Thank You, P

I have learned so much about neurodivergent people since meeting P. She has made me more compassionate and patient(ish).

One thing we had to work through as a family is her need to play alone. We all had to learn that she's not being rude. P told me once that sometimes when someone asks her to play, her "body vibrates" and she knows playing with them is going to be hard right then. But pleasing people is very important to her, so it's a stressful scenario for her.

So she made a play schedule. Something so simple and yet so huge for her. Her body doesn't vibrate if she knows in advance what to expect. And it has really helped C as well. She doesn't get her feelings hurt anymore because she knows which days P is going to play with her. She doesn't ask on the other days. She plays with J instead. 

Then yesterday I listened ot a We Can Do Hard Things interview with Hannah Gadsby. The episode is titled "Hannah Gadsby: How to Communicate Better," and I highly recommend it. They have SO MUCH in common with P (so of course I also ordered their book Ten Steps to Nanette). During the episonde, they talked about how we often try to teach neurodivergent people to mimic or adapt to neurotypical behaviors, but we never ask neurotypical individuals to adapt or mimic the neurodivergent. Wow! What a statement. They even talked specifically about parallel play. 

Last night P and I talked about parallel play and what that might look like in our family, and she added a star to her play calendar. Saturday and Sunday are her play alone days, but from now on, on Sunday, P is going to teach us a lesson on playing alone and we're all going to practice parallel play. We will each play or read or do our own thing. Together. In one room. But remaining separate.

C: I already know how to play alone. It's just boring. 

P: Then maybe I can help you do it better so it's not boring. 

I am so proud of her and, truth be told, of me as well. What a fun learning journey we are on together. I am so glad she is being patient with me along the way. 

Just Keep Writing

The introduction to today's writing instruction made me laugh out loud:

"Is there anything that makes you feel paralyzed or blocked, like you can do nothing but procrastinate when you think about it? 

Uhhhhhhhh...

Yah...

Writing!

Ha. Here is another excerpt from the lesson. "I will take a moment to acknowledge them and then decide to go on anyway, with hope that things might just turn out better than I expect. Today, write about possible ways that you can get around them, get by them, go through them." 

Pick up your pen and write. That's how you get through it.

That's what I tell students. We even chant three rules:

1. Pick up your pen or pencil and write.
2. It can be crappy.
3. Just keep writing.

I've never been a lead by example kind of gal. 

Come on, Piper.

Just keep writing.

I'm Angry

"Today you are allowed to attend to something that makes you angry, and you are allowed to write about it without censoring yourself."

I am angry. So fucking angry. Not at this book. This book is quite good (more on that later). I'm angry at the state of our world. Where we are and what we've become. I'm just so angry. 

I'm angry that my daughters and my nieces have fewer rights than I did during my reproductive years and than my mother did during her whole fucking lifetime. I'm angry at how we got here, and I'm angry because everyone else isn't angry. 

I'm angry that I have five boxes of Plan B in my closet. And I'm angry that most days I'm tempted to order more. While I still can. I'm angry that that's the world we live in. I'm angry that one of my girls may need healthcare that will be denied to her by men who know nothing of her or her life or her internal organs. 

I'm angry that I live in a state of fear that someone I love may choose to have sex (how dare she), or worse yet not choose, and those tiny pills may have to be her safety net. I'm angry because she shouldn't have to have a safety net hidden in a closet. 

On My Mind

Today's writing instruction is to attend to a bigger grief than those we've been writing about. Pfff. Time to get heavy? Maybe. 

"Today, let's just look at this sorrow on the surface. Let's observe and see its shape. See how it may have stretched, from being ignored. See its need to be seen." 

That's an easy one. What's been weighing heavy on my mind recently is my son. Not the man himself. He's great. 

My relationship with him has been on my mind lately. 

On the surface, we have a wonderful relationship. We love each other, and that is not nothing. 

But for a long time I've been thinking about how I wish we talked more. Really talked. Two adults truly talking. Not a mother and child. Just two humans. I'm a terrible communicator. So first and foremost, I have not held up my side of this exchange. But second, and more importantly, I never taught him this skill (because I suck at it). 

I see so many others whose children are their best friends, and it makes me think about the two of us. Again...I repeat...mostly for my own benefit: We love one another dearly. But I would not say we are friends. 

When he was growing up, I didn't want to be his friend. I never wanted to be that parent. And I still don't long for that best friend vibe. He's not my best friend, and I have no desire to be his. But I would like to be friends. Friends who talk more freely than the two of us do. 

So...

I asked him if I can call him once a week, just to talk. To talk about our weeks and to ask him one question each week. And he agreed. He chose Wednesdays at noon for our call. 

So yesterday, I called. He didn't answer. Ha! We're off to a great start. 

I read this line in an online article about talking to adult children. I told you it's been on my mind a lot lately.

"Even if you work on not parenting when you talk to your kids, because of the roles you’ve always played in each other’s lives, they can often hear what you say through the paradigm of parenting. Your observations and questions may sound like criticism to their ears, and your suggestions may sound like you don’t have confidence in their ability to run their own lives."

And then the author said that the key to success is conversations with adult children is simply this:

Listen More, Talk Less

You can't say the wrong thing if you're listening. #GOALS

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"When you're done, list three good things that are close to you right now." 

My book (The Turnaway Study - So Good!), a mini chocolate cheesecake from GiGi's (also So Good!), and my cup (I do love cups)

Attending

Today's writing instruction is to write about something you need to attend to.

"Is something calling you to sit beside it with mercy?"

What a beautiful way to phrase what we want to accomplish in writing about something heavy.

And then the instructor added, "And start with the words 'I am creative and brave and funny and wise.'"

I love the juxtaposition of this. If you are going to write about something weighing heavy on your soul, why not start with "I am creative and brave and funny and wise"? Pat yourself on the back before you tear yourself down. It's the kind thing to do. 

When I used the word today above, I was referring to Monday, February 10. 

It is no longer Monday, February 10. 

Today is Friday, February 14. I sat with those instructions and thought about those instructions and wrote nothing for four days. I knew exactly what I needed to write about and still I wrote nothing for four days. Because sometimes that's how writing works. 

Then today (there's that word again), I participated in a workshop where I was given 15 minutes and this prompt:

Write about mothers (or mother figures) as both the best and worst thing ever.

And here is what I wrote:

What a timely prompt. I've been writing about motherhood a lot lately. I've written extensively for my son about how I know I wasn't a great mother to him and I'm sorry. It may be cliche, but there's truth in the simple sentiment I did my best. 

I did. 

And my best wasn't great. 

When A1 left the way he did, I was devastated. It proved I was a terrible mom. Again. Two for two. Two days later, my brother sat in my kitchen as I cried, and he said something that has stuck with me ever since. It brings me solace to this day. And it started with, "You did your best." 

He said, "You did your best. You gave all you had. If you give someone your last twenty dollars, it isn't your fault that they needed twenty-five. You have to let that shit go." 

When A2 left the way he did, under circumstances uncannily similar to A1's, I handled it better. I HAD done my best. I HAD made a difference in his life. I gave him my twenty dollars and that has to be enough. 

I understand now that turning 18 in foster care can fuck with a kid's head. And that is what they are. 18 year-old kids. It doesn't matter how many times I tell them they have a home. It doesn't matter how many times I tell them they have a family. It simply doesn't matter. In that moment, their reality is that they are an adult in the sea of foster care, and they are desperate to swim. They're not angry at me. It has nothing to do with me. They don't want to drown. 

All I can do is hope that someday they come to understand, as A1 did, that I will be their shore. I'll be here. No matter the splash you made swimming away, the shore is still there.  

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Talk about sitting beside something with mercy. That's more mercy than I've shown myself since he left. 

I am creative and brave and funny and wise, and I understood the assignment.

Books, Books, and More Books

 Books that have stuck with me for very different reasons: 

• A Prayer for Owen Meany
• Poisonwood Bible
• Tale of Two Cities
• Jurassic Park
• The Glass Castle
• The Last Lecture
• The Shining
• In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash
• On Writing
• Tuesdays with Morrie
• Riding the Bus with My Sister
• A Thousand Splendid Suns
• And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer
• The Reason I Jump
• The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland
• In Love: A Memoir of Love and Loss
• The House that Love Built
• When Women were Dragons
• Dear Ijeawele: Or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions
• The Death of Innocents: An Eyewitness Account of the Death Penalty that Sparked a National Debate