Promises, Promises

I hate disappointing my kids.

Ethan is all aggression, calling me a liar when I have to backpedal on an agreement, undo a plan; telling me next time he's going to make me pinkie-swear and if I break THAT promise I then owe him a million trillion dollars. But it's Jake that breaks my heart again and again.

I had promised we'd go to the movies together, just he and I, this past weekend. Two weeks ago we had finally seen the Muppet Movie, and I have been walking around singing the very catchy "Am I a Man or Am I a Muppet?" in my head ever since.

Jake loves movies, lives for movies. But Ethan and I both had been laid low sick on Friday and were recovering slowly over the weekend.

Dan, as nearly always, worked all day Sunday, and I just didn't have it in me. Didn't have what it takes to hustle up a playdate to fob Ethan off on, to get out the door with Jake and Ethan, dropping Ethan off, head down to the movies with Jake then pick Ethan up afterward and hope the timing wasn't off, and oh my god, feed the kids, too and get them to bed early enough for school the next morning.

But Jake, being Jake, just didn't understand, even though I explained and explained and explained. Even though I let him watch hours and hours more TV on Sunday than usual, come 4, 5, 6 pm, come bedtime, he just kept asking "Can we go to the movies, Mom? Are we going to the movies, now, Mom?" in this small plaintive voice.

He didn't have to say "But you'd PROMISED!" the way his blatant, brazen brother would have. The movies are his magic and I had dangled it in front of him then snatched it away.  And because it wasn't Ethan's own disappointment he was able to keep perspective. Too much in fact; was scornful of his brother in the guise of being helpful:

"Jacob, Mom is not feeling well, she can't take you to the movies, you'll go next week.  So stop bugging her. It's just the movies, no big deal. Star Wars 3D doesn't even open for 2 more weeks, anyway."

Ethan was happy as a clam to lounge around all day in PJs with the resident screen police too tired for any real rule enforcement.

But Jacob? My sweet Jacob? "Moovies Mommy, I want to go to the moooooovies."

"Next week, my love, next week, OK?"

Please, gods of autism and head colds, don't let me break my promise.

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Step by Step

Saturdays, these days, my husband and I divide and conquer to bring the boys to their simultaneous basketball practices, and it was my turn for Jake.

Jacob truly loves basketball and the "Challenger" Special Needs division we finally found for him to play in last year, but was having a hard time sharing the ball after all those months of getting his own when we went to shoot baskets in the schoolyards.

Jake shoots wonderfully well, but the rules of the game, remembering to dribble, the need to pass, to pay attention to what other people on the court are doing... all these things continue to elude him. Autism, you know.

Jake kept chasing after the kids with the balls and yelling "STOP! That's mine!" Cringe.

I try not to interfere, to intervene too much when we're at basketball, try to give him his independence, to not be "that mom" kid-coaching from the sidelines. Yet the actual coaches seemed too busy to deal with this really-not-OK behavior and I couldn't let him terrorize the other kids, who were mostly younger and / or smaller than my giant son.

I kept popping out of my seat, running up to Jake to remind him that game is played with ONE ball and everybody shares it. Or yelling something to that effect when he was within earshot of my seat on the parent bench.

A couple of times he came over to me looking sad, and I kept sending him back into the game after a quick hug or a deep drink of water, reminding him to stay with the other kids wearing red vests and to keep his eyes on the ball.

Jake held it together during practice, drifting in and out of connection with the drills and game. But afterward as we were getting our coats on I saw the eyes blinking, the lip trembling, the sadness welling up; and on it came.

So I sat with my son, sobbing and wailing. I held my son, lost and losing it, his words coming out in a jumbled salad I could not make sense of.

And then in the middle of it all, he looked me in the eyes and asked the most amazing thing:

"What's happening to my brain, Mom?"

WHAT?

This level of self-awareness, recognizing that something in his brain is going haywire?

Monumental.

Unprecedented.

An incredible thing that I feared I would never see.

And then Jake was telling me that he was going to go home and cry at Cocoa the cat, and that then she would be mad at him, and he started to caterwaul anew.

I was trying to piece it together, realizing he might be thinking I was mad at him for having had a hard time in the game, and maybe even mad at him for crying, now.

I kept telling him to look in my eyes and see that I wasn't mad, that no one was mad at him, that I was proud of him for how hard he had tried playing basketball today, that it's fine to cry if he's sad, but that maybe his brain was stuck, and if he wanted to stop crying I would help him.

"Remember to breathe Jacob; slow breaths; in, out; one, two."

He gained his composure, only to lose it again. Again and again. We were going to be late for the movies.

And then one of the coaches came over and praised his shooting abilities, promised he would get more ball time next week.

And maybe my murmured words of love, of soothing, had washed over him enough that they were sinking in.

Or maybe his brain finally stopped misbehaving, let him move on

But suddenly it was OK again.

My boy smiled. Said: "I want to eat popcorn at the movies, Mom."

And so off we went.

And loved the movie as Jake loves all movies, although this movie, Hugo, was particularly lovable. (Paris in the 30's, a history of cinema, what's not to love?)

And when we stopped for a quick grocery shopping before coming home, Jake was remarkably present, helpful. He reminded me that we needed bananas, picked out a nice ripe-but-not-over-ripe bunch himself without any prompting at all.

Hungry for dinner, we hopped a cab home, and as we pulled up in front of our building he said: "Thank you driver, for taking us home!" to the cabbie, more polite by far than his twin ever is.

And so deep into the evening I pondered my son and his question.

A sign that more self-awareness will one day come.

That one day I may actually know my son Jacob's innermost thoughts, a cypher no longer.

Patience is now needed. For this can not be pulled from him, but rather, I must wait for it to blossom.

Wait for his next step, in this dance that he alone knows.

Let him be.

Enough as he is, and embracing what he will become.

Embracing what will come.

I am linking this post up to Be Enough Me Mondays at Just. Be. Enough.

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I will always...

Ethan, at bedtime this evening was not quite ready to let go of the day. He was in a talkative mood, rare recently as he has been reading until deep drowsiness sets in, sometimes even falling asleep on the sofa, a seven-hundred-plus page tome of Harry Potter's exploits resting spread open upon his slowly rising and falling chest. A comforting weight, perhaps.

But tonight something had him stirred up, and thus my need to talk him back down.

"Mom, will you always love me?" he asked. (Not a chit-chat night, then. Alright.)

Although he has heard the answer a thousand times, he somehow needed to hear it anew tonight, for the thousand and first: "Ethan, these two things are absolutely true: I will always be your Mom, and I will always love you."

"Well," he says being practical about it, "we will love each other until whoever dies first."

(Love AND death. Stirred up, indeed.)

"That had better be me!" I tell him, "But preferably not until I'm an old, old lady."

"A hundred and two?" he suggests.

"Yes, that would do, nicely. And with plenty of grandchildren at my knee." (It's never too early to plant the seeds.)

I tell him the old joke: "Do you know how to live to be 102 years old? Get to 101, and then be very, VERY careful."

(Possibly one of the best unforeseen benefits of having kids: old jokes are new to them and considered hilarious; I get to trot out all my favorite shopworn groaners to an appreciative audience. Win!)

He laughs, but then I round the corner back to serious again.

"And also... you do know, love goes on after death. I still love your Grandpa, my Dad, and he is dead."

"Yes," he nods solemnly, contemplating his blanket, and then looks up, breaks out in a big grin.

"But hugs don't, so hug me now, Mama!" and he opens his arms wide. He opens his arms wide, to me.


In honor of today being the very last day of NaBloPoMo November, I decided to sift through my drafts, resurrect one more post from my zombie files. I had thought of this as a snippet, not quite a full post for wordy, rambling me. But reading it over I realized: "yes, it could be enough." 

And thus... it is done. 30 posts in 30 days. Goodnight!  


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SOC Sunday: Rebooting my Mom-self

How is it humanly possible for Sunday to roll around again so soon? Who is speeding up time and can we please get them to take their foot off the gas pedal? I mean, really, this is getting quite ridiculous. It's like I'm going to blink and it's going to be something CRAZY, like nearly Thanksgiving.

What's that you say? It IS nearly Thanksgiving? No. Shut up. It just turned November. No? Damn.

OK, whatever. It IS Sunday still, right? It hasn't become Monday while I was busy scratching my ankle or anything, right? Good. So here's what's on my mind, straight from my brain to yours with very little filter in between...

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Ethan is pretty unhappy with our plans for today: we're driving out to Queens to attend the 1st birthday party for the baby girl of friends of my husband's and mine. In other words, not about Ethan.

He complained he wouldn't know anyone there but his family. And I decided to not coddle this shit anymore. I told him "you know when I was a kid my parents took me all kinds of places with them, not just kid places - where they went, I went too, I told him, it's family plans and sometimes you just have to suck it up and go along with the program, sometimes it's about you and sometimes its NOT about you and families do things together.

I was goinig to launch into all the cool things we go off to do that are for HIM but realized, I was having a hard time coming up with anything recent. Realized I have been in retreat for some time now.

We Used to do things all the time. go out to museums and parks and other neighborhoods, other boros. I was the "fun mom" always game for adventure. fun fun fun.

When did that drop? When did weekends become always one day inside, each kid attached to their own screens? I know I've been overwhelmed for a while. That the situation between the boys been so not fun for such a long time now - over a year, maybe two (one of benefits of blogging is can go back over time and read old posts see what was going on in my life at various times).

I have written time and again how hard it is to go and do anything with the two kids as they get along so poorly right now, as autism intrudes into our family space so deeply right now.

But I hadn't realized how much I have retreated from trying. And that sucks.

So I want to re-boot the whole enterprise. OK, our old sort-of-easy-to-hang-out family is gone. Done. And now I need to move on, figure out how to create new kinds of fun, make it work for us some how, get out and do.

Because I'm the fun Mom damn it!

OK, now to drag Ethan off to a one year old's birthday party. Sucking it up starts now. (For me, because he's going to be beast, but we're going anyway.)

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New to SOCS?  It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump.  Want to try it?  Here are the rules…

• Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
• Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spell-checking. This is writing in the raw.

You can do it, too!  Click on the picture link and let's hear your 5 minutes of brilliance...

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Morning Light

One son successfully sent off to school (awakened, toileted, dressed, hugged, breakfasted, lunch packed, homework checked, jacket bundled, bus met, kissed, waved) I head into the boys' room to wake the next, start it all over again, when I remember just in time... election day; public schools closed.

I stop myself with my hand outstretched, pull back.

A wan light is all that seeps into this small back room, originally designated for the maids, brick walled courtyards deemed a sufficient view for those of their station.

It works for our boys, cocooning them from the sounds of New York City that pour, raucous, into the front rooms of our apartment.

Ethan has wrapped himself up pupae-like in his fuzzy blue blanket, the only parts protruding being his head and right arm at the top, one bare foot at the bottom. His arm is draped across his forehead, warding off what creatures of dreams I know not.

I sigh, spend a moment breathing in my son, indulging in one of the great secret pleasures of this mothering life: watching my children sleep.

Nine year-old Ethan has become wary of his mother's lingering eye in wakefulness.  "Why are you staring at me, what are you looking at?" he'll ask if my glance overstays. Worried there is scrutiny, judgment. He accepts, skeptically, when I state the mostly true: "Nothing, I just love looking at you."

But while he sleeps, I can feast to my hearts content upon his sweet features that nascent adolescence and testosterone soon will transform.

Like the witch mothers in the Harry Potter books we are reading together, I wish for a magic wand with which to ward off all the hurtful things that may befall my son, making his way across the treacherous waters that lie ahead.

Wand-less, bereft of all but the ordinary magic of mother-love, I make my silent incantations anyway: "Let his heart not be badly broken by the first girl he hands it to; let him find joy in the doings of life and not just the achievement of the brass rings, but may he snatch his fair share of those as well, please."

He breathes in, out.

And I breathe with him, remembering the time I once breathed for him and his brother, when they resided inside me, and I stood in this room expectantly, attempting to conjure their faces from my dreams.

Envying my son the deliciousness of sleeping in, I slip out of his room.

A sink full of dirty dishes beckons.

The tower of boxes, emptied of mittens, fleece and parkas; now filled with summer - tank tops and shorts, sun bleached bathing suits and salt scented beach towels - are impatiently waiting to be carried back to the basement.

But first these words buzzing 'round my head must find purchase. I side-step past the detritus of Jacob's morning, approach the computer.

Sit.

Write.

A few stolen minutes.

Mine.

Mine to just write.

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Nine Years and Counting

Nine years ago today my life changed...

Undeniably...

Irrevocably...

Completely...

(At exactly 10:12 - and then again at 10:13 - AM)

In ways I could not possibly presage, did not thoroughly fathom until, suddenly, there were two hearts, beating furiously in the world, that had moments ago echoed solely, safely, inside the cavern of my body.

Their cries piercing the hushed hum of the operating theater, the chill but joyous room where I first met my sons, and then cried out, myself, as they whisked them away, too soon. Too soon!

I squawked, demanded. (As much as a half-bodied woman, pinned to a table, being re-viscerated can be said to demand.) My obstetrician, a mother herself was supportive. I really loved her.

She was whip smart and had a wicked, dry sense of humor. She actually came in on her day off (also, coincidentally her own mother’s birthday) to deliver my boys, as at 39 weeks it was time for them to come OUT.

Hospitals are full of rules, and C-sections are very medical ways to birth babies. It’s really, truly surgery. They take a baby out, hold it up in the air in front of you for the briefest of moments, say “See, here’s your baby?” and then they whisk him away to do hospitally things to him.

As I was making noises about wanting to actually HOLD my babies, there was resistance from the nurses, they had their jobs to do. But my wonderful OB had my back. “You’ve got two, hand one over to her!” she commanded, and thus I found my son Jacob thrust into my arms, wrapped up like a little burrito in one of those ubiquitous striped hospital blankets.

I held him close to my face, peered into his.

The moment my son and I locked eyes has forever been seared into my brain. I had never experienced love at first sight before, never known that singular moment when everything turns betwixt one breath and the next; a shift of axis wobbling proportion.

And here, now, was that for me. Because here was the face of my son, unknown until the moment before, and now emblazoned on my very soul; and I knew with unwavering certainty that it was the beginning of our story, a lifetime of love.

And I knew that here was someone, one of two someones, whom I would die for. Someone for whom pacifist me would fight, tooth and claw, for; whom I would throw myself in front of a bus for.

And then, when they took Jacob from me and handed me Ethan, my heart doubled up, while remaining the same. An unexplained phenomena that just is: how a heart can be full to the brim and then fill again without ever emptying, expanding infinitely but remaining intact. 

My heart was still firmly encased in the cage of my body, and yet now also walking around the world beating away inside these two tiny beings at the same time. How can that be? Shhh, that’s one of the secrets of motherhood.

Finally they were done putting me back together and I was sent to the recovery room next door, my boys to the maternity ward upstairs.

I sent my husband with the babies, to join the grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who were gathering to meet the newest family members. I went to recovery alone. And thus began the longest two hours of my life.

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This is another piece of the long story of my boys' beginnings.

Earlier this summer, I showed the world how I "rocked my bump" in a post I wrote to link up over at Shell's place.

Last year, I wrote a letter to my sons on their eighth birthday, recounting my joy at their coming into the world.

I thought I would have told my whole conception, pregnancy and birth story by now. I thought I would have had the time, that my life might be less of a whirlwind this year (foolish me). And yet it seems to spin, if possible, even faster still.

But no matter how quick the dance, I must pause each July 29th to give thanks, to marvel again at the miracle (modern, medical) that is the existence of my two beautiful boys.

Hello, my loved ones.

Happy Birthday, Ethan and Jacob.

Jacob and Ethan.

Today, nine years ago you graced the world with your presence.

Today, nine years ago you made me a mom.

My world has never been the same.

Thank you, from the top to the bottom of my heart.

I'm linking this post up to Maxabella's I'm grateful for... and this week I don't have to tell you why.


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Just a Mom

Yesterday at thelink-up Jen from The King and Eye hosts once a fortnight (that's every two weeks to folks on our side of the big pond), the directions were seemingly simple:

"Link up a post about parenting, being a mother or a father."

I am a mother and I blog, should be a piece of cake...  But as I started sifting through my past posts to come up with an appropriate one to link up, I kept coming upon every other thing. I write a lot AS a parent, but not so much about BEING a parent, in general.

I am all too often very specifically identified:

Autism Mom... Older Mom... Special Needs Mom... Sandwich Generation Mom... Twin Mom... Grieving Mom... but, seemingly, never just a Mom.

The post I finally dredged up? This one: Mom is not allowed to be sick -- a somewhat whiny post about trying to parent vaguely effectively while I was sick as a dog.  Not my most shining moment, but at least it fit the bill.

But thinking about all this? Made me a little sad.

Sometimes, I just want to simply be a mom, a plain old mom, a generic mom among other moms. Sometimes I just want to write about my kids as a mom, not wear my specificities on my sleeve all the time.

So, as plain old Mom, here are some small thoughts about my children...

We had our first truly warm spring day today, here in New York City. As the layers peel off and limbs are once again exposed, I observe my boys and marvel at how close to the cusp of big-boyness they have advanced over this long cruel winter.

Ethan is growing leaner, rangier; the shadows of what will one day be muscles starting to take shape across his body; the angles of his face fully emerged, not an ounce of baby-fat left.

Jacob is well on his way to becoming a (gentle) giant. Every time I hug him I marvel at the solidness of his eighty plus pounds.  He still asks me to pick him up, twirl him around; and for the life of me, I just can't.

Both boys have sprouted over an inch each in the last three months, as the penciled and dated lines in our doorway will testify.

Ethan, after a number of highly energetic kickball games and an unusually long spate without a bath (don't ask), developed a very grown up smell in his armpits, about which he was inordinately pleased.  He is in an awful hurry to grow up and become a teenager, and I am silently begging him to slow down.

But still, thankfully, the little boys remain.

Jacob holds my face in his two hands, locks my brown eyes with his gray-green and says "I love you." I just swoon; hope someday a girl will know this feeling, but for now he is still all mine.

Today, walking to school, Ethan slipped his hand into mine, as he does most days. Strolling down Broadway together, this effortless affectionate bond between us intact, I was keenly aware that it would all too soon be tossed by the wayside, a victim of "uncool."

But now, not yet. For, still, Ethan is happy to fold himself up, catlike, to lay claim to my lap; still content to kiss my cheek hello and be briskly kissed goodbye by me, his mom.


I am linking up this post to the lovely Shell's: 

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