We're Gonna Go It Alone

The Universe seems to be telling me something these days. Repeatedly. Loudly. Somewhat annoyingly. (Not unlike my children now that I think about it.) According to the Universe, it’s time for me to go it alone. I’m not sure why. And I’m definitely not sure I like it. Does the Universe think I need more time for introspection? That hardly seems reasonable. I turn myself inside-out and back again on a pretty regular basis—often right here in this blog for all the world to see. Do my kids need an example of strength and perseverance? Surely I’ve already provided that. I fall down and get back up more than one of those punching bags with the clown face that bounces back when you punch it. Could it be that I simply have more to learn? I’m not yet fully-formed? I have more miles to go before I’m the person I’m destined to be? Or is the Universe just a mean-spirited bitch who would dangle the comfort of support and companionship in front of me like a gourmet cupcake only to snatch it away when I reach for its salted-caramel goodness? Nah. That couldn’t be it. Could it?

Last week I sat in a meeting where I received the results of Ben’s three-year re-evaluation for Special Education services and signed off on the recommendation of his team. Reluctantly. The recommendation was to move him from an Individual Education Plan, which falls under the umbrella of Special Education, to a 504 Plan, which does not. A 504 Plan can provide many things—a behavioral plan, checklists, check-ins and accommodations for small-group testing or keyboarding  among other things. But the 504 is administered by the school psychologist whom I don’t know at all, not the Resource Room Coordinator whom we trust implicitly, depend on without reservation and love like a treasured friend.  Sandy has been my lifeline at school for five years and the thought of Ben heading into sixth grade without the safety-net Sandy provides scares me. And the thought of him transitioning after sixth grade to middle school without the benefit of Special Education services truly terrifies me. But according to the Shoreline School District, it’s time for us to go it alone. And with much trepidation, that’s exactly what we’ll do.

The intoxicatingly romantic, wonderfully exciting relationship I’ve enjoyed for the past year—a relationship I was sure would last a lifetime—has fallen victim to my recent struggle with a major depressive episode. A casualty of my inability to connect from the depths of the rabbit hole I found myself in, or perhaps his reaction to that inability. I hung on as long as I could, hoping to avoid heartbreak, until it became painfully clear my heart was already broken—probably his too. My strong need to first and foremost be true to myself and to always protect my psyche, my soul and all that makes me “me” finally demanded that I face the truth. Sadly, it was time for me to go it alone. And with a heart so heavy I can hardly bear it, that’s just what I’ll do.

The lease on Chez Crandler is up at the end of June. After nearly two years of living together, the Crandlers will forever be family in my book, but we’ve decided it’s time we each had our own place to live (but we’ll have a key to the other’s house, of course—you never know when I might need to sneak a scary clown mask into Maggie’s bed ). It was a difficult decision, but one with which both families have made peace. And while there are things about having our own place again I’m looking forward to, there are so many things about living with the Crandells I will miss terribly. Thankfully, Ben’s biggest concern about something he would miss was dispelled almost immediately.

“But we won’t get to see Goose and G anymore!” Goose and G are Maggie’s parents and have become, by extension, my kids’ surrogate grandparents in the time they’ve lived here. Ben and Lucy’s own grandparents live far away and as much they’d like to, can’t often come to piano recitals, school orchestra concerts and sporting events. Goose and G treat Ben and Lucy’s events the same as their own grandkids’—they wouldn’t miss them for the world. So when Ben voiced his concern about not seeing Goose and G, Dylan quickly assured him, “Ben, that would never happen. Even if you wanted that to happen it wouldn’t.” To which Maggie added, “Oh Ben, you’re stuck with Goose and G, honey,” to Ben’s obvious relief.

Are the Crandlers a Family? Definitely. Roommates? Not for much longer, I’m afraid. It’s time for the Heaglers to go it alone. And with incredibly-mixed emotions that’s what we’ll do.

If there’s a lesson to be learned from this recent trend, it eludes me. Maybe in time I’ll feel I was given an opportunity, presented with a crossroads or offered a chance to grow. But right now I feel a little lost, scared and alone. And truth be told, I also feel a teeny bit like telling the Universe to shut her pie-hole. But who knows? Maybe that’s just as it should be. Perhaps those are all the feelings I need to move through so that I can move forward.

Or maybe the Universe really is a mean-spirited bitch.

Whatever the case may be, I’m ready to give in and see what happens next. So, all right already. I’ll go it alone. But don’t come crying to me, Universe, when I hatch a plot to take over the world using an international, underground network of boozy mommies and secret messages printed on wine corks. Consider yourself warned.

Brake Repair

"You cannot teach a man anything. You can only help him discover it within himself." -Galileo Galilei

The school district is currently re-evaluating Ben for special education services—a process that is required every three years. A variety of evaluation methods are used, including parent-reports. So a couple of weeks ago I sat down to answer 86 questions with Never, Sometimes or Often on a Behavior Rating Inventory of Executive Function as part of the process. I asked Maggie to go through the questions with me to offer her opinions as someone who has lived with Ben for nearly two years and to provide a sounding board for my perceptions as well. Many questions made us snicker and wish for an “Always” option, but question #55, “Has trouble putting the brakes on his/her actions,” caused me to turn to Maggie completely aghast and say, “Hold on. Ben came with brakes? Good lord—why didn’t anyone tell me? Those don't work at all! I need to get those looked at!”

Maggie chuckled and said, “Yes Lori. They’re standard equipment, but I guess it makes sense you wouldn’t have realized it. Lucy’s don’t work either.” Then it was my turn to chuckle. “I guess you’re right,” I said, cocking my head to one side and gazing up at the ceiling, lost in thoughts of my brakeless children careening through life at terrifying speed, wondering where they got such defective parts. Then Maggie jolted me back to reality when she cleared her throat and I realized she was staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Yours don’t work either.”

And I started to say, “What on earth are you talking about?” with just the right amount of righteous indignation, but the words stuck in my throat when my mind flashed to my illustrious, half-baked college career that I insisted must take place 1,200 miles from home for absolutely no logical reason, my (count them) three marriages, my take-no-prisoners mission to have children after the scare of losing an ovary at the age of 30, and more recently the 400 puzzle pieces I hand-cut for an Autism Awareness display at school (my hand still hurts a little) - just to name a few. Frankly, it was a dizzying array of images.

So instead of an indignant, “What on earth are you talking about?” I went with a nearly-imperceptible head-nod and, “Huh.”


It seems my brakes don’t work either and I might just be the last person to realize it. Who knew answering 86 questions about my autistic son’s behavior (and a good-natured barb from my keenly insightful roommate) would help me discover something new about myself.

And now that I realize they're broken, I should probably get my brakes looked at. Or not. I'm pretty proud of the awareness raised with those puzzle pieces and their accompanying autism fact-sheet.


And that take-no-prisoners mission to have kids after a health scare? That worked out pretty well too.

Until All the Pieces Fit

Puzzle piece created by the
daughter of a dear friend

This week I replaced my porch lights once again with blue bulbs in honor of World Autism Awareness Day. I “Lit It Up Blue” to shine a light on autism. But this year, wanting to go a step (OK several steps) further, I made a plan to Light It Up Blue at the kids’ elementary school as well.

I got permission to do an Autism Awareness display in the lobby. I was thinking strings of blue lights, an informational bulletin board and maybe an art project with puzzle pieces for the kids to decorate. But when I sat down with the person in charge of lobby displays, she didn't think my idea of asking the teachers to do an art project would fly. It’s close to standardized test time. Preparations are under way and teachers simply don’t have time for anything extra this time of year. She suggested sending home puzzle pieces for each of the school’s more than 500 students in their weekly “boomerang folder” with an informational sheet on autism attached. I thought it was genius. The kids could participate if they chose to without burdening the teachers and I could get an autism fact sheet in the hands of a lot of parents. But I hadn’t really planned on personally cutting out more than 500 puzzle pieces (and I wasn't entirely sure it was even possible in the time I had available). I told her I’d think about it overnight, but who was I kidding? Of course I was going to do it (despite Maggie's objection to the unreasonableness of the endeavor and insistence that there must be another way to do it and contention that somebody had to stop me and some other stuff about the Voice of Reason). The Voice of Reason and I have never really spoken the same language.

I made a plea for volunteers and gave out puzzle pieces to cut in packs of 25 to everyone who offered to help. And then I started cutting. Over four days, I cut puzzle pieces pretty much non-stop. I not only cut them while I watched TV, I cut while the girls roller-skated at Lucy’s birthday party, while the kids and I waited for dinner at our favorite local restaurant and while I got my hair colored. Truth be told, the act of cutting the puzzle pieces, in itself, raised awareness—at least in my little corner of the world—with all the explaining I did to the friendly strangers  curious enough to ask what the hell I was doing. By the end of the weekend I had personally cut more than 400 puzzle pieces, Maggie had cut nearly 100 (I knew she would...once she had given up on trying to save me from myself) and my rag-tag group of the all-time coolest volunteers on the planet had cut 250.  It was enough to put one in the hands of every kid at school and still have enough left over for the preschoolers and the extended-care kids to do a project with them.

I put up the display along with a few puzzle pieces decorated by the Crandler kids and my intrepid volunteers and waited for decorated puzzle pieces to come in and fill up the rest of the board. The more that came in, the better it looked. My sweet friend, Sandra, who has personally stapled dozens of these sublimely unique puzzle pieces to the bulletin board, said it’s the wall that love built. And I couldn’t agree more.

Ben's puzzle piece

Tonight Ben finally completed his puzzle piece for the Light It Up Blue display in the lobby at school. He took one of my blank puzzle pieces, turned it upside down and drew a face of a man with buck-teeth and a pencil-thin mustache. Under the buck-teeth he wrote the word Dictionary and under that he wrote the first 24 words in his pocket dictionary. Under that, he divided the round part of the puzzle piece vertically and drew mirror images of mountains which he labeled “Mt. Rainier” and “Mt. St. Helens”. And all around the outside of the puzzle piece he wrote "LIGHT IT UP" over and over again. It’s completely random, a bit peculiar and altogether wonderful. Just like him. I wouldn't have it any other way.

It’s Autism Awareness month and the Crandlers are shining a light on autism. You can too. Ask me how.

Maggie's puzzle piece representing
her corner of Ben's world.
I especially love that Lego Guy & Scary Clown are among
his army of supporters, friends & protectors on this piece. 

For more information about autism:

Click here to visit the Autism Speaks website or Click here to visit Autism Society's website

To donate to Autism Speaks on behalf of Team Heagler: Click here to donate to Autism Speaks on behalf of Team Heagler

GET OUT!

Most days Maggie goes to work at 8:00 am. The kids don’t have to be at school until 9:00, however, and having little faith in the ability of four 9 to 12-year-old kids to get out the door on time on their own, I wait until they’ve gone before I leave for work. Truth be told, I watch them go, spend a few minutes checking for forgotten lunches, instruments or homework, wait a few more minutes to see if anyone comes sprinting back for a forgotten item, then chase them down in the car with whatever it is before heading to work. I could let you believe that I’m mother-of-the-year, magnanimously attending to the needs of the Crandler urchins as they set out for a day at school, but who am I kidding? You’d never believe that.

The truth is, when Maggie leaves for work, I take my coffee and go downstairs. I get dressed, dry my hair, make my bed and generally ignore the kids and any needs they might have. Sure, I could remind them to keep an eye the time. I could call out periodically how many minutes they have before they need to leave. But where would be the sport in that? That would completely ruin the fun of standing at the front door, bellowing, “GET OUT!” at the top of my lungs and watching them scurry about furiously, putting on coats, gathering their things, periodically shouting, “Oh crap!” to no one in particular and sometimes even knocking each other down in the process. Honestly, it never gets old.  

Those bumbling kids start my day off with a giggle every time, albeit at their expense, but it could be argued that I'm teaching them a valuable lesson in time management. That's it! That's just what I'm doing (at least that's the story I'm sticking with). Maybe I'm mother-of-the-year after all.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Today I have health insurance. There’s a sentence I haven’t been able to say for the last three years. I recently convinced my employer to purchase health insurance for me and to say that I feel relieved would be the mother of all understatements. For three years my access to health care has been minimal. Routine tests and check-ups I once took for granted have not been possible and perhaps most notably, my chronic depression has gone untreated.


A couple of years ago, during a particularly difficult time, I scraped together enough money for one visit to a therapist I had seen previously. We had a frank discussion about the dangers of leaving chronic depression untreated. She described my baseline of depression as something that would not go away without treatment. Period. But she was more concerned about major depressive episodes left unchecked. She described it as my depression going through periods of relapse and remission, but progressing with each cycle. In other words, every time I went down that rabbit hole, I went a little deeper and came up just a little short of the top when I climbed back up. She advised me to begin taking anti-depressants, which had worked well for me in the past, and never stop once I found a medication and a dose that worked well. I didn't disagree, but when you’re uninsured and on a limited budget, that’s easier said than done.

Unfortunately, even when I found medication I could afford, without health insurance there was never room in my budget for the doctor’s visits necessary to monitor it and keep the prescription current. And when I tried to find low-cost options, I could never quite make it through the requisite maze of programs not accepting patients, calls not returned and waiting lists. I would set out with the best of intentions, but lose steam, my nerve and sadly, hope before ever finding the help I needed. The devil is in the details and those details are kryptonite for those who suffer from depression.

But today I have health insurance and not a moment too soon because I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole again and I really, really want to get the hell out of here. Quite frankly, it sucks down here.

Armed with my shiny, new health insurance, I visited a psychiatrist a couple of weeks ago to begin the process of finding a medication to help me out of this place and keep me from coming back. Side effects of these drugs can be incredibly difficult and often appear right away, so I took a deep breath and steeled myself before I began the medication she prescribed. As if on cue, two hours later my heart began to race, my anxiety increased, I shook uncontrollably, lost my appetite entirely and felt horribly nauseous. As it’s not my first time at this particular rodeo, I knew I should give it ten days to see if the side effects would abate, so I put my head down and rode it out. Frankly, I find it to be an inexcusable flaw in these drugs that side effects present immediately and with the force of a ton of bricks, yet the positive effects take weeks to notice at all and even then, build slowly over time.

It took all ten days—ten seriously crappy days—but nearly all the side effects have subsided now. My appetite hasn’t quite returned, but I’m no longer nauseous and most things have stopped tasting terrible. It’s a world gone mad (or perhaps brain chemicals gone mad) when I find red wine repellent.  That god that's over and I’m back to “just” a deep depression complete with confusion that makes me wonder if I’m crazy and anxiety that too often rises to full-blown panic attacks. But with any luck, relief is a mere three to seven weeks away. (Thank you Forest Pharmaceuticals.)

I’m what’s known as a high-functioning depressive. I keep up appearances, do what’s expected of me. The casual observer would never know the shit-storm that’s going on inside my head. The luxury of a breakdown is something I simply can’t afford, and let’s face it, who among us can? The perfect piano recital dress isn’t going to find itself, and 30 elementary school kids aren’t going to produce a yearbook on their own, and, and, and. We all have so many “ands.” Keeping up appearances is exhausting, however, and the relationships on which I most I depend can suffer as a result. I consider those closest to me a safe place to stop pretending to have it all together, to cry or hide, or not talk and have that be OK. But while I’m reveling in the relief of letting my facade slip, those closest to me can feel neglected or even rejected. It’s a seemingly impossible dynamic, but one I feel powerless to change.

Because down in this rabbit hole things are strange, painful and confusing. I feel like I’m shrinking down here, literally folding in on myself. It’s as if I’ve pulled in all my exposed parts and I’m holding all of “me” close for protection. This is how I’ve always done it. It’s a skill, really. A skill born out of necessity from years without treatment, as a teenager because I didn't understand what I was dealing with and as an adult when I’ve been unable to afford what I need. It’s the only way I've ever found to live down here. I fold myself up, grit my teeth, clinch my fists and focus intently on the details of simply getting through my day and caring for my children. I’m afraid, though, that once I’ve folded myself up really tight and small, I must seem unreachable. I’m still here, though. I'm right here.

But if it seems that a piece of me is missing—that there’s somehow less of me right now—it might be because I’ve given that piece of me to Ben and Lucy for the time being, so that they know they’re safe, protected and loved. Or maybe I’ve folded that piece deep inside myself for extra strength. I hope to climb back out of this rabbit hole soon. To grow back to my regular size. When I do, I may be a little worse for wear, but I’m sure those who love me won’t mind a few new battle scars… any more than I mind theirs.

And if you’re down in a rabbit hole of your own, fold up as tight as you need to—I’ll still know you’re there. And hold on tight to you. You’re stronger than you realize. We all are.

Life Lessons From Lucy

“Mom, do you ever feel sad, but you don’t know why?”

Lucy and I sat in her bed talking at bedtime tonight. She’s been quick to tears lately and a little on edge and I was trying to figure out if something was bothering her (without actually asking of course, because I learned long ago that asking a kid what’s bothering her is useless). So we talked about friends and school, family too, what we’ve been doing and what we’d like to do. Then we just sat together, our feet all tangled up between us and that’s when tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. I didn't say a word, but took her hand and gave it a squeeze and she asked me if I ever felt sad but didn't know why.

And I thought, “Oh, sweet Lucy—do I ever. Sometimes it seems like I’ve spent a lifetime feeling sad and not knowing why, crying for no reason and thinking I must be the only one who feels this way.” But I said only, “Yes, Lucy, I do sometimes.” And then tears spilled down my cheeks too.

So there we sat, in her top bunk, feet tangled up together, holding hands and crying. Until she stuck out her tongue and caught a tear coming down her cheek and that made her grin. So I did the same thing and I grinned too. Then we looked at each other and started to laugh.                                                                                                                              

Which brings me to Life Lesson #457 from Lucy (who maybe really is practically never wrong just like she says): The act of trying to catch your own tears with your tongue has an excellent chance of turning them to laughter.

Thanks, Lu. 

More Funny Little Snowflakes

In November of 2009 I wrote  Funny Little Snowflakes  about the oddly endearing, quirky, little conversations of my children. In that piece I wrote, “There’s something magical about the conversations of children—often strange, nonsensical and hilarious, sometimes touching and oddly insightful. I treasure these conversations that float around my home like funny little snowflakes.” 

I remember thinking at that time that it wouldn’t be long before my kids would be too “cool” (aka “painfully self-conscious”) to carry on such unabashedly weird conversations or exhibit such blatantly wacky behavior with zero shame. And I thought at that time how sad it would be to have these funny little snowflakes disappear from our lives. It turns out I worried needlessly. I’m not so sure their conversations are often “touching or insightful” these days, but “strange, nonsensical and hilarious?" Those snowflakes are most certainly still floating around this house on a regular basis. And I treasure every single one.

Here’s a random sampling, in no particular order, and with limited or no frame of reference (exactly the way I typically experience them):

• One morning near the beginning of the school year, Ben stood next to me in the bathroom making vacant, emotionless, vaguely thuggish faces in the mirror. “Mom, do you think I look scary?” I glanced over and said, “Yup.” He smiled broadly & took off for his room with a bounce in his step. Remembering that it was picture day, I quickly called after him, “But don’t do that in your picture! I will be mad.” His closed bedroom door couldn't muffle the heavy sigh before he shouted back, “OK, mom.”
• In October I stood at that same bathroom mirror putting on mascara and smiling at the sound of Ben in his bedroom across the hall, announcing the songs on his iPod in his very best DJ voice for no one’s benefit but his own. Then, as if we lived in a sitcom and a ridiculous visual was needed to take us into commercial, Dylan walked by right on cue wearing mirrored sunglasses and a mullet wig.
• Walking to the car after school one day, Ben said, “Bigger is better—unless you’re talking about rats,” for no apparent reason.
• One weekend I ran across Dylan whacking Ben repeatedly with a huge rubber snake and yelling, “Hiya!” while Ben laughed hysterically. As I passed them, Dylan paused and said, “Wait, let’s have a sophisticated battle.”  Curious, to see what that might look like, I peeked back over my shoulder to see Dylan hand Ben a 3-pack of sanitizing wipes from a nearby shelf. Ben, completely unfazed, began beating the snake with them and I walked away thinking, “Yep—that’s sophisticated all right.”
• Lucy ran into the room one evening and said, “Look, Mom! I have a hatchet in my head.” Feeling no particular sense of urgency about that statement, I held up one finger without taking my eyes away from my book and finished the paragraph I was reading before I looked up to see she was wearing a headband with a hatchet embedded in it. I smiled as another mom might smile at the sight of her daughter in a beautiful party dress and said, “That looks great, honey. Nice work.”
• The kids and I still read together at bedtime when our schedules allow it. Sometimes the rapid “settle-down” required to fit it in leads to some antsy kids.
• Once as I was reading, I glanced over and saw Ben with his head buried in his armpit. When I asked what he was doing, he answered, “Smelling my armpit…why?” No reason.
• That same night I noticed Lucy pulling up her shirt and folding herself in half. I paused in my reading to ask what she was doing. “I’m trying to lick my belly button.” Oh sure. Obviously.
• Another time, I watched out of the corner of my eye while Ben examined one of his fingers closely, put it in his mouth briefly and said, “Huh. Finger tastes like chicken.” That time I just kept reading. Seemed like the only logical response.

I was working on this earlier today and just when I started thinking, “This piece is a little Ben-heavy,” Lucy plopped down and told me she couldn't wait to spoil her grandchildren. Feeling pretty sure she was about to solve my problem, I stopped writing and gave her my full attention while she regaled me with her vision of the grandmother she would one day be in a series of long, run-on sentences delivered without stopping once for air.

“I’ll make them 40 pounds of jello but I won’t give them walnuts because they might be allergic to walnuts so I’ll give them dark chocolate instead. I’ll read to them and work puzzles and let them watch TV and we’ll camp out in the backyard because I’ll be very flexible so I can lie down on the grass. I’ll live three blocks away from my kids so my grandkids can ride their bikes to my house which will look like a castle, be three stories tall and have a plastic elephant tree-house in the backyard. And when me and my husband get old we’ll have a hot chocolate machine in the round room on top of the house that makes it looks like a castle and we’ll just hang out there and drink hot chocolate.” “Will your grandkids drink hot chocolate with you?” “Uh huh. And Ben’s grandkids. Because sometimes they’ll come over too.” Oh good. I’m sure those kids will have plenty of conversations that will seem like funny little snowflakes floating around that house too—the house that looks like a castle (with a hot chocolate machine in the round room on top).

I hope Ben and Lucy will never be too self-conscious to openly have these quirky conversations with me and with each other, to act like complete goofballs, to let their freak flags fly (so to speak), but I know it might happen, so I’ll cherish these funny, little snowflakes while they last.

(But I really hope to be able to post “Even More Funny Little Snowflakes” in 2014.)