I've been sitting on "Abstract Concepts" for a few weeks. The first draft was written after Daughter told me about the conversation she had with the Professor - I was overwhelmed with emotion as I relived how Daughter first came into my life.
You will recall that when Daughter moved in, she was 11 years old. Her mother had died a few years prior, and she had spent the past few years living with her dad, and then her aunt and uncle. Her favorite movie at the time was Rugrats Go to Paris, and we watched it all summer long.
In that animated movie, baby Chuckie was looking for a new mom. Like the Diva, Chuckie's mom had died. Eventually, Chuckie finds his new mom...
And she is Asian.
I can still hear Daughter putting it all together in her head, and asking me if I was her new Mom. When I said yes, Daughter accepted it without question, we had the biggest most tearful hug, and for the next year she heartily introduced me to every random person as "My new mom!"
The second draft of Abstract Concepts occurred after Daughter asked a lot of questions about death and dieing. It was so hard to know how to answer her. How do you reassure someone that they shouldn't worry about death when she has already lost both of her parents?
I finally posted Abstract Concepts tonight. I have one more story about the Diva that pertains to death...after tonight, I'm hoping we can ease back into more light-hearted topics (it is Homecoming week here at Huge Suburban School, you know).
Last weekend, the family (Husband, me, Gopher and the Diva) traveled to the Great North for a wedding. The wedding happened to be at the church next to the cemetery where the Diva's mom is buried. We were early, as was the officiating pastor, so we all walked out to her grave, and Daughter began talking:
"Hi mom. It's me, Diva. I miss you. I'm doing well, you'd be so proud of me."
She then turned to the Gopher, as if she were handing off the telephone, and hissed, "It's your turn. Talk."
The Gopher turned red and mumbled, "I wasn't prepared to give a speech."
I giggled and told the Daughter she should just talk for him. So she proceeded.
"Brother is grown up, you'd be so proud of him. I'm a senior. We're here for a wedding. I love you!"
She paused for a minute, thinking about how to end a voicemail to Heaven. She settled with, "Amen."
My Diva inspires me. She has more reasons than anyone to be angry, depressed and despondent. Instead, she is the most optimistic, joyful and loving girl I know. I am so proud of her. What would I do without some Diva in my day?
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Abstract Concepts
How do you explain abstract concepts to a Diva? For example, how does one go about reassuring the Diva that she shouldn't be afraid to die? How does one explain why people die? How does one allow time for Diva to grieve, while also teaching her the life skill of resiliency?
Unfortunately, these question have plagued me since the Diva and her brother, the Gopher, moved in with Husband and I in 2005. She was 11 years old. Her mother had died four years earlier, and her dad was sick. She would frequently ask why her mother died. Obviously, she wasn't searching for any deep, theological answers. For the most part, she was satisfied with explanations of the actual physical causes of her mother's death.
When her dad passed away in 2009, the Diva was 16. She understood her dad had been sick. But she wasn't content with the response that her dad died because he was sick. She would ask another Why. And another. My answers ranged from medical diagnoses, to the idea that Jesus needed her dad in heaven, and everything in between.
More recently, the Diva has expressed concern about her own death. Like all of us, she doesn't want to die. Many people tell their children, "Don't worry, you won't die, people die when they are old." But Daughter already knows that people can die unexpectedly. I remember asking my mom about death, and she told me it was like falling asleep - you wake up in Heaven! I tried that one on Daughter and I think she was afraid to close her eyes for a week.
The other night, Daughter and I were in the car, waiting outside Dairy Queen for Husband to return with our treats. That afternoon, the Diva had been picked up from soccer by Barney's Mom, the Professor.* I asked Daughter how it went. Daughter said good, and then she replayed the conversation for me:
(pretending to be the Professor) "Hi Diva, how are you?" (pause, now pretending to be herself) "Good. I miss my dad. He died."
I paused. What on earth would prompt her to say that? I asked Daughter what made her think of her dad, but she didn't understand the question, and eventually I gave up. I then asked Daughter what the Professor said, and she replied:
"She told me, 'I'm so sorry that you miss your dad.' "
The Diva had memorized the words, the emotion, and the intonation so perfectly that tears welled up in my eyes. They were beautiful, healing words; words that I had forgotten over the years during my search to find the Perfect Answer. The Professor's words had a big impact on Daughter. Empathy, compassion, love - also abstract concepts - were communicated very clearly to my Diva.
Maybe that's the key. Maybe my best weapon against Diva Anxiety isn't logical or theological explanations, but reassurance that when all other answers fail, she can always depend on God to love her through the actions of others.
* Barney and his mom are extra-special to our family. Barney's mom was a well-known law school Professor that I met - not during my three years of law school - but at Baccalaureate, just prior to graduation. Our little family plopped down next to her, and she noticed the Diva. Eventually she introduced herself, and shared that she had a Dude of her own (Dude = Male Diva). Husband and I were still living in Rural City, although we were planning to move that summer. We were debating which school district to move into, and were waiting for God to point us in the right direction. As the Professor told us about her Dude's experience in a district near the top of our list, the decision became clear. Over the past year, the Professor's family has ministered to us in extraordinary ways by simply loving us in ordinary ways. They are a friendly face at school events, they provide emergency child care, and they might even lend you a pair of black shoes for a firm Christmas party when you realize you left all your black heels at the office.
Unfortunately, these question have plagued me since the Diva and her brother, the Gopher, moved in with Husband and I in 2005. She was 11 years old. Her mother had died four years earlier, and her dad was sick. She would frequently ask why her mother died. Obviously, she wasn't searching for any deep, theological answers. For the most part, she was satisfied with explanations of the actual physical causes of her mother's death.
When her dad passed away in 2009, the Diva was 16. She understood her dad had been sick. But she wasn't content with the response that her dad died because he was sick. She would ask another Why. And another. My answers ranged from medical diagnoses, to the idea that Jesus needed her dad in heaven, and everything in between.
More recently, the Diva has expressed concern about her own death. Like all of us, she doesn't want to die. Many people tell their children, "Don't worry, you won't die, people die when they are old." But Daughter already knows that people can die unexpectedly. I remember asking my mom about death, and she told me it was like falling asleep - you wake up in Heaven! I tried that one on Daughter and I think she was afraid to close her eyes for a week.
The other night, Daughter and I were in the car, waiting outside Dairy Queen for Husband to return with our treats. That afternoon, the Diva had been picked up from soccer by Barney's Mom, the Professor.* I asked Daughter how it went. Daughter said good, and then she replayed the conversation for me:
(pretending to be the Professor) "Hi Diva, how are you?" (pause, now pretending to be herself) "Good. I miss my dad. He died."
I paused. What on earth would prompt her to say that? I asked Daughter what made her think of her dad, but she didn't understand the question, and eventually I gave up. I then asked Daughter what the Professor said, and she replied:
"She told me, 'I'm so sorry that you miss your dad.' "
The Diva had memorized the words, the emotion, and the intonation so perfectly that tears welled up in my eyes. They were beautiful, healing words; words that I had forgotten over the years during my search to find the Perfect Answer. The Professor's words had a big impact on Daughter. Empathy, compassion, love - also abstract concepts - were communicated very clearly to my Diva.
Maybe that's the key. Maybe my best weapon against Diva Anxiety isn't logical or theological explanations, but reassurance that when all other answers fail, she can always depend on God to love her through the actions of others.
* Barney and his mom are extra-special to our family. Barney's mom was a well-known law school Professor that I met - not during my three years of law school - but at Baccalaureate, just prior to graduation. Our little family plopped down next to her, and she noticed the Diva. Eventually she introduced herself, and shared that she had a Dude of her own (Dude = Male Diva). Husband and I were still living in Rural City, although we were planning to move that summer. We were debating which school district to move into, and were waiting for God to point us in the right direction. As the Professor told us about her Dude's experience in a district near the top of our list, the decision became clear. Over the past year, the Professor's family has ministered to us in extraordinary ways by simply loving us in ordinary ways. They are a friendly face at school events, they provide emergency child care, and they might even lend you a pair of black shoes for a firm Christmas party when you realize you left all your black heels at the office.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
The Unfair Day at the Fair
Last week, we went to the state fair. A good friend had sent us complimentary tickets, the Gopher was working at one of the exhibit buildings, and we hadn't been in a few years. I imagined a storybook kind of day, full of laughter and memories and mountains of food. In a gesture of general happiness, and to her great delight, Daughter was allowed to leave her glasses and hearing aids at home.
Alas, it was not meant to be. If nothing more, you have to admire my persistence and the force of energy I exerted before giving up.
We left for the fairgrounds around 9 a.m. I texted the Gopher that we were on our way, and planning for at least 12 hours of continuous happiness. Along with the other 226,800 people attending the fair that day.
The sun was out as we parked, and I told the Diva to get the sunscreen out. We use the spray stuff. The Diva hates sunscreen, but she burns easily so she has learned to somewhat endure it. We all hop out of the car and assume the usual positions - Daughter holding out limbs, me spraying away. For whatever reason, we weren't on the same page, and as I sprayed away, Daughter and I became gradually more annoyed with each other. Maybe she was tired. Maybe I was over-excited to eat my first cheese curd. Whatever the case, after spraying down her arms and legs, I said "Close your eyes," and just as I pushed the button, she - of course - opens them.
Husband and I stare in horror, and Daughter grabs her eyes. Husband says helpfully, "You maced her."
As Daughter is rubbing her eyes, I'm trying to explain to her that I didn't purposefully do this. I said to her, "Would your mother do this if she didn't love you?"
OK. Obviously, the right answer is No. No mother, I know you love me, I know you tried to put sunscreen on me because you love you and don't want me to burn, and this was an unfortunate casualty that I assisted in bringing upon myself because I didn't trust you when you told me to close my eyes.
A mom can dream, right?
Instead, she says loudly (no hearing aids, remember), "I love you Mom!"
As gaggles of fairgoers walk by, Husband asks even louder, "DO YOU THINK YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T LOVE YOU?"
To which Daughter responds hoarsely, with tears, "I LOVE YOU MOM!"
This routine occurs one more time, and as it does I realize that people are observing this lovely Diva, with crazy red eyes and tears, having some kind of weird yelling match wherein we are forcing her to declare a love she clearly does not feel at the moment.
"Get in the car!" I hiss. We all get in the car. We have a pep talk. We model how we will apply the sunscreen once we get out of the car. We each take a turn role-playing the suncreen-ee. We get out of the car. We start over. We attempt to salvage the day.
We walk around the fair. The Gopher joins us. The sun beats down on us. Sure glad the Diva is sunscreened, I thought to myself...
Sometime around noon, the Diva starts getting a little irritable. She has a scowl on her face, she refuses to keep pace as we walk, and is generally the Diva of Derision. With each angry step she takes, I feel my perfect day cracking just a little bit more. And so my frustration begins to build.
It all comes to a head by the cow barn. We purchase some food and drink, and are trying to stay generally manure free. Daughter is sucking down lemonade as if she's been on a desert death march. As we share a rib sandwich, she continues (what I perceive as) her mini-acts of defiance... purposefully trying to stand as far away from me as possible; when I ask her to put down her drink for a minute she looks to Husband to see if she really has to; when I ask her point-blank to do something she stares at me blankly. Husband and Gopher have no idea what kind of female warfare is going on directly under their noses.
At some point, I passionately inform Daughter that her behavior is unacceptable. She pulls out her Ace: She bursts into loud sobs and starts a puddle of tears. We are miles from the car. Nothing can hide us from the public shame of making this poor Diva cry. The Gopher excuses himself with some quickly-thought-up excuse about having to get back, they sure must be missing him by now. Lucky duck.
Husband calms her down, and I have a new plan. We will go to the coliseum, sit down, and watch the cow show until Daughter feels better. Plus, I will have some time to calm down as well.
We sit for about five minutes. Husband asks Daughter if she feels sick, and Daughter nods yes. And then she starts the retching noises.
Abandon ship! Husband, Daughter and I make a beeline to the car. And I am so unjustifiably angry at Daughter. Even faced with pretty strong evidence that this is beyond the Diva being difficult, I can't help but resent her for "ruining" my day at the fair.
It wasn't until she started puking into a plastic shopko bag when we were halfway home that I opened myself up to other underlying causes of Daughter's behavior.
As I replayed the day's events in my mind, it suddenly became clear that Daughter had overheated. She didn't sweat, her face was flushed, she was tired and irritable, and she threw up. But to be honest, even if I hadn't been gunning for the "Perfect Day" of non-stop fair fun, I might not have noticed the early red flags. The Diva lacks awareness of subtle physical indicators (i.e. when she finally says she needs a bathroom, it is always an emergency), she doesn't proactively communicate, and even when she does, her vocabulary is quite limited. Most school-aged kids can tell you exactly what they feel and need, but Divas often can't. In short, being a Diva mom requires supernatural powers, and I'm still honing mine.
The point of this post is to make sure I don't sugar-coat what it means to be a Diva mom. Some days I cry because she is so amazing. Some days I cry because she is so amazingly difficult. And some days I cry because God is molding my heart into something new, and it really hurts.
On this particular day, I needed a break, and luckily Husband's sister was able to watch the Diva in a cool, climate-controlled environment for the rest of the day while Husband and I enjoyed a long-overdue date night. And when we were reunited later that weekend, the Diva and I were both recharged and back on the same wavelength. Many lessons learned, including what anhidrosis is, and that other Down syndrome kids have it. Until next time -
Alas, it was not meant to be. If nothing more, you have to admire my persistence and the force of energy I exerted before giving up.
We left for the fairgrounds around 9 a.m. I texted the Gopher that we were on our way, and planning for at least 12 hours of continuous happiness. Along with the other 226,800 people attending the fair that day.
The sun was out as we parked, and I told the Diva to get the sunscreen out. We use the spray stuff. The Diva hates sunscreen, but she burns easily so she has learned to somewhat endure it. We all hop out of the car and assume the usual positions - Daughter holding out limbs, me spraying away. For whatever reason, we weren't on the same page, and as I sprayed away, Daughter and I became gradually more annoyed with each other. Maybe she was tired. Maybe I was over-excited to eat my first cheese curd. Whatever the case, after spraying down her arms and legs, I said "Close your eyes," and just as I pushed the button, she - of course - opens them.
Husband and I stare in horror, and Daughter grabs her eyes. Husband says helpfully, "You maced her."
As Daughter is rubbing her eyes, I'm trying to explain to her that I didn't purposefully do this. I said to her, "Would your mother do this if she didn't love you?"
OK. Obviously, the right answer is No. No mother, I know you love me, I know you tried to put sunscreen on me because you love you and don't want me to burn, and this was an unfortunate casualty that I assisted in bringing upon myself because I didn't trust you when you told me to close my eyes.
A mom can dream, right?
Instead, she says loudly (no hearing aids, remember), "I love you Mom!"
As gaggles of fairgoers walk by, Husband asks even louder, "DO YOU THINK YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T LOVE YOU?"
To which Daughter responds hoarsely, with tears, "I LOVE YOU MOM!"
This routine occurs one more time, and as it does I realize that people are observing this lovely Diva, with crazy red eyes and tears, having some kind of weird yelling match wherein we are forcing her to declare a love she clearly does not feel at the moment.
"Get in the car!" I hiss. We all get in the car. We have a pep talk. We model how we will apply the sunscreen once we get out of the car. We each take a turn role-playing the suncreen-ee. We get out of the car. We start over. We attempt to salvage the day.
We walk around the fair. The Gopher joins us. The sun beats down on us. Sure glad the Diva is sunscreened, I thought to myself...
Sometime around noon, the Diva starts getting a little irritable. She has a scowl on her face, she refuses to keep pace as we walk, and is generally the Diva of Derision. With each angry step she takes, I feel my perfect day cracking just a little bit more. And so my frustration begins to build.
It all comes to a head by the cow barn. We purchase some food and drink, and are trying to stay generally manure free. Daughter is sucking down lemonade as if she's been on a desert death march. As we share a rib sandwich, she continues (what I perceive as) her mini-acts of defiance... purposefully trying to stand as far away from me as possible; when I ask her to put down her drink for a minute she looks to Husband to see if she really has to; when I ask her point-blank to do something she stares at me blankly. Husband and Gopher have no idea what kind of female warfare is going on directly under their noses.
At some point, I passionately inform Daughter that her behavior is unacceptable. She pulls out her Ace: She bursts into loud sobs and starts a puddle of tears. We are miles from the car. Nothing can hide us from the public shame of making this poor Diva cry. The Gopher excuses himself with some quickly-thought-up excuse about having to get back, they sure must be missing him by now. Lucky duck.
Husband calms her down, and I have a new plan. We will go to the coliseum, sit down, and watch the cow show until Daughter feels better. Plus, I will have some time to calm down as well.
We sit for about five minutes. Husband asks Daughter if she feels sick, and Daughter nods yes. And then she starts the retching noises.
Abandon ship! Husband, Daughter and I make a beeline to the car. And I am so unjustifiably angry at Daughter. Even faced with pretty strong evidence that this is beyond the Diva being difficult, I can't help but resent her for "ruining" my day at the fair.
It wasn't until she started puking into a plastic shopko bag when we were halfway home that I opened myself up to other underlying causes of Daughter's behavior.
As I replayed the day's events in my mind, it suddenly became clear that Daughter had overheated. She didn't sweat, her face was flushed, she was tired and irritable, and she threw up. But to be honest, even if I hadn't been gunning for the "Perfect Day" of non-stop fair fun, I might not have noticed the early red flags. The Diva lacks awareness of subtle physical indicators (i.e. when she finally says she needs a bathroom, it is always an emergency), she doesn't proactively communicate, and even when she does, her vocabulary is quite limited. Most school-aged kids can tell you exactly what they feel and need, but Divas often can't. In short, being a Diva mom requires supernatural powers, and I'm still honing mine.
The point of this post is to make sure I don't sugar-coat what it means to be a Diva mom. Some days I cry because she is so amazing. Some days I cry because she is so amazingly difficult. And some days I cry because God is molding my heart into something new, and it really hurts.
On this particular day, I needed a break, and luckily Husband's sister was able to watch the Diva in a cool, climate-controlled environment for the rest of the day while Husband and I enjoyed a long-overdue date night. And when we were reunited later that weekend, the Diva and I were both recharged and back on the same wavelength. Many lessons learned, including what anhidrosis is, and that other Down syndrome kids have it. Until next time -
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