Everyone's carrying something. I even read a book once with that as its title, more or less. My husband always reminds me that you don't know what goes on behind closed doors. That's as true in my life as in anyone else's. And I do wonder about pulling back that curtain, even a bit. Is it an invasion of my kids' privacy, of my husband's, or even of my own?
But I also wonder if pulling back that curtain--putting it "out there" in a way--might not serve some useful purpose. The same way I read of other people's painful experiences and can empathize, perhaps there is something in my experience(s) that rings true for someone else. And in that truth might lie a point of connection, a drawing out from the isolation that those who have really challenging parenting roads often live with.
And sometimes, the absurdities of life just need to be shared.
Late last week, I was on my way back from my stint at a local food pantry. It's a long, tiring day, one that doesn't leave time (save for the ten minutes or so for lunch) to check in at home. And that day, I'd left my daughter home with my autistic son. They can and do get on each other's nerves, but it's never really been an issue.
Close to home, I got a call from my daughter. She sounded upset, but on the other side of whatever it was that seemed to have her close to tears. I told her I'd be home in a few minutes. She told me that her dad had just walked in. Where he found her in a chokehold, courtesy of her brother. I'm not sure how she managed to call, but he had a good hold on her, according to my husband. Thankfully, she remained calm. Because when my son gets stuck, his strength is something to be hold. His long, lean arms become like bendable steel beams. If he wants to hold you, you are not breaking his hold. I should know. When he's gotten upset with me at times, not knowing how to channel his feelings, he's squeezed me--really, really tightly--and it's been frightening. He's feeling adrenaline coursing through his body and he doesn't know in those moments what to do with it, how to channel it. He knows hitting is wrong, so he comes very close to the line, but struggles mightily not to cross it. And it's the rest of us that get caught in that struggle. This time, it was my daughter.
When we can't get my son unstuck, when we can't talk him off the ledge, we have to resort to what we call his "emergency meds." We've done that precious few times thankfully, but it's a scary, tense experience when we're in those moments with him and have no other recourse.
Years ago, I called the psychiatrist who provided the basic meds he was taking, during one of these "stuck" episodes. I think I was most amazed that I actually got the doctor on the phone. He told me that we should take my son to the ER. I told my husband we couldn't do that, that all they would do is physically restrain and then sedate him. And all we would have done is traumatize him. So we muddled through, terrified, until we finally calmed him down.
Some time later, when I took my son to his epilepsy doctor and recounted that episode, he was horrified that the psychiatrist offered us nothing. He immediately consulted a psychiatrist colleague of his and got us a prescription for what turned out to be an anti-psychotic medication. I have husbanded that medication like a precious jewel. I keep it hidden, to make sure no one takes it by mistake. And to remind myself that it is truly for emergencies only.
My older sister came over the other night with her husband for drinks and snacks. In the course of catching up, I mentioned that my husband had come home to find my daughter in a chokehold. I saw this strange look cross my sister's face. It was something--at least to my reading--like a cross between horror, embarrassment, and relief. Horror speaks for itself. Embarrassment I think is about not knowing how to help. And relief, of course, is about not having this be her parenting journey.
I made light of it because really, what else could I do? If you're not walking this walk, you have no idea. And if you are--even in the midst of a pandemic, and in the midst of the uprising against police brutality--you know that it's not only people who have brutal encounters with the police who wind up in chokeholds.
Monday, June 22, 2020
Wednesday, June 10, 2020
Parenting During a Pandemic: Moving Forward, Standing Still
These are turbulent times, to say the least. There are moments when I feel hopeful about the prospects for achieving long overdue change, for bending the arc of the universe that much further toward justice. There are other moments when I feel utter despair, when I lean into my belief that the entirety of Republican America is hell bent on burning the house down...with all of us inside.
Through all of this, I remain a parent. Also a wife, with a parenting partner. The mother of one child who is autistic, and also lives with epilepsy and ulcerative colitis. The mother of another child who contends with anxiety and panic issues. And yet another whose stoicism sometimes worries me the most. I fear what his silence is masking. Is it his own fear, his rage at how things have played out in the America he has committed to serving? Is it something else altogether?
I have always tried--and will continue to try--to model for my children who and how I want them to be in the world. I don't dictate their responses, though. I have been the only one to attend a protest so far. My daughter gets anxious in crowds, so her going might be more counter-productive than not. Instead, I feel pride in her willingness to ask people of color when she doesn't know, or thinks she might not understand. I feel pride in her standing up against bullies online who still belittle the struggles of America's black citizens, or make facile comparisons with white folks' experiences. I applaud her leaning in to difficult discussions, and trying to make sense of the deluge of opinions and the volume of commentary under which a less thoughtful person might feel buried, and defeated.
I would take my autistic son, but the chance that he might act out in some way would be unfair to other marchers, especially since it would be indescribably difficult to explain to him what's going on and why. Although in truth, I could explain it quite well in simple terms he would understand, something along the lines of: there are bad people in America who are mean to other people because of the color of their skin. Noah is very much NOT ok with mean or bad people. That's a lesson we've taught that he's learned well. And I'm more grateful than ever in this moment that we made the effort to communicate that to him, his barriers to understanding notwithstanding.
As for my eldest, I wonder if it's especially painful for him to bear witness to all that is unfolding in America. He is officially an officer in the United States Navy, though he has yet to assume his post. People in uniform--though not the one he will wear--are the object of justified anger on the part of many millions of his fellow citizens. Those uniformed individuals are part of an armed bureaucracy that has for too long tolerated the abuse of black Americans. Is the military a kind of parallel to that in any way? It has long been considered a place far more meritocratic than the private sector in America, far more willing to embrace diversity, and to recognize that life and death decisions among its ranks need to be as close to color blind as possible. Choosing to see skin color in a fox hole can get everyone killed. Is it a perfect world? Not by a long shot. But still...
I asked my eldest if he wanted to join me or go alone to any of the protests. "It's not my thing," he replied. Some might pounce, get angry, judge him for not being woke enough to march. But that would just show how faulty snap judgements can be. He knows more and is more aware than so many his age. And what he knows comes not just from what we've taught him and from what he imbibes through reading and the like, but through the web of relationships he has developed through the years with peers from a breathtaking range of backgrounds. He has listened well, learned well, and been not only a good friend, but a good ally. So I don't push on marching. That's always been more of my thing.
I do wonder more broadly what forward momentum looks like in these times. What is it within a single family? How do we measure it, if we measure it at all? How do I nurture what I know is good and "right thinking" among my kids, while not pushing aside any challenging, complicating questions they might have? How do I improve my own listening skills as a parent, so I can hear not only their words, but their silences? How do I deal with any of my own missteps, especially now, when every misstep seems so weighted down by other stuff, and by the collective weight of past mistakes and missteps?
Through all of this, I remain a parent. Also a wife, with a parenting partner. The mother of one child who is autistic, and also lives with epilepsy and ulcerative colitis. The mother of another child who contends with anxiety and panic issues. And yet another whose stoicism sometimes worries me the most. I fear what his silence is masking. Is it his own fear, his rage at how things have played out in the America he has committed to serving? Is it something else altogether?
I have always tried--and will continue to try--to model for my children who and how I want them to be in the world. I don't dictate their responses, though. I have been the only one to attend a protest so far. My daughter gets anxious in crowds, so her going might be more counter-productive than not. Instead, I feel pride in her willingness to ask people of color when she doesn't know, or thinks she might not understand. I feel pride in her standing up against bullies online who still belittle the struggles of America's black citizens, or make facile comparisons with white folks' experiences. I applaud her leaning in to difficult discussions, and trying to make sense of the deluge of opinions and the volume of commentary under which a less thoughtful person might feel buried, and defeated.
I would take my autistic son, but the chance that he might act out in some way would be unfair to other marchers, especially since it would be indescribably difficult to explain to him what's going on and why. Although in truth, I could explain it quite well in simple terms he would understand, something along the lines of: there are bad people in America who are mean to other people because of the color of their skin. Noah is very much NOT ok with mean or bad people. That's a lesson we've taught that he's learned well. And I'm more grateful than ever in this moment that we made the effort to communicate that to him, his barriers to understanding notwithstanding.
As for my eldest, I wonder if it's especially painful for him to bear witness to all that is unfolding in America. He is officially an officer in the United States Navy, though he has yet to assume his post. People in uniform--though not the one he will wear--are the object of justified anger on the part of many millions of his fellow citizens. Those uniformed individuals are part of an armed bureaucracy that has for too long tolerated the abuse of black Americans. Is the military a kind of parallel to that in any way? It has long been considered a place far more meritocratic than the private sector in America, far more willing to embrace diversity, and to recognize that life and death decisions among its ranks need to be as close to color blind as possible. Choosing to see skin color in a fox hole can get everyone killed. Is it a perfect world? Not by a long shot. But still...
I asked my eldest if he wanted to join me or go alone to any of the protests. "It's not my thing," he replied. Some might pounce, get angry, judge him for not being woke enough to march. But that would just show how faulty snap judgements can be. He knows more and is more aware than so many his age. And what he knows comes not just from what we've taught him and from what he imbibes through reading and the like, but through the web of relationships he has developed through the years with peers from a breathtaking range of backgrounds. He has listened well, learned well, and been not only a good friend, but a good ally. So I don't push on marching. That's always been more of my thing.
I do wonder more broadly what forward momentum looks like in these times. What is it within a single family? How do we measure it, if we measure it at all? How do I nurture what I know is good and "right thinking" among my kids, while not pushing aside any challenging, complicating questions they might have? How do I improve my own listening skills as a parent, so I can hear not only their words, but their silences? How do I deal with any of my own missteps, especially now, when every misstep seems so weighted down by other stuff, and by the collective weight of past mistakes and missteps?
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