When Rain Hurts by Mary Evelyn Greene

August 9, 2010

August 9, 2010


Peter is 9! (Aug. 4, 2010)

August 9, 2010.  Peter’s birthday began as usual, and as predicted, without the difficulties experienced in previous years.  Sophie bounced into our room at 6:15 on the dot, rousing us into instant wakefulness despite having crawled into bed only a few hours earlier.  Pat and I had brought the cake, candles, lighter, hat, glasses and candles upstairs when we dragged ourselves, exhausted, away from the kitchen table where the Due Process Hearing materials were piled in mounds of semi-organized chaos.  For this forethought, I was extremely grateful.  The “shushes” and “you’re being too louds” eventually woke Peter, who tip-toed down the hall to catch a peek.  We immediately shooed him away and back into his bedroom.  At approximately 6:18, the five of us (I’m including our dogs Pippin and Scout) entered Peter’s room to the tune of Happy Birthday to You.  Our son’s new chapter as a 9-year old boy began with him sitting straight up in bed, clapping his hands with excitement, smiling ear to ear, and surrounded by the people (and some of the pets) who love him most.  By 7:06 he was waving goodbye as he marched up the stairs of his school bus, cupcakes in tow and his backpack stuffed with new presents.  We don’t normally allow Peter to bring toys or personal belongings to school because they don’t make it home, but we made a birthday exception for two reasons.  First, he is in a small, highly structured program this summer for autistic children.  Based on the TEACCH methodology, the system allows his brain to work more optimally, which means his thoughts are clearer and he has greater capacity for self-regulation.  Because he’s thinking more clearly, he can handle more responsibility.  Why our school district will send him to this specialized program in the summer and not year round is literally beyond my comprehension.  The second reason we let him bring some presents to school that day had its genesis in guilt.  Peter usually plays hooky on his birthday and we spend the day together as a family.  But that wasn’t possible this year due to three straight days of hearing last week, the first of which commenced on his birthday.  He spent his entire day at school and then afterwards, at my neighbor’s, who I’m sure gave him plenty of love and attention and general birthday cheer.  The boy the school claims is afraid of his family wanted nothing more than to be together that night for dinner.  He didn’t want to go out, not even for ice cream.  All he wanted was a pancake dinner (Pat’s specialty) and time to play with and explore his birthday presents with Mom and Dad.  How far we’ve come, in myriad ways large and small.  Despite the victorious birthday, however, the hearing itself continues along its restive pace, blanketing our summer, our family’s very future, with a sense of foreboding that’s difficult to shake.  Emotions at the hearing are running so high.  It’s honestly hard for me to comprehend because Pat and I, and Peter and Sophie, are the only four people on the planet that have to live, for the rest of our lives, with the benefit or consequences of the outcome.  By late Friday afternoon I was so spent and emotionally drained that I could barely operate the car to drive home.  Though Saturday brought little relief in terms of physical recuperation, the day proved joyous and uplifting, a gift from the god of resilience.  Rising before 6 am, we were on the road within a half hour for a marathon of a swim meet in Rhinebeck.  Eight teams from the surrounding region, consisting of kids ranging in ages from 6 to 18, participated in this annual championship event involving a parade, costumes, body painting, raffles, and of course, lots of swimming.  The day was uncharacteristically pleasant for August and spirits ran high.  The little girls, including Sophie, whittled away the long periods of waiting by drawing on each other from head to toe with washable markers.  At some point I joined in, drawing colorful mosaic designs on their backs as they threw their heads back in laughter whenever I hit a ticklish spot.  Sophie swam her heart out, as did all the other kids, and when the Red Hook Sea Raiders were the declared champions 13 hours later, I cheered wildly alongside the other parents, Pat jabbing me playfully in the side the instant my jubilee turned a little weepy.  As for Peter, he spent most of the day playing with the brother of one of Sophie’s teammates.  These two boys have developed a friendship forged from the common boredom of having nothing to do while their sisters swam and I couldn’t be more delighted.  With frequent checks, Peter made it through the day playing on the adjacent playground and basketball court.  Although he didn’t manage to stay dry, he did manage the day, more or less, and for that I’m grateful and proud.  It was a long, loud and rowdy event, not the usual type of venue to which we’d subject our sensitive son.  However, as is typically the case, the four of us paid the price the next day.  For some reason, Peter more often than not is able to hold himself together during an over-stimulating experience but then falls apart, often miserably, when the fanfare dies down.  Yesterday was no exception.  He tantrumed over using the bathroom, brushing his teeth, the way the couch felt and the sound our injured Jack Russell made as she wobbled pitifully about with her lampshade dragging across the wood floors.  Pat and I tried are best to stay calm, and we did, but we also know from our many years of parenting our son that the behavior cannot be indulged.  For this reason, I’m now trying to cultivate an air of firm compassion.  Yesterday I wanted him to know I understood how difficult the swim meet was for him, just as I want him to learn to make the connection himself, but he also needs to clearly realize that his responses are not acceptable.  When I kissed him goodnight, his demons finally satiated, he handed me a note that read, “Sory Momy.  I love you.”  Just like on Saturday when the championship team was announced, the tears of love, pride, and happiness flowed again, but this time, Pat wasn’t there to jab me.  Though if he had been, I’m pretty sure he would have been crying too.  Happy Birthday, beautiful boy.

Sophie & her 8 and under teammates (Aug. 7, 2010 - Go Sea Raiders!!)

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2 Comments »

  1. Mary,
    I find I look forward to your posts and am so pleased when I am notified. I have a thought for you. The simplest explanation for why Peter “falls apart” at home the day after an less-structured day may be this. During the less structured days he is out in public and works hard to hold himself together. On the day after he is home, he knows he is safe, and he knows he will held together by his parents. I taught a boy with significant learning disabilities who behaved in a parallel fashion. He had been a few years in a school for kids with learning disabilities and was now in a traditional private school. At school he looke focused and calm, was very attentive and did quite well – both in academics and in social situations in hall way, lunch, etc. His parents reported that at home he would sometimes actually shake, that he could not sit still, and was just all over the place (though somehow through all this he always got his homework done.) I explained to them that for this boy, Eddie, it took so much effort to behave and focus the way he was a school that he just was exhausted at home – and knew home was safe place where he could let down. Could this explain Peter’s “scattered” day after a day of holding it together?

    Chris

    Comment by Christopher Duncan — August 9, 2010 @ 2:23 pm | Reply

    • Thanks, as always, for your thoughtful and encouraging responses, Chris. And yes, I do believe you are correct. Similar to Peter, I tend to get migraines once I let my stress go – for me, its often on the wknds. My internist explained that its quite common and I’m sure Peter deals with the same things in terms of his behaviors. I have often tried to explain this to the school, in fact, but they apparently cannot fathom the idea that he holds himself together all day in school (or just shuts down altogether) and then blows up when he gets home because he feels he has a safe outlet. They blame us and say we (particularly me) are bad parents. Ugh. I’m glad you understand – I’m also glad you were able to help that other family rather than point a finger at them. I’m sure it was a great relief to them to have some support from a professional educator. Thank you so much. Mary

      Comment by whenrainhurts — August 9, 2010 @ 2:30 pm | Reply


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