When I Grow Up

Ben and I sat together on my bed last night and talked about what he wants to be when he grows up. A completely normal and wonderful conversation to have with a ten-year-old boy, but with a healthy dose of ‘out-of-left-field’—it was a Heagler family conversation, after all.

He thinks he might want to be a professional football player and he spent a lot of time telling me which team he hoped would sign him, based not only on what he predicts their chances of winning a championship during his time on the team to be, but also on whether or not he deems them to be a “talented group of guys.” Never mind that Ben has never played football (or any sport for that matter). Or that any time I've asked if he’d like to try playing a sport he’s declined. Add to all of that the fact that he’d very likely find football particularly difficult given the amount of human contact involved, and what you have is a highly unlikely scenario for what Ben might be when he grows up. No matter, though, because today Ben thinks he has a real shot at being a player in the National Football League someday. Maybe for the New England Patriots (a talented group of guys).

Next he said he might like to own a store instead. “What kind of store?” I asked. “I’d like to own a store that sells stuff that people don’t think is cool, but really is, like suspenders and berets and stuff.” “Stuff that’s so uncool it’s cool?” “Exactly.”


I paused to mull that over for a moment, appreciating the symmetry of this particular idea coming from my Ben. It was then, while I was basking in pride for my son and appreciation for just how incredibly cool he really is, that he admitted conspiratorially that neither professional football player nor the owner of a So Uncool It’s Cool store was his first choice for what he wants to be when he grows up. Apparently, what Ben would most like to be when he’s all grown up is a DJ. In a candy store.

I probably should have seen that coming. After all, he did say in a recent conversation about heroes that his were Neil Diamond and Mr. Peanut.

Come to think of it, during that same conversation, Lucy claimed that Flo from Progressive was her hero.

Maybe now's a good time to check in with Lucy about what she wants to be when she grows up.

I'll get back to you.

Control Freak

 “If you hold on to the handle, she said, it’s easier to maintain the illusion of control. But it’s more fun if you just let the wind carry you.” –Brian Andreas

Maggie’s parents and her 90-year-old grandmother have arrived from Ohio. They’re moving here to be close to Maggie and a bigger part of their grandkids’ lives. They’ve rented a house nearby, but stayed with us for a few days while they readied the house and waited for the truck with their belongings to arrive. So the Crandler house has been even more chaotic than usual (if you can imagine).

One morning, Maggie’s dad found me in the kitchen getting my coffee, put his arm around my shoulders and poked a little fun at me with a keen observation: “Every morning I walk past your room and see your perfectly-made bed and I would swear, were it not for the fact that there’s not enough floor space in your room to do so, that you had slept on the floor next to it, rather than in it. And every morning I think, 'there’s someone trying to carve out a little slice of order amid chaos'.”

Maggie’s dad is a very astute man.

I do, in fact, protect rather fiercely the 8 x 11-foot space in this house that is mine alone, for I am one who appreciates order and predictability and who enjoys at least some measure of control when it is possible. Perhaps it’s no surprise that I have a son who very nearly requires these things.

Recently, a long break from school, the holidays and the arrival of Maggie’s family has made for an extended interruption of our routine, and Ben, understandably, has been a little off his game. I encourage him to try different strategies to cope with his anxiety with some success, but it’s an arduous (and probably life-long) process for Ben and kids like him. So, in addition to encouraging him to work hard to accept what he cannot control, I work hard to control what I can for him. You might call it over-parenting or hovering, or even whisper “helicopter-mom” or "control freak" behind my back. Unless you’ve walked in my shoes (or perhaps lived in my household) it would be difficult to understand.

I serve donuts on Sunday morning… no matter what. And say the exact same thing at bedtime every night… no matter what. And always, always serve corn on the white plates (never the green)… no matter what.  I control what little I can for Ben because there’s so very much that I cannot. I consider it to be just about the least I can do for him.

I will most certainly continue to hold on tight to the handle so that I might maintain the illusion of control when it helps Ben…or me. And I will do so unapologetically. But I will also try to remember to let go whenever I can and experience the fun of letting the wind carry me.

The Space Between

An old friend called this week and told me a story about introducing a woman he’s been dating to a visiting family member. Politeness dictated she come inside and meet my friend’s aunt, but she wasn’t ready to meet the family and it resulted in tension between them. I told my friend that while I understood his girlfriend's not being ready, I hoped she understood that there was a lot of space between coming inside and politely saying hello to a boyfriend’s visiting aunt and joining his entire family for their Christmas morning celebration.

And that got me thinking about space.

My boyfriend and I are in kind of a weird place at the moment. Ours is a long-distance relationship, but we’ve decided we want to be together permanently. He plans to move to Seattle and we’re both so excited about the prospect we can hardly stand it. But between the prospect and the reality is a lot of space. Finding a job, a place to live and the money to fund the move all have to happen before he can get here. We’re trying to not let the stress of all that must happen before we can be together diminish our happiness, but it’s hard. Some days the space between the prospect and the reality seems insurmountable.

My sweet Ben is doing so well in school that he might “test out” of special education services at the end of the school year. I’m so proud of his incredible progress and yet so scared of how he will handle it when he must go it alone at school. The space between appearing typical enough to test out of services and actually leading a typical existence scares me. What if I can’t provide him all the help he needs?

I’ve written recently about some pretty big projects to which I’ve committed myself, and at the risk of sounding like a broken record, I worry that I’ll disappoint someone, most likely myself.  The space between my intentions—to chair the autism walk successfully, complete the school yearbook on time, finish the first 50 pages of a book, submit articles to publications on a regular basis (and of course, mail birthday cards in a timely fashion)—and that which I will actually accomplish is causing me to feel anxious.

I’ve been feeling scared, frustrated, overwhelmed and apprehensive about the space between, but my conversation with an old friend—the one that got me thinking—made me realize that I’ve been looking at it all wrong. The space between isn’t something to be feared, endured or overcome. In fact, the space between may just be what life is all about. In “Beautiful Boy,” John Lennon wrote, “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.” Perhaps the key is simply learning to find some joy, no matter how small, in  that space between. That space where life happens.

The space between exchanging niceties and joining the family, between prospect and reality, your child’s reliance on you and his burgeoning independence. The space between an idea for a book and a completed work, between economic struggle and financial freedom, intentions and accomplishments. Quite simply, the space between where you are and where you’re going—between who you are and who you want to be. Life happens in the space between and I believe it’s possible that whether or not we can find joy in that space may very well determine if we can find joy in life.

As I did this week, I often have to remind myself to look for the joy in that space between. Sometimes I have to look very hard. But each time I manage to find some joy there, I hope I’m teaching my children an enduring lesson: always keep an eye on where you’re going, but remember to find joy in the space between while you’re getting there. Revel in the messy, undone-ness of it all. Embrace the possibilities that can only exist in that space. Feel the fear that lives there and move forward anyway. And when you get to where you’re going, celebrate your success, enjoy the rewards of having gotten there and even pat yourself on the back.

And then, Ben and Lucy…make some more space.

A Beautiful World, a Life That's Too Short & Plenty of Big-Girl Panties

 “She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful and life was so short.” –Brian Andreas.

Not only is life short, but it also seems to fly by at breakneck speed. And like most everyone, I often find myself short on time. I wrote a post here recently in which I lamented my many shortcomings of 2011 and promised to model my future behavior after the illustrious and prolific Harry Harold, the Heagler Elf-on-the-Shelf. I even went so far as to strongly imply that I would send you a birthday card in 2012. It’s possible I spoke too soon, however, so please don’t hold your breath. I’d hate to be responsible for your passing out and hitting your head.

After the 2011 autism walk, the co-chairs of the event and the Pacific Northwest Manager of Autism Speaks invited me to dinner to celebrate our success and talk about the 2012 walk. I knew that they would ask me to be more involved in the planning committee and on the day I was scheduled to meet with them, my roommate, the consummate volunteer, sat me down over breakfast and gave me a talking-to about knowing when to say “no."

I went to dinner fully expecting them to encourage me to become a full-fledged member of the planning committee and reasonably prepared to say “no.” So you can imagine my surprise when they asked me to co-chair the 2012 Walk. Co-chair an event of this caliber? But that's a big-girl job! And even more surprising than being asked was hearing the word “yes” come out of my mouth. I’m still not entirely sure what came over me. I am, admittedly, a little concerned that I've agreed to something that’s beyond my skill set. But I’ve decided to put on my big-girl panties and give it my best shot (fortunately I have about 47 pairs from which to choose—big-girl panties can be hot-pink lace or leopard-print...right?). So 15 minutes into dinner and I'm co-chairing Walk Now for Autism Speaks Puget Sound 2012 (and did I mention 2013 as well?). Why not, right? Now that the holiday season is over I have an open slot in my schedule from midnight to 2:00 am.

In 2012 it’s likely I’ll continue to cry at least once each day because the world is so beautiful and life is so short. But the cry will have to be brief because I have a lot of work to do. And nothing could make me happier.

True Believers

A couple of days ago, Lucy couldn’t wait to wake me up and show me what Harry Harold, our Elf on the Shelf, was up to. She dragged me out of bed and into the living room, talking excitedly, bouncing around the room and making sure I took in every detail of the scene. Harry was sitting on the couch, watching the movie, “Elf”, with a couple of toy elves. He had consumed nearly an entire two-liter bottle of Coke (to which he was still clinging) and spilled popcorn and syrup all over the table. Lucy was beside herself.

Then Ben walked in. He looked first at the television, then at Harry on the couch with the toy elves, and finally at the mess on the table without saying a word or showing any reaction. He grabbed a blanket, sat down next to Harry and started watching the movie. A moment passed while Lucy and I looked at Ben, then at each other and back at him. Finally Ben broke the silence. Without taking his eyes from the television, he nonchalantly said, "Hi, Harry. Can I have a sip?”

And in that moment I saw so clearly both the similarities and the stark differences between my children. True believers, both of them, yet so very different—one who marvels at magic and one who expects nothing less. Each mindset perfectly suited to the child who possesses it.  Each outlook flawlessly pure, undeniably beautiful and the tiniest bit heart-breaking. Just like them.

 Don’t stop believing, Heaglers. I can’t wait to see where your magic will take you.

What Would Harry Harold Do?

So here’s the thing: while, by most accounts, it’s been a banner year for me, I feel as though I’ve let some things slip through the cracks.

• How many of you got a birthday card from me this year? I can tell you it wasn't very many.
• How often have the kids and I gotten together with my beloved Boozy Mommies and their delightful children? Not nearly enough.
• Did I forget that your mom was in the hospital, your daughter was trying out for cheerleading, or your son was waiting to hear about a college scholarship? Yep. I probably did.
• Did I fail miserably to accomplish my goal of posting to this blog at least once each week? Yes, I’m afraid I did.
• Did I haphazardly slap together my kids’ birthday parties at the last minute? Uh huh. I did that too.
• And don’t even get me started on that towering stack of papers on my desk at home that never seems to get any smaller.

I'm sorry for all of the above, I truly am. Looking at that list, you might think I completely suck (or more to the point, I might think I completely suck) were it not for a few good things I did this year as well. I took on more time-consuming roles as a volunteer and I did spend time on my writing albeit outside of this blog, attending a writer’s conference and even entering a contest. I raised so much money for Autism Speaks I was asked to speak at the opening ceremonies of their walk. And oh yeah, I added a whole new relationship to my life. A whole new person to love. A whole new wonderful, thrilling, not-sure-how-I-lived-without-him way to spend my time and energy (thank goodness).

And while I certainly wouldn't wish away any of these exciting, new things in my life, I do wish I could have all these and still keep up with everything else that means so much to me, most importantly being a thoughtful friend and good mother. I want to have my cake and eat it to. Who doesn't? I mean what’s the point of cake if you’re not going to eat it—am I right?

So maybe this is a time of transition in my life and I need to modify my expectations a bit, rethink my time-management and prioritize more thoughtfully. Or maybe I just need to ask myself, “What would Harry Harold do?”

Harry Harold is our Elf on the Shelf. A truly beloved holiday tradition for the Heagler family, Harry is pure magic—pure don’t-care-how-long-it-takes, get-the-job-done, who-needs-sleep?—magic. Harry doesn’t think twice about spending an hour prying apart an entire bag of stale marshmallows to stage a snowball fight with Lego Guys or meticulously frosting Cheerios to make donuts for an elf tea party. He doesn't bat an eye about losing sleep to finish someone's laundry (folding it super-tiny) or put up the Christmas tree so it would be ready to decorate in the morning. He doesn’t balk at making a huge mess to delight the children of the house even knowing he’ll have to clean it up himself. Harry goes the extra mile, always thinks of others and never forgets what’s important. And he’s hilarious to boot.

Harry is my idol and “What would Harry Harold do?” may just be my new motto.  Expect big things from me in 2012…maybe even a birthday card. It could happen.

How Many Times?

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." -Elizabeth Stone.

But what happens when the child walking around with your heart is particularly vulnerable? When he cries because he’s not invited to a party, my heart breaks right along with his. When he simply cannot manage what is expected of him, no matter how hard he tries, my heart breaks along with his. When unkind words cause him pain, my heart breaks with his. I often wonder just how many times my heart can break.

But whenever it seems my heart can’t break one more time, something will happen—something rare, pure and beautiful. He’ll be invited to a friend’s house to play. He’ll successfully navigate a tricky social situation as if it were second nature. Maybe he’ll even be elected Student Council Vice President amid a field of 30 students vying for only four officers’ positions. Or who knows? Maybe...just maybe...he'll shoot for the moon and try roller-skating. It could happen.

When Ben told me he wanted to run for Student Council office I was worried. What if he didn’t win? Would his reaction upon hearing the news of his loss in his classroom, among his peers, cause him embarrassment and alienation? I worried, but I didn’t stop him. Instead I helped him. I made sure he brought home the proper forms and signed up on time, ensured he followed all the rules about posters, listened to him practice his speech and role-played all the possible scenarios for when the winners were announced. I prepared him the best I could and then sat back and watched. Admittedly concerned, but (as luck would have it) needlessly.

I was able to go to school and watch the assembly where the candidates presented their campaign speeches. Ben didn’t seem at all anxious and did a great job, even throwing in an unrehearsed finger-point on “I want to be your Student Council Vice President.” But on the morning the winners were to be announced, he must have felt nervous because when I told him I needed to get to work, but that his special educator would be there should he need help, he paused, looked at me and said, “Can you come instead, mom?”

How could I refuse? I made a few calls and went to school with him. And I’m so glad I did, but not because Ben needed my help dealing with disappointment, instead I got to witness a truly exciting moment in his life. (But just barely, because while I was trying to appear cool, as if I was simply helping out in the classroom that morning, I left the room to make some copies and just made it back when the intercom crackled.) When the winners were announced, Ben’s name was among them. The room erupted in congratulations from his classmates and his smile was positively electric. It was pure magic.

A couple of weeks later, perhaps buoyed by his Student Council success, he decided to go to the school roller-skating party for the first time and he even wanted to try skating. I was nervous, but I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Let’s do it.”

Apparently I didn’t hide my dread as well as I thought, though, because Ben asked, “Mom, are you terrified?”

                                                      

I put an arm around him and said, “Not unless you are, Ben,” and off we went.

That night, Ben did something I didn’t think he’d ever do…he roller-skated. (I’m not even kidding.) And after a while, I think he even liked it…a little. I got blisters on my feet from stalking him—skating slowly behind him until he sensed me there and shooed me away and then racing around to check on him again, I skated roughly three laps for each of his one—trying to appear nonchalant while watching closely for signs of trouble. Seeing him slowly (and oh-so-awkwardly) propel his body around the rink took my breath away as if he were speed skating in the Olympics.  Another incredible achievement for Ben that I certainly could not have predicted—and just when I thought I couldn't be any more proud of him. He never ceases to amaze me.

I’m certain I will still periodically wonder just how many times my heart can break as it walks around with Ben, outside my body in this great big world that often seems like it wasn't really made for him. And while there’s no way to know the answer to that question, I know one thing for certain...my heart can break at least one more time than Ben’s can.

So keep shooting for the moon, Ben. I'll be right here to scoop you up should you fall (but far enough away so that your friends won’t notice—I promise).