Awwwee, His Very First Extraction

Dude doesn't like to do life the easy way.  He's all about the challenge.  Even so when it comes to his dental needs.  At 6.7 years of age, our little man had not yet lost his first tooth.  At his dentist appointment last month we were informed that having two rows of teeth probably isn't a good idea for his oral hygeine or his self esteem, thus forcing me to schedule an extraction appointment.  That happened today.  And he was a champ.  A total dental champ.

He knew nothing about what was about to transpire, which turned out for the best.  My white lie was really in his best interest.  He laid in the chair, topped with a TV playing any movie of his choice.  They donned his little ears with headphones, his peekers with shades and went to town.  The ice cream air was placed over his nostrils and he proceeded asking tons of Dude-esque questions and thanking the dentist and his assistant for helping him lose his very first tooth.  I was impressed and uber proud of how chill he was through the entire process.  Luckily he was numb to the point that he was totally unaware of the 2 inch teeth being yanked out of his face.  Those roots were fully in tact, causing further worry that future teeth will need to follow in the shoes of their older sibling teeth.

After a healthy dose of Tylenol, we're back in fully functioning condition.  Dude's sound asleep, dreaming of his tooth fairy friend, Donatello.  Yes, we happened upon a boy tooth fairy.  Don left a sweet fairy like note under his pillow, along with a sweet Ninja Turtle tooth pillow.  Dude followed instructions given to him via Don and wrote a charming little letter in return.  The whole thing melted my heart.  It won't be so melty if this is going to be common dental hat, but for now we'll enjoy it. And our son will enjoy the $10 reward for his bravery in the morning-at 5:00am when he wakes himself up with unguarded anticipation.  

Dear Don, I love you.  I want to keep one of my tooth so tonight pick one tooth to keep and one to bring to your home. so send letter of where your home is.  Your friend, Rylan.  Picture of his mouth.

  

To Write

I've been blessed to work at a rather dreamy and fulfilling job for the past 7 years.  As the Media & PR Manager at a large food bank, I've thanked God time and time again for placing me at an organization with heart and purpose.  And for a position that encompasses so many of the gifts he has given to me.  I've been able to do graphics, photography and face to face interviews with remarkable families struggling to make ends meet. I've grown close and learned from an awesomely eclectic group of co-workers, met a host of incredible contacts around the country and was able to incorporate my passion for writing into my work.  I was entrusted to create a kids club which has captured my heart.  I started blogs and social media marketing strategies and chaired auction committees and produced videos and t-shirts and logos.  Like I said, I've been blessed.  And so very happy and content to be where I've been.

I turned in my resignation to my boss and friend of seven years this past Monday.  On December 19, I'll clean out  all 200 photos of my nearest and dearest in my homey office overlooking the Rocky Mountains and I-70 traffic whizzing by.  I'll make my illegal u-turn, head home down construction ridden I-225 for the last time and most likely weep.  Shocker, I know. As sad as I am to be leaving this 106,000 square foot warehouse that has been a part of me since before my son was even a thought, I haven't been this excited about the future in my 34 years on planet earth.

About six months ago I started feeling a tug at my heart.  A tug that started subtlety, but with confidence and determination. Through observing a radical change in the life of a close girlfriend, I've been making a concentrated effort to spend more time with God and his word and other people's words about faith.  And in that process I've been doing a lot of listening, not to my own head and heart but to what God might be telling me about HIS ideas on things.  I've never been good at this.  Not to say that I am now, but I've been working on it. The tug I tried ignoring at first was one centered around my career and how I spend my working days.  It was one that included complex threads about writing.  Writing more than the food bank newsletters and blog posts about donors and events.  It included big, personal stuff like a memoir about our infertility and adoption journey and a children's book that my kids can relate to and a blog centered on connecting with people who don't have an outlet to connect.  It included writing articles about things relating to my experiences and my passions - all things placed with divine purpose into my life.

I started talking to Tim about the tug.  Slowly, but with intention.  He knows that writing is a giant piece of my heart and my soul and my saneness, if that's a word.  He knows I'm good at it and that I need it.  And I don't mean that lightly.  I really, truly need it.  He knows that it comes easily.  And he knows that it's been a dream of mine to write for a living.  Always a dream but never something I considered acting upon.  We decided to invest in sending me to a once-in-a-lifetime writing retreat in Tubac, Arizona this past month. God worked the angles on that one and made the trip not only feasible but one that I ended up sharing with the girlfriend referenced above.  My motivation.  My biggest advocate.  We went to Tubac and spent 5 days with 8 astonishingly beautiful and raw people.  Not to mention our fearless leader, Laura Munson, New York Times bestselling author, teacher, counselor of words and mentor extraordinaire.  I knew this retreat would make or break my considerations to leave my food banking world.

After 5 days of writing, counseling, digging deeper than I thought possible, bonding, creating, drinking wine, eating cheese, crafting messages, screaming, sleeping soundly, basking in the Arizona sun, soaking in hands on, heart knowledge and advice, changing my mind and then re-confirming what I knew all along, I made a decision.  A decision to answer the tug and to write.  Not for myself, but for the reasons I know God will continue to place in my heart.  Because God knows that I can put it all on the page without fear.  I can be raw and open and honest and passionate and do it according to what he's calling me to do.  In my voice and my ability to filter the noise that will come along with it.  And because of that confidence, I'm not afraid.

The reality of quitting your job to become a writer can be daunting.  Let's be clear.  It IS daunting.  For every writer in every genre.  In my months of research, talking to writers, joining writing groups, subscribing to blogs, crafting a schedule that will hopefully work, praying, developing my goals and platform and other bumbo jumbo, I'm confident in one thing.  It aint gonna be easy.  For me or for our family.  It might be three years before the first draft of my memoir is ready for an editor to demolish in red pen.  That piece took me a good chunk of time to wrap my mind around.  But I think I'm there and I'm practicing putting my big girl, patient pants on.  And in the meantime, God has gifted us with signs and solutions for this sudden lack of my income.  I was offered a consistent contract position with my food bank, which is like a dream.  I won't lose them and I'll get to focus on the aspects of my current job nearest to my heart.  I've been selling photo frames I dreamed up at a craft fair - for really good money.  Tim's job started rewarding him for his ability to be the irreplaceable employee he is.  It's like God handed us a silver platter with the words, "Thank you for listening and for taking the leap.  You're gonna be okay."

This is a leap and I'm well aware that is sounds leapy.  But I'm so grateful to the peeps in my life that have giggled with glee through this discovery of purpose.  For the undying support and affirmation that THIS is what I was created to do.  And for gentle coaching through the process.  I'm grateful for those who have approached me with a sense of childlike wonder in their eyes as they explain how much they wished they answered their call when they heard it and how excited they are to meet someone who's taking the leap. The support I've felt from my other half, my love, my right hand has been steady and calm.  Without that, this wouldn't be happening.  He sees that there's a difference between leaping blindly and leaping in faith.  Rest assured that I'm doing the latter.  And it's gonna be okay. Better than okay.                  

Where Do All the Non-Boxies Go?

Blog Warning: This post is not intended  for your children to parooze.  While a majority of this blog is appropriate for young eye balls, this is still a personal blog.  It's my therapy.  My safe place.  My outlet to speak my heart and tell a virtual story of my family's life.  I'm not squeaky clean - I've never claimed to be.  But I wouldn't say I'm far off.  And on occasion, my non-squeaky-cleanness might come out in ways some readers find "inappropriate."  That's okay with me.  This particular post is way heavier than you're used to from this Mile High Mama.  No photos, but I do guarantee a whole lotta heart.....

In the past 2 weeks, I've had 3 conversations with mom friends...darn good moms might I add... who have shared with me accounts of their tear filled parent teacher conferences.  Note, these were Kindergarten parent teacher conferences.  5 year old little people.  They've each been told that their children aren't quite fitting into the box of expectations for "kids their age."  They're not sitting still.  They're distracting other kids with their inability to focus.  They're not understanding the curriculum like the others kids are.  They're not sharing appropriately.  They're not drawing enough detail in their pictures.  They're only writing 2 sentences in their non-fiction story books and are expected to write 4.  They're not including enough color and word bubbles in their illustrations.  They're touching other kids in line.  Their work looks like that of a child who didn't go to Pre-school.  Teachers from all different schools are passing along these reports to my Mama friends. And my Mama friends cry.  Some of them cry every night in anticipation of what the teacher will say the next day. They cry about their kid not fitting in and about their rocky looking future as a student.  All these tears are over their 5 year olds, based on the observations of their very first real teacher.  And their first real school.

If you've been reading this blog for longer than 2 weeks, you know that I have a rather obnoxious amount of experience in this arena, given my stunted 1.5 years in the schooling system.  It was made clear after a brief month of Kindergarten duties that our Dude didn't fit into the box of expectations so firmly placed on newbie students.  He was struggling in areas that the other kids were not. His work was not being completed in the same fashion as the other little learners.  He couldn't sit still.  He was "kicking" and "hitting" kids in line if they touched him.  He couldn't focus and follow direction like the other kids. He wasn't comfortable in his desk and was so inappropriately walking around the room when he was expected to be conforming to his rock hard little chair.  With his feet firmly planted on the floor directly below him.  What was wrong with him?  I was convinced that he was misbehaving and refusing to conform to school expectations.  I cried.  Every night. Just like my Mama friends.

I'm ashamed to say that we punished him for the lack of star stickers he would take home.  He was nervous. Every single day.  His joy started weening, just enough that we noticed it.  In the process of all this Kindergarten drama, we started down the exploration of Sensory Integration and ADD and the light bulb went off.  Our kid wasn't misbehaving.  He was being the kid God made him to be and was doing the best his little 5 year old self knew how to do.  He was struggling to find his way into a box that wasn't intended for him.  He's not boxy. Not even a little bit.  Eventually, we got to the point of putting our foot down and making it clear that all that bull shit was NOT okay with this Mama and Dad.  The hearts of the team at our prior school were in the right place, but they had nothing to offer our son in terms of aiding in his learning. He deserved better and we weren't going to stop until we found it.

We quickly found a version of better at our local public school.  By quickly I mean 7 days.  We quite literally yanked him out of his private school and he finished off Kindergarten with a joyful bang.  In addition, we started enlisting the guidance and hands on training of an OT clinic.  And we started forking over the cash.  God placed two angels (three including the principal) to watch over him and re-discover his joy in the classroom that second half of the year.   As a result, I stopped crying. In fact, I looked forward to teacher reports and visits to the school.  It was a safe place for our family.

It's November now - 4 months into the new school year.  I wish I could say that 1st grade has been shits and giggles.  Not that we necessarily expected to receive reports of his honor roll status and exemplary social skills, but we were expecting flowy for sure.  We made it through a good parent teacher conference, signaling that Dude is right in the middle of the pack academically.  He doesn't stick out, good or bad.  But "excelling" is certainly not a word that was used.  His lack of focus was and is an area of focus.  And perhaps a Friday social support group that teaches "appropriate classroom behavior" would be recommended.  And do we plan on keeping him on the Ritalin?  And perhaps there are other techniques we can offer for when he acts quirky -like when his chair shocks him and he refuses to sit in it again for fear that it'll shock his little toosh again.  "Is this normal for sensory kids to be fine one minute and not the next?"  Or what do we recommend for when he's making noises in his throat and it's disturbing the boxy kids and he gets upset when they bring this to his attention and has to sit in the hall until his "impulses" are under control.  Or the reality that we have to point out that his "bumpy day" might have a morsel to do with the lock-down drill that was planned for that morning.  You know, where students gather in a corner of their classrooms, holding hands and singing songs in their heads to avoid making noises that could lure the evil person on the other side of the locked door.  Noises just like the ones my son has no control over.

Is my son making it through 1st grade?  Yeah.  He's just fine.  And he's getting a bit of help from the school OT when he needs to go crash into a giant mat.  But I'm crying again.  Just like my Mama friends.  The level of advocating I've been striving for has reached tipping point.  We've purchased an absurd amount of "tools" that can be used in the classroom.  Vests, headphones, pencil toppers, chewables, seat cushions, noise charts....ridiculous.  We've sent "tips" on how to handle non-boxy situations.  We've offered suggestions on other teachers to consult with who are brilliant at understanding and relating to non-boxies.  I've written books of explanations to his teacher on how kids with sensory struggles and severe ADD view the world.  I sent cinnamon gum to school in bulk in order to help with the involuntary noises.  And finally, I sent a book about understanding kids who struggle with sensory and ADD issues to school and wrote a post-it recommendation to READ IT.  I've been advocating my Dutch ass off and I have officially reached the point of advocation exhaustion.  I just made that a real thing, despite spell check's zig zaggy arguments.

I had a spur of the moment, run in meeting with our God-send of a Principal last night and I spilled. Everything.  I stressed our desire for our kid being understood and not being alienated or punished for things out of his control.  I told her that I don't have any advocating left in me.  I told her we understand what our Dude's challenges are and we are not there to defend his every move but that we need him to sense joy and understanding in his learning environment as it relates to HIM.  We need him to know how frickin brilliant he is.

Our principal heard every word and understood beyond what my voice was able to say.  She told me that my son was a remarkable little human who emanates joy and was doing the very best that he knows how to do.  She told me that my efforts at advocating for him and instilling faith into his heart are going to produce a marvelous young man.  And she made me promise that I wouldn't doubt that one day of my life.  She told me that my advocating days are over and that his school would now be stepping up to ensure that his needs are being met.  I cried.  Shocker.  I heart that woman for so many reasons.  She runs that school like clock-work and has a million larger than life tasks in front of her. And in the midst of that, she finds the time to check on my son after fire drills to make sure he's okay.  She looks him in the eye and makes sure he's okay.  She's a safe place for him.  For me.  I felt better after our meeting.  Stress oozed out of my pores.  And yet I still feel this sense of sadness that I can't shake.

My advocating junkie self has been analyzing the return of the tears and this feeling of sadness.  And here's my what I've concluded is my thing.  We've been blessed with this principal mighty woman and a school with programs that can help.  We're grateful for that and we adore our school community.  It works for so many kids who attend there.  But there has to be more in the realm of education than what we're offering OUR little man.  Decades ago, someone inscribed the codes and structure of learning into a boulder on the side of some inaccessible mountain.  And no one has been ballsy enough to touch that boulder.  Maybe they climb up to get a glimpse, but the journey ends up being too daunting and expensive and scary and they bail.

Based on the self proclaimed minimal understanding I have of the education system, there are state standards and expectations handed down to teachers and administrators that are to be treated as gold.  Teachers don't have space for deviating and allowing students the freedom to learn in the way that fits their intelligence models.  They don't have the time to invest in understanding the ways in which their students learn.  So in the case of the non-boxies, the goal is to utilize whatever services are available to take the stress off the teacher and allow a "fair" learning environment for the kids that don't struggle.  Because how "fair" is it to throw 28 kids together who look, feel, taste and analyze the world from totally different perspectives and expect them to learn in a cohesive group?  It's not fair.  For any of them.  Learning isn't a one size fits all concept.

Here's my heart's response to all of this.  We can't expect our son and the realms of other kiddos who aren't boxy learners to be forced to learn in a boxy format.  We can't expect him to draw the conclusion that he's different and requires extra help, support groups and one on one in order to learn in the way that is "normal." Thus forcing him to conclude that the brilliant way in which his mind operates isn't "normal" or celebrated. We can't expect him to keep his remarkably creative mind at bay so that he can learn the important things.  We can't expect him to wait until he gets home to share the complex mathematical and astonishingly scientific invention he created in his ever imagining brain. It's not appropriate to talk about while completing the boxy math handout required of every 1st grader in the public school system in the state of Colorado. And if he thinks about it during his writing time, he's not going to get those four non-fiction instructional sentences on the page that are expected of him.  Or draw the word bubbles that are a part of his semester goals for growth.  Let's just be clear. My kid's entire brain is one giant fucking word bubble. So the mere fact that this has been noted as an area of needed growth is nothing short of amusing.  I know I said the "f" word.  It happens on occasion.

I crave more for my beautifully non-boxy son.  And for every kid out there who doesn't naturally learn the way they're expected to learn in 90% of schools in this country.  I crave an environment that recognizes his complex mind and his refreshing view of the world around him and celebrates his inability to sit still and draw word bubbles.  I pray that a shining knight will find that ancient boulder, catapult it off the side of the cliff it rests on and force us to piece it back together again.  Here I sit with tears flowing down my pale cheeks just thinking about what a majestic sight that would be.  For my son and for all my Mama friend's kiddos who deserve to learn in a way that speaks to them.  I don't have the answers to any of this heart language but I don't plan on giving up.  God planted our little man into our lives very intentionally and expects that we're going to knock his socks off with our ability to maintain that little boy's joy. And I'll be darned if I do anything less.

2 Leaf Lovin' Monkeys

6 months ago, this would have been a moment of freak out.  Look at those calm eyes, hiding comfortably under the leaves.  This made Mom and Dad smile, outside and in.

The Things We Can't Control

Oh there are days.  We all have um.  Filled with things we can't control.  Most days fall below the radar.  And some just seem to fall into the category of "overflowing with things we can't control."  Today was a bit overflowing.  I don't bitch and moan about much and I certainly don't use this blog as an avenue to verbally vomit all over all of you.  And so I won't.  Instead I'll focus on truths rather than categorizing these "quirky life things" as being out of my control.

Truth.  I went off my 10 mg of anti-anxiety meds this week to see if my new calm self can regulate on it's own. I was hopeful that after 8 months of being uncharacteristically even and flowy that I would naturally fall into that persona.  After a lot of deep breathing, an impatient state of mind and a racing heart today, I'm feeling rather defeated.  My truth might include permanent anxiety altering meds if I want to live a flowy life. If my family wants to live a flowy life.  

Truth. Due to the magic pills just referenced, my size 6 hips are a thing of the past.  This med has graced me with more poundage than my tree frame has ever known. Doesn't seem to matter how much Jillian I do. Goodbye aspen tree frame.  Hello oak tree frame.  And a bigger cup size and a badump trunk to speak of, which I'll give thanks for.  As will my husband.

Truth.  My Dude has Sensory Processing Disorder and a killer case of ADD.  It could be so much more difficult than it is, but it's difficult enough that we will constantly have to advocate for him.  Advocating has become a regular part of our routine it seems.  Sometimes that feels like a larger than life truth.  Sometimes it doesn't.  Today it does.

Truth.  My sweet diva pees herself a lot these days.  For whatever reason 2 year olds pee themselves.  She even managed to shat all over April's (day care) deck yesterday.  Funny huh?  Gotta love digression for no apparent reason.  If you're in our half bath and sense a foul odor, it's pee.  All over the shag rug.

Those are the truths wearing on my racing heart tonight.  The good news is that they'll all work out into a beautiful story that I'll write a book on someday.  And, thanks to my new routine of sitting, upright, in our new printed living room chair with a glass of Pinot resting on the glass top table next to me and reading God's encouraging words, I know that worrying about all of these things that I have no control over will put me over the edge.  But sometimes it's good to at least state them.  And so I'm stating them.  I hope you're able to work through your truths this week.  We all have um, right?    

  This flower and flower to be make my truths seem less truey, so enjoy this little taste of God's all encompassing plans.  

My Baby's Locks

My sassy girl has been blessed with long silky hair most women could only dream of.  It's yellow hughes are complimented with waves of strawberry and if falls perfectly straight down her chubby two year old back. I'm hoping it stays that way into adulthood - it'll save her a pretty penny.  The time was right to even out the back of her locks, so I took her to my trusted hair magicianess, Chelsea, to perform her handiwork.  Squirt adored her time in the tall, up and down chair, adoringly gazing at herself the entire time, making faces to boot.  Her baby joined us for the outing.  Of course this Mama had to document the occasion.  And no, I did not keep a lock of her hair. That creeps me out big time.  Happy first hair cut baby girl.  

   

The Bird & the Bee

Halloween seems like 2 months ago.  Lots of life (to be featured soon) has been lived since we tromped around town with our little Bomb Bird and Bumble Bee (Bumbee as she called herself).  Dude has a slight obsession with Angry Birds, particularly the Bomb Bird for whatever reason, so we convinced our seamstress neighbor to craft a one-of-a-kind costume for the little bird.  Boy did she ever.  That get-up won street accolades everywhere we went. He was the baddest bomb bird this side of the Mississippi.  Squirt was the cutest bumbee I've ever laid eyes on, not that I'm biased or anything.  We kept with our tradition of walking the hood with Randy and Linsy, margaritas in hand, followed by kickin' chili and tons of additional tasty treats at their cozy casa.

Our first stop, per Dude's request, was our own house.  Tim kindly answered the door and distributed candy to our first visitors.

 Oh these little joy bugs.  Could you dream up anything cuter?

 Miss Becky, the creator of our angry bird.

 Our babysitter, Klarissa, looked rather darling herself.  

We went to our local outdoor mall for a Halloween night and Dude got the surprise of a lifetime.  His future bride, Hannah, was there in all her princess glory.  They've been betrothed now for 3 years.  And they haven't been in the same school for 2 of those years, so this is serious business folks.  Hannah immediately kissed her prince charming and he blushed.  Only Hannah can make our Dude blush like that.  It was a moment.  And then he moved right along with a sparkle in his eye.  

School did an afternoon costume parade. Complete chaos.  I was astonished at how many moms were there simply to help their kids get in full garb.  Makeup and all.  I think next year I'll opt to stay at work.

Here's hoping your little monsters had a safe and fulfilling Halloween.  Given the fact that we allow our bird and bee to divulge in one piece of candy per day, we'll have enough left over to hand out next Halloween.    

My New Happy Place

Organization, especially centered around home design gets me all tingly inside.  Fine, perhaps a bit more than just tingly.  Our casa was totally gutted before we bought it, meaning all was clean, taupe and fresh.  We haven't had the need or desire to do much to it, other than add my tender love and care and a few accent wall colors.  But I can only survive for so long without taking on a decorating challenge.  My dear hubby is ever so patient with this survival need and allowed me the freedom to take on our living room.  It was a fine room.  A squared off fireplace that floated on the back wall, our 80's black leather couch, handed down from Tim's childhood basement.  We made out on the couch a few times back in the day.  Uber comfortable, but 80's none-the-less.  See below for pre-reno.

Over the course of 8 months, we turned our non-used living room into a chic space that is now a family favorite landing spot.  Dude's doing Lego's on the $22 vintage table I picked up in Kansas City, my favorite books reside proudly on the crisp white book case (the fireplace no longer floats), the slightly over-priced arm chairs welcome me each night for my private reading/devotional time, the deep gray, oddly shaped couch provides a cozy kids reading corner, nostalgic b&w photos smile at me from cheapo Ikea frames on the west wall and all our games and books now have a comfortable and accessible home in the bottom cabinets.  Thanks to Anne and Kevin for helping with the paint job - we'll get to the ceiling mishap one of these days.  Ok, probably years.

We had leftover paint, so the half bath was invited to the re haul.  My dadio was in town and painted that tight, obnoxious spot for us.  He's a gem that way.  I acted on a whim and purchased what turned out to be a kick ass addition to the toilet wall.  We had purchased an auction item at a work event of mine and ended up with three new granite vanities out of the deal.  We ditched the taupe top in this mini bath and added a super fly replacement.  What do you think?

Our master bath was gifted with new vanities as well.  We're lovin the fact that we don't have to clean anymore.  The solid black looked real nice but it showed every spec of grossness that bathrooms bring.

I have a new company idea about to take shape, revolving around this general area of passion/obsession. Stay tuned!