" even though he's already read the book and seen the play version. Come on, kiddo, we have it on Blu-ray! You already know the ending! (It's been a point of contention.)

October, obviously, is not the best month for us.

Kiddo is scared of the spooky placemats on our dining room table. He had a near-meltdown in front of the Halloween store because of the scary clown mannequin parked in a chair near the entrance, and the only way I even got him in the store was by telling him to close his eyes and grab my hand. He is, every year, so freaked out by any sort of spooky-ooky house decoration that he will refuse to go near the front door even though there is candy waiting.

And while part of my frustration is that I feel bad for him and want to help him not be scared, the rest is totally that I love Halloween. I like spooky things. I was reading Poe in grade school. (Admittedly, probably not a good idea.) Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite writers. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" is -- still -- my favorite TV show. I like over-the-top gravestone-bedecked houses. I like gap-toothed jack o' lanterns. I like "The Monster Mash."

I guess I'm just baffled that my love of these things did not, in any way, genetically pass on to my son.

His behavioral therapist has been working with him on the anxiety issue. And I've been trying, gently, to put things in perspective for him.

I told him all about the first haunted house I remember ever going to, and how I was secretly terrified of all the ghosties and eerie candles and things jumping out at me, but I didn't want anyone to know that, so I skipped my way through chanting, "I'm not scared, I'm not scared." At least I think I skipped.

Kiddo was fascinated. Now he wants me to tell him about every single haunted house I've ever entered, ever, and what I saw there, and was it scary.

So I've told him about the haunted house his Aunt C.'s church put on, and how we saw her there, and she stopped pretending to stab a roll of paper towels to say hi to us. (Sorry, C. I'm sure you're thrilled I told that one.) I've told him about the Haunted Mansion at Disney World, and how the floor drops in one room and you see more of the silly-spooky pictures on the walls. DH reminded me about the haunted house and maze at Sterling Forest.

I don't know if it's helping, these haunted house stories. At least kiddo sees that we went in them and lived to tell the tale.

Maybe he never gets into Halloween. Maybe it's too much to ask of him. But I hate the idea of October being this trial for him, something he has to close his eyes and cover his ears just to get through.

He does like the candy, though. So there's that.

The other table

The problem with the back-room tables at IHOP is that they're sort of connected, half-booth half-table, and there is absolutely no way to stay out of other people's space. This irks me. I value my space. And also I'm used to worrying about my kids in public spaces, because of their complete inability to speak softly or to get through a single restaurant meal without lying down on the seat or all over each other, and giggling.

It's a bit of an irony for an introvert like me to have two such extroverted kids. I'm constantly thinking "Stop drawing ATTENTION to yourself!" even though I know the vast majority of people find the kids charming.

So we were sitting there in our table/booth hybrid and a cluster of young folks sat next to us. Now I was worried about youthful eye-rolling and secret young-person pity for the old lady with the annoying kids. They got to talking -- and I couldn't have tuned this out if I'd wanted to -- and my heart just melted.

One of the boys was discussing his mom's ongoing fight to get alimony payments from his dad. Apparently Dad was claiming that his son didn't need the cash anymore, because he's all grown up and has a job and everything. The boy said no, Dad knows he has mental problems and doesn't have a job and is living with his grandmother. Dad, apparently, goes to great lengths to not hand over any cash. The boy's friends commiserated.

I felt so bad for the kid. His parents were fighting, his dad didn't want to help him, he didn't sound remotely ready to solve his own problems. He had no idea what to do next, and he couldn't have been older than 21.

If your parents aren't acting like grown-ups, how are you supposed to figure out how to do it?

The kids and I, meanwhile, having finished our discussion of the relative merits of various Muppet movies, got up to go. "Bye!" kiddette said to the kids next door. They all laughed, and the lone girl at the table, a pretty blonde, said, "Bye!" right back.

They seemed like nice young folks. I hope they turn out OK.