The Long Haul

I started potty training Oliver in February of 2009. His second birthday had been two months before, he seemed to be responsive to my attempts to sit him on the potty and, well ... he was already two months older than anyone else I'd ever potty trained before. 

While it was obvious that Oli wasn't developing at the same rate a neurotypical child would progress, the word "delayed" was still being used as a catch-all to explain his inability to function at the level that his age suggested. It was a full year into his inclusion in our family, and I was beginning to suspect that "delayed" didn't quite sum it all up. But truly, I was still in the dark and just plugging along with the notion that at some point, he'd catch up to his peers and his rough start would be nothing but a sad memory.


So I did what had worked so well in the past. I found a couple of t-shirts that skimmed his knees, put a potty seat in the bathroom, prepared myself to spend many quality hours reading children's literature in the john, and stripped his bottom half nekkid.


Right away, it was obvious that while Oli was more than willing to pee on the potty, he was also completely clueless about the fact that he should rearrange his habits to begin peeing there exclusively. Being totally up front and honest here, I'll say that this was a bit of a shock to me. I'd already trained 3 kids, and only one of them had had more than a handful of accidents once the diapers were gone. Go ahead and hate me, call me a liar, or quit following this blog, but it's true. I was pretty smug about it at the time ("Most of mine have quit having accidents after the first week. A month seems like a really long time.") but if you make it to the end of this post, you'll see that I no longer feel that sure of myself and my training prowess.


My most difficult trainee to date had been my son who had sensory issues, so I shifted to the tactics that had helped him make the connection. No more "Buck Rogers" as we call it in our house. Oli got some thin cotton undies for his bum, and I waited to see how long it would take for him to connect the dots that so clearly spelled out pee=wet, wet=uncomfortable, uncomfortable=I should have gone to the potty.


Four months later, we were still waiting. And you know, it was frustrating. I was playing by the same rules that had worked so effectively three times. Why wasn't the whole thing "taking"?


Meanwhile, Manolin crossed his first birthday marker. We started making motions to move to Nepal. Life was marching on ... and I still had a boy in diapers. 


Things began to feel tense. Oli was pooping in his underwear four and five times a day. He urinated constantly--not trickles, but full-on, I've-been-holding-this-but-now-I-will-let-it-go floods. My house started to smell like a public restroom. Worst of all, the bulk of my interactions with Oli felt like they revolved around pottying. "Are you dry?" "Do you need to go to the potty?" "Let's go read a book in the potty."


It was that fall, after 6 solid months of seeing absolutely no progress whatsoever, that I gave up. With a heaving sigh of what I'll readily admit was relief, I violated the cardinal rule that had served me so well with all of the other kids: Thou shalt not put a potty training kiddo back in diapers. Ever. Not even for an hour.


But I did it. I endured my own guilt, and later--as he hit his third and then fourth birthdays still wearing diapers--I began to endure the judgment of others. Family members hinted that if I weren't so busy with the other children, I would take the time to train him. Moms at the Y offered advice about what had worked for their difficult to train toddlers. Helpers in church childcare pointed out that he was the only one in his class not yet able to use the potty. 


Mani learned to use the potty six weeks before his second birthday. It took him three days. He had no more than three accidents during those days, and he was done. That was it. No fanfare, no drama ... just one more kiddo out of diapers.


Which was, of course, bittersweet. Because Oli was still cluelessly pottying in his dipe. And yet here was Mani--growing up and growing ahead of his big brother in so many ways.


Right around this time, I had the blessing of meeting a fellow special needs parent who was unabashedly frank with me regarding her experience in helping her children learn to use the potty. As a long-time foster parent and adoptive mom of many cognitively challenged children, she was a treasure trove of tips and comfort. There was no firm time frame, she assured me, but they had all gotten there eventually. Then she added, "I've never had a special kiddo start using the toilet before age 5, though. I don't know why, but that's just been how it is in our house."


I greedily snapped this little bit of information up to refer back to when the disapproval--or pity-- of others seemed especially hurtful. It became something of my security blanket. "He's not even 5! Let it go!" 

On December 1 f this past year, Oli hit the magic age. And like the folks waiting for the implosion that the dawning of the year 2000 was supposed to bring, Mr. Blandings and I held our breath ... then looked around, waiting for the punch line.


Because nothing happened. Nothing. If anything, Oli seemed to get worse--backtracking from pooping on the potty more often than not to actually waiting until we had installed a fresh nappy on his bum to produce an especially disgusting mess for us to change.


And then, just as we settled back in to the status quo, a light switch was thrown.


For no reason, no reason at all, Oli quit pooping in his pants. Just quit. Even better--he started to tell us that he had to go.


Now, this was news. Never, ever, in all those years of escorting him to the toilet, had he ever indicated a need. It had always been Mr. Blandings and I who were actually potty trained, and while we knew it, we figured it was better than just letting him think it was o.k. to use his pants at will. 


But now--now he was asking to go! And then doing the deed! We were ecstatic.


In January, things were looking good enough for me to venture a hope. Should I try it? Put him in underwear? Bite the bullet? With my husband as cheerleader, I did it. Miraculously, he was relatively accident-free within days. Two weeks in, and he was dry all day, every day, with only the occasional accident.


And now, after five weeks, I am proud to say that my son is finally potty trained! Oli is 5 years and two months old, and yes, he seems to be pretty proud of himself. He likes his new undies, and he's rather fond of the additional book time that he gets from mom when he rushes to sit on the potty. 


And me? Well ... I'm relieved. I'm thankful. And I'm a wiser woman. I feel bad for assuming that Oli could do something that clearly he wasn't ready for, but I'm at least happy that we're not the high-pressure trainer type parents who punish for accidents. I regret the amount of time I put into hurrying Oli along, and have nothing to show for it. But maybe there's some redemption in this story, after all. I'm not saying that all special needs kiddos will train around their fifth birthday. I'm not saying that there's one sure way to even get the job done. But I am saying that patience, perseverance, and grace go a long way to not centering your relationship with your child around something that truly is as mundane as knowing where to put your poop. Letting go of my preconceived notion of when the time was right helped to tear down the wall that I had unknowingly been building with my own hands.


 Oli trained when Oli was able. I hope I remember this when he tackles counting, or reading, or learning to swim. Oli does what he can, when he can. My job is just to be the cheerleading support system that helps him get there.

Thankful

I find that the daily grind of parenting a special needs child brings with it some amazing clarity, even in the midst of so much doubt. In parenting any child, there is the daily opportunity to weigh the good, the bad, and the ugly. But somehow, in watching Oli grow in his own little fits and starts, I can rattle off a list of accomplishments far faster than I can with just about any of my other children. Why?


Because no one has ever been able to tell us if he would have any at all.


He learned to speak in two-word sentences? Wow. Great. That's better than expected.


He's walking now? Awesome!


He's figuring out how to pretend? Wondered if that was even possible, but there it is!


So today, as everyone's blog seems to focus on the big sweep of blessing in their lives, I want to celebrate the small stuff. The Oli-sized victories. The things that don't need a holiday to deserve applause. In no particular order, I present four major Oli milestones for which I am thankful:

Oli is learning some visual discrimination skills. While he still can't name a specific color with any regularity, he CAN match two similar objects with fair frequency. Way to go, Oli!

Oli is learning body awareness. Thanks to this take-home activity from his OT, we were able to see that Oli DOES know most of his general body parts, even though he can't find quite the right words or actions to let us know. But building a "mat man" gave him the chance to wow us with his ability to put those parts in the right places with only a little guidance.

Oli is figuring out that toys are a representation of real things. Up until fairly recently, Oli played with a toy truck by running it repeatedly around in circles to watch the wheels spin. He's recently made the connection between the vehicles on the road and the ones in his toy chest. Nice deduction!

The sensory stuff is easing off a bit! Oli loves to play with playdough, dry rice, and other textures that used to make his skin crawl. He's also able to seek out these activities and use them to regulate his system occasionally. This is a big improvement in his quality of life and has opened so many doors for him.

What's on your "thankful list" today?

Gentle

We've reached the stage where people have no idea what to make of Oli. He doesn't talk intelligibly--or at least not the way that a boy just weeks prior to his fifth birthday should. He doesn't maintain eye contact, engage, or ask questions. His play is repetitive, often little more than the imitation of a routine act like tying his shoes. He doesn't understand the concept of personal space. Sometimes, he stares blankly into the air, and even when you call his name he doesn't snap from wherever he is back to the reality of now.


This makes people--children, adults-- uncomfortable. They ask him questions, wait for answers, then fidget and look slightly embarrassed when nothing comes. They smile at him and seem slightly put off when he does not immediately smile back. They finally tend to look just past him, or avert their eyes altogether and settle on one of the children who seems able to meet these minimum human standards.


People don't know what to do with folks like Oli who just don't fit into our notion of what it is to be a man, woman, or child of a certain age, or certain standing. Mental illness, cognitive difficulties, processing disorders ... these things make the general populace squirm, I have found.

The funny thing is, animals have no such qualms. If I had a dime for every puppy that bounded a ten feet out of its way to throw itself into Oli's lap, or every horse that patiently let my little man nuzzle into its neck, or every rabbit that stood stock still to let Oli stroke its long back ... well, I'd be rich.


Oli is gentle with animals. He connects with them on a simple, mutual level. There is an ease about him when something small and fuzzy settles into his lap. It's not something that I see when he mashes his play-doh in frustration, trying so, so hard to mold it into the same ball he sees Mani mastering with ease. It is something else. Something instinctual and yet profound.

With animals, Oli can simply be. They don't ask him questions that he can't answer, or rate his performance based on a set of skills he can't comprehend. They don't look at him funny when he flaps his arms or covers his head and shrieks for no reason. All they ask is that he doesn't tug too hard at their vulnerable spots, or squeeze in places that hurt. If he does either of these things, they will shy and he will be left empty-handed. No more stroking of velvet fur. No more warm, sweet snuggles. No more rough tongue lapping at your wrist.


Oli gets this.


And the animals get him.

It's good to be accepted and loved, no matter how small the creature offering you its trust.

The miracle

Days go by without much to note in Oli's world.


Breakfast is still called "breakfast," or "lunch," but never dinner, because, well, no meal is called "dinner."

There is toilet time afterwards, where Oli (5 years old in 6 weeks) sits, unsure of what may or may not happen. We sit until the stack of picture books is exhausted, or until Mani bangs on the door demanding to use the facilities, which ever happens first.


Songs are sung at preschool Bible time, and Oli knows many words by heart. His toneless voice can't hide his joy as he flings his arms in the air and performs the hand signs. This is his favorite point in the day, I am sure. He can't tell me this vital bit of information, but a Momma just knows this kind of thing.


The teenage girl reading his favorite book to him is adored, but he has no idea what her name is. The two older boys who flounce around this place are both called "Logan." When corrected, a dull, "Oh," is all he offers.


The same skill is practiced over and over until it seems old hat. And then, magically, it disappears. Oli shows no frustration, only bewilderment. I bite the inside of my cheeks and pray hard, harder, hardest.

There are therapies, small motor skills, flashcards, speech exercises, physical activities. There are food allergies to navigate and boo-boos to kiss and short, Oli-sized explanations about everything he encounters, in case this is the moment when the world opens up and he grabs onto something and doesn't let go.


There are always sweet bedtime sighs and a contended, blissful relaxation as he snuggles deep into the jersey knit sheet that he has claimed as his sole property. There is a prayer that he repeats but does not understand.


And then the lights go out, and the day is over. Tomorrow will be exactly the same. Two steps forward, perhaps. Three steps back, most likely. But still, another day. Another chance for a miracle.

Some days, we get those miracles. Full sentences. Abstract thoughts. Questions that poke at deeper places. A shred of a song sung at random that hasn't been heard in months.


These are the moments that keep me going, keep me giving, keep me chasing the spark behind those brilliant blue eyes.


Today, we had a miracle. Today, Oli walked through the kitchen while I stood measuring out tablespoons of his special wheat-, dairy-, and egg-free cookies dough onto the waiting tray. He paused, craned his neck back to see what I was doing, then grabbed my left knee impulsively. I was slightly caught off guard. Oli rarely shows  any unsolicited emotion, let alone such enraptured joy. 


Then he whispered, "I wush you, Mommy," into the folds of my skirt, and walked away.


I wush you, Mommy.


Be still my heart.


Tomorrow I will spend precious time making a special batch of allergen-free goodies to tide Oli through the rest of the fall baking season. Hours will be poured into pottying, reading, laboriously coaxing him through countless tasks that might--maybe--serve him as he grows. I will remind him yet again of Seven's name, not to bite Mani, to stop banging his head on the glass door. And I will do it with a lighter step, a cheerful heart, and renewed optimism.


Because today, I saw the miracle. I wush you, Mommy. It goes a long, long way.

Special

"Your little brother is retarded."

"Huh? Which one?"

"The really short one."

"Manolin?"

"No, no. The other one. The one that doesn't grow. My mom said he's retarded."

"Oh, Oli. He has special needs."

"He's retarded."

"You keep saying that. Is it supposed to mean something to me?"

"Duh. Your. brother. is. retarded."

"Maybe. But at least he's not rude."

"Well I'm not coming down here to play with any retarded kids."

"That's alright. I think we'd rather play with Oli anyhow. You should probably go and find some really smart kids to play with. Kids who value intelligence over, say, manners, huh?"

Jo, you make this momma proud. And to think ... I worried what having a special needs child might mean to my other, neurotypical kids. Turns out that what it means is compassion, day in, day out. Compassion and love.

Fear factor

I'm in the middle of school planning for the year ahead. So many choices, so many options, so many bases to cover in the dwindling years I have left teaching Jo at home. High school--and all that it entails--is  steaming towards us. I think back on the meager beginnings of our little homeschool and wonder where all the years of making saltdough letters and counting forks and spoons out of the dishwasher have gone. In the beginning, there was a long tunnel of time stretching before us. Surely, my little girl was as grown up as she was every going to get.

Not quite.


Jo is knocking at the door of adulthood now, and while she's got several years before that call is answered, we can all feel it coming. She is nervous, excited, overwhelmed and overjoyed, all at the same time. This upcoming year will bring Sonlight's Core 200, pre-algebra, chemistry, and a host of other things that will stretch her mind, put her academic skills to the test, and probably even reduce her to tears on one or more occasions.


And yet, in the midst of my planning, it's not Jo and her high school plans that are leaving me with a dry mouth. I ought to be frightened of teaching high school. I ought to have a healthy acknowledgement of the increased responsibility. I ought to be scrambling to have a plan for records, a stable of mentors, that sort of thing. 


But what I'm really worried about is ...


Preschool.


Preschool, of all things. Preschool, which I could teach with my eyes closed at this point, assuming that I consciously taught preschool at all. Running a finger under letters as you read aloud from a favorite picture book. The right way to hold scissors. How to hop from one foot to another without losing your balance. Sharing. Singing an endless array of Bible songs. Puzzles. Counting games. 


This fall, I'm going to be fully responsible for a kind of preschool I've never really envisioned in our lives: special needs. 

After so many moments of conviction that even I couldn't deny them, it's become clear that our local public school program isn't the place for Oli. He's receiving speech and occupational therapy, yes. But the quality of those programs has diminished as the school district has struggled to reallocate funds in a drastically slashed budget. Preschoolers who with cognitive delays come after high school sports in the minds of many, and thus Oli now sits for group sessions with a therapist who must try to elicit speech sounds from six low-functioning four year-olds at a time. Her chances of succeeding are depressingly low. 


And, we realize, that continuing on the path we've started down with Oli promises basically the same returns. 


It's not just the dubious therapies. There have been other signs, as well. Oli has picked up a few quality habits that, until now, we have been blessed to never welcome inside our front door. To our horror, his ability to parrot behaviors is as keen as ever. While he may not be learning to recognize his name, he now knows what it means to shout "Kill you!" when a tussle over a toy isn't going your way.


Public school--not even public preschool--isn't a good fit for us. 


So we have made the prayerful decision to bring him home. But what does that mean?


This past year, I spent a huge chunk of time (and an equally big chunk of our homeschool budget) on Olischool.  While his classroom teacher was ostensibly in charge of leading him through the motions, here at home we did everything in our power to fill Oli's moments with opportunities for learning. Still, in the back of my mind, I knew that he was getting "real" preschool down at the school. His teacher--a certified, experienced professional--was doing the heavy lifting, I told myself. I was just filling in the gaps.


Go ahead and laugh at me for these thoughts. Go ahead and tell me that an experienced homeschooler ought to know better. I'm a big girl. I can take it. 


The illusion has been shattered. I know that I was meant to be in charge all along. Now it's time to take the bull by the horns and admit to myself that I'm certified by a higher power and called to this job. I can do it. With God's help, I can teach this boy.


This fall will find me swimming in a new pond. Not only will I have a high schooler to guide, but a special needs preschooler, as well. The stakes somehow seem high, but I've been in these situations often enough to know that a few years from now, I'll most likely look back and wonder what I was so anxious about. Hopefully, as I reminisce, Oli will be sitting beside me. Reading a book. And wondering why his Momma is laughing so hard.

The hindsight post

I am not an expert on adoption. I am not an expert on foster care. The only thing I can even remotely claim to be an expert on is being me and, frankly, sometimes I don't even do that too well.


But I am an adoptive mom. And I am a licensed foster care provider. I guess that gives me some standing as maybe knowing something about the whole process. Well, our whole process., whatever that's worth.

People ask me quite regularly for advice on adoption and/or foster care. I completely understand, because I was the same way for months before we submitted our very first agency application. I voraciously gleaned details of what to expect and what kind of paperwork chase we were in for. Most importantly, I longed to see pictures and hear tales of those fateful first meetings. Nothing filled my heart like a video of stills set to rising music, a toddler placed in a teary-eyed Mommas arms, a proud Daddy cradling his new child with that vaguely uncertain but bursting-with-love look in his eyes. Posts elaborating flight plans, chronicling social worker visits, or outlining the time frame for bringing a new child home were my manna in those early days. Simply put, I lived vicariously, knowing, just knowing, that one day, that would be me.


And it was. All of a sudden, there was Oli. Within months, we were welcoming Mani. The hits on my sitemeter confirmed what I already knew about us hopeful adoptive folks: we hunger for glimpses of what our hearts desire, and drink in each placement, referral, and finalization with gusto knowing that there, with the grace of God, we go also.


Nowadays, I am the giver of information more often than the seeker, even though not even a year sits between the issuing of my boys' new birth certificates. I get emails on a fairly regular basis from people just starting out on their journey. They want tips on agencies. They want my thoughts on the process. They want fundraising ideas. 


But most of all, they want to know this:

If you knew then what you know now, would you still do it?

The answer is yes. With my whole heart. Yes. I can no more imagine waking up in the morning and having Oli and/or Mani erased from my life and my heart than I can imagine growing wings and flying. Yes. These are my boys. My sons. The ones that God intended for my family from the beginning of time. It was worth it. All of it. Completely, utterly worth it.


Folks who are smart ask deeper questions, things that are both uncomfortable and yet, on a heart level, more telling. The other day, I received this one:

You have said that Oliver has some pretty intense special needs. Can I ask if you ever regret adopting him? Be honest.

Be honest? Sure.


Have you ever heard that saying, "Love the sinner, hate the sin"? I admit that I never really got it. Yeah, yeah ... you can separate a person from their actions, but then what? What's left? The whole idea seemed somehow trite and, well, religious to me. Not Christ-like, but religious--simply a little saying thrown out to excuse that bitter taste in one's mouth.


Then we met Oli.

The very first moment I laid eyes on the little boy who was meant to be mine, I felt a knee in the gut. Why? Because it was obvious--so terribly, glaringly obvious--that he had been alcohol-exposed. Behind his beautiful blue eyes and written all over his sweet, pale face were the landmarks of FASD. I knew it. Mr. Blandings knew it. Our social worker, who had held our hands through the "shalts" and "shalt nots" of our placement preferences, knew it. 


As we walked away from our initial meeting, the feel of Oli's little body still fresh in my arms and the reluctant, heart-broken smile of his aunt still frozen in my mind, our social worker asked, point-blank, "So ... he has FASD. Are you guys still interested?"


We said yes, of course. Even though we knew what we were signing on for. Even though we had read enough to be not just scared, but terrified. Even though we had checked all of the red boxes that declared us unwilling to say yes to a child exposed to alcohol. We said yes. 


From that day forward, I have learned what it means to "love the sinner, hate the sin." I adore Oli. Love him in ways that only a vulnerable, innocent little one can bring out in a Momma, to be honest. He has my heart in ways that the others don't need to. He is fragile. He is sweet. He loves to be loved.


But the FASD? The FASD I hate. I hate that someone weighed her own fleeting pleasure against my son's future mental health on a scale and decided to pick up a drink. I hate that my boy chews board books, can't keep his siblings' names straight, is unable to have playdates in the homes of others without major stress on everyone's part. I hate that I watch Mani and Seven like a hawk, fearing that FASD will overrule the bits of reason that shine through and cause someone real harm. 


I love Oliver. I hate FASD.


So do I regret adopting him? No. No, I don't. Because while Oli has FASD, he is not FASD. They are separate, and emotionally, I keep them that way. It's a struggle. And I know that it always will be. But I cannot for a moment think that God didn't bring Oli to us. So no, I don't regret adopting him. I celebrate it with all of my heart.


Another question:

Do you ever wish that you could go back and have your family the way it used to be again?

The day before we picked Oli up for good, I sat at my desk for my mid-afternoon writing time. The house was silent. Jo was in her bedroom, sleeping off her post-tonsillectomy pain meds. Atticus and Logan were also in their room, quietly reading or playing with Lincoln Logs or whatever they did to keep themselves occupied. I looked at the clock as I hit send on this post, and I nearly burst into tears. Two hours. I had been sitting, sipping tea, enjoying my warm fuzzy slippers, warm in my little happy place for two hours. Oh, how I loved that time. Loved it. Craved it. Needed it. It was my daily respite from the busy-ness of life.


And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was giving it up. I was going back to the land of nap times and cranky toddlers and "he's getting into my stuff!" Could I really do this? Did I really want to do this?


There was also the realization that we were permanently, for better or for worse, shifting the sibling dynamic in our home. And asking Logan not to be the baby anymore. And ...


The list went on and on. I was nearly crippled with doubt for the better part of an afternoon. Happily, just before dinner time, I pulled myself together and revisited my prayer journal. I poured over my petitions for the past few years and remembered what it was that had called me--us--to adoption in the first place. And I found peace.


Since then, I can honestly say that I have never longed for "the good old days." Part of that, I guess, is the realization that regardless of the number of people in our family, or who those people are, we can never go back to those days. Even without Oli and Mani, Jo, Atticus, and Logan would not be themselves at 5, 7, and 9 today. They would be themselves at 13, almost 11 and almost 9. Different without the influences and experience of the past few years but no, not who they once were, regardless.

So what about you? Are you an adoptive parent who fields curious questions? Are you a hopeful adoptive parent who wants to know what it might feel like on the other side? Feel free to share in the comment section of via email.

Brothers and sisters

Here's what's breaking my heart lately: the dawning, sad revelation that Oli and Mani, well ... they aren't destined to be the chummy buddies I thought they'd be.

Oli (2) & Mani (5 mos.)

Mani has surpassed Oli in so many ways.

Oli (age 3) & Mani (19 mos)

His speech. His reasoning. His physical abilities. His size. His play. His everything.

Mani (age 2) & Oli (3.75)

18 months in age stand between them. And yet ...

Oli (4) & Mani (2.5)

Oli is the two year-old, and Mani is going on three.


There are days when it doesn't matter. Days when I see them as twins, and simply do the next thing in my long list of get-'er-dones. 


And then, there are days when the blossoming relationship between Mani and Seven yanks me back to reality. Yes--these two are destined to be buddies. They are already in love with one another. Already connecting and nurturing and sharing the giggles and grins that set the foundation for peerhood.

Seven (4 mos.) & Mani (2.5)

And there sits Oli, trying so very hard to keep his footing in a world that moves faster, burns brighter, and laughs harder than he can fully understand.

OIi (4)

It is bittersweet, the innocence that Oli embodies. He is not wise to the ways of the world, and for that, he seems much younger. But he is also beginning to realize that he is being passed over by so very much.


In the end, it does not matter--this sad longing that I have that will go unfulfilled. It is God who crafts my family, and He knows the who and the why and the how. As my dear friend Benny reminded me this morning, I can only see what lays in front of me, and His vision goes farther and longer than mine ever could.


But still I mourn for the could have, would have, should haves. Even as I watch with awe and wonder the bud of a relationship that is opening between Mani and Seven ... I pull Oli a little tighter to me and try to make up for what he doesn't even know he will miss out on.


Perhaps this is what special needs parenting is all about.

Olischool

Oliver enjoying a good read in the van.

I gave up on real, actual preschool somewhere around the time that I realized that my time was much better spent constructing a family learning environment rather than setting up empty crafts outlining the life cycle of a butterfly or printing out worksheets aimed at letter awareness. This was a revolutionary way of thinking for me. Up until that point, I was pretty sure that "reading readiness" and "math activities" were required of all 3 year-olds, and that by doing anything less than providing these opportunities I was proving myself a bad, bad momma.

Eh, you live and learn, right?

Instead of concocting actual plans for preschool, I have spent that time with my children reading, reading, reading--and focusing on their areas of strengths and weaknesses. So, for example, Logan's "preschool" (if you want to call it that) consisted of reading picture books until I was hoarse, sitting in on whatever reading I was doing for the older kids, working through some speech and PT exercises with me, and painting, drawing, or doing some other artistic activity daily. He also amassed quite a startling collection of workbooks, but trust me, this had less to do with any interest on my behalf in "teaching" him, and much more to do with his desire to "do school." While I worked on math with Jo or lead Atticus through a reading lesson, Logan would happily cut, paste, and stick in his Rod and Staff preschool books, or the massive sticker book that I picked up for him at Costco, which required him to match different halves of animals or give community workers their proper tools.

And that, my friends, was "preschool."

Now that I'm faced with a slightly different challenge, I find myself confronting the idea of "pre" and "school" on a new level. The truth is, Oli needs the skill-enhancing aspects of early childhood education in a way that most neuro- and cognitive-typical children do not. What's a homeschool mom to do?

Long before any diagnoses were forthcoming, I picked up on Oli's differences. His learning style follows no predictable arc I've ever heard of. His abilities are far below what one would expect of a child his chronological age. And yet ... he can learn. He most definitely has the ability to engage with and understand the world around him. Seeing this, I dug in. Step one: find his strengths, and make them stronger. Step two: find his weaknesses, and meet him there.

I started simply enough. Using the Montessori-inspired activities that I've picked up over the years, I led Oli through a series of activities on a regular basis designed to help him gain small motor skills. We worked on simple things, like matching and understanding one to one correlation. We talked about colors. And we read like crazy.

I figured out quite quickly that Oliver learns best when music is either on, or a key component of what he's learning. Easy enough. I set just about every routine to a song. Some were no-brainers (everyone knows the clean up song, right?) and others needed to be invented. But by the time I was finished, we had a song for every task ... and a little boy who was figuring out the structure of the day and the cues that signaled transition.

He graduated from birth to three and was enrolled in the local public school's special needs preschool program, and I took a step back, wondering how to redefine my role now that someone else was also trying to grapple with decoding the mystery that is Oli. I spent a few months "storing things up in my heart" and finally knew what I had to do: actual, real, concentrated learning stuff. With a preschooler.

In other words, preschool. Oli-style.

So this summer, we have kicked off a whole new push to make the most of Oli's cognitive capabilities and help his readiness along. I purchased a handful of tools to make this easier, but am also relying heavily on what I have on hand. For instance, those Montessori activities are in full force. Sandpaper to smooth rough edges on wood blocks. Clothes pins to pinch and adhere to the sides of bowls and strips of cloth. Rice to pour into different containers.

And then there are the purchases. One in particular has already been worth its weight. The BambinoLUK Special is a pricey toy/tool that sees constant use around here. Oliver and Mani both adore it, and settle in almost immediately the second they see it come out. The older kids have been trained in how to use it with them, giving this item a whole new dimension and layer of use. And then there's the actual product. So far, Oliver has worked on matching objects, identifying "same," and starting to see patterns. These are all challenging activities for him; he can last about 7 minutes at this kind of intense concentration, where Manolin can easily pull of 15. But the value for Oli has already been huge! I can see him beginning to sort as he plays (dinosaurs here, trucks here), and I can see him grasping the concept of "goes together." This is a major step.

My second purchase was the 3- to 5- year-old preschool package from My Father's World. This is the first time I've ever spent money on a preschool package. So far, I've been glad that I have. The puzzles and pegs are a perfect fit for Oli's sensory-seeking, hands-on learning style. Manipulating the crepe foam pieces and stacking the pegs have been great exercises in patience as well as critical thinking. We count the pegs, put together the puzzles, talk about the colors, and try to match the open holes with the right shapes. Again, this is not easy work for Oli. If I'm sitting at the table with both Oli and Mani in booster seats on either side of me, the bulk of my time will be spent leading Oli through how to turn the puzzle piece until it fits, while Mani gleefully counts, "One, three, four, go!" and stabs pegs into his number line. But Oli is doing it. He is concentrating, he is trying, he is delighted with himself when he gets it just so.

I am thrilled.

We read lots of books. Jo has taken on a good deal of reading duties, saying that she enjoys it, and that she likes the quiet cuddle time. This has freed me up to do more one-on-one with the older boys, but I try to make sure not to take advantage. Jo's appetite for reading to them, however, has proven a whole lot more adventurous than my own. I admit it; I have finally lost the ability to give a truly rousing read of "Going on a Bear Hunt." Jo's is still fresh, however. She even growls.

We're looking ahead at a busy fall with optimistic eyes. One of my goals is to keep Oli moving forward, to challenge him, to help him grow, and to give him the fuel he needs to make the most of his skills. So far, it's been busy ... but good. Kind of like Oli, actually!

Holland, revisited

I think I was in high school the first time I read the essay "Welcome to Holland," by Emily Perl Kingsley. It was printed in my local paper's Dear Abbey column one weekend morning, and I vaguely recall being somewhat interest in the analogy--having anticipated one thing, you end up with another. By allowing yourself to experience the new and unexpected "other," you find yourself embracing it, finding beauty, and, eventually, living in joy.

Kingsley's piece is one of those rare, enduring gems that follow you throughout life. Since my initial meeting with it, I've stumbled upon it countless times. I've had it arrive in my email inbox, seen it noted in publications, and heard it referenced often enough to realize that it's part of the common vernacular.

Now that I'm actually parenting a special needs kiddo, I find myself confronted with Kingley's optimistic analogy far more often than I'd like. Acquaintances who realize that Oliver is not quite the typical 3.5 year-old will often quip that we didn't get to Rome, but that Holland is a fine place. Family members smilingly reassure us that we'll find the right guidebooks to help us "see all the sights" at our new destination. Doctors and therapists ask us if we're familiar with the essay--as if this one piece of writing sums up their own philosophy of special needs parenting in a way everything else they have offered cannot.

And yet, for all of its ubiquitousness and acceptance, I have to admit: I am no longer a fan of the Holland analogy.

I feel like something of a traitor admitting this, but there it is. I can't quite put my finger on the why, but something about that particular point of comparison leaves me feeling hollow. Maybe it's something like my gut reaction to those well-meaning folks who pat me on the shoulder and assure me that I must be a very special mother for God to trust me with Oli? As if people who parent kids with special needs won a Holiness Lottery? As if I people are lining up to watch their children struggle through disabilities, difficulties, medical maladies, cognitive issues, autism?

So, so often we Christians see people who carry burdens we don't want and assign to them a particular place in the order of Everyday Saints. "She is so good with him. I could never be that patient." "I don't know how they manage with all of her issues. I can't imagine juggling all that." "Just mothering that little one looks like a full-time job. What a crown is waiting for her in heaven!" Watching a mother or father calm a tantruming pre-teen, seeing the care taken in patiently leading a clearly disabled child through relatively simple steps, listening to the litany of modifications necessary for a certain child to participate in a seemingly normal activity ... it all sounds like the work of selfless, hyper-attentive special parents. Not the kind of parents who deal day in and day out with issues no bigger than ear infection and skinned knees, but the moms and dads who know the best neurodevelopmentalists in the region and can easily rattle off a list of alphabet-soup diagnoses that are meaningless to the public at large.

Maybe most of these people are destined for mansions in heaven for their utter devotion to their special little ones. Maybe they never look at their baby and wonder "what if?" Maybe they don't ask God "Why?" Maybe it's never occurred to them--not for one, tiny moment--to long to see their child with the veil of those diagnoses lifted.

I am not one of those parents. For me, Holland is a rotten analogy. Truthfully, I'd love to go to Holland--or someplace like it--someday. I am a fan of the road less traveled, the path not taken, and the drum that beats to its own time. The place I find myself with Oliver, though, does not remind me of a set of landmarks that I should revel in. Rather, being Oliver's Momma has more to do with loving him exactly where he is while hoping, praying, and striving for him to be all that he can be.

And the Holland thing? Well ... it just implies a certain amount of acceptance that I'm not ready to surrender to. Yes--Oliver has special needs. He has cognitive delays, physical delays, medical issues, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, hearing loss. Those are the labels that tell me where he is today, right now, at this moment. If I begin to buy the Holland analogy, I'm afraid that I will look at those labels and decide that this IS Oliver. But for me, well ... I prefer to think that the REAL Oliver is locked inside the cage of those things. That maybe, with God's healing and grace, with patience and prayer, with hard work and opportunities, with all of us pulling together and giving him everything that we can ... maybe, some of those labels will no longer stick.

I was devastated earlier this week to receive an official evaluation that all but wrote off Oliver's future. At less than four years of age, professionals have decided that this beautiful blessing shows very little promise of blossoming into a productive, capable citizen. In other words, he will stay in Holland. He will enjoy the "slower pace" and simply be. He has no hope--none at all--of ever even dreaming of seeing the sights of Rome.

I, for one, refuse to accept that. God didn't give up on me; I will not give up on Oli. The Lord pursued me, fought for me, won me. Surely I can do as much for my beautiful, sweet, loving son?

I am not a Super Mom. While I was specially chosen to be Oliver's momma, I don't think it was because I possess any particular holiness that the average Christ-follower can't find within him or herself. If anything, it may just be because I am as stubborn as they come and the Lord knew that I would not take the news of Oli's diagnoses as a death blow. Oliver deserves a chance to shine. He deserves as many learning opportunities, as much love, and as warm a family as we can offer him. My heart tells me that sitting on my haunches and letting Oli stagnate would be nothing less than a sin.

He may someday rise far beyond everyone's expectations. And he may not. But, you have my word--it will not be because no one took the time to water this tender little shoot's potential.

TOS Review: Super Star Speech

Virtually every.single.one of my children has had some form of therapy. Seriously. Is it just me? Am I hyper-aware of things that aren't really issues, and therefore inclined to pursue outside intervention when it's not really warranted? Or do I somehow have a family full of misfits that require help in a dozen little areas of their lives?

Jo had Vision Therapy.

Atticus had Occupational Therapy.

Logan had Speech Therapy, Occupational Therapy, and oh, yes ... he still has bi-annual consultations with a Physical Therapist.

Oliver has Speech Therapy and Occupational Therapy.

Which means that so far, only Bee (who could need some form of therapy, for all we know at this point), Manolin (our miracle, meth-exposed, physically abused little man who miraculously is perfect), and Seven (who is still baking and could need goodness only knows what) have dodged the therapeutic bullet.

4:3. What a ratio, huh?

I guess I could spend a whole lot of time pondering the whys and hows of our family's adventures in all things therapy. But what it has boiled down to, for me at least, is this: I haven't regretted a single intervention or evaluation. YES--they take time. YES--they cost money. But YES--they have given me valuable knowledge on how to assist my children in gaining the coping skills they need to get by in life.

Well, all except that one therapist.

The one who absolutely refused to make "home therapy" a top priority. The one who couldn't see the value in me being a part of the team. The one who basically ignored the fact that while she saw my son for one hour a week, I was with him the other 167 hours that made up his Sunday through Saturday.

That therapist? I couldn't wait to get rid of. But the rest of them knew something that she didn't--

What you do at home is far more valuable than what goes on in a therapy setting.

No, it's true. Let me repeat it, because you're probably not believing it yet:

What you do at home is far more valuable than what goes on in a therapy setting.

In other words, the therapist that you employ--be it for VT, ST, OT, PT, whatever--is simply a trainer. And in reality, the person he or she should be most interested in training is you, the parent. Why? Because you have far more time to invest in making sure that goals are met, that exercises are completed, and that skills are being utilized.

Now please don't think I'm saying that professional therapists are useless. They are not. They are a vital part of the team; the one with the most experience in the field who can put the information and the skill set into your hands, while having a warm, loving relationship with your child. We've had a couple of those therapists--the ones who become part of your family--and wow! When therapy goes well, it is a total blessing! But there's another, vital component to that team I mentioned. It's you. You are the one who bears the burden of really making sure that the therapy gets off the ground. That it's more than a 60 minute play time. That it works.

When I was researching Sensory Processing Disorder back when Atticus was a preschooler, I found loads of information that helped me to truly team with his therapist and make the plan for my boy go as smoothly as possible. With Jo's vision issues, the bulk of her therapy was home based, allowing me to take the reins. Logan's PT is so amazing that she gives me exercises for and textbooks on his condition (an issue with the tendons in his legs) and keeps in touch via monthly email and visits twice a year. But you know what issue had been the hardest to support at home? Speech.

We first went the speech therapy route with Logan. A late talker, it was evident early on that he had epic difficulties enunciating. Certain sounds never developed at all, while others were nearly missing. Since he was still so young, I delved into internet research, hoping to unearth some preventive measures that could help those skills emerge. Know what I found? Advice on how to schedule an evaluation with a therapist.

So I did. And after he was screened, he was enrolled in speech. And from there, he went every week, coming home with a packet of two or three little activities that were meant to work mouth muscles and help him fetter out sounds. I did the activities with him diligently. Blow through a straw? Sure. Hold a corn chip between his front teeth and try to break it? Check. But that was it. No one could offer me much more than a pat and the assurances that he was working with a great therapist who would no doubt solve the problem posthaste.

Which, of course, she didn't. Because one hour a week won't solve anything, folks.

Fast forward to Oli's speech experiences. Nearly identical. The amount of home support suggested was so small that I began to wonder if I was completely alone. Had my previous experiences of having home therapy schedules and working through activities and exercises just made my expectations skewed? Or was I missing some vital piece to the puzzle?

Turns out, there was a puzzle piece that I was missing. I just didn't know it yet. Cue Super Star Speech.

Super Star Speech was written by Deborah Lott, a homeschooling mom who happens to have a Master's in Speech pathology. Designed to be used with children ages 3 and up, it is literaly perfect for homeschooling moms as it was written directly to us! Mrs. Lott knows her audience, writes simply but with detail, and puts some amazing tools into the hands of worried parents.

Presented in a series of three books, Super Star Speech focuses on articulation--the way sounds are made. Tests for home evaluation (which I can tell you are virtually identical to the ones that both Logan and Oli had done by licensed therapists in a large, respected therapy center near Seattle), lesson plans, picture cards, games, and drills are all a part of this complete and well-thought-out program.

Mrs. Lott doesn't claim that her products will help every one. A disclaimer from her site offers this tidbit:

NOTE: If your child has many articulation errors, or another type of speech problem such as a language delay or stuttering, or if you are not able to commit to working with your child and his speech regularly at home, please seek the assistance of a speech-language pathologist. Likewise, if your child has a physical problem that affects his speech, such as a hearing impairment, cerebral palsy, or cleft palate, this book does not attempt to address those more complex issues.

I used a portion of one of the programs with Oli and can attest that while it would never come close to meeting his unique special needs, it certainly didn't hurt. The picture cards were fun and engaging, and he enjoyed the one-on-one time of making silly faces with mommy and repeating sounds. It was engrossing enough, apparently, that Atticus came over and tried to help out. The next day, he asked if he could "play that sound game" with Oli. I figured that was as good a use of his time as anything!

The biggest test of the program was using the targeted books to see if I could improve on any of Logan's "sloppy speech" patterns. While Logan is perfectly understandable at this point, he often reverts to a less enunciated speech pattern when he is tired or excited. I was able to use the cards and several games from Super Star Speech to zero in on two sounds in particular (R and S) that often give him trouble. Logan enjoyed the games, especially, and said that working with me in this way was actually a lot more fun that the actual therapy he'd had. Also, because I knew what we'd been working on, throughout the day I could "quiz" him on certain elements, and see if he was retaining what we'd worked on.

I was highly impressed with the quality of Super Star Speech. Having more than a passing familiarity with the professional tools being used in private therapy as well as public schools at this time, I can honestly say that what you're getting here is comparable. Each book retails at $18.95 for a spiral bound version, or can be purchased in ebook form for a 30% discount. Game packs are also available for an additional cost. The entire set, spiral bound, can be purchased for $38.95.

I can't tell you what a deal that is. Even if your child is already in professional therapy, spending less than $40 for the tools to make sure that you can successfully support that therapy at home is a drop in the bucket. Conversely, if you suspect that an articulation issue is brewing (ie, those "cute" speech patterns of preschool are still showing up in your 4, 6 or 8 year-old) then this may be a very inexpensive route to introducing some phonemic awareness, playing some neat games with a purpose, and stopping a real issue before it starts.

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

Labels

Mr. Blandings and I have struggled with how much to share about Oliver's needs when it comes to folks outside of our immediate family. So many things, to us, are simply a part of his story--something for him to share, when and if he chooses. And yet, we're finding, people truly need some basic information in order to help him be safe and/or to lessen their frustrations with him in certain settings.

It's hard to leave Oli with others right now. So many people look at him and say, "He's three. With a three year-old, you ..." Physically, Oli was born three years ago. This is true. Mentally and developmentally, Oli is still a very young two year-old. On some days, he is closer to 18 months in terms of what he can process. At home, this makes for accommodations that otherwise probably wouldn't be needed with a child of his age. For example, when my first three were in that four and under window, I could easily sidle off the the potty relatively alone for two minutes. I'd leave the door open, but I wouldn't expect any drama.

With Oli in the house, there are zero unsupervised moments. None. If I go to the bathroom, I must either take him with me or call for Jo to monitor him. This is a fact of life for us.

But for others, it's just not second-nature. And it shouldn't be. Unless you've had the job of keeping tabs on a developmentally-impaired preschooler, you really have no idea what it's like. I get that. Goodness knows, this is all new to me, as well. But still ... leaving him with anyone, anyone right now gives me chills. No one knows what he's capable of. Sometimes, not even me. Remember the toilet incident?

Our only "safe spots" right now are preschool (5:3 adult/child ratio), our babysitter (and we put him to bed first), and Sunday School (hyper-vigilant, closed environment). This doesn't mean that I don't trust other people, and it says nothing about the level of competence of my friends. What it does mean is that small, super childproofed spaces are best for Oli. And pretty much those three places can handle that kind of confinement right now.

Preschool has gone off without a hitch, thankfully. And our babysitter is an angel. Once Oli's in bed and asleep, she dutifully carries the baby monitor on her hip the entire time she's here. She even goes up to check every hour on the hour and make sure that he's still in bed. Granted, we've only left her with him a handful of times since he became a little more of a handful, but still--I'm confident that the combo of our house and her vigilance (combined with Jo's Mother Hen behaviors) will keep things under control.

Which leaves Sunday School.

Sunday School has been a mixed back for Oli. He loves the social interaction. He clamors to get into the room each Sunday, and looks forward to swooping trains across the track and listening to stories. We asked that he be able to stay in the two year-old room, and our Children's Director obliged. Even she admitted that moving him up was a recipe for disaster, despite her general, "Well, he seems fine to me," and "He just needs a little more time," attitude about him.

But lately, stories have been trickling back my way. Some of the classroom volunteers barely notice he's there, because when employed with a toy, Oliver has the habit of becoming invisible. Other volunteers have told me that Oliver wouldn't participate in any way, choosing instead to play the whole hour. Another said that he pestered the workers for hugs the whole time, which wasn't feasible in a room with 16 kids.

All in all, I'd started to wonder if it was time for a sit-down conference with the children's ministry staff. Time to disclose the full story (not the bits I've felt comfortable) and help them develop a game plan for keeping everyone happy and safe. I admit that I've been loathe to do this partly because I've only been able to pull myself out of what felt like full-time children's employment within the last 18 months. Going back in, laying out needs ... well, let's just say that I can see a whole lot of people saying, "Great! So you'll take his class every week?"

Which is, frankly, the last thing I want or need.

Today, as I was scanning my facebook page, a sweet woman who is a regular in Oli's class posted about how funny it was when my son dumped a pitcher of water on her 15 year-old daughter's lap. I sighed. This same lady--who is clearly enamored with Oliver--has commented before about him dumping his own water, or spilling on the floor, etc. He does it about every week that she's in there, and honestly, not a lot of people are smiling about it. (Other than the poster, who seems to get a kick out of it.) I prayed, and I knew what I had to do: this dear lady needed to be in the loop.

Using carefully chosen words, I pieced together an email to her:

Hey, Hailey! I'm starting to realize that I need to let everyone in on the "Oli loop" a little bit more ... especially if he's dumping water on people's laps!

Oliver has FAS, which means that he was alcohol-exposed in utero. His birthmom refuses to admit that she used alcohol during pregnancy, so we've had a hard time getting help. BUT--he's finally being fully evaluated. One of the key markers of FAS (and one of the hardest to work with as his mom!) is that he doesn't learn form past experiences. Consequences are completely lost on him; everything is novel and new and exciting ... every single time.

I am really not sure what I need to pass on to the folks in his SS room. We're trying hard not to label him, but frankly ... I think he may need a label so that people can help him. He's already three, but he'll be staying in the 2s room until (Children's Director) kicks him out. He just can't function with the bigger kids.

Thank you so much for your patience with him. You truly sound like you enjoy him, and you have no idea what that means to me. Oli is one of those little boys who rarely catches a break in life, and for some reason, a whole lot of people see him as more trouble than he's worth. (Just being honest.) He's an amazingly sweet, loving little boy with a big heart. Thanks for seeing that. It does my heart good. :-)

Mary Grace

I sent the email off with yet another prayer. Please, Lord, let this be fruitful.

Here's what I got back:

Oh my goodness, MG! That brought tears to my eyes. I find GREAT joy in Oli's presence. I have always known, without being told, that Oli was special. Not just because of the subtle hints in his reaction time & interactions with the other kids, but because of his sweet, sweet nature. He does everything with simplicity and innocence & then gives that little smile that communicates, "isn't that neat? I love it when that happens!", no matter if it's dumping water, watching the puzzle pieces all fall out of their respective places when he turns the puzzle upside down, or just seeing the wheels turn on the truck another kid is playing with. I'm sorry that he isn't appreciated by everyone. I think we all could take a page from Oliver's book! He is truly one of my faves and I am happy that he will stay with the two's. I would miss him! My girls love him, too. The 12 yr old plays with his hair cuz it's so straight & silky & he just looks @ her & smiles, never irritated. The fact that he spilled the water in Lizzie's lap was funny cuz she had a funky attitude that morning (a common occurance @ 15, it seems), and once he dumped his water, & she started laughing about it, the storm cloud over her head seemed to disappear. It will never cease to amaze me when parents don't treasure the little ones God entrusts us with, so the fact that Oli's birth mother can't admit she did something unhealthy to him in-utero makes my heart hurt. My husband's sister did the same thing & then said she thought she drank contaminated water for the month she went to stay with her father while she was pregnant and that's why her baby came out with so many health issues & continual challenges. Her son, Joey, clearly has FAS as well as other disabilities. Thankfully, the nurse that cared for Joey in the hospital every time he got sick from Cassie taking his feeding tube out when she went out in public, adopted him and he leads a very normal, balanced life in spite of his physical challenges. I grew up in a very unstable home and no one ever stepped in to rescue me, so kids that are "underdogs" always come first in my book and I can "sniff them out" a mile away! Don't ever feel like you have to apologize to me for Oli's reactions to life. He's perfect to me, and even more so now that I know a little more of his story. I'm just glad he was blessed with such loving parents to be that safe place for him to land when life, and people, don't give him a fair shake! I am wondering if maybe it would be a help to you (to get a break) if I just said I'd take the 2s room at that time every week? That way I could be Oli's "special teacher." I'd love to do it, and you wouldn't worry so much. Let me know. Hailey

Are you wondering at what point the tears started flowing? Yeah .. it was somewhere between the word "innocent" and the part where she mentioned his beautiful, silky hair.

My baby boy ... appreciated.

Who knew how much it would mean to me?

I forwarded the email to my husband. Tonight, we plan to sit down and talk over the offer (which I'm pretty sure we'll accept). And then, we'll say a special prayer of gratitude. Because in the midst of all of this "new to us" and "what do we do?" God is certainly, clearly, and without fear walking ahead of us. Making straight the path. Lighting the way. Moving hearts. Bringing community to our doorstep.

It doesn't look like anything we expected. The preschool, this lady (who I really don't know well at all) ... it's all so new.

But it's got all the fingerprints of God. And it's blessing us. So on we walk. One step at a time.