It's like when you get constipated. You have the urge, but can't do the purge. The problem is not that I don't have ideas. I am so clogged up with ideas that one can't make it through the pipeline. I can't seems to narrow my focus or lessen my stress enough to actually get something of *import down on paper. I read others' blog posts and think, "I could have written that! I had that thought, I just didn't take it to fruition.
I think I need my Eighth grade english teacher. She is the one who taught me to write. She gave me permission to develop my voice; I believed that what I had to say was important, and it was. Of course, later that year, she leaned over me, took a big sniff, smelled the acrid second-hand smoke that I was marinated in from my mother smoking in the house and said, with disdain: "Do you smoke?" She was loud enough for some of my classmates to hear, and they snickered. Yes, she wasn't named Mrs. Dick for nothing. True story. But the damage was done; I believed I could write. It was in my blood.
My daughter is also a writer, and a more prolific one than I was at her age. I would write what I called "story starters," pen several tens of pages of my "novel", then either get stuck or bored and intend to go back and add to it. Sometimes I actually did. My daughter, on the other hand, has done a program for writers called, NoNoWriMo, which is simply National Novel Writing Month. In one month, she has written 50,000 words. And not only has she done this once, but twice. I could only hope to have that kind of commitment.
Why is it that when you are young, with nary a story to tell, the pen flows freely, almost on it's own, but once older and with more experience, it is much harder to find the time to tell the story? I consider this God's cosmic joke. I know I have a story to tell. I just can't FIND it.
Last week, I said goodbye to a dear friend, Gregg Gallagher. He was a sweet man with a quick wit and an easy smile. He put the "social" in my "social media." He was the first person I met on twitter, and one of the first people I met in person from "the Cloud." (Not everyone is an ax murderer or an imaginary unicorn!) I attended a few meet-ups that he attended as well. Gregg was a connector. He enjoyed his friends, and he enjoyed creating circles of friends around him. He hosted potlucks, and Rock Band sessions...epic Rock Band sessions. We laughed, and ate and drank...and it was good. Because of him, I have a wonderful circle of friends. That's who Gregg was.
Before Christmas, he was diagnosed with cancer. He fought, and it looked like he was winning. But it continued to progress, quickly. A few months ago, we got together for a Rock Band party that none of us knew was going to be our last. Soon after, he was in the hospital. We visited him. He never went home again. He was transferred to a rehab facility, and though JNerd and I were able to visit him a few times there, he finally went to hospice in his son's home. I had hoped to visit him there, but he died soon afterwards. I regret that I didn't get to spend time with him there...it all happened so fast!
He was a champion of social media, and few know that he was instrumental in bringing the internet to AT&T in the beginning. World Net was his baby, along with his team. His team won an award that sits in the Smithsonian because of it. He was the one who turned me on to the iPad. I was the one who talked him into getting his greyhound, Ares. "You need a dog, Gregg," I said.
Gregg's hobby was photography. I loved the way he saw the world. He helped me with my camera, and got me excited about taking pictures. Just after he died, I saw this picture again. The finality in it made me ache.
photo by Gregg Gallagher The copy from the above photo is: "You may have gone back to school, but you'll be missing me come Spring Break."
You don't know how right you were, Gregg. Last Saturday dawned warm and sunny. The perfect California day. We boarded a boat with some of Gregg's closest friends, who, because of Gregg, became our friends as well, and we laid him to rest. Afterwards, we had a luncheon at the Bluewater Grill, complete with a Guinness and some calamari for Gregg.
On Tuesday, Christchurch, New Zealand, one of the five largest cities in the country, was rocked by a 6.3 earthquake that caused buildings to collapse, leaving hundreds trapped and sixty-five dead, as of last count. Several aftershocks have left more damage in their wake, and the people of Christchurch sit on pins and needles waiting for what’s to come.
Last September, a series of earthquakes tore through Christchurch, weakening buildings, but little else. This time, the damage is far and widespread. Buildings that have been standing for hundreds of years have crumbled under the weight of this quake. Large cracks in the roads have appeared. California? This? Could be US.
I know, not my usual upbeat, humorous piece. But you see, I was just in Christchurch, last year. I fell in love with the historic old city, and I am so saddened to see what has happened there. And what do politically conscious, social media types do when we feel like we can’t do anything? We write. We publicize. So.
If you feel that you might want to help, you can give to the
Today's post was written by my 16 year old daughter. Please read it, I think she has something important to say. xoxo T.
Tyler Clementi.
Asher Brown.
Seth Walsh.
Justin Aaberg.
Raymond Chase.
William (Billy) Lucas.
You might not have heard these names.
These are all boys who committed suicide in the last few months after being bullied due to their sexual orientation. Who knows what they felt? Alone, ostracized? Like life wasn't worth living. Like they didn't matter? Their acts of desperation could have gone unnoticed. Thing is, we saw. The internet saw. First one, then another, then hundreds, then thousands of people took a stand. In their own way, everyone said that these boys…and so many like them…matter.
Then, the internet spoke. (Well, it didn't really. It's inanimate. Go with me here, I'm making a point.)
It started with an idea.
Social media spread the idea to quite literally thousands of people.
The idea was simple: wear purple (the color of spirit on the LGBTQ flag) on October 20, 2010 in memory of those boys, and for all the other kids out there who may feel the same way.
So today, I wore purple. To my surprise, there were other kids in my (conservative Christian) class who wore purple. Not to mention the thousands of people all around the world. Teachers, parents, talk show hosts. We took a stand against bullying, against the idea that what happened to these boys was okay.
Bullying is common now. Before, insults were thrown in front of a class, maybe twenty people. Now, cyber bullying is the norm. Hateful anonymous comments, bringing down the person in front of everyone on the internet...whole schools. But kids will be kids, right? They need to suck it up. Learn to ignore it. A common answer to the problem, and not a solution.
But you know what?
I think it's going to be my generation that changes it. We know social media. Some of us communicate mostly through email, facebook and texting. We get how to make a difference. And we do. My generation will be the one that steps up and says it isn't okay.
It isn't okay to make fun of someone. To discriminate based on age, or race, or sexual orientation or disability or intelligence or
anything else.
It isn't okay to have an Us vs. Them mentality.
It isn't okay to talk about how loving God is and then hate anyone who is different.
It isn't okay.
And when that happens, when we step up…it will change.
In 1983, D.A.R.E (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) was founded. It has changed lives. Imagine what it could be like if there was a similar approach to bullying. In one generation, D.A.R.E made drugs uncool. Nearly every school age kid knows what the red ribbon means. If something similar could be accomplished for bullying...imagine what could happen.
Hate is learned and we need to lead by example. The things we learn in kindergarten can affect the rest of our lives. If we start from the bottom and work up, we can change hearts. If we could show from the beginning that bullying isn't okay...just imagine it.
If we change the mindset behind bullying, imagine how drastically different our world might be.
It's going to start with us.
Now, don't just imagine it. Let's make it a reality.
Pets are weird. Not as weird as kids, but weird enough. I know so many people who don't want to bother with animals, because they are a pain in the butt. And yes, they are. But honestly? They bring such joy to our lives. No one loves you like your dog. Ever. And cats? Are like little codependent vampires who sort of love you. When they want to.
The beautiful thing about pets? They seem to understand instinctively about kids with autism. We have a cat who is a bit standoffish with everyone else. Except for my son. I would say she is mostly his cat. She sleeps in his bed, and helps him to calm down. She tolerates him better than she does anyone else.
And this weekend, I found out just how wonderful our Newf is. I have plans to make her a therapy dog at some point. She proved she just might be up to that task. JBean was throwing a tantrum (yes, again) and sitting on the floor. The dog was lying across the room. She army crawled to her until her nose was just inches from JBean's feet. Then she just waited quietly for JBean to come to her. And they laid on the floor together, kid and dog, just...being. Yes, she calmed down. It was good.
SO MANY have asked how to help Leah and Bob, and this is the first thing we can do:
We can give. I know, I know..the economy. But. Every little bit helps. Can you find any amount? Not going to insult your intelligence to tell you to give up your Starbucks or any other thing. You know what you can afford. Do what you can.
Childhood friends of Leah's aka califmom, have started a fund to help the family with the expenses that come with Bob's illness. Insurance doesn't cover it all, and added expense of eating food out, keeping kids occupied... well it all adds up. So. Here is what we can do (posted from Michelle's facebook account):
Bank of America, Nevada Account Name: Norling Family
Account #: 501008379041
If you're making a deposit in person, you must have the account number. BofA can not look it up for you, even if you have the account name.
If you would like to handle your donation by mail, please make your check payable to the Norling Family. Remember to write the account number in the memo portion and mail it to:
Michelle Wolfkiel P.O. Box 193 Minden, NV 89423
She plans to make deposits on Fridays and balance updates will be available on Michelle's facebook account.
From Michelle:
Not going to worry about thank you's right now, but we will make every effort to keep track of everyone's name. Thank you all in advance for your love, prayers, and generous support of Leah, Bob, and their children.
As we celebrate Christ's ultimate sacrifice this Easter weekend, I ask you all to please give until it hurts.
Please feel free to repost this information wherever you think it might do the most good.
You should also know this is a non-interest bearing, free checking account and EVERY penny will be available to Leah's family when they need it.
I have a friend. Someone I really care about, I have known for a few years now. She's fierce and funny, and sarcastic, and someone I really enjoy spending time with. She doesn't live close, but she's in the same state. We try to get together when one of us in town, it averages out to about once a year, not including BlogHer. We usually hang out at BlogHer all weekend.
I don't usually write posts about other people. I worry about privacy issues. But in this case, I am going to make an exception. Because this person, who I love, her husband is very sick with cancer. And in the next couple of weeks, he is getting ready to undergo a stem cell transplant. Because he is very ill with cancer. And if this doesn't work...there's a very real possibility that nothing will.
So, here is what I want from you. Because, yes, I really want something from you. Ok, two things. The first:
RIGHT now, stop, and pray, send good wishes, whatever it is that you do to whomever it is that you talk to/worship/believe in. If you don't believe in anything, then believe in THEM, dammit. Send good ju-ju.
Secondly, please go and comment upon her post, just to encourage her. She is feeling pretty down, and since I can't do anything from here, I can at least mobilize the troops of social media. Don't think, "Oh no, I don't get involved..." WHAT'S the point of this exercise, this spewing our guts out to the world at large if we DON'T get involved? So. Just Do It.
Then, go hug your loved ones, enjoy every minute you have. Because you just never know.
I have a confession. I am raising a fashion plate. I am not sure how it happened, I am a feminist. I mean, sure I shave my armpits, and tend the garden, and I looove sexy heels, there's that. But there is more to life than clothes. I fought this, tried to get her interested in other things. But, alas.
JBean is eight now. She has finally mastered the task of getting dressed on her own, and she has very obvious preferences about her clothes. It is a given she will grouse (read: throw a fit or just whine a lot) even if she chose it herself the night before. I have learned to pad the schedule and take valiumdrink be patient with her foibles. It is a given she will protest whatever she is first wearing the way that Christian from Project Runway will use "fierce" in at least one sentence of an interview.
She doesn't dress like girls her age (thank God for that…have you seen some of the clothes in the stores?) Many of them look styled for harlots-in-training. Once my oldest daughter asked who buys the clothes they sell in stores and I told her, "Blind people who hate you and Christian, from Project Runway." (and I win, that's two references to Christian in one post. Wonder what the prize for that is? And no, he is not a blog sponsor at all).
JBean's favorite outfits these days are little plaid skirts and matching tops in various colors, and she still loves her beloved Hannas, though it is time to replenish. She is very particular about what she will wear. It all has to match, along with accessories: a jeweled headband, pink and purple shell bracelet, rock star sunglasses. She cracks me up. Maybe she is an aspiring model. (did I mention her favorite food is salad? Can't be too many years before the cigarettes and booze show up, right?) Would you believe she was thinking she was fat? Where would she even get that idea?? Hmm, I wonder...
I hate the pressures on little girls these days. They are bombarded with crap marketing constantly, telling them who they are. Teaching them values that just might stay with them forever. It is important to be comfortable with who you are, and at 8, you are just learning who that is. She has a lot of growing to do, and who knows who she will be. In the meantime, I am making sure she learns to eat, feels good about herself and knows she is loved for who she is, not what she does or how she looks.
I asked her recently why she is so certain in how she dresses. Do other little girls dress like she does? She said, "No, it's just cute." Well, I wanted to know, did you learn it from the Disney Channel? She laughed at me, "No, mama. It's just cute." Well, what makes it cute? "I do, mama. I make it cute. I dress the way I want to, for me."
I think I may be doing something right.
T, who thinks she can be a model and a physicist, right?
I hate change. I mean, I really hate it. I don't get dragged in kicking and screaming, but I get a white-hot ball of crap in my stomach and feel like I am going to throw up and like someone kicked my puppy. Which by the way is a really crappy thing to do, and whomever is responsible should feel really ashamed!
I like the same stuff. At least, until I like the new stuff. I bought a wallet to replace the one I loved that just fell apart. I couldn't find the same, so I bought one markedly different, different style, shape, color, all of it. In a moment of abandon, I tossed reason to the winds and bought a hot pink and turquoise Liz Claiborne wallet to replace the black leather one I had before. And at first, I hated it. Really. It sucked. I couldn't find anything, it was bulky, hard to open. Now? I know where everything is, each item has it's place. I'm used to it. I love it, and worry what I will do when it gives up the ghost. There is a lesson in there, somewhere. Damned if I can find it over all my worrying.
I try to be open-minded about change, but it rarely works. I can try to convince myself maybe it won't be so bad. I might grow to like it. And then? I stress. I like things the way they are, and I hate getting used to new stuff. Sue me. I don't consider myself meticulous (not like my daughters, that's for sure) but I don't like upheaval much. I know there are those out there who like the variety, it's the spice of life. I like spices, I suppose, but, I prefer salsa, thank you. From a jar, in the fridge. Some things are meant to be predictable.
II am a trooper, I have been told. On the outside, I handle change pretty well, at least at first. But when a bunch of little changes all conspire? It makes me grumpy. Not just a little bit, either. But you won't see it...I hide it really well. But, if it ain't broke, I say why fix it?
Our church (which has the coolest pastor and is all postmodern and stuff and I love it) is considering some major changes. With the youth department, and with the building we are currently in, as in, moving from the existing property and buying a new lot and rebuilding. (those are two different changes, by the way) I like things the way they were! And these changes give me a knot in my stomach. So much is left to the unknown. Will I like these changes? Will anyone? What if things really change for the worse? Isn't that where the anxiety comes from? It's scary!
Then, last night, twitter pulled the #fail of doing away with replies from friends of friends. To some, that was no big deal. To me, it was huge. Twitter claims only 2% used that feature, but we were a vocal 2% (and I really question those numbers) It cut my twitter stream noise by about three-quarters, and I am very sad to see all of them go. I feel like I lost friends. It is almost scary to me to see how much I cared about these changes! I am actually...depressed over it.
My M.O. is that when a bunch of things change, I get hyper-sensitive to other things changing. And it makes me want to crawl under a rock and just make it all go away. My anxiety gets harder to control, and I don't handle my childrens' anxiety (which is always present) well. PMS just makes it worse. Thankfully, I don't feel like this very often. I am never depressed, except during that special time of the month.
When I feel like this, I like to rely upon the things I can count on. And I am hard-pressed to find any in my current state of mind. While J was gone in Canada for a week, I barely slept. Pretty sure that and PMS aren't helping my mood any.
I don't like unpleasant surprises. When my daughter was a toddler, this was what? Over 13 years ago, she wanted a My Little Pony sticker. There it was, in the machine at Toys R' Us. She was so excited, and though I rarely allowed it, I let her put her money in that machine. Picture this sweet little toddler, eyes wide with anticipation, hand held out for the cherished mirrored Pony sticker to instead have a rubber roach slide out into her hand. Can you say shock and dismay? And do you remember who else is phobic of those things? Yep, that's me. My daughter never again wanted something out of those rip-off machines.
That is how I feel, when people mess with things I cannot control. I like to be in control and do a fine job of it in most areas of my life. There are things however I don't get a choice in, (I know, I can't believe it either!) But I guess I just want to know... why do things have to change when they were fine... before?? And whose to say that if we put our collective quarters into the Cosmic Gumball Machine, we won't get a nasty plastic bug?
Suppose that's the million dollar question, isn't it?
I looked at her, she looked at me. We eyed one another warily. I was completely new to this gig, she was fresh from the oven. I held her legs aloft, determined to pull this off. I was woman, surely I could accomplish this task; it wasn't too daunting for me. I grasped the edges and pulled. The side came loose with a loud ripping sound and I trembled. One more to go. I pulled firmly on the tapes, with newfound confidence. I had this! I pulled the diaper out from under her bottom,the cool Spring air hit her parts and she let out a wail. More like a car alarmFour alarm fire air raid siren. I promptly burst into tears, knees knocking and... peed myself. No, really, I did. I bet she doesn't even know that. well, now she does.
I was a new mama, straight out of the hospital, with a baby that I couldn't give back. She hadn't cried much in the hospital, I wasn't used to it, and the sound of her distress really set me on edge. Fatigued muscles that were never meant for passing a grapefruit had just had enough. Thankfully, I was wearing a huge postpartum pad, the kind they give you on the mother/baby floor attached to those sexy net underwear you know the ones, a cousin to support hose and the size of grandma's shower cap and that could probably absorb a small lake. (good thing!)
And that was my introduction, fifteen years ago, today, to motherhood. It got better.(spoken in my best Monty Python accent, of course)
Happy Birthday, baby girl. I am so very proud of you in so very many ways. and if I enumerate them here now you will be even more embarrassed, so I should probably quit while I'm ahead.(and not tell the story of how you projectile-pooped all over the nursery door in front of Daddy's coworkers at the very next diaper change...)
For the past week, I have been seeing and participating in the flurry of tweets surrounding the loss of Madeline Spohr. I have been heartened to see what twitter is capable of, as thousands rally behind the family. This is my contribution.
I held her, the tiny thing, she was 3 lbs. 14 oz. Born premature, 31.4 weeks. I was fortunate, she was born on the cusp of 32 weeks, the time when doctors agree many of the problems with prematurity are minimized. I held my tiny newborn, and sobbed.
She was in the hospital for 30 days, during which time I lived at the Ronald McDonald House. Though I was only twenty minutes away from home, I needed to be close to her. My husband brought the kids to the RM House and that was how we lived for a month.
When I brought JBug home, she was still so small. She wasn't even five pounds yet. And I was scared. The thing I was most afraid of, after dire warnings from the neonatologist? RSV. Respiratory Syncyhtial Virus is extremely contagious, and most babies get it before they turn two. In adults, it isn't anything to be concerned about, it causes a cold. In infants, especially infants with a compromised immune system, it can be deadly. I took it to heart.
For the entire season, (we brought her home in September) I didn't go anywhere with my daughter. I stayed home until May, when the RSV season was deemed over. JBug also got monthly RSV vaccines, immunoglobin her body needed to try and stay strong and fight off the disease. Synagis is expensive, but it is covered by most insurances if your baby is at risk.
Risk factors include:
prematurity
lung problems
heart problems
low birth weight
daycare
family history of asthma
older siblings
smoking around baby
I remember the fear I felt, every time one of my children coughed. We used hand sanitizer by the truckload. But JBug didn't get RSV, and we breathed a sigh of relief. The next year, I called about getting the shot again, and all doors were closed. She was too old at that point, no longer a risk. And we were again lucky.
I know the fear I felt during those months. But it is nothing compared to Heather's fear. And she wasn't so lucky. Her sweet Maddie died last week. Mama did everything right. Maddie was past the "age of danger."
Life isn't fair. My chest still tightens at the thought of those days, and the fear that took over my life. My heart goes out to Heather and Mike Spohr. And I hope yours does, too. They could use some help with expenses. A Paypal account has been set up for them. Please donate whatever you can.
Thanks tons. Let's put social media to work for good.
I used to be a writer. Really, I did. I came here every day and wrote something, and edited it, and hit publish. I would see it there in print and I was a writer. But lately, besides being busy (because isn't that always a great excuse) I have sort of been avoiding the writing. I know, you want to know why. Here's the bottom line:
I think too much.
No really, I do. I don't do feelings. Sure, I feel a smidgen of frustration, or joy, but I go past the negative emotions, preferring to dissect them in my head. I write about them, process them and whittle them down to the size of an ant. Then I stomp on them. But they get killed before I ever feel them. That used to work, but now I am more aware that I have those feelings, and well, they have to go somewhere. Where they go is anxiety and irritability, and I am tired of feeling tired.
So I have been writing less, and making myself feel the emotions instead of analyzing them, by writing about them. I know it sounds crazy, but it really makes a difference for me. I don't say, "What do I think about that?" any longer. Now I ask myself, "How do I feel about that?"
Thinking and analyzing emotions aren't the same as actually feeling them. And they bottle up, coming out sideways. It makes me a terrible mother, because the only way to deal with the stress I am under every single day is to numb out. And it took me a long time to realize I do that...because I DO feel something. But mostly, I feel anger. And for the most part, that anger is unexpressed. And I have realized that the knot in my stomach, my shoulders and my neck is just repressed feelings: powerlessness, disappointment, fear. And, because those aren't powerful emotions, I let the anger coat it like armor. It feels safer.
Sarcasm is an ego defense. It is a way to deny what is going on around you. Keep it at arms' length. Makes it safe. And Wit is just Sarcasm with a college degree.
Let's get this straight. I am absolutely not quitting. I am still writing, still blogging, still around. I am just around...less. As I journey through this new territory, I just have less energy to create. But I fully expect that once I have come far enough, it can only improve my writing. So I will be posting, just not every day. Know I still love you all, and still read your blogs. I just don't have the time to comment as much as I did before.
In the mean time, I recommend the new Wally Lamb book, In the Hour I First Believed. It is very good, as good as I Know This Much is True.
Let's talk about anxiety. I have dealt with it all my life. Anxiety is a bodily response to stress. Through self-talk (Cognitive Behavior Therapy) I have learned to talk myself down from catastrophizing and have the anxiety at manageable levels, most of the time. I know that the fear in anxiety is pretty much a lie your brain tells to get you worked up. So I know how to deal with it. But, anxiety is systemic, and it gets passed around in a family system. It also runs in families. My oldest daughter suffers from anxiety much worse than I ever did.
Over the years, we have figured out some things that work for us, and believe me, we have been through a lot of trial and error in dealing with it. We have a great therapist, and that is always my first suggestion. An anxious child is very hard to treat on your own. Anxiety is sneaky. It might seem addressed, but it can crop up in other ways. It manifests sideways and can sometimes be difficult to trace.
One of the ways it shows up with my daughter is in novel situations. She has a negative first reaction to everything, it has become a joke in our family. I know she will react adversely to every new situation, that's just the way it is. And the few times it hasn't happened, I have been pleasantly surprised. Over the years we have found some things that work for us.
What We Do For Anxiety:
1. We create "signposts" to point to success. I set her up to succeed, by reminding her of times when things worked. This approach comes from the Hebrews, who set up little monuments whenever God did something of import, so they could remember. Her signposts are similar experiences that have worked out for her.
For instance, she had to wear a pair of gold sandals for a play she was involved in. She hated those sandals: hated how ornate they were, hated how they felt... by the time the play was over, she loved them. I also point out to how well she has done in past endeavors, like classes, youth group, and whatever else comes up. Reminding her of these are little celebrations that increase her confidence.
2. I require her to try everything for at least 3 weeks. Why? Because with a negative first reaction, she wants to quit as soon as she hits a snag. She is a perfectionist and is constantly worried that she won't be "good enough." Her new Biology class was a problem at first, as she was trying to figure out what would be required. At what point she said she would have to drop. I reminded her on the commitment to stay with it. Turned out, not only could she handle it, the class was enjoyable and fairly easy for her as well. I don't know what I would do if after 3 weeks she wanted to stop an activity, but it hasn't happened yet, so I haven't had to worry.
3. Deep breathing, relaxation techniques. When you grow anxious, your blood pressure rises. You begin to breathe shallowly. Your heart starts to pound, as your fight or flight reaction is triggered. Your body dumps adrenalin in preparation of a quick flight. The adrenalin high is short-lived, and as it fades, stomach upset, shakiness and headache can occur. Anxiety can be a nasty thing. If you can catch it before it balloons, often you can pull yourself back down before it causes major problems.
4. Self-talk is important. Many who suffer from anxiety "catastrophize" which means they imagine the absolute worst, without defining it or thinking it through. The way to deal with this is to hit it square on. WHAT will happen? And then what? And then? And then? You quickly find out that what you fear is not the end all and be all of life. In fact, in the scheme of things, it is probably pretty small.
Today my daughter was a few minutes late for class. She started to have a panic attack as she imagined getting a "demerit" which is the threat the program uses for discipline. After some deep breathing she was better, but She kept saying, "I am going to be late, I will get a demerit!" And I simply said: "Oh? What will happen then?" She said, "I don't know!" And I said, "Will they throw you out of the program for being 5 minutes late?" She thought for a moment: "No, probably not..." Right. She put it in perspective and was still upset, but it wasn't the end of the world.
5. She has some social phobia, and is a red-line introvert. She is learning to work around it, by having scripts for conversations. She still has a hard time approaching a group uninvited, even if she has known the kids involved for years. She is getting better. She doesn't like to look foolish, so she resists games.
She keeps a schedule, because she likes to know what is happening. This has gone a long way towards alleviating her anxiety. If she knows what is coming, she feels better.
Don't think that her similarities to my other children are lost upon me- they aren't. But the good news is, she has figured out for the most part, how to work around her fears. She still lets them hold her back some, but as she matures, it happens less and less. And, we recognize the triggers sooner, and she compensates quicker.
The bottom line? She will probably never be completely anxiety-free. I am not. I don't let my feelings take over, though. There is no reason to think she too won't learn to live with her fears in a way that is both healthy and allows her to grow as a person. Anxiety isn't a death sentence. It doesn't always require medication. Cognitive Behavior Therapy makes a huge difference in its management. Sometimes you can treat it yourself, but never be afraid to seek help. My daughter has an awesome psychologist, whom she loves. He has gone a long way in helping her grow and become more self-aware.
If you or someone you love deals with anxiety, don't make the mistake thinking it will go away. Deal with it, head on. You will be happier in the long run. Once social phobias are entrenched, the habits become harder to dislodge.
Lord knows, I do not go around collecting letters to put after my childrens' names. I don't have Munchausen Syndrome by proxy. And really? We have enough letters, such as: ASD, HFA, GAD, ADD,BPD,OCD, Dyslexia... See? But today, I recognized what JBean has been doing, and the "label" is scarier, really, than the reality. Still, it has to be addressed.
JBean is 7 years old. She has been diagnosed with "Autistic Disorder" but is very highly functioning. I believe her actual diagnosis would be Asperger Syndrome, like her brother. She is an infinitely-serious child. Most of the time, her voice is a sing-song almost-baby voice; this is true at home and outside the home as well. She is small for her age, with large, deep light green eyes and elfin features. I have been told she is adorable. She needs speech therapy, because her speech is difficult to understand. We tried regular therapy last year, but she really wouldn't interact with the therapist.
JBean, though she likes people, doesn't speak in public much. This is especially true if the situation is at all anxiety-producing for her, like a doctor or a teacher, or a new situation that she doesn't know. Up until now, I just figured she was slow-to-warm, like her older sister was at her age. She would grow out of it, like her sister. Turns out, maybe JBug also was dealing with the same issues, just not to the degree that JBean seems to show.
With a quiet, obedient child it is easy to overlook their silence. I am wondering if this is what is happening with her. At Sunday School, I suspect she is getting lost int he crowd. She doesn't go to public school, so this is not a stressor for her. She speaks a ton at home, and apparently this is normal: home is not a difficult place; it is mostly a safe place. She does tend to freeze up and become completely uncommunicative when she is upset or doesn't know what to do. This behavior extends to home as well. Frustration tantrums can result. I figured she just needed help with self-regulation, and that is part of it. But there seems to be more.
I sub to an Aspergers e-newsletter that isn't really very good, but once in a while has something that is informative. Today was that day. It was an article on Selective Mutism. Though not in-depth, it piqued my curiosity so I did some research.
Selective Mutism is a complex childhood anxiety disorder characterized by a child’s inability to speak and communicate effectively in select social settings, such as school. These children are able to speak and communicate in settings where they are comfortable, secure and relaxed.
More than 90% of children with Selective Mutism also have social phobia or social anxiety. This disorder is quite debilitating and painful to the child. Children and adolescents with Selective Mutism have an actual FEAR of speaking and of social interactions where there is an expectation to speak and communicate.
Many children with Selective Mutism have great difficulty responding or initiating communication in a nonverbal manner; therefore social engagement may be compromised in many children when confronted by others or in a setting that is overwhelming or they sense a feeling of expectation.
...Some children (20-30%) with Selective Mutism have subtle speech and/or language abnormalities such as receptive and/or expressive language abnormalities and language delays. Some may have subtle learning disabilities including auditory processing disorder. In most of these cases, the children have inhibited temperaments (prone to shyness and anxiety). The added stress of the speech/language disorder learning disability, or processing disorder may cause the child to feel that much more anxious and perhaps insecure or uncomfortable in situations where there is an expectation to speak.
And this definition is JBean to a T. Guess it is time to seek some therapy and get off my butt and coordinate speech help as well.
:::sigh::: She didn't need to go to college, right? I hope not, because I am spending the college fund on braces and therapy for my children.
T, who says we never should have procreated...we really had some bad gene combos
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