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Always Enough

May 2, 2013 By Leave a Comment

BluejayI watched two jays squabbling in the front yard today over seed that Grace and I had accidentally spilled from the box. The beautiful, black-capped jays with their cornflower-blue wings showed their ugly desperation for more by screeching and flapping at each other in an effort to grab everything they could. Does a bird have a cut-off switch? It’s said dogs can eat until they vomit. I don’t know whether birds can do the same. How much seed does one bird need? There were tiny scatterings of seed beyond the bigger, central pile. But the birds went straight for the biggest payoff, missing what was hidden in the grass.

I can relate.

Money is tight. As Matt is in sales, we live on his salary, but we advance on his bonuses. Bonuses that aren’t around right now. My dear husband is burning the midnight oil on project after project, but to no (seeming) avail. Each night we pray, “Lord let a deal close.” Each morning, He answers, “Not yet.”

And then I spend a fair amount of time screeching at Him like a Jay.

We’ve already burned through our medical flexible spending program, and it’s only May. With two kids on the autism spectrum, Grace’s eye care, and my own medical needs, we spent $5,000 in less time than it takes a Kardashian to start a reality show. This study from the Brookings Institute, indicating a robust and direct relationship between income and well-being, didn’t lift my spirits, either. Apparently, money CAN buy happiness.

But not necessarily contentment.

“I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.” Philippians 4:11-12

Daily, the Lord reminds me I haven’t missed a meal. I have a roof over my head, cars that run, beautiful, healthy children, a devoted husband, and a few nice things (relics of a past, more…..er…..plentiful lifestyle). He has used our present circumstances to forge a new frugality, and we are stretching dollars like they are made of tire rubber. No food goes to waste, no excessive purchases are made. We have prayed for nearly two years that the Lord might heal our finances. His answer to us has included the practice of looking carefully for ways to get by on less.

I HATE less. I like MORE. But I cannot deny that my heart swells with pride when I shave $50 off my grocery bill, or sell outgrown clothes at a consignment store. It is in the saving of money and our systematic downsizing that we are reminded we CAN survive, and thrive, on less. And in so doing, we are content.

There is ALWAYS enough for us, scattered somewhere in the grass.

- Sarah

Contact: Sarah@chosenfamilies.org

Image courtesy of Ron Bird/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

Filed Under: Anxiety, Asperger, balance, Challenge, Encouragement, Family, God's presence, growth, Hope, stress, Uncategorized

Surprising Spring

March 25, 2013 By Leave a Comment

…but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life. John 4:14 ESV

I love to journal and it is one of the tools that help me stay emotionally healthy since my first bout of depression sixteen years ago.  However, I have recently (and accidentally) added a new, non-written, mode of processing my day and spending time with the Lord while………..washing dishes!

Up until we moved in October I had a large dishwasher so I loaded all of the dishes up and kept up my fast pace of life, missing an opportunity for reflection and prayer. Our new home only has room for a small built in dishwasher, so instead of running it multiple times a day, I hand wash the larger dishes. I need to be gently hand washed and made clean from my day.

I have found my dishwashing time therapeutic, as most nights I am able to have 10-15 minutes of limited interruption and I love it! Every night is different (and truth be told, some nights the dirty dishes sit in the sink until morning!) but I am learning to find ways to connect with the Lord in the midst of my day, instead of trying to add one more thing. Who needs one more thing to do?! Plus, I find shorter, more frequent times with the Lord keep me focused on Him and aware of His Presence. I crave His life giving Presence.

While we all need to be connected to the Lord, those of us on the hidden disability journey often require extra strength and grace on a daily basis. We need to combat the fear, disappointment, and frustration that attempt to invade our lives and make us dry. I am thirsty for Living Water.

Let’s be creative in finding time to process our thoughts and feelings (vent if needed) and stay connected with the Lord. If you are inclined, please share what you have found helpful, no matter how simple, to prime the pump and encourage others.

Your fellow traveler,

~Lynn

 

Filed Under: balance, Depression, Emotions, God's presence, Journey, Self Care, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

When There’s Time

March 19, 2013 By 1 Comment

I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Grace and Matt are gone for the day, and I’m home with two crabby sons: Noah is crabby because he has strep; Jesse is crabby because he’s three. To compound things, we probably pushed them too hard this weekend. Matt and I both suffer from the same disease – the one marked by lack of a shut-off valve. Matt’s plagued more than I am because my body generally gives out before his, but both of us – we don’t rest on the weekends. We run. Karate, gymnastics, physical therapy for Noah, Home Depot, cleaning the barn, organizing more closets and more shelves, entertaining, running, running, running.

The snow falling outside today is small and light, like flour let loose from a canister. And it falls slowly. It falls in such a way that I long for slow-ness myself. The Lord is here with me at the table. I’m sure He is smiling at that comparison.

“I don’t know how to slow down, Lord.”

“I know. I made you, remember? I know your struggles. Why are you running so hard?”

“Because there is so much to do, and so little time. There is never enough time.”

“There is always enough time.”

“But Lord, my list! There are so many things on it. Mundane things, like laundry and cleaning and errands. And pressing things, like taking care of the children and the animals, and paying bills, and buying groceries. And then there are the things I want to do – my riding, Lord. And my writing. But sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by it all that I just really want to go to sleep!”

“So sleep. Come to me, you who are weary and carrying so many heavy burdens, and I will give you the rest you need.” (Matthew 11:28)

“But when I do that, I wake up to even MORE things to do! Lord, why didn’t you make a 36 hour day?”

“Because your body couldn’t handle it. At the end of this perfect day I’ve created, you are forced to sleep. You must stop what you’re doing, and rest. Even I rested, you know. And I told the apostles to do the same (Mark 6:31) … Have you noticed the snow?”

I drop my head. I think I know what He’s going to say.

“Yes, Lord.”

“Sometimes there is much snow. But sometimes, it is merely a few light flakes, quiet and pretty enough for a dusting, and nothing more. It may be heavy and wet, or dry and airy, falling faster, or slower. It moves as it must, for the purpose to which it’s intended, and what the clouds themselves contain. Snow is not always a blizzard, my child. And neither can you pour yourself out so completely or quickly all the time. There will be nothing left of you for the most worthwhile pursuits if you shake out all you have until you collapse.”

Noah is coughing in the family room, and telling me his stomach hurts. His fever is back, and I get up to medicate him, and bring him more water. His sicknesses are particularly pathetic. He moans and screams in pain, particularly intolerant to it. This is consistent with studies indicating those with Autistic Spectrum Disorder have a hyper/hypo sensitivity to stimuli i.e., above average range of feeling or super-sensitivity, first written about in 1949 by Bergman and Escalona. (Contrast this with my daughter, who sliced her foot open on a beach rock in Virginia, and couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it – refusing pain meds and waving to people from her wheelchair at the airport on the way back home like the Queen of England).

I return to my seat and my coffee in the kitchen, my conversation with the Lord.

“You will finish what you need to, when the time is right.”

“WHEN the time is right? Couldn’t I just get it all finished and be DONE? That way I can rest!”

I can hear Him laughing. “And miss what I’m trying to teach you about prioritizing and resting now?”

“Okay. I give. Two things on my list today, and no more.”

“Just one, child.” He looks into the family room where the boys are watching tv, comatose under their blankets. “They need you right now. I willed Noah’s sickness for reasons you do not know, but today, it is so that you yourself might slow down and just be with them.”

“Whatever’s left on your list, you can finish later. When there’s time.”

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, balance, Challenge, Encouragement, Family, God's presence, Journey, rest, Uncategorized

Open for Business

February 21, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Routine tasks often prove the hardest for my Noah. Tasks of a higher emotional and intellectual input are nearly impossible. This move of ours – wherein we moved a mere 6 miles from our former home, kept all children in the same school, and did it all slowly, as unhurriedly as possible over the course of a month so as to prevent any psychic earthquakes – sent Noah into a tailspin. I should have guessed this was going to be the case. There is only so much cushioning you can give an Aspie when his world begins to change. So, in the wake of the final push of our move, I should not have been surprised that Noah’s behavior fell somewhere between chaos and rage. On the day itself, Noah blasted past us in the foyer, hurtling down to his room, yelling over his shoulder that he had a project he was going to do. That this was his “plan for the day.” Before we settled into our new home, Noah had packed everything from torn posters to bits of tape he’d salvaged from the walls. There were figurines with missing heads, carnival slinkies stretched beyond use, shoes with shredded soles. He was unable to distinguish between useful and superfluous, between broken and functional. Everything that could possibly be thrown away made it into a moving box and came with us. Unpacking this all gave me apoplexy. For an almost 9-year-old, a request to send him to his room to pack his belongings is a natural one. One assumes that there will be some sort of self-governance that eliminates the moving of – for lack of a better term – “junk.” But Noah’s “junk” moving was just the beginning. Once at the house, this “project” of his ate the better part of a day, and I didn’t bother to check its progress because it kept him out of my hair. When he yelled from the bottom floor, insistent that I come see what he’d done, my jaw hit the floor. He opened his closet door to show me this:

Getting down to business.

“It’s my DS store,” he said. And sure enough, on every shelf, Noah had aligned his DS games with cases upright and inserts facing out, just as they are displayed at Gamestop. Now this was a puzzle to me. The boy who packs things like books with missing pages, or plush animals vomiting their stuffing; who throws every lego he owns in a giant box, but tosses the instructions (insuring that he’ll never construct the pieces from the set in their intended way, again), THIS boy had taken the case for every DS he owns and arranged them with the precision of a scientist. WHY? This was also a puzzle to me. All I can imagine – and this is where I must be content to let the questions end (because sometimes guessing is all I’ve got) – is that this was Noah’s way of not only controlling his environment, but controlling (channeling?) his emotions through the precise, repetitive task of touching and working with the familiar things that he loved.

Grace, ever the pragmatist, folded her arms in front of his closet. “Uh, that’s great, Noah. But you have one little problem. Where are your clothes going to go?” We still don’t know. For now, they’re still mostly in boxes on the floor. His room’s a mess, and so is mine. We’re not quite open for business. But we have a little peace.

~ Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, balance, Challenge, Change, Emotions, Family, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

Building a Mystery

January 24, 2013 By Leave a Comment

A move does interesting things to an autistic. For individuals who are categorized by, among other things, their need for routinization, a change like this can be catastrophic in its proportions. For neurotypicals, the Homes and Rahe stress scale lists a change in residence or living conditions as major contributing factors to the accumulation of overall life stress (and ultimate potential for physical illness. On a related note, Noah’s sister – not coincidentally – has croup). So, one can only imagine what it does to the psyche of children with Asperger’s, for whom a change in routine or predictability can wreak emotional chaos.

Noah is desperate for a sense of contribution to the process of our move. The exercise of control over his circumstances is one way he attempts to limit his own explosions, ticking, and emotional outbursts. On Saturday, during one of our many trips to the new house, Noah positively lost his mind when he dropped a toy on the floor and cracked its exterior. He spent nearly 10 minutes in the bathroom, crying and screaming and wiping his eyes.

When he’d calmed down, he dug into a box of sundries in the living room and began pulling out items he wanted to “decorate” with. I explained that decorating was the last thing we were going to do – that the boxes needed to be emptied and the shelves needed to be cleaned; that we had so much left to move. He didn’t listen. Time after time, he returned to the box, pulling out vases and sculptures, plates and lanterns. He told me to come to the tables he’d decorated, and take a look.

“I need you to say something nice and complementary about what I’ve done,” he admonished.

“Something nice and complementary,” I said. Noah didn’t laugh.

The table was set in a perfectly symmetrical pattern. The same number of coasters, and the same coasters on each side. The large letter in the middle evenly dividing both sets. On the other side of the room, he balanced a wooden plate holder on each of two candlesticks. Between them both were two ceramic birds. Behind them, two matching statues. Then, this morning, he told me of the prior night’s dream. “The king told us to build a castle, and we stacked floors on top of each other, and they were teetering. And there was a soldier on each side, and a light behind each soldier…” He even dreams in symmetry. That mind of his, it’s always building mysteries.

All things same and balanced. The antidote to chaos.

This predilection toward symmetry isn’t unique to our son. In fact, it’s been reported that autistic children recognize symmetry better than do their non-autistic peers. But in our home, and for the present, this represents more than a simple neural function. Instead, I see it as a plea for order. As the boxes pile up in increasingly empty rooms, and we shuttle another load of furniture between homes, I am watching Noah and finding ways that he is stacking and sorting and separating to make sameness and order. I long to protect him from his own anxiety, but at the same time, help him to appropriately deal with it. This isn’t the only time in his life things will get messy.

“No, we declare God’s wisdom, a mystery that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began” (1 Corinthians 2:7).

Noah’s mind is a mystery. The wisdom of God is mysterious. It is a function of my personality to be plagued by the frustration of ignorance, always asking why. But there are some things the finite, simple mind cannot possibly know. So for now, I must be content in the not knowing of things, and in the trusting that what I don’t understand is for good in the end.

-Sarah

Filed Under: Anxiety, Asperger, Autism, balance, stress, Trust, Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,

The Autism Dad: The Danger of Becoming Insular

November 19, 2012 By 2 Comments

We’ve all met the Autism Dad or Mom. Maybe we’ve even been that person.

The Autism Dad (or insert your disease or disorder) is the type of person who can only think about and talk about autism. Every time you see him he wants to talk about a new therapy or group or school or whatever. His Facebook statuses vary between the sappy story to the empowering quote about…autism. You notice his car instantly because it is covered in autism bumper stickers, puzzle-piece magnet ribbons, and your state’s autism specialty license plate.

Autism has become his thing. He has assimilated it into his identity. He is, after all, the Autism Dad.

Hebrews 13:1 says, “Let brotherly love continue” (ESV). The author of Hebrews transitions so abruptly from the main argument (Heb 1-12) to his final instructions (Heb 13) that many liberal scholars have argued that chapter 13 was just tacked on to the original by a later editor. While I don’t believe that to be the case, we must admit that the author slams on the brakes when he goes directly from “our God is a consuming fire” to “let brotherly love continue,” especially considering that chapter and verse divisions were not added until over a thousand years later (Heb 12:29-13:1).

Nonetheless, the command the author gives flows naturally from his argument and has special application for those of us suffering through the trials of hidden disabilities. The original recipients of the letter–Jewish Christians–were suffering for their faith in Jesus Christ, and they were tempted to alleviate their suffering by re-assimilating into the legal religion of Judaism. The author warned his readers to continue in faith because the Son is greatly superior to the old covenant and there is no salvation apart from him.

People typically begin to reject Christ and return to their former lifestyle by first neglecting to meet together with their church (Heb 10:25a). The author contrasts this neglect of church participation with “encouraging one another” (Heb 10:25b). When people suffer, they tend to grow insular. They begin to focus almost entirely on themselves in order to survive the suffering.

I notice this tendency in myself, and it scares me. I fear that I might slowly be transforming into the Autism Dad. People kindly ask about us and give of their time, energy, and money to help us. Sometimes I begin thinking of myself primarily as a recipient. I talk more than listen. I gladly tell people how I’m doing when they ask and never stop to ask them about their life. I am the special case. I am the one who needs the attention and encouragement.

To counter this tendency, the author of Hebrews reminds us to “let brotherly love continue.” We should neither separate ourselves nor exalt ourselves over our brethren due to the trials we face. Our identity should not be rooted in a disease or disorder anymore than it should be rooted in a political party or favorite computer brand. We are the people of Christ. We are brothers and sisters in the family of the redeemed. Therefore, we must not forget to love and encourage one another.

~ Joshua

Filed Under: Autism, balance, Challenge, Confession, Journey, Uncategorized

Once More, With Feeling

July 12, 2012 By 1 Comment

I heard someone far wiser than me once say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, but expecting different results. Should that be the case, I am long overdue for an involuntary commit.

My son, a master of repetition, who’s Asperger’s Syndrome is often known by this characteristic, has taught me to repeat things as well. Even the cinematic caricatures play it right: “I’m an excellent driver. An excellent driver.” Aspies love routine, doing the same things over and over. They love the predictability of sameness. Repetition even fuels their relationships with others. Like a relationship with siblings, for example. When Noah repeats nonsense in Grace’s and Jesse’s ears, continually pokes their legs, or regularly shoves their car seats, they pretty much want to punch repetition in its face.

Two days ago, I sat on a bench in a TCBY – somewhere between the karate and gymnastics shuffle we’ve done every Tuesday night for a year – and looked out the window to where a thin, smartly dressed mother sat with her two daughters – younger than mine, quieter than mine. They were dressed in starchy, floral dresses with oversized bows in brushed hair and miraculously, ate their frozen yogurt without missing their mouths so much as once. I used to want to dress my kids like that, I thought. Now, all I want to do is find something that’s clean.

That they were quieter children and neater eaters than mine wasn’t even a consideration, so far was it out of the realm of possibility. But it was the LISTENING that baffled me. Mom said “stop,” the kids stopped. Mom said, “throw the rest away,” and into the garbage can went a perfectly good scoop of pralines and cream. I pressed my face longingly against the window.

Driving home that night, with a set of sugared little people screaming at each other at such a decibel that even the roar of the wind through open windows couldn’t squelch it, I yelled, “Grace, if Noah’s bugging you, JUST IGNORE HIM! IT’S NOT LIKE YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO IT – YOU DO IT TO ME ALL THE TIME!!”

Noah bugs Grace, Grace screams in protest, I beg them to stop. Torment, scream, reprimand, repeat. I could posit here that something has to change. Certainly, my kids’ behavior does. But maybe something has to stay the same. I have to keep doing what I’m doing, AND expect different results – even if they never come. Matt and I set the standard for our children. We ask them to toe the line whether they want to, or are even capable of it. The sameness in our instruction is the parity to Noah’s repetitive behaviors. Regardless if he ever changes, our guidance mustn’t.

If you’re reading this closely, you realize that I’ve just said the crazy must continue. But show me a parent who isn’t just a little bit daft, and well … you’re reading this, aren’t you?

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, balance, Challenge, Change, Family, Parenting, siblings, Uncategorized

Minimum Distance

June 28, 2012 By 1 Comment

Motherhood is not for those of us with personal space issues. The moment those little sea monkeys start to grow behind your navel, you’ve got to make peace with the fact that your entire endocrine system exists for the benefit of another human being. They come out clawing for food from YOUR body, they are only comforted by the laying on of YOUR shoulder, they are possessed of scrupulous aim when it comes to projecting every possible bodily fluid onto YOU. They pull your clothes, they follow you into the bathroom, they trip you up. For the most part, children do not understand the concept of maintaining a minimum distance.

Now, as a physically affectionate person, I might be less bothered by this than most. Jesse sitting on my lap while he eats his dinner (because this is the only way I can seduce him into finishing what’s left on his plate); Grace playing with my hair as I read her a bedtime story; even the foot pressed into my side when Jesse scrambles into my bed like a puppy in the early morning hours and falls back to sleep – none of this annoys. I love the physical closeness of my children. I long for it. As they grow, I have become keenly aware of when it is absent.

The Bed Thief

The Bed Thief

Noah’s method of hugging is now tilting his head toward me and letting my arms surround him, or turning away from me, and backing in toward my trunk. These do not feel like real hugs. When I kiss him, he looks away. He does not touch me of his own accord. I must always initiate. Grace tears toward me at the end of the camp day to squeeze my middle and lift her face for a kiss. Noah strides by me, headed for the corner chair and his Nintendo DS. He always maintains a minimum distance from me – and from others. Unless he is torturing his siblings. He can sit on Jesse without batting an eye.

I’m aware that part of this could be that burgeoning distinction that all nearly-eight-year-old boys must make from their mothers. There is a part of him that has begun to recognize that holding my hand is no longer kosher. And then there is the part of him that simply shies from certain forms of physical touch because of his unique circuitry. He loves horseplay, for example – rough housing, being thrown in the air, banging into other kids on the trampoline. But the light touch of a kiss on the cheek, or gently holding his hand creeps him out. He’d much rather I squeeze the living daylights out of him, or mash my entire face against his (which I have done, in an attempt to steal a kiss from him). Not that he enjoys these at all – I believe he more “tolerates” them. But the harder the touch, the more he giggles. There is a direct relationship between pressure and pleasure for my boy. So, when I want nothing more than to physically connect with him at the end of the day, it’s usually a flying body-slam onto the couch, or a twirling bear hug that gives me just a few seconds longer in his arms. And it works out okay. Because the few seconds he tolerates are the few seconds I need.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, balance, Emotions, Family, Parenting, Relationships, siblings, Uncategorized Tagged With: ,

What He Does

June 21, 2012 By

Noah’s going to the 2012 London Olympics.  Not as a spectator.  Oh, no.  He tells us that he’s going as a competitor in swimming.  Which should be interesting, considering he’s only recently mastered swimming in the deep end of the pool.  And why shouldn’t he be competing?  We’ve told him that there’s nothing he can’t achieve if he sets his mind to it.  But setting his mind and simultaneously applying his body does not seem to be a concept he’s mastered.  Noah is extremely perseverant. But this dedication manifests only when Noah is already into something – when he’s so far invested that to turn back would invite ridicule, or equate to failure.

Trying to ply my children with engaging activities while buying myself a few hours of solace, I’ve laid out careful camp plans this summer.  This week was art camp.  Run by a talented local artist with a lovely studio, there were children ages 5 to 8 in the class.  He got to go with his sister.  It was only a few hours, and the class was small.  It seemed perfect.   Seemed.

After the first day, Noah announced that he hated art camp because it was too difficult, and it required work. It was something he hadn’t mastered, and couldn’t pretend that he had.  He didn’t want to go back and try again when the shading or shape wasn’t quite right.  He was ready to quit after one day.  Well, we’re not quitters.

Plus, I’ve already paid for the whole week.

What Noah does is jump to the most extreme conclusion, the highest pinnacle of achievement related to the belief that he can – as we’ve told him – achieve anything he sets his mind to.  This means winning Olympic gold, writing a New York Times bestseller, or painting the next “Starry Night.”  Instantly. He will tell you he can do it all. And if he tries it without instant success, he automatically “hates it.”  Noah expects to be prodigious at everything he attempts, not understanding that even Mozart spent a few hours in practice on the harpsichord.

He hasn’t figured out that setting your mind to something also means setting your body in motion to achieve it.

I think Noah has the hard part down.  I’m excellent at brute achievement , the doing of things, the slaving away.  But the belief that I might be able to achieve something?  I’m often surprised when I meet a goal.  For me, the mental part is the biggest challenge.  I am sometimes hindered from achieving what I want because I get hung up in the “am I good enough?” minutiae and it frequently slows my stride.

We told Noah that art was a challenge, but a beautiful exercise in dedication.  We told him it would take practice, and that it would get better with every minute spent in his sketchbook.  We were right.  Not prone to emotions of extremes or anything (ahem), he told me today he LOVED art camp. Why?  Because the drawing of an egg that he’d been working to shade for 3 days finally, with hard work, came out just the way he’d already planned.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, balance, Challenge, Emotions, Expectations, summer, Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,

Whoa

May 10, 2012 By 1 Comment

Stuart (aka “Caspian”) in a rare moment of quietude.

I never struggle in trying to find a topic on which to write. The topic always finds me – sometimes quietly like a reverie, sometimes ungraciously as a brass band. Today, it was more the latter than the former.

I was at the barn today, riding my new gelding, Stuart. For those of you who know me, you know there’s little else I love in this world more than horses (save for the obvious husband, children, etc. etc.). I was a desperately horse-crazy child. I collected model horses, read books on horses, drew horses, dreamed of horses. All I was missing was the headgear and the Kirk Cameron poster. I never owned a horse or truly got a chance to ride until I was a grown up and my time was “my own.” (Notice the use of quotation marks here. With children, I lost most of whatever “my time” was actually left.) I’ve been at it about eleven years, with breaks for children and illnesses and travel in between. I’ve had a few successes in the show ring, but nothing noteworthy enough to mention. Lately, I’m thinking this might be the result of how hard I’ve been working. Which is very, very hard.

I am one of the hardest working, most doggedly determined woman you’re ever going to meet. My vices are many, but sloth is not among them. If I set out to fold laundry on Monday, at 11:59 pm on Monday night, I’ll be folding the fourteen hundredth sock pair, but by George, I’ll have gotten it all done. My life before the bar exam became forcibly monastic: I stuck to a rigorous eight hour a day study routine for six weeks before the big test. I took 22 credits a semester in college to get out with one (and nearly two) B.S. and two minors in three years. I’m fairly awesome at self-flagellation. Doesn’t stand to reason that I would have had such a horrific riding lesson today then, does it? Unless I’m actually working TOO hard.

I came in with my guard up today – my horse had had 5 days off. This is a potential nightmare for the new owner of a young Thoroughbred. I needed to prove to him I was still in control. But the harder I worked on perfect form, the more I tried to do his job for him, the more aggressive I was, the more agitated Stuart became until everything fell apart. We had some very ugly near-misses over a few fences. I imagine my guardian angel is having a cocktail somewhere to unwind. If I had just loosened up – it’s ONLY RIDING! – things might have turned around. I just need to work a little less, trust a little more, and open my hand.

I am exactly this way with Noah, as with all things in my life that I love. The more I love something, the more likely I am to suffocate it with a death grip. I am excellent at the striving part. I am quite weak at the letting go part. I will task Noah to death, correct mannerisms and social gaffs, double-check his tutoring work and strive to interrupt his compulsions. What I think I might need to do is lighten up a little. We have Noah’s diagnosis about as in-control as we can get it. We’ve wasted no time with doctors and therapists. We’ve had a plan from the outset, and stuck to it. Unfortunately, that plan doesn’t leave as much room as I’d like for the simple joy of simply being.

So I’m done working for the night. Noah is downstairs rifling the cupboards for a snack to feed his wiry frame. I’ve put his siblings to bed and daddy is traveling again, so it’s just us on the couch in a few minutes, watching whatever episode of MAD on TiVO that will set him to fits of hysterical laughter. And though it’s past his bedtime, I’m going to sit quietly with him on the couch with his feet in my lap, because I am – as he is – learning the art of the Whoa.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Anxiety, Asperger, balance, Challenge, Family, Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,
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