On being open and grounded in parenting

It happened at Chick-fil-et this time.  As I scrambled to grab utensils and ketchup packages before our food made it’s way to the table I saw a man talking to my friend who was listening and also scanning for me.  I approached the table, taking stock of the man’s hearing aids and use of sign while he spoke.  He was deaf and he’d spotted my son’s implant.  

I love when we see adults or kids who wear hearing aids or cochlear implants.  I usually make a point to show Liam and sometimes we’ll say hello.  It doesn’t bother me and I want Liam to see other people who are also deaf.  As I suspected this man had seen Liam.  He asked about his implant and then mentioned when he talked to Liam he’d signed and Liam hadn’t really responded.  Did he know sign language?

“No, not really.  He knows a few signs, we did a little when he was first learning to listen and speak, but pretty soon he didn’t need it as much.” 

“Oh.  You know it might be helpful to have him learn sign.  You never know what might happen that would have him need to be able to communicate with sign.”

I gave a bit of a non-committal answer and commented that yes, we do hope to get him interested in sign someday.  This very kind man and I chatted for a bit longer, he made a point to say he’d be working there through the summer and he’d be happy to help Liam learn sign, adding that he knows how important it is for deaf kids to have role models in deaf adults.  I thanked him and made a point to mention that Liam does have some adults and peers in his life who also wear cochlear implants.  Later he came back to our table to ask if we liked to watch movies.  He recommended one with Marlee Matlin, a famous Deaf actress, about parents with a deaf son who were trying to decide if their son should get a cochlear implant.  I hadn’t heard of the movie and told him I’d check it out.  I’m willing to bet there was at least a little of an anti-cochlear implant sentiment throughout the film.

On the surface it was a pretty benign conversation with a deaf man about my deaf son.  And yet, because I am aware of the intricacies of Deaf culture, the complicated feelings about cochlear implants, and the judgements some make about the decisions hearing parents make for deaf children, I knew there was a lot going on underneath this polite conversations.  I knew what he wasn’t necessarily saying and he likely knew the same for me.

Interactions like this stir in me a strange combination of both defensiveness and openness.  The conversation is loaded and I wonder what assumptions this person has made about our family and our decisions and my ability to parent my son.  I often replay these conversations, defensive about our choices, anxiously crafting imaginary arguments and point by point rebuttals of his unspoken judgments.  And yet he knows something about the world my son exists in that I will never fully know.  And I can’t discredit that.  I want to listen when he speaks because he has something to teach me.  

I am learning the truth that white parents of black and brown children have come to understand for decades, they need to look outside themselves to help their children navigate the world.  There are identity issues and challenges that require parents to reach out to others who can understand these things in a different way.  Even though I carried this child in my body, we will experience the world differently and I need to be open to understanding that.

And so I try to stay open.  When I feel defensiveness creep up, when I want to shout, “I’m not a bad mother!  I’m making thoughtful, intentional decisions for him!” in the face of a man who is genuinely trying to offer help and perspective that only he can, I need to stop and listen.  I need to receive the information and let it shape my parenting.

But before it informs how I parent, I need to sift through it, to hold it up against decisions that I know deep in my bones were the right ones.  I must first ground myself confidently in what I know is true.  I am confident in our decisions.  I know we did the right thing for Liam.  And I know we are doing our very best to surround him with other deaf adults and peers.  

I don’t have to let every opinion and perspective of every well meaning stranger inform my decisions with Liam.  I only have to stay open.  Open and grounded.  Both/and.

I suspect this may be a parenting truth for us all.  To stay grounded in the decisions we have made with careful intention while staying open to the understanding that there is always a different perspective that may be helpful.  If we insecurely let everyone else’s opinions on parenting sway our every decision we will be inconsistent and unmoored, our poor children constantly having to adjust to whatever new idea we’ve decided we must chase down.  But if we stubbornly dig into “our way” without allowing for outside wisdom we risk missing the deeply individual needs of our children, for even those for whom the apple does not fall far from the tree  still are not exact replicas of their parents.

And so maybe we’ll head back to Chick-fil-et this summer for sign language lessons.  I know this second language would be good for Liam and we have always said it’s a skill he needs.  But I won’t regret or second guess our decision to focus first on listening and spoken language.  It was the right choice for us and I'm glad we made it.  

The Protestors

When I was in high school I attended speech camp every year (nerd alert!).  I was way into the forensics team in high school, participating in the acting events where I would compete, performing 8 minute pieces of different plays either by myself or with a partner.  And camp was Mecca for nerds like me.  It was held on a nearby university’s campus.  Every year the campus also hosted a camp for the Deaf during the same week as speech camp.  (Believe me, the irony of Deaf camp and speech camp running at the same time was not lost on me, even then.)

Every year I would watch the kids from Deaf camp in the cafeteria, the only time our paths would cross.  They ate lunch, signing across the table, having whole conversations without a sound.  It always brought up in me the question of whether I’d rather be deaf or blind.  My answer was always deaf, being blind seemed to require so much assistance, there seemed to be many more limitations on the blind to my fifteen year old self.  But as I watched these teens, I wondered if it wouldn’t be worse to be deaf.  To not be able to communicate with the world at large seemed untenable, beyond limiting.  I didn’t know any Deaf kids in my real life and so it seemed like if I was Deaf I’d be all alone on an island, isolated from the world around me.

******

At the AG Bell convention the protesters arrived early.  On Thursday night I caught sight of them as we made our way back to the hotel.  One woman, who I’d later realize was the leader of sorts, noticed Liam’s implant and started signing to me, asking if he signed.  He doesn’t but I didn’t want to get into it with her so I played dumb, smiled serenely at her and steered Liam toward the hotel.  My stomach felt queasy.  The presence of the protestors stirred something in me I couldn’t identify, or wasn’t yet ready to wrestle with.

The protesters were a group from the Deaf (with a capital D) community.  They were protesting what they believed to be AG Bell’s silencing of the Deaf community because, in their opinion, AG Bell doesn’t value ASL and instead encourages Listening and Spoken Language.  Additionally, AG Bell promotes and encourages the use of hearing aids and cochlear implants, which some in the Deaf community object to as they feel it is trying to “fix” or “cure” deafness, a quality they don’t see as a disability so much as a difference in the human condition.  There’s a LOT to unpack with all of this, much of which I’m not going to get into here and now.  I’m still learning a lot with regard to this conflict and as a parent of a deaf child with a hearing aid and cochlear implant, it’s more personal than not. 

All I can say is I went to bed that first night feeling uneasy.  I wasn’t really angry with the protestors.  But I didn’t feel right either.  I looked at my sweet boy knowing he was little d deaf and wondering if that was going to be ok with him in fifteen years.

******

On Saturday afternoon as my friend Lyra and I sat by the pool watching Liam swim she filled me in on what the protestors had been doing down in front of the hotel.  We’d been hearing rumblings about them from within the convention.  Security was on guard, not that any of us really worried for our safety.  The protestors had gotten a little more aggressive today though, arguing with families about their choice to implant their child.

As Lyra relayed one particular exchange she said, “I just feel so bad, some of these families have made an agonizingly difficult decision and these protestors are making them feel terrible about it.”

And with that statement my own feelings of unease came sharply into view.  I turned to her and said, “You know, the protestors make me feel bad because it wasn’t an agonizingly difficult decision.”  We never even really considered not using hearing aids and then an implant for Liam.  It wasn’t an option for us to have him learn ASL and participate solely in the Deaf community.     And seeing the protestors made me feel guilty for that.  They made me wonder if we should have at least considered the other side, looked into it more.   

The protesters made me feel, for a moment, insecure about our decision and the fact that it hadn’t really been a decision so much as the next logical step on our path.

And it wasn’t like I wasn’t empathetic to their arguments.  The Deaf community gets smaller as technology gets better.  Nowadays most deaf kids we know are completely outside of the Deaf community.  We don’t know anyone who exclusively signs, and Liam wouldn’t be able to communicate with them if we did.  I understand the fear that that instills, when it seems that all that you hold dear, the community that has given you everything looks as though it’s becoming obsolete.  And I also know that for some cochlear implants are not an option; the structure of some people’s inner ears make it impossible to implant.  As the Deaf community lesses it is these kids for whom I worry.  Who will be their home if everyone else can hear (with assistance)?  I may not agree with the protesters, but I can absolutely understand where they are coming from.

Which brought me to another feeling the protesters stirred up.  I’m not used to being on the side of the protested against.  Typically I tend to side with protesters, or I have no real understanding of a situation and take neither side.  It was an uncomfortable feeling to be on the side of “power” (not that I really think AG Bell, and those who choose implants and hearing aids are on the “power” side of the scale-it's just that typically those protesting do so because they feel powerless).  In this area of our life, if the Deaf community is the one feeling marginalized, we are certainly not on that side, and would actively fight for our right to continue down the path we have chosen.

In the end, that’s where I land.  I would never in a million years tell a Deaf parent that their deaf child should be implanted and immersed in the hearing world.  And so I’m not going to feel bad about our choice to bring Liam into our hearing community.  I understand all the reasons people would be worried about CI’s and the risks that they may not work, but I’ve watched his progress for the past five years and I know we made the right choice.  When I think back to those kids in the cafeteria at Deaf camp I know they were fine.  They’d had their community, they were confident, self-assured and intelligent.  Liam would have been fine if that had been him.  But, all those years ago, my heart recognized the chasm between those kids at Deaf camp and my peers at speech camp.  We lived in two separate worlds; their world was not better or worse than mine, and given the right tools (sign language or an interpreter) we could bridge the gap.  But by and large the ins and outs of these two worlds remained separate.  

For Liam the choice to participate solely in the Deaf community would have removed him from our community, from our friends and family, from the people we interact with daily.  And as his mom, I wasn’t ok with that.  Many years ago, before technology and organizations designed to help hearing parents learn ASL, many hearing parents of deaf children had no choice but to give up their kids, allowing them to be raised in boarding schools for the Deaf, or with other Deaf families.  I cannot imagine that excruciatingly difficult decision and I am thankful to live in an age where I didn’t have to make it.  I’m not trying to “fix” Liam but I am giving him access to the world I know and love; the same way a Deaf parent who exclusively uses ASL is doing for their child.

********

At the airport on the way home I struck up a conversation with two teachers of the Deaf who had attended AG Bell.  They asked me what I thought, as a parent of a deaf child, of the protesters.  I explained some of my thoughts without going into all of it.  And when these two teachers shared their frustration on behalf of the parents of their students, when they started to make the protestors out to be the bad guys I was hesitant to join in.  I truly can understand their perspective.  AND I am truly confident in ours.  And I suppose that is what peace with your decision feels like.  I didn’t need to fight back, to defend our choices.  But I also didn’t need to follow theirs.  We’d made the right choice for our family, even if at the time it didn’t feel like a decision so much as the next right step, and I had no regrets about it.

First Day

Liam Thomas.  First Grader.

This day has loomed, large and significant, for many years.  The first day of first grade would be a milestone for Liam, more so than the first day of kindergarten.  I’d thought about this day many times over the years but always with the awareness that it was far off, a ways a way, in some future time and place I couldn’t really fathom.

And then suddenly, yesterday morning, it was there.

I marveled all morning at how relaxed our morning felt.  Liam slept a whole 30 minutes later than he’d been able to on school days in the past.  And we still had 45 more minutes to get ourselves out the door. I glanced at the clock while I made breakfast and informed Liam that if he was still going to Child’s Voice the bus would have already arrived by now (or maybe not- the bus company wasn’t the most reliable…).

After finishing his cereal and apple slices Liam asked if he needed to get his shoes on.  I said no, he had some time to play, to which he responded, “Oh yea!  RyRy, do you want to go play?” and they were off, scampering to some imaginative world of their own creation.

I didn’t feel anxious yet, taking my cues from Liam who seemed remarkably calm and normal about this day which was A Big Day.  The only indication he carried any nerves about the day ahead had come at 1:30 am that morning when he came to my side of the bed weepy, claiming he couldn’t sleep.  I puttered him back to his bed and then climbed in with him, wordlessly wrapping my arms around him and holding him tight, an attempt to squeeze the anxiety out of his little body.  I lay with him until he was almost asleep then nuzzled his neck and slipped out of bed, saying another fervent prayer for a good day.

But now, as we ate breakfast and got dressed he seemed cheerful and excited about the day ahead.

We took our obligatory first day of school pics.  And then, with my mom at home to watch the girls, we set out to walk to school.

After years of taking a bus 45 minutes to school each day a 7 minute walk feels like a luxury.  He held my hand while we walked, not yet too cool for such displays of affection.  While we walked I felt the significance of this day begin to settle in me, a heaviness in the pit of my stomach.  I tried to understand why this felt so big.  It was not the full day aspect of first grade; Liam has been attending 7 hours of school daily since he turned three.  I wasn’t worried about his teacher or the academics; his teacher knew the ins and outs of Liam’s hearing loss and Liam himself was more than ready for first grade.  Was I worried about the other kids?  Worried that some brat would make fun of “those things on his ears,” a scenario I’d previously never had to contemplate as all the kids at his school had things on their ears?  Maybe, but first graders weren’t yet cruel really.  Maybe by third or fourth grade we’d need to steel ourselves for that.

As we got closer to school Liam got quieter and his grip on my hand a little tighter.  By the time we’d made our way to door 7 where all the first and second graders lined up to begin their day I saw the anxiety on Liam’s face and knew it mirrored my own.  It was the newness of it all.  For the first time in five years we were at a new school, a place we didn’t know, with people who didn’t know us.  And because we were jumping in a year later it felt like everyone else knew the drill but us.  

Liam and I found the 1H line.  I tried to step back, to let him stand in line with the other kids alone but he reached out for my hand, a panicked look in his eyes.  And so I stood next to him as his eyes darted around.  I could practically see the fear and anxiety levels rising in him and his brain tried desperately to figure out what was happening, what he could expect, what he needed to know.  

I thought about how anxious Tommy got at the zoo on Sunday when I asked him to refill our zoo cup at an unfamiliar location, recognizing how similar Liam is in new settings.  I knelt down and told him not to worry, it was everyone’s first day and no one knew exactly what was going to happen next.  The teachers would tell him what to do and where to go.  He started blinking back tears then, and I knew my words had touched on a point of anxiety for him.

His attempts to fight the tears that were threatening to push through was all it took to pull my own out.  And there we were, blinking back tears, desperate to appear as though we were not about to lose it in this crowd of moms and kids all more ready for the first day of school than we were.

I wanted to shout, “I’m not a crazy over-protective mom!  This is not a normal first day of school for us!  This is a BIG deal!”  But again, I couldn’t quite articulate in my own heart why this felt like such a big deal.  

But it did feel new and scary and big.  He felt like a pioneer, charting new territory: the first deaf kid the school had ever had.  Would the kids be nice?  Would the teachers know what to do?  Would he feel all alone and lost, unable to advocate for himself?

Rationally I knew the kids would be so kind, some already were.  I knew there would be a learning curve with the teachers but that they also wanted to do right by him.  Because he was the only one with hearing loss they weren’t going to let him fall through the cracks.  And I knew his old school had done everything, and I mean everything, to prepare him for this moment, for the moments to come when he’d need to advocate for himself.  He was ready.  And I was too.  We just didn’t know it yet.

And so, with tears in both our eyes and hugs and whispers that it was going to be awesome, that he was going to be awesome, his teacher led his class into the school and I watched him go.  I walked off by myself and let the tears fall freely, calling Tommy to unload my anxiety about our boy.

By 3:30 we were all more than ready to see Liam.  Tommy had come home early and we stood, double stroller filled with little sisters, waiting at door 7.  Liam rushed out, scanning the crowd for my familiar face.  I caught his eye and he came hurdling towards me arms out.  After a big hug that brought both of us much needed relief I asked him how his first day of first grade went.  And he said, “It was awesome!”  

Which was all I needed to hear.  We survived our first day.  And it was awesome.

Last Day

Today marks Liam’s last day of summer school.  I’m excited to have four weeks ahead of us to finish tackling our Summer Fun List and go back to lazy mornings that don’t involve catching a 7:30 bus.

But I’m anxious today, my stomach jumpy like I drank too much coffee.  Today marks Liam’s last day at Child’s Voice, the only school he’s known, the school which, at the risk of sounding overdramatic, changed his life.  

Liam on his very first day at Child's Voice

Liam has been attending this miracle of a school in Wood Dale, IL since January of 2012.  He’s been working with its therapists for even longer.  Way back when we started going two mornings a week to their group therapy program I’d drive the 30 minutes to school, stay working on things or chatting with other parents, attending his speech therapy, and then drive him the 30 minutes home in time for lunch and naps.  Sometimes, after Ryann was born, my dad would take him.  Or I would drop him off and my dad would pick him up.  My dad always liked picking him up on Wednesdays because he got to attend music class with him.  Liam held a low level of distain for music class, refusing to participate for the most part, which I think my dad thought was funny.  

I remember feeling so conflicted when Liam started that two day a week class at 19 months.  He was so little and I was leaving him in a classroom with teachers and other kids neither of us knew yet.  He wasn’t talking much, he’d only been hearing for maybe 6 or 7 months at that point.  I knew this was what he needed, to be in a program that was going to help him learn to listen and speak, but I kind of hated that this was what he needed.  I wished he didn’t need so much to find his voice.  

And then he started to soar.  At one and a half years old he was able to stand in line to wash his hands before snack.  He knew the routines of the day and participated in them willingly.  He could follow directions and play well with others.  He was listening and starting to speak.  School was doing it’s job.  I got my first taste of the parent side of parent/teacher conferences and before I knew it 18 months had passed and Liam was ready for “big school.”

Liam on his very first day of "big school."

Taking him to school a few hours twice a week (while I stayed in the building) was nothing compared to the heart wrenching act of faith it took to send my three year old on a bus with a stranger to school all day, five days a week .  I send my heart to that school each day and each day it came back home, a little more verbal and a little more independent.  He was finding his voice.

another first day of school.  he was so excited about that backpack with wheels

One cochlear implant surgery and three years of “big school" later, Liam was done.  His teachers, Tommy and I all deemed him “ready for regular mainstream school.”  At his IEP meeting this past spring you could sense the pride and almost warning in the voices of his Child’s Voice teachers as they described Liam’s progress.  He had done about as well as any kid could at this school, so don’t mess up our success story.

In May Liam participated in the graduation ceremony for Child’s Voice.  While I usually tend to think pre-school/kindergarten graduations are kind of silly and unnecessary, I will admit that for Liam this graduation meant something.  When he walked in the doors of Child’s Voice four and a half years ago he spoke only a handful of words.  At the graduation ceremony he confidently walked up to a podium and delivered a 48 second speech to a auditorium full of people.  He had found his voice.  It was beautiful.

Liam at graduation.  Cap and gown and all.

In just under a month Liam will start first grade at the elementary school just a few blocks away from our house.  This is a big deal, a turning point for him.  It’s the end goal we had when he started at Child’s Voice all those years ago: to go to the mainstream school with all the regular mainstream kids.  To be able to do what they do.

When you parent a kid with any kind of disability or differing ability there is always a fine line you walk when it comes to others’ expectations of him or her.  I never wanted anyone to underestimate Liam because of his hearing loss.  He isn’t dumb, or incapable.  He doesn’t need you to yell or speak in simple sentences to him.  But, I also don’t want anyone to overestimate his abilities.  He still has hearing loss and hearing aids and cochlear implants don’t work like eyeglasses.  Liam still has to work twice as hard to hear and he still may need some modifications, particularly in the classroom.  It was important to me that people recognized the both/and of his hearing loss.  He can do anything AND he has to work harder to do it.  

At Child’s Voice I didn’t have to worry if people knew how to walk this line.  They set the bar high for Liam AND they gave him all the extra tools he would need to achieve it. 

But even more then that, they loved him well during the process.  I wrote a letter to the staff last month to share our appreciation for all they’ve done for Liam.  In it I said, 

“At the age of three Liam started spending as many of his waking hours with you all as with us.  In so many ways you have helped to raise him these past few years.  And for this we are so incredibly thankful.”

He was taught well at that school but more importantly he was loved well.  This afternoon he will walk out the doors as a student for the last time.  He’s ready.  We all are.  

Today is a good day and a sad day.  We are ready to head into the next chapter but we recognize that we are closing another significant chapter.  Liam’s voice is ready to take on the world and today I’m feeling extra grateful for the place that helped him find it.

What Happened in Colorado

Liam and I had to fortunate opportunity to attend the A.G. Bell convention in Denver, Colorado this past weekend.  AG Bell is an association for the deaf and hard of hearing and their convention draws mostly educators of the deaf and hard of hearing, but also members of the community and their parents.  I got to go with Med-el, the company that makes Liam’s cochlear implant.  This is my second year as a part of Med-el’s patient support team, where I travel occasionally to connect with prospective CI candidates and parents of pediatric candidates, sharing our story of Liam’s cochlear implant.  For the convention Liam and I were presenting as part of a panel on “Self-Advocacy through the Ages” talking about how Liam advocates for himself with regards to his hearing loss.  

It was three and a half days with my guy and our Med-el family.  As we made our way through the Denver airport on our return trip Liam kept saying, “I’m going to miss Colorado so much.”  I don’t think he necessarily meant the state of CO, which is lovely, but rather the experience he had there.  He’s six so he doesn’t understand that the people we hung out with for three and a half days don’t all live in that space and time forever.  He didn’t understand that the Med-el booth we worked in was torn down and packed away mere moments after we finished our shift on Sunday morning.  In his mind if he were to board a plane tomorrow and fly back to Colorado everything and everyone would be just as he left it.  

To him Colorado equals Mom saying yes to pretty much everything.  It means treats throughout the day and multiple trips to “It’s Sugar,” the candy store down the street from our hotel.  Colorado is the place where he got to be “one of the guys” with Jeff and Joel, Max and Garret.  Where Max and Garret, two older boys with cochlear implants, played catch for hours on end and gave him a million piggy back rides.  Colorado is where he could go from booth to booth collecting all the free goodies his arms could hold.  Colorado is the place where he and mom got to have a lot of fun together, just the two of us.

To me Colorado now equals three days with people who spoke the same language, the language of hearing loss and cochlear implants, electrode array and MRI capability.  It’s the place where I was reminded again and again just how lucky we are that Liam is doing so well with his implant.  It was the place where Garrett and Max and Rachel, three teens with CI’s gave me a glimpse of what will be possible for Liam in just 7 years.  It was where I got to connect with the people who know, who know the journey we’ve been on and who can tell me what’s ahead.

I’ve gotten so used to Liam’s hearing loss that I almost forget he’s deaf.  (I should qualify this by saying I “forget” his hearing loss in the same way that I can “forget” my dad is dead, which is to say that I never for a moment actually forget.   It’s just become the normal in a way that I’m not continually reminded of it’s reality.)  We’re out of the woods, so to speak, in so many ways.  Liam is listening and speaking.  Clearly.  He’s reading and writing and carrying on full conversations with adults and his peers.  This is the goal when you are first diagnosed with hearing loss.  This is the thing you are not necessarily guaranteed.  

And so it wasn’t until I was with a group of people that were a bit further ahead on the path that I realized how much I still needed to be reminded of what’s in store.  To talk to those teens, watch them interact with each other and the adults on the trip, witness their composure and their self-assuredness.  Oh man, did my mama heart need it.  They are teens, doing the normal teen thing, with friends and confidence and humor and just all around awesomeness.  Which, this side of the journey, is all I hope for Liam.

I sent an email to one of the boys, one who had been particularly kind to Liam during our stay.   I told him that we really know any older kids with cochlear implants and that I was so thankful Liam now had a role model in him.  I remember hearing a parent of another CI wearer talk about a turning point moment in their life.  Like Liam her son went to a deaf school where all of his peers wore implants and hearing aids.  But also like Liam, there were not really any older children and adult users in his life.  One day she realized that he thought he would no longer be deaf or have to wear CI’s when he was an adult because all the adults he knew were hearing.  It was in that moment that she realized she needed some role models in his life asap.

I’m thankful to be able to create that for Liam.  I’m thankful for Max and Garrett and Rachel who give Liam a peek into middle school and high school life.  And I’m grateful for Mr. Chuckie and Mr. Jeff who show him that CI wearers can be police officers or creative directors.  In Colorado we both got a peek at what’s possible still and let me tell you, it’s pretty exciting.

Monster Turns Five!

Last month my little monster turned five.  I’ve written about how this age is rapidly becoming my most favorite.  Monster is proving to be the greatest kid ever.  We really love him a lot.

He requested a pirate birthday party this year and for the first time we invited friends from school.  He was so very excited to stuff his invitations into envelopes and deliver them to his friends.  The party was great, filled with pirate games and a pirate ship piñata, ice cream sundaes and running around with a gaggle of 5 year olds.  Later that night, after the party had ended we ate tacos with his grandparents and cupcakes with orange frosting, all per his request.  The kid knows how to do birthdays already.

 

At age five he remains sweet as pie.  Seriously, this kid.  He loves his baby sister and (usually) plays well with his middle one.  The very first sentence he learned to write all on his own was “I love you mom” and I am the very happy recipient of that note on a regular basis. 

showing off his tie of course 

In the last few months he has taken an extreme interest in “being handsome.”  After baths he stands in the bathroom painstakingly combing his hair as neat as he can manage, and for his birthday he asked my mom to buy him ties and bow ties so he “could be handsome” and he wears them all the time.  It’s kind of the cutest.  Earlier this week we rode our bikes.  On one of our pit stops at the library he bemoaned the fact that earlier that morning he had combed his hair “handsome” and his bike helmet had messed it all up.  Life, man.

He’s starting to read and write which is so great.   I love, love, love watching him make sense of letters and words and fall in love with books.  It takes very little persuading to let him stay up later and read just one more of his Superman primary readers.

We’re finding him extremely interested in God.  He asks us to read to him from the Jesus Story Book Bible each night and he brings it with him to church on Sunday.  He comes home from school with little notes he’s written about loving God and he tells us he has dreams about being in heaven and seeing Jesus and Granda.  In his dreams heaven has mountains and he’s excited to go there.  This little faith is emerging and I’m so protective of it, knowing I’ve done nothing to create it, but have all sorts of power to add baggage to it.

Recently he started asking if he could work out with me at the gym.  After dropping his sisters off in childcare I let him run a few laps with me on the track.  He ran with his arms at tight ninety-degree angles, hands stiff just like The Flash.  Every so often he would break out of it, turning back to look at me with sweet eyes and a mischievous grin, daring me to race him.  My heart welled more than a little as I ran with my boy.  We raced and giggled and I fell just a little more in love with this kid.  In a million years I couldn’t have dreamed him up and he is more than I ever could have hoped for in a first born.  He’s sweet and funny, charming and thoughtful. 

Happy fifth birthday, Monster.  We love you so!

Pictures are courtesy of my friend Mary, who is, obviously, so so talented!

Five is going to be my most favorite...

We are a few weeks away from Powell family birthday month.  My kids were all born between April 29^th and May 20^th (I know, terrible planning on my part- though due to some late arrivals it wasn't exactly planned that way), so for three weeks straight we are in full on birthday mode.  Toots turns three, Monster, five, and Red has survived one whole year with these crazies!

I’m excited for Red to turn one and move out of baby stage.  Unfortunately, if the past few weeks of crazy behavior are any indication, three may be worse than two for my Toots girl.  But Monster turning five is going to be pretty life changing I think.

I’ve already noticed a shift in him recently that makes me think five may just be my most favorite age.  He’s reasonable, quickly snapping out of bad moods with rational conversation.  He gets stuff in a deeper way.  His little faith has started to blossom as he asks us big questions about God and then tells us he’s going to his room to pray.  And he can do stuff.  Yesterday he rode his bike all the way to the library and back, a little over a mile each way.  This morning he prepared his breakfast all by himself.

It’s the sweetness that’s killing me though.  All of a sudden it’s like he’s taken love potion.  He comes and gives me hugs unprompted constantly.  He’s full of compliments and kind words for me.  And somehow, somewhere he learned to be really grateful for all sorts of everyday things I do.

I mean, come on.  So sweet. 

I suspect he learned that gratitude from school.  This past week has been “week of the young child” which seems to really be “week we teach young children not to be ungrateful a-holes.”  Either way I’m all for it.  Every day he’s come home with notes for Tommy and me. 

new favorite song.

And he learned the “thank you parents song” which I now request him to sing on the regular.

I’m telling you this age, combined with a school that’s teaching him the really important things in life, is making my week.  I want to bottle his sweetness up and save it for when he’s 16 and pissed that I won’t let him borrow the car. 

And for those of you in the throws of the terrible twos and threes- it gets so much better.  I promise.  Five is going to be awesome-sauce.

An Open Letter to Chipotle

Just two of my kids enjoying your fine cuisine.  These two aren't even the messiest.

Dear Chipotle,

First of all, I need to thank you.  Eight years ago, after completing my first half marathon, I sunk my teeth into my first burrito and it was love at first bite.  You became my very favorite post-race beast feast spot.  With my running days on temporary hiatus I’ve pared down to a burrito bowl, but still nothing beats your cilantro lime rice.  And you, dear Chipotle, are the only fast food establishment that my husband and I can agree on.  This is no small feat.  You’ve saved our marriage (or at least money on therapy- all problems can be solved over your chips and guac).

Now that I have kids I’m even more indebted to you Chipotle.  There are very few places I can go with the kind of quality food you provide.  Nothing fried, or chock full of preservatives and crap.  And my kids LOVE you.  Because of you Chipotle my daughter asks for rice and beans whenever and wherever we eat out.  Even at restaurants that do not carry rice and beans.  They are always up for Chipotle, just like their mom.

Which brings me to my real reason for writing, dear Chipotle.  I feel as though it’s time for me to address the one sided, almost abusive, nature of our relationship.  I’ve been a taker with you, Chipotle.  You give and give and give and I do nothing but take.  And it’s time for me to apologize. 

I can see the look of fear in the eyes of your wonderful employees when my brood and I come through your doors.  Three small children are no one’s favorite customers.  But for you, Chipotle, those rice and beans we love so much are the very bane of your existence I’m sure.  I know you know what’s coming when I stroll through the line asking for two kid’s quesadilla meals and extra sides of rice and beans.  I can see the resignation on your face and the knowledge that 75% of those tiny grains of rice and sauce covered beans will end up on your floor.  I’m sorry.  I feel the deflation when you size up the eight-month-old in my arms and realize that extra order of rice and beans is for her.  I’m so very sorry.  And yet despite the food explosion that we both know is coming, your employees are nothing but kind, helpful and upbeat.  It's a miracle really.

Please know that I try my hardest to clean up after the animals have feasted.  As you can see by the bean sauce that covers my eight-month-old’s hair, ears, eyes and hands, she is not exactly a neat eater.  Rice is stuck on every inch of her body and somehow made its way into her socks.  I wish the mess was contained to her being but alas it is not.  Bean sauce covers every surface within her reach and even, inexplicably, the table next to ours.  I use eleventy million wet wipes to wipe down these surfaces and give her a bath in your bathroom sink.  I wipe off the piles of rice and beans scattered on the chairs of my other two children.  But it’s the floor that defeats me.  The floor, so covered with rice and beans, now looks as though my children’s meals actually exploded at some point.   I only purchased three orders of rice and beans, but like rabbits that wonderful combination of carbs and protein appears to have multiplied.  At least eight orders worth are now covering your floor.  I’m not sure my kids consumed the food as much as smeared it on their faces and clothing before brushing it onto the ground.

I’ve thought about asking if I could borrow your broom, but you are so dear Chipotle that I know that you would never let me do it myself.  I’ve even thought about smuggling in my own dust buster and trying to remove all evidence of our dinner explosion before we leave.   But it’s hard enough to get all three of my kids through the door, much less a smuggled cleaning utensil.  And so instead I avoid eye contact as I pack up my three howling children, so ashamed am I to leave behind such a catastrophe in my beloved restaurant.  As we shuffle out with our heads down I turn and leave your fine employees one last apologetic, chagrined look, my eyes pleading with them to understand the depths of my remorse for the mess I’ve left behind and the deep need to be allowed back again.  I need you Chipotle, please don’t kick me out.  I’m sorry for the ways I take and abuse.  I promise it won’t always be this way.  Someday these urchins will learn to eat neatly.  I hope.

Sincerely,

An indebted customer