Congratulations, Katy and August

Dear Katy Perry,

You don’t know us.   And despite the fact that we may see you on television or on the internet or in the occasional magazine, we would never purport to know you.

However, I thought we should take this opportunity to reach out to you and introduce ourselves since you and my youngest son, August, age four, are apparently now engaged.

My oldest son, who is eight and most assuredly going on eighty, has warned August that by the time you and he can actually get married, “Katy Perry will be as old as mom!” Yet nothing can deter him.  He is in love with you, thinks you’re the “most beautiful girl in the world except for my mom,” and even has plans for your eventual family, which he relates without pausing and without punctuation:  “When Katy Perry marries me I will be so happy and we will have a little daughter named CeCe and she will be so beautiful and little and I will be a good father and hold CeCe so gently and change her diaper all the time and Katy Perry will not have to change the diapers just me . . .”

And so it goes.

Every day August asks me if I have been able to get in touch with you.  Whenever he gets my phone in his hands, he attempts to call you.  He is smitten and plans to change the diapers . . . All in all, not a bad deal.

I’ll close with a photo of August from a recent trip to Build-a-Bear workshop.

The bear’s name is CeCe.

Of course it is.

My best to you during this very long engagement.

Your future mother-in-law,

Samantha

Standing Up for Newport’s Students

Below is a Letter to the Editor in tonight’s edition of our local newspaper, The Newport Daily News.  I wrote this last week shortly after learning our seven-year-old son is a full year behind grade level in reading.

I wrote this letter for one reason only: While our family is fortunate we have the resources, stamina, and expertise to address this unfortunate situation, we know not everyone does.

That our son should not be in this situation is clear.  That we only just learned of the extent of it is concerning.   Yet the more salient questions are How many more of Newport’s students are struggling?  How many are behind a grade level or more?  What tests are used to measure students’ reading comprehension?  What do the scores mean?  How are they reported?  What resources are available to students who are not on grade level?

And, perhaps, for me, the most important: What can I do–as one parent, one individual–to help support all of Newport’s parents and students? 

We’ve all heard the saying, Be the change you wish to see.

There is now no question of where I need to be.

This is not the easiest letter I have ever written, but it is one that desperately  needs to be written—not just on behalf of my son but on behalf of all children enrolled in Newport Public Schools who are not reading on grade level. It pains me because in writing it, I must admit to two things: (1) my child is at present not reading on grade level and should be; and (2) he is most assuredly not the only one.

Just seven days before the conclusion of the academic year my husband and I learned that despite a Personal Literacy Plan being in place for our son, a document that is supposed to ensure the implementation of the interventions necessary to bring a student to grade level, our son had shown barely any discernible growth over the course of the year. At the end of last year, our son had met his benchmarks and was reading on grade level; and at the conclusion of first grade, an entire year later, he was essentially idling at the same point.

He has been in a classroom in Newport Public Schools for the last 180 days and has shown such insignificant growth that, as a parent and  taxpayer, I find myself asking not only why—why has our son’s education seemingly stagnated—but how: How could this happen? And, of course, why  did we not know the severity of the situation until  June?

While this is surely a major and personal concern for our son and our family, it is an issue that should also concern all parents, all  residents of Newport, and all taxpayers. In an era of severely decreased funding  for public schools and rising academic expectations, assessment data that shows a student—any student–not showing growth is alarming.

Research supports and common sense dictates that young students who are not reading on grade level have an increasingly difficult time accessing knowledge. The subjects that inspire and incite the curiosity of  children—science, history, storytelling—remain shrouded behind a complex vocabulary and sentence structure that tragically eludes them. And as they get older, if their deficiencies in reading follow them, it only gets worse.

 Newport Public Schools claims it gets results for its  students and offers an “outstanding” education to all. I am asking all of my fellow Newport parents to take a long, hard look at their child’s current reading scores—today—and ask themselves: “Is our son or daughter receiving the outstanding education promised, the one s/he deserves? Is Newport Public Schools getting results for our child? And, if not, what is the plan to ensure they  do?”

 It is their promise and your child’s right.

She Said “Had”

This moment wasn’t supposed to come.

Or, at the very least, if it were, it shouldn’t have come for another five or six years.

But instead it came today.

Today at 4:25 PM in an eight-by-eight-foot examination room at Rhode Island Hospital.

The neurologist who has been by my son’s side since she met him in the emergency room after his first grand mal seizure in October 2011, looked at me and used the past tense to describe his epilepsy.

She said “had.”

Had . . . as in no longer.

It’s her theory, based on the substantial medical evidence she has been collecting, that he had it, and as quickly as it came, it went–faster than anyone could ever have anticipated, but gone nonetheless.  She said children can and do grow out of it–though usually not this fast.  But here we are.

So, we are going to move toward eliminating his anti-seizure medicine altogether.

And with a little luck and a whole lot of good intentions, had will be our new reality.

And tonight. for the first time in my life, I finally and completely understand what is meant by the sublime.

A Tale of Two Mothers

From the outside looking in, the particulars of our open adoption agreement for our youngest son August can seem complex if not completely intimidating and confounding.

Here I am, the adoptive mother—the mother—of this beautiful child going off four times a year to visit the equally beautiful young woman who gave birth to him.

It has inspired questions, many questions:  Isn’t it confusing for your son?  Isn’t it unnerving for you? Don’t you worry that it will undermine, even threaten the bond you have? 

The answer is a very polite no to all of the above.  When an open adoption is in a child’s best interest, it is indeed one of the most important relationships in his or her life; and it is one that needs and deserves a most careful cultivation.

Because she is in his life, my son’s birthmother can answer his questions as they arise.  He is not relegated to the position of having to file away his queries for decades and be sated temporarily with “maybes” and “I-don’t-knows.”   He will never have to wonder why because he can ask her, and she can tell him.  And of all the gifts a parent can give to a child, peace and security are among the most profound.

As August’s mother, I have received my share of pats on the back for embarking on this path and maintaining this connection for him.  And as appreciative as I ever am for the kind words of others, I don’t know that I deserve a single accolade.  At the end of every visit, I get to go home with this beautiful boy.  His birthmother does not.

August has two mothers—one who would sacrifice anything in the world for him and one who already has.

A Road of Our Own

As a parent of a child with an IEP, I now can say with full conviction that negotiating the labyrinth of special education services for your child is a test of patience, a battle of wills, and most assuredly not for the weak.

And it’s a paradox in the extreme–because though you know your child is not like everyone else–and you have the paperwork and occasionally the prescriptions to prove it–you want him treated as if he were.  And as you seek out accommodations to help your child be successful, as a parent you are acutely aware that doing so may very likely set him apart.

The path before you is unknown:  Though there have been students with stories similar to your child’s, there is no one exactly like your child.  So, you listen.  You take notes.  And often you take the suggestions of the dedicated professionals whose judgment you have to trust.  They’ve been there before–with someone else’s son or daughter.  You believe they know, that they have the foresight you lack, so you listen–even if the suggestions contradict your own parental instincts.

But there comes a point in a parent of a special education student’s life when you have to silence the advice of the professionals, look into your child’s eyes and heart, and remind yourself that more than anyone you know your child–what he needs at this moment–and that there exists an unassailable connection that gives you the power you may have thought eluded you.

So, you forge a new path for your child–perhaps not the suggested path but the one in your heart and in your mind you believe to be best.

And you hold your breath and hope as you embark on this road less travelled you are doing the right thing.

Worth Listening To

He’ll be four a week from today, and he is a force with which to be reckoned.  He is bold, he is quick, he is loud, and he is very, very loving.

And until this point most of the posts I have written about him have pertained to his relationships with others—his family and his birthmother particularly.

As a parent, and perhaps as a parent who is also a writer on the constant prowl for inspiration, I listen exceedingly carefully to every word my children utter.  I often will post on Facebook the sardonic quips that come out of my oldest son Oscar’s mouth; and Edgar’s revelations about himself and his world have moved me to compose with a vehemence previously unknown to me.

But August is young; and while he is painfully funny and sharp as the proverbial tack, he is still only three.  I believe children are truly our wisest teachers; but toddlers tend to instruct more with their deeds than with their words.

Today, however, a switch was flipped.  As we sat having lunch together to celebrate the end of his first year of preschool, four people tucked themselves into the booth next to ours—two women and two children.  The children and the toys they had in tow caught his attention first.  But then he turned his gaze to the two women.

“Mommy, those kids have two mommies.  That is so cool.”

He went back to chomping on his chicken nuggets without missing a beat, not realizing the simultaneous simplicity and profundity of what he had just said.  Surreptitious eavesdropping revealed that the two women were actually sisters, but his words hung in the air—near my ears and around my heart.

Whether August’s perspicacity is the result of the time and place into which he was born, his natural inclinations, parenting, or a combination of any and all of the above, I looked at him and realized unequivocally the strength of his voice—a loud and powerful voice that I now see has the potential to contribute to the changes and shifts so desperately needed in our world.

 

Schooled in Incongruity

To offer my oldest son one of his first tastes of independence, not to mention sneaking in a math lesson while I’m at it, I have let him, for the last several months, go into a local restaurant by himself to pay for and pick up our occasional (okay, weekly) takeout.  And by “by himself,” please know (1) it’s a family-owned restaurant right around the corner from our home and one we’ve frequented probably a hundred times; (2) I park–most likely illegally– right in front of the door so he does not need to walk across the parking lot; and (3) I can see him the entire time.  I put the food under his name–Oscar–and he relishes this moment when he is “on his own,” negotiating business, feeling big.  He walks proudly to the car carrying our dinner and counting and formulating a plan to keep the change.

But tonight he exited with an extra spring in his step.

“Mom, mom, guess what?”

“What?”

“Some man in the restaurant asked me when I walked in if I was stopping in tonight for a beer!”

“He said WHAT?”

“He asked if I was having a beer!  Isn’t that funny?”

“Um . . . no, it’s not funny.   You are eight years old.”

“Almost nine.”

“You are a child!  It’s not funny, Oscar.”

“Oh, but it is.  And do you know why?”

“Why, Oscar?”

“Because the man was at least 90 years old.  If he was a young guy, it would definitely be inappropriate.  But because he was, you know, excuse me, elderly, well, it shows his wit, wouldn’t you say?”

Wouldn’t I say?

What can I say?

Side Effects Front and Center

It started a couple of weeks ago with a small bruise on his forearm, then another.  Soon, we saw a few on his back and several on his legs and hips.  Bruises that came and wouldn’t leave until there was enough black and blue on his tiny body to make us raise a collective eyebrow.  Then his gums started bleeding every time he brushed his teeth—bleeding that didn’t seem to want to stop and wouldn’t without significant interference from us.

We called the doctor.  And my seven-year-old son offered up his arm yet again, an arm that isn’t even seven inches in diameter—this time for the four full vials required for the many, many tests that had been ordered.

I am grateful—truly grateful—for modern medicine and what it has been able to accomplish for my son.  But his latest health challenge is being characterized as a side effect of his anti-seizure medication.  An unfortunate side effect and one that needs everyone’s immediate attention.

And I look at this sweet boy, this very, very good boy and wonder why he has been chosen for these challenges.   I can wax philosophical, I suppose, about how the adversities in our lives strengthen our character and provide us with the skills we will need to negotiate our futures.  But philosophizing doesn’t mitigate his suffering and doesn’t come anywhere close to explaining why him, why anyone?

As I sit and write this afternoon, my children are playing, and I hear laughter—from each of them, all of them.  It’s the sound of childhood; it’s the sum total of what childhood should be–not seizures and medications and needles and formidable side effects.

And I want to join them in their laughter, experience their levity.  I want to feel the lightheartedness childhood joy inspires in others.  But today I can only listen and wish things were different . . .

The End of Another Era

It has been in existence since 1926; and though I have not been a reader for quite that long, I have been . . . for many, many years.  Since my oldest son Oscar was an infant–almost nine years ago.

With features that cut through the mystique of babyhood and the idiosyncrasies of early childhood, I devoured my issue each month.  For nearly the last decade, Parents magazine was a constant companion and resource for me–a place I could go to for important safety information and reasonable advice.  It is a pretty magazine, too, and one that respects the sleep-deprived shrinking attention spans of its most ardent fans.  I could pick it up then promptly put it down when, usually after just getting comfortable, someone under four feet tall would need me for something.

This month’s issue arrived in the mail two days ago; but instead of opening it right away, it sat on my dining room table (possibly under a pile of clean laundry).  This morning I unearthed it and scanned the cover:  “Prep for Preschool” (our youngest is already firmly established in preschool); “The Year’s Best Family Cars” (we already have one); “Let’s Play: Help Baby Reach His Milestones” (sigh, all our “babies” have reached theirs).

I opened the issue and with the turn of each page realized this magazine is no longer for me.  I am by no means an experienced mother, but I am no longer a new mother.  And that is a milestone in and of itself.   And though I know I know very little and still have very much to learn, I now need to look elsewhere.  This publication belongs to the next wave of new parents.

And as I reflected on bidding Parents a fond farewell, I thought to look at the subscription label to see when my last issue was set to arrive . . . July 2013.  This issue.

How did they know I’d be ready?

An Interview with Edgar

Please click here to read a telling interview with my son Edgar, who was diagnosed with ADHD last fall, on ADDitude.com today.

As parents we constantly second-, third-, and fourth-guess every decision we make.  Edgar’s words are as poignant as they are telling, and I am grateful he has found them and has the means to articulate them.

Thanks for reading!