No Lice In Our Pants

The Tooth Fairy historically has left $1 per tooth in the Heagler house – a single dollar, adorned with a shiny heart.  But last week, bolstered by her bunkmate, Hope's, recent success getting the Tooth Fairy to leave a pink, sparkly coupon for doll clothes, Lucy decided to shoot for the moon and wrote the Tooth Fairy a letter requesting a new Barbie.

Lucy and Hope worked together on the letter asking for the doll, permission to keep Lucy's tooth and requesting information, including the Tooth Fairy's age and real name.  And the Tooth Fairy (A 500+-year-old fairy named Fatina, apparently) did not disappoint.  The girls were thrilled that the she wrote back, answered all their questions, left the tooth as requested and even fulfilled the somewhat unreasonable appeal  for such an extravagant reward.  The Tooth Fairy is, indeed, magical.

I’m certain the Tooth Fairy can’t sustain the $10 per tooth price tag and will go back to leaving a single dollar under the pillow, but (and I’m just guessing here) probably not until Ben has had his pie-in-the-sky, magical, $10 Tooth Fairy moment.

I hope no one will be disappointed when she goes back to the single dollar adorned with a shiny heart.  I hope we can simply appreciate that for one night – one tooth only – the Tooth Fairy did something extra-special for us.  Something magical.  And wouldn't this world be just a little more magical if we could simply appreciate the gifts we have been given without expectation or entitlement?  As difficult as that is to do, it may be even more difficult to teach our kids.  But like anything else, I believe the best way is by example.  Who knows?  Maybe it’s the only way. 

Some time ago, a dear friend and I read a book about the Lost Boys of the Sudan.  We were both deeply moved by the personal accounts of these boys who suffered so much and persevered against all odds.  Since then, in the moments we are tempted to complain about things that are perhaps not so important in the grand scheme of life, we remind ourselves (and frequently our children), “At least we don’t have lice in our pants.”  Don’t like this brand of chicken nuggets?  Hair braids not exactly the way you wanted them?  Didn’t get to use the bathroom first?  Have a bedroom that's too small?  At least we don’t have lice in our pants.

Last night at bedtime, Lucy was feeling sad about all the things we’ve lost recently.  She was upset about how different things have become and bemoaning the loss of familiar things - the polka dots on the walls of her old room, my photography business, our cat, Chugger, and a host of other things that are gone.  I cried with her, hugged her tight and rubbed her back while she fell asleep, whispering to her over and over again that we have the most important things and those things will not be lost.  We have love.  And we have each other.

Today I will appreciate the many gifts I've been given and I will encourage my children to do the same, because today I don’t have lice in my pants.  Today the world is magical.  Today I am grateful, thanks to the Lost Boys of the Sudan.  And the Tooth Fairy.

Thinking About You Thinking About Me

Ben's been asking some difficult questions lately.  In any given weekend Lucy might go to a friend's house to play, attend a birthday party and have a friend spend the night.  Ben asked recently why he never has sleepovers and we he never goes to a friend's house to play.  I looked around hoping there was someone... anyone... to field this question for me.  Finding no one, I took a deep breath, put my shoulders back, got my emotions in check and forged ahead.  Like I always do.  We talked about forming frriendships, about fitting in, about being true to yourself and remembering to "think about you thinking about me."

Social impairment marked by an inability to take the perspective of another person is at the heart of autism.  This is sometimes called mind-blindness.  We spend a lot of time working with our autistic kids to help them consider what other people might be thinking and feeling, but only after first teaching them that other people even have thoughts and feelings separate from their own.  We do exercises and play games to encourage this type of social thinking which does not come easily for them.  We dedicate countless hours to helping develop what's called "theory of mind," something that comes naturally for typical children.  But with our kids, it's a process without end.  It's something with which our kids will likely always struggle and it's a thought process that will never be second nature for them.  So we talk about it.  We work on it.  We spend a lot of time considering what others might be thinking and feeling.

But what occurs to me tonight is that we neuro-typicals (typically developing or "normal" people) might do well to consider what our autistic friends are thinking and feeling.  They spend countless hours considering our thoughts and feelings.  Maybe we should spend just a few minutes considering theirs.  One in 110 American children is a lot of people on the autism spectrum.  Your kids go to school with someone on the spectrum.  An autistic person works in your office, your bank or your grocery.  Maybe if we considered - just for a moment - how hard they might be working to fit in with what our society considers normal, we might be a little more tolerant of comments that are a bit too blunt, conversation that seems one-sided and awkward, their failure to recognize our emotions and an impaired ability to regulate their own emotions.  We might be, quite simply... more tolerant.

I spend a lot of time teaching my Ben to consider what you are thinking and feeling.  It is my great hope that at the same time I might also be teaching you to consider - if even just a little - what he might be thinking and feeling.  My Ben and countless other kids like him.  Because one in 110 is a lot of kids.  Maybe we should get to know them.

Just the Right Size

The kids and I moved last week. We rented a house with another single mom and her two kids and we’re squeezing into this 5-bedroom house so that we can save money and enjoy the support of living in a two-adult household. It’s a little unconventional, but it’s going to work beautifully. Getting settled into the new digs is a bit of a challenge, however.


When we signed the lease for this house, there were lengthy discussions about who would have which bedroom. The girls agreed that they would share the biggest room in the house. Maggie and I each decided on a moderately-sized room and Dylan and Ben made their choices between the fourth, moderately-sized bedroom and the fifth, tiny closet-of-a-bedroom. The boy who took the moderately-sized room would have to be willing to give up said room when guests stayed overnight. Dylan selected this option and Ben opted for the tiny room with the benefit of never having to give it up for guests.

When it was nearing time to move, I went to Ben’s room to discuss what furniture we might sell to shoe-horn him into the 8 x 11 room he had selected (and that measurement includes the closet). He looked at me like I was crazy. He just wasn’t getting the concept that he and all his furniture wouldn’t fit in the new room so I got some blue, painter’s tape and taped out the size of his new room on the floor of his old, larger room so that he could see the difference. He nearly panicked, saying the room would absolutely not work - pointing out that he would never be able to have a dance contest in a room that size (for example).

I have no desire to live in a room that is roughly the size of a jail cell, but I looked at Ben and his near-panic and said, “You know what, Ben? You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking,” and agreed to take the tiny room so that he could have a room in which he could hold a dance contest, line up maps of all 50 states or stack an entire tub of action figures on top of a cup. Or whatever else his heart desires. Because Ben having space in which he’s comfortable and can do his thing should really be the first order of business in any Heagler house.

So, I’m cramming myself and my belongings into this tiny, little room. And trying really hard not to resent it. I’m not going to lie – it’s not been easy.

Our first several days here, Ben was incredibly stressed. He cried and yelled a lot. At one point he screamed at me until he was hoarse that no one ever thinks of him and that no one cares about him. It took everything I have not to tell him that I had thought very little of anything other than him throughout the entire move. From giving him the larger room, to staying up most of the night before move-day to make sure his room would be perfect when he arrived at the new house, I have considered Ben every step of the way. I know that he may never realize how very much I do think of him, how much I accommodate him, how much he enters into my decision-making in nearly everything I do. I’ve accepted that he’ll most likely never get it. And most days it doesn’t bother me.

But maybe I’ve been selling Ben short.

This afternoon he returned with Lucy from a weekend at their dad’s house. I worked like a woman possessed all weekend to make sure there was progress in the unpacking and that the house would seem somewhat less chaotic when he returned. I’m physically exhausted, my body aches and emotionally I’m quite simply spent. But tonight, Ben seemed considerably calmer and more relaxed. He smiled, laughed, told stories and hung out with us most of the night – only disappearing into his room for brief periods and not once screaming uncontrollably even when he did disappear into his room. Any amount of work I did, any physical exhaustion, any level of stress was absolutely worth it because tonight, Ben was happy.

When he went to his room at the end of the night, he asked if he could take with him a game we had been playing. The game has cards that detail historical events in several categories that players must put in chronological order in groups of five. We agreed to let him take it to his room and he barely let me tell him good night before he started lining those cards up on the floor (something that would not have been possible in the smaller bedroom). As I was walking out the door I said to him, “Ben, I’m really glad I gave you the bigger room,” and I honestly meant it. He stopped what he was doing, looked directly at me and even touched my arm when he said, “Thank you, mom.”

Maybe on some level Ben realizes and appreciates the things we do for him. Maybe the things we do are meaningful to him. Just maybe, Ben “gets it” more than I give him credit for.

Later, when I went to my room, I saw with complete clarity that a room sized 8 x 11 (including the closet) is precisely the right size for me. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.