Tourette's Syndrome

I’ve been given a new diagnosis. 

 

Actually, my daughter was given a diagnosis.

 

Being a mom, though, means that this diagnosis is actually my world now. This diagnosis will be researched, feared, reviled, loved, and ultimately owned by me.

 Because I’m a mom.  And my imperfect self loves in a perfect and unconditional ferocity this girl that I gave birth to eight years ago.

So I researched. 

I read about the statistics, famous individuals with the same diagnosis, and joined the support groups and newsletters.

I read about the natural remedies and holistic approaches. I bought essential oils, made terra cotta diffusers, found glass roller bottles, droppers, fractionated coconut oil, Epsom salts, magnesium supplements, and made potions with drops of ingredients I’d previously only associated with the Nativity.  I lovingly created these treatments, anointing my baby’s flawless skin with antique hopes and prayers, as mothers have done for thousands of years.

I feared.

I imagined the worst.  I envisioned the tears on her face, the peers who may be unkind, and the future broken hearts she may experience.  I imagined her being ostracized, ridiculed, and left out.  After reading about anxiety, depression, and emotional highs and lows, I feared a future that would hurt her and bring her to those places in her soul where even her Momma might not be able to shine a light and help her find her way out.

And I reviled.

I hated this diagnosis and how it seemed to be an attack on my strong and vibrant daughter.  I hated that tics will follow her emotions, twisting and contorting her features with every stressful thought or rush of adrenaline, making her want to hide her face from the world, her emotions naked before all in her presence.  I hated how there was nothing to fight, no enemy to drive away for relief. I hated how she has no choice and no control.  After telling her so many times that only she is the master of her body, in an effort to raise a little girl free from the notion that she needs to please others with beauty, physical touch, or by succumbing to societal pressures, it turns out that I was wrong. She doesn’t have full control of her body.

But then I loved.

I loved it because this is a part of her, and therefore I must love it.

 I loved it because I can see her being an instrument of awareness.  A beacon of information and acceptance.  An intelligent and lovely spokesperson.  A fighter. An advocate.  A strong voice in a world that sometimes needs strong voices to drown out ignorance.

She will shine. She will conquer. She will thrive.

She will do beautiful things with her life, and this diagnosis will only refine her, make her more compassionate, more intentional, and more tenacious.

And because I’m the Mom, I will own this diagnosis. I will have Tourette’s with her. I will walk with her and feel the pain, experience the sadness, and brush it off like a champion – by her side. I will grow in this diagnosis, educate, advocate, and be proud of this diagnosis. 

I will Love her.

Everything will change…..But Nothing will change.

The road stretches out before her and I can see that it’s full of adventure…

 

Perfect Parent

Before I was a mom, when I wanted to succeed at something, I always knew what to do. You do the research, or you put in the miles, or you buy all the latest equipment and put on your game face and Go For It. 

I wrote lists, posted goals, stayed up all night, read, memorized, struggled, and persevered –and it always led to the finish line, to the degree, the long term goal, or the job that I had in my sights.  Goal setting was something I did that would reliably get me where I wanted to go.

It turns out that being a parent doesn’t work this way. 

It turns out that you can take all the birth classes, eat the rainbow of foods and take the prenatal vitamins. You can breast feed, attachment parent, and use BPA free products.  You can research and love and provide like a champion.  

You can make sure you child is never hot, or cold, hungry, or exposed to too much sun or screen time.  You can teach them to read, to write, to think and create. You can have a mental check list of all the things a good parent does, and try your very hardest to cross off the list like it’s magically going to lead to parenting sainthood. 

But, as all veteran parents are sure to know, parenting doesn’t work like that.

As we weather the first of many future parenting storms, I look around and hope that it’s all “normal” and “ok” and that all my struggles with my children are not foreshadowing of scarier problems to come. 

Because it turns out that you can’t prepare for or prevent hardships that touch your childrens’ lives.  No amount of teachable moments or baby-wearing, green smoothies or fluoride or even the most Pinteresty of birthday parties can prevent your child from experiencing life just like we all did.  Life is hard.

And isn’t that a crappy lesson to learn?

In fact, I almost take it personally when my daughter has a “nervous” tic when she reads.  As I set up the eye appointment, I irrationally start to wonder, “Was it something I did? Did I do something wrong?  And if not, was it something I passed along to her through my own predisposition to worry / read too much / tense my muscles in my neck….” etc, etc, etc.  

The same goes for her decalcified molars from a genetic condition, her geographic tongue, and her tendency to have trouble falling asleep.  Is it all my fault? Was there any way to prevent it?  Probably not. But I’m a mom, so of course I have to ask myself.

I was horrified last night when my daughter very matter of factly informed me that she was ugly.  When I asked her about this, she tells me that it’s a fact, that she’s uglier than her friends. And then she starts to list a series of traits that make her ugly compared to these other girls, which makes my heart cry and the tiny voice in my head say mournfully that “it has begun.” 

Because as I look at my gorgeous daughter and see perfection and beauty and strength, I also see that she is now self-aware and doubting.  As much as we have protected her, it has begun. She wasn’t looking for pity, or even asking for help. She just told me she was ugly and when I begged to differ, while trying to work magic and also make her realize that looks don’t matter, she had a very grown-up, almost cynical tone of voice.  In an odd compliment of sorts, she said, “If you want to see gorgeous, look in the mirror,” her voice sounding hard and old. 

So, what do you do about this? 

And other than putting her in a bubble and spiriting her off to live in the woods like fairies….

How do I protect her from this?    Should I? 

The constant body love messages obviously didn’t to the trick. The effort to hide my own insecurities failed to sink in.  Attempts to send messages of skin deep beauty may have been heard, but not loud enough to drown out what she hears from society every day. 

It feels like a big failure – being the mom of a girl who can say such things about herself.  But I guess that’s what being a mom is going to be like.  It’s going to be heartbreaking. It’s going to be difficult, and when they are teenagers, I’m sure there are times it will be terrifying.  Ultimately, though, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

 They are everything I had hoped and more than I had dreamed.

  I just hope the children I’ve been blessed with can forgive me for not being the perfect mother I had set out to be.

Revisiting myself

 

Recently, out of the clear blue, I thought to myself how very lucky I am.  While I’m creeping further from “young” and closer to “middle age,” and while I’m aware of the sticky hands of mundane and practical things, I am a traveler in time, ceaselessly visiting my most magical moments again and again.

And this must be why God gives women daughters.

Favorite books that occupied my elementary years are growing tattered in my daughter’s hands, while the characters, lovely friends of my youth, are making her acquaintance after slumbering for decades on book shelves and memories.  Like the Velveteen Rabbit, they are alive again, brought back from the brink by her love and attention. 

There are spunky fairies with pink hair and blue jeans, pioneers with their long dresses and aprons, faithful native friends who make bird calls outside our windows at night.  There are horses, and housekeepers, mysterious neighbors and friendly bears.  A wild family tree from my own youthful psyche.

My beloved stuffed cheetah, shelved after I came of age, is now pampered and cuddled and traveling once again, the companion of a child who treats her like an aged queen – her importance to me lending her a regal distinction in my daughter’s eyes.

As she skips through the meadows and the mountains of her daydreams, Addison journeys into my own and brings me along with her. How I’ve missed these magical places and familiar faces, and how lucky I am to see them again.

Bonded

Bonded

My daughter gives flesh to the theory of a cyclical existence.

While I remember, fondly, the nesting days when her heartbeat matched my own, gazing into her gorgeous and demanding eyes, I sometimes wish to cycle back, to hold her like an infant for another quiet afternoon.

I studied her every skin cell, knew the sounds she made in her sleep, and rarely spent time in a room separate from her presence.

She was imperious and loud when displeased, content as a cat when in our arms, always Awake, and Alive,

                             and Watching.

And now,

Now that she’s a running and jumping and book-reading little girl, you would think that my baby would be lost and I would be so sad...
                                                So wistful. My arms so empty and wanting another.

But it turns out that we’ve merely taken a turn around the great circle – a first of many, I hope.

Because my daughter studies me. She knows everything about me. She rarely spends time in a room separate from my presence.

She will tuck my hair behind my ear and put her arm around my neck. She will declare her love for me when we are walking through the ferry terminal or driving to the grocery store. Without thinking, or planning, she leaves me feeling sugar-glazed in affection and devotion.

What a relief, and a thrill, that I will never outgrow being a mommy

                  and she will never outgrow being mine.

 

mom

Mom

I hope you don’t think you have to improve yourself.

I hope you know that you are lovely, smart, and good.

You are talented,

Hardworking,

Tenacious,

And beautiful.

 

You have style,

You have charisma,

And you look cute in your jeans.

 

You are a little Bellingham,

A lot Port Townsend,

With a dash of Suburban Seattle.

You will gracefully grow old,

But remain youthful and fun,

A classy gal with kayak paddles

And a reader of blogs.

You are You.

Like sprinkles on a cupcake

And ocean glass in a jar.

No one can take that away.

You are a mother,

A sister,

A daughter

And a girlfriend.

Endless and Ageless

-qualities that don’t fade.

Someday

November 5, 2012
Dear Mr. President and First Lady Obama,

As the election approaches the final stretch, I am fairly certain you will remain in the White House for another term. As a Democrat, a Christian, and a woman, I hope I’m correct in this assumption, as I remain convinced that your plan for our nation is the one that perpetuates the most good.

While I have many of the popular issues in mind as I vote, I also have come to realize that I am still looking for a future where the issues closest to my heart can be recognized and dealt with; not merely on the national level, but in our global community. I write with the hope that I can place one of these issues on your hearts, so that as you decide how to create your personal legacy as the President or First Lady this final term, you might consider this issue worth tackling.

November is National Adoption Awareness Month. While our country remains fraught with our own struggles and concerns, we are still a nation that is able to provide so much for our own children. While imperfect, we seek to provide protection to our littlest, most vulnerable children, through a series of agencies, programs, and professionals. So much can be done to improve conditions for neglected and abandoned children on our own soil, but when one looks at the conditions in other countries around the globe, it quickly becomes clear that there is a horrifying and disgraceful international depravity concerning our neediest of orphans.

There are institutions where children are still warehoused in rows upon rows of beds, unable to move, and denied the simplest human bond. Children are drugged, restrained and starved. They live in cribs, banging their heads against the wall for self-stimulation, covered in bed sores from lack of movement and fresh clothing. There are six year olds weighing nine pounds and teenagers living like infants.

As a mother, and a teacher, this makes me sick with grief. How I wish I could go and hold these children and give them the love they have been denied!

I know there are many compassionate men and women who would feel the same way upon viewing the photographs and videos from these institutions. However, families who would open their homes to children in need are discouraged by exorbitant adoption fees and red tape. Many hopeful parents, whom could easily afford to care for a child, can’t afford to adopt the child.

I wish to someday see leaders around the globe call for a movement towards the greater good for all orphans. What can our leaders do to create and enforce transparency in the way each nation treats its unwanted children? How can our leaders communicate that our global community, though we have our differences, all agree on this one thing? Children need loving homes.

Millions of children are living in abysmal conditions around our world. What can our world leaders do to recognize these children, protect them, and pave the way for loving families to open their arms to them without going bankrupt and getting their hearts broken in the process? While I care about national debt, the economy, and, of course, education, they all pale in comparison to this very real tragedy unfolding all around us. When all is said and done, I feel that our nation, along with our leaders, should be judged by how effectively we respond to “the least” among us. If we are willing to step outside our borders in acts of war and conquest, I feel that we should also step out in love and compassion.

Best wishes to you and your lovely family as you embark on your second term. You have been examples of integrity and grace under fire. I admire how you are raising your daughters and particularly appreciate your model as I raise my own.
Sincerely,
Rachae xxxx xxxxxx

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Mothers' Work

Loving this.

BFFs

Alignment

Hello. Is there anyone out there? This has been, and continues to be, the most solid writers’ block I’ve ever experienced. What could be the cause? The last time I had a writers’ block, I was in my early 20s…. and at a crossroads in my life. Perhaps I’m at one of those transitions now. Perhaps it’s a “once a decade” kind of affliction, ehh?
In my early 20s I was going through a crisis of sorts. It was emotional, physical, and spiritual. I was afraid that all the most precious things I had dreamed of were going to end up a pile of rubble. It was only after throwing myself out in the world, meeting a bunch of new people, and exhausting myself on behalf of others that I experienced the most profound healing journey I’d ever known. Oddly, the epiphany I experienced was also described in a book that I finally just read: “Eat, Pray, Love.” While I’m firmly Christian in my beliefs, I found the book to have many cross-cultural relevancies that are inspiring and delicious in nature. The author seeks to find her own healing and finally does so in a manner similar to my own. It goes something like this: If I was so lonely, so heartbroken, and so scared, it mostly came down to love, or the lack thereof. I was so horrified that my life would be barren, both physically and emotionally, that I was frozen in grief. What finally came to me, during a quiet and solitary night, was the idea that I was responsible for 50% of my loss. I may not have love coming in my direction, but the love flowing from my own actions was completely up to me. I could choose to love. I could choose to throw my love out to the universe and not expect any of it to bounce back at me. Just the giving would be a joyful act and a reason to keep on going. So I did. I fell in love multiple times every day. I loved my volunteer work. I loved the crazy folks I met there and the broken and abused animals that I helped piece together. I loved the dirty, sweaty work and the physical challenges. I fell in love with my home and the process of doing my daily chores. When my work became a kind of prayer, I ended up having a home so tidy and clean that I could never hope to duplicate the same standard these days. I loved my job, my coworkers, and my students. I loved to coach, getting to know the families and teenagers as they worked towards their personal goals and self-confidence. I poured love upon my pets and the feral cat colony I cared for at a nearby park. I loved to exercise, to grocery shop, to curl up with a good book, and to sit down to a favorite TV show. Every day was a little love story. I was happy. And I healed.
Now, 31, I think I’m going through another transition. This time, I think I’m simply growing up. Although it is invisible, and would be surprising to those closest to me, this year has been about alignment. It’s been about aligning my greatest priorities with my actions. It’s been about giving a little more. It’s been about forgiving myself for all those traits I dislike most. It’s been about appreciation and warmth and about being a woman. As subtle as it has been, it has also been about growth and about keeping my path steady and sure, even when so many things seem to knock me off course. I’ve learned that most of these come naturally and easily. Forgiveness, however, takes an almost constant meditation. So many moments of the day I have to forgive myself. For not being thin, for not being more successful, for not being more artistic, or smart, or funny, or confident. I continually have to forgive myself for standards that I would never dream of imposing on another woman. I love women who are comfortable in their own skin. I prefer women of great substance, bold flavors, and vibrancy. I love women who are cerebral, feisty, and ferocious. I love a woman who can laugh loudly, strut proudly, and give of herself extravagantly. I see this woman emerging in my daughter, and I fall more in love with her everyday because of it.
So, my absence from the written word seems to be due to a preoccupation with living. I have been embracing the everyday absurdities, the tiny triumphs of parenting, and the memories I’ve been making for my little family. Sticking dinner in a crockpot becomes an act of love. Teaching a boy how to tie his shoe is a reason to celebrate. Cleaning a closet is a laughable moment of motherhood. Throwing love out to the universe, and getting so much back in return, is helping me align myself. I feel aligned with other women, with all of creation, and with my God. And for this, I am thankful. In all of this living, I'm learning to live with myself.

Some of Our Summer