Pray for Us Sinners . . .

My little girl (10) was having a rough time at Mass this morning. Anxiety about other family members’ struggles became too much, and she couldn’t get seem to stop the negative thoughts. Misperceptions and anxieties then led to her acting out in an angry/sad combination that had begun to wear me down as well. She feels everything so deeply that it’s like she takes on everyone else’s burdens.

But then halfway through the Mass, she asked if she could go to the back of the church, where a little alcove dedicated to the Virgin Mary is (pictured above). “I can’t stand being here,” she snapped.

“Only if you promise to come back,” I said. I didn’t want her just wandering around back there. She grunted in assent, and stomped off. She loves drama.

While she was gone, I took the opportunity to try to reset myself in prayer. Heart rate came down. Breathing became more regular. Lumpy throat diminished. A good start.

Five minutes later, as the homily was wrapping up, she came back. Stepping lightly. Smiling. She gave me a big hug and said she was sorry. The rest of the Mass passed uneventfully. Peacefully, even. I felt another lump in my throat, but this one was okay.

After Mass, I asked her what she did in the back of the church. “I just sat there for a few minutes and looked at the statue of Mary.” Innocent. Matter-of-fact. No drama.

“Do you know what happened?” I asked.

“What?”

“You went to Mary, and she prayed for you. She prayed with you. And Jesus answered her prayers and yours. How else can you explain the dramatic change?”

“I guess you’re right,” she shrugged. Then she went off to grab a donut—as if nothing had happened.

Everything Happened.

Now, it would be easy to attribute my girl’s change to her taking a break. It would make sense if you wanted to say that getting away from her siblings and changing her environment was all she needed to do her own reset. But the change in her demeanor was so dramatic that this can’t be the only answer. Not to mention how little time it took for her to turn around.

Besides, as a Catholic I believe in the Communion of Saints and the special role that Mary plays as our spiritual Mother. In fact, many are the Rosaries I have prayed asking for her maternal intervention in my kids’ lives. And on more than one occasion I have experienced blessings from her myself.

That’s the thing about faith. It doesn’t need to “disprove” the other explanations that may be out there. It’s not as if it’s a zero sum game, where you have to ascribe everything to either psychology or spirituality. Faith is capacious, generous, encompassing. It’s also humble. It doesn’t feel threatened when other possible answers are put forward. The Bible may describe God as a “jealous” deity, but this is not the kind of jealousy it’s talking about.

Every special-needs parent has to find the best way to help his or her children and to deal with the unique challenges that he or she faces. As for me, I can’t imagine walking this road if I didn’t have recourse to prayer. I can’t imagine being left with only medical, psychiatric, and pharmacological answers. If my kids have taught me anything, it’s that there’s more to them than the sum of their various material parts. There’s a longing to belong. There’s a drive toward unity and community. There’s a capacity to love and to receive love that goes beyond simple reciprocity. There’s a “fittedness” for heaven that I can see in their eyes.

So it makes perfect sense that when my girl went to spend time with Mary, Mary spent time with her. And prayed for her. And blessed her.

My girl may not think that much happened during those five minutes. But I know that everything happened.

Both to her and to me.

 

Good Golly, Miss Molly

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See that little ball of cuteness on the left? No, no, not the cat. The little puppy in my daughter’s lap. That’s Molly, the latest addition to our household. (For those of you who are keeping count, that makes 6 kids, 5 cats, 2 dogs, and 1 fish. That’s right; our four-legged children now outnumber our two-legged children.)

Why another dog? Because we like chaos, that’s why. At least, that’s what more than a few people must be thinking right now. But there’s a method to our madness. Molly is going to be our family’s therapy dog. We had been toying with this idea for a number of years, but recent events have convinced us that having a therapy dog is more than just a neat idea. It’s a necessity. Too many of our kids are dealing with anxiety and depression in addition to their ASD. Too many of them find emotional regulation a challenge. Too many of them lead too isolated a life and need help in getting out of themselves.

Molly is a mix between a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and a Cocker Spaniel. That means that she is pretty smart (Cocker), but also a love bug (Cavalier). It means that she will be perfectly content to sit in your lap for hours on end (Cavalier), but she will also love a good romp around the back yard (Cocker). Our hope is that we will be able to train her to recognize when one of our kids is getting too agitated, and feel free to go over to him or her and offer comfort and friendship. We also want her to sense when one of our kids needs a warm, affirming cuddle. And, of course, we want her to not pee in the house.

This is much more than sit, heel, and roll over. Our goal is to get Molly to the point where she can wear a vest and be recognized as an “emotional support” animal. We want to be able to take her out in public, bring her into stores, and even get approval for her to accompany one of our kids to school. So there’s a good deal of work to be done.

Of course, none of us is an expert in training puppies. Which means we’re going to need some serious help. Fortunately, Katie found a married couple who have experience working with kids on the autism spectrum and their dogs—and they’re willing to come into our home to train both the dog and us. This is so important. Training out on a farm or in the middle of a PetSmart can only go so far. Molly will have to become very comfortable performing her job in our home, and it will help our kids immensely if they learn about Molly in their own environment.

Oh, and these trainers are going to work with our older dog, Roxie, too. (That’s her below.) According to them, Roxie is going to train Molly as well, even as she gets some training herself. After all, she speaks dog! So by the end of the training—months and months from now—we’ll have two support dogs.

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So stay tuned. I’ll be giving you updates every now and then. Besides, she’s so cute!

Thanks, Mom

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There she is. Mom.

This picture was taken back in 1996, during one of my visits to her and Dad’s home in Sarasota, Florida. I have another picture of her from two years later that means a lot more to me. But I’m reluctant to share it because it contains our entire wedding party, and I try not to post pictures of people without their permission.

Anyhow, the story I want to tell has to do with my wedding to Katie in 1998 and the role Mom played in making it special—as well as the role she continues to play, even though she has long passed on.

A Special Wedding Gift.

Two months prior to our wedding, Mom was pretty sick. The leukemia she had lived with for years was beginning its final march on her system. We weren’t sure she would make it to the wedding. We even began looking into moving the wedding to Sarasota so she could be with us. Continue reading

The Ballad of the Bedeviling Bedroom

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See that picture up there? That’s my boy (fourth child, third son, 11 years old), trying to go to sleep in his new bed in his new bedroom. We moved just about everyone around this past weekend. Usually, I would balk at such a thought—ASD kids have a hard time with transitions. But this was a pretty important move for a couple of reasons that I can’t get into right now.

Anyway, this poor boy was having a hard time with the change. He was excited to be moving to his older brother’s (third child, second son, 13 years old) room. The two of them had been roommates a few years back, and they had a blast together. But once he got into the room, he couldn’t cope. Within five minutes of Katie and me praying over him and giving him a good night kiss, he was back in our room, eyebrows knit, hands wringing, voice aquiver. Continue reading

Failure Is Not an Option

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A couple of days ago, I posted a picture of my oldest daughter and described her struggles with anxiety and school. I talked about how proud I was of her for fighting—even when she is fighting me. Although it looked like she was being obstinate and resistant, I could tell she was getting the message that she can’t give in.

Well, now it’s my oldest son’s turn. Continue reading

The Struggle Is Real

 

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Remember my story about my girl having a couple of seizures last summer? Remember my story about how hard it was for her to go to Mass during the summer? Well, the saga continues to unfold. Continue reading

A Brief, Fantastical Respite

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When I was in high school, I was really into science fiction and fantasy literature. I guess I still am, but I don’t usually get the time to immerse myself in a good novel these days.

Anyway, there was this one fantasy series I read in high school called The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. The author, Stephen R. Donaldson, imagined the books to be a kind of dark inversion of Tolkien’s classic The Lord of the Rings.

Each book in the series opens with the (anti)hero Thomas Covenant experiencing some kind of crisis that mars him physically just before he is transported to a realm known as The Land. While in The Land, Covenant is quickly healed of his wounds and ends up reluctantly accepting a perilous quest. Lots of action, tension, magic and romance ensue—often quite gripping.

Then, as Covenant to the climax of his quest, something happens to him. He is caught in a battle, perhaps, or a curse is uttered against him. Whatever it is, it leaves him with wounds exactly like the ones he had just before he entered the Land. It’s at this critical juncture that he finds himself back in our world in the exact same condition he was at the start: haggard, numb, bloodied, and exhausted.

A Magical Christmas.

Well, that’s what I felt like the week after Christmas. We had had a rough few days leading up to the holiday, and I was feeling pretty beat up. Nothing seemed to be going right. A few of the kids’ anxieties had gone through the roof, issues at school mushroomed, and a few tight deadlines at work led to late nights at the computer.

But something strange happened on Christmas Day, and it lasted a few days afterward. There were no melt downs. No tantrums. No OCD or anxiety or disrupted sleep. It was absolutely delightful! My own anxiety diminished. I was sleeping better. We even took most of the kids to my brother-in-law’s for a Christmas gathering, and I had a blast because it was completely uneventful. I was sailing along, enjoying life in ways I had forgotten about in the previous weeks.

So far, so good. But then by December 30, things began sliding downhill again. First one kid went south. Then another. And another. Slowly over the next three days, we re-entered our “normal” zone with the melt downs, the perseveration, the communication glitches, the anxiety—the whole nine yards. Even work issues flared up again!

By lunchtime on New Years Day, I was back to my usual self: weary, furtively looking back and forth to see who was going to erupt next, steeling myself for the inevitable, even feeling that familiar lump in my throat after helping one of the kids through a tough time.

So Sunday had come, and I was ready to start back at work as if nothing magical had happened at all. Just like Thomas Covenant.

Go Easy.

Now, before you go feeling sorry for me—or telling me to suck it up, Buttercup—let me say this: I suspect that many parents of special-needs kids can relate to this cycle. On one level, every parent appreciates the fun times, the easy times, the magical times. But there’s a poignancy when it happens for special-needs parents because for those few short days, they know what the rest of the parenting world feels like on an average day. They get a glimpse of the “normal” that most parents experience most of the time, and it feels good. But then they return to their own special “normal,” and they have to put on their big-boy pants again.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It’s hard. It’s draining. It’s isolating. It takes so much more time and energy and stamina to stay on top of your kids’ needs and challenges. Sometimes you can want to curl up in a corner and not come out for a few days.

But we can’t.

Let me make one other thing clear: Katie and I know that it’s not the kids’ fault. We don’t resent them for who they are or for their needs. Much, in fact, of what can weigh on us is watching our kids go all this turmoil. We wonder what their future will look like. We worry if they will be able to live on their own after we’re gone. We ache for them to be rid of their painful challenges. And we feel helpless.

So when you see a special-needs parent looking unusually rested and refreshed, know that a lot is going on underneath the surface. Know that sooner or later they’re going to go through a Thomas Covenant-like transformation. So go easy on them. Maybe even offer to help them when the need arises.