Simsek Strikes

Sooooo Blessed

 

There are things that are not just things to me:  things that are loaded with memories, or feelings. Things that are saturated with meaning, both personal and profound.  There are tattered books whose pages smell of my childhood and whose words ring out in my father's voice whenever they're read. There are knick-nacks from high school, college and beyond that hold parts of my former selves - memories of people and places far away and yet close to my heart.  And there are things from my more recent past, too, like the beautiful, crocheted bedspreads and doilies that Paulo's Madrinha made for us with so much love and such matchless skill before age and illness stole her memories and her voice. There are the tiny Christmas bows that adorned the "Christmas fern" Paulo and I decorated on our first Christmas together, reminders of those early moments when our future was just beginning. And there are tiny sweaters and embroidered bibs that once fit around my children's infant selves, now so impossibly small and fragile against their giant and growing bodies.  These things are more monuments to the hurried passage of time than simple things at all.

 

Two years ago Ellie was newly diagnosed, and we spent the fall taking her to her first autism program in Nashua each day.  The people were lovely and gentle with us, but it was a hard adjustment.  Before the Christmas break, they planned a party for her 'class'.  We would miss the party itself as she found the filled classroom too overwhelming, but there were goodies and trinkets to take home.  In fact, they prepared by helping the children make ornaments while we, the parents, sat in a training seminar to learn how to be our children's therapists at home.  Ellie often hated these separations, as she could not yet communicate with others and being away from me often prompted panic.  After the hour-long seminar I often returned to find her in tears, which made the exercise doubly hard.  After the ornament-making class, she was once again in tears. When I picked her up they cheerfully handed me the paper snowflake pictured above, painstakingly cut out and decorated by the staff with "Ellie" printed clearly on the back.  I don't know if she even helped to spread the glitter, but I rather doubt it.

 

The juxtaposition between this and the ornaments my other little ones had made at 2 was almost too painful at the time.  I found myself almost repelled by it and everything it represented:  an open-ended question about where this sweet child's future lay, and how many Christmases before she might be able to make even a rudimentary drawing for herself.  I knew the gesture was intended to be sweet, but in truth it tasted bitter - a stand-in for what my daughter couldn't do.  I almost threw it out.  Almost.

 

Two years later it hangs on my tree.  I can still feel those feelings when I see it, but they are tempered by time.  Now it hangs quietly while the little girl who couldn't spread glitter on it's face two years ago recites from one of her favorite books in the next room, her sweet voice ringing out the lines with confidence: "My mother is a Dall sheep and she loves me sooooooo much!"  Lexi's voice layers with Ellie's as she reads to her brother, and Spencer, who couldn't sit still long enough to listen last year, sits next to her in rapt attention, laughing at the funny parts.  The blue snowflake is a humbling reminder of how wonderfully far we've come.

 

This year we are sick with colds and the house looks like a bomb went off.  Legos litter the diningroom table and the floor, and blankets and stuffed animals have been trailed around the house and left in odd places.  Books lie open on the couches and end tables, and the coffee table has been completely obscured by a mountian of animal figures.  Tissue boxes abound and presents still need wrapping.  Our Christmas cards hit the mail without letters or even notes, and our annual peppermint-bark batches are coming down to the wire.  With a little luck they'll all be packaged in time.  And in spite of the chaos, the sickness, and the busyness, I am feeling tremendously blessed.  Each trial and struggle and fear has silvered the edges of my hair, wrinkled my face, and darkened the circles under my eyes, but when I look at my life, my family, and my friends I can feel nothing but joy.  Who has been given more than I have?  None of this would fit beneath a tree, and yet it is all I could ask for and more. 

 

My name is Leah, and I am soooo blessed.  

 

I hope that your holiday is filled with warmth and love and blessings, too, and that the new year brings you all the gifts you need.  

(PS sorry about the ridiculous spacing.  TypePad is messing with me for Christmas!)

A Little Christmas Miracle

If you know Ellie, you probably know how much she loves to sing.  It's a bit like living in musical some days, where everything reminds her of a song and she just has to sing.  She would feel right at home in The Sound of Music, I think.  No, she doesn't always know all the words, and no, she doesn't always sing loudly.  It's often quiet and somwhat indestinct, but for the girl who couldn't sing a thing or speak a word not so long ago, every song is a wonderful thing.

My Favorite Things
The Sound of Music — MOVIECLIPS.com

She sings preschool favorites, songs she's heard in movies or on Sesame Street, songs they sing at school, songs she hears in the car, and, all year 'round, Christmas songs.  Her little voice has become the soundtrack to most of our days.  

In spite of all the singing we hear, she has been extremely shy about singing on camera or when asked. Several times I have tried to get her to sing a specific song for someone, or to sing almost anything on camera, and she refuses.  She's more apt to stare mutely or run away than she is to comply,  so I've settled for soaking it up real-time and leaving the recording until she's ready.

But, miracle of miracles, she obliged her teachers at school last week.  So here, to spread a little Christmas love, is Ellie's quiet rendition of Rudolph:

The Blind Men and the Elephant

Each night before bed Lexi likes to read a poem.  Having finished A Child's Garden of Verses recently, we began the anthology "Read-Aloud Poems for Young People".  Some nights she can read the poem du jour herself, but often I read these to her.  In this way we can discuss the poem's meaning, clarify any points, and talk about some of the imagery or language, too. 

Tonight, we read The Blind Man and the Elephant.  I don't know how I made it through all the years of English Literature classes I did without ever reading this, but I loved it as much as she did.  Together we discussed the nature of God, and the nature of knowledge itself.  And as I came downstairs afterwards, I couldn't help but also think about the debates I've been reading among the parents in the autistic community lately regarding causation:  genetic or triggered by toxins?  Each side is so convinced that they alone are right. 

 How adamant we humans can be about our own small piece of the truth...

The Blind Men and the Elephant
John Godfrey Saxe (1816-1887)

It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: "God bless me! but the Elephant Is very like a WALL!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, "Ho, what have we here, So very round and smooth and sharp? To me 'tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a SPEAR!"

The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a SNAKE!"

The Fourth reached out an eager hand,  And felt about the knee "What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain," quoth he: "'Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a TREE!"

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said: "E'en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a FAN!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a ROPE!"

And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong!

The Things They Say: Lexi on Moses

Lexi was sitting on the couch reading aloud from the Children's Bible.  Every so often she hits an unfamiliar word and instead of sounding it out, she guesses.  The guesses can be comical.

"...and He told Moses to lead the Israelites out Egypt.  God said He would lead them to a new land called Ca..Can..Canada!"

Departures from Reality Leaving Daily

"AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!  Moooooommmmmyyyyy!!!

I cannot count the number of times I've come running from the shower, summoned by screams that would seem to indicate that one of my offspring has cut off an appendage or is being abducted by Big Foot.  Dripping, shampoo running into my eyes, slipping on the wet hardwood (oh, how I hate dripping on the wood) I rush to the scene of the crime calling out "What happened?  Who's hurt???!!" only to be greeted by the hysterical (but seemingly uninjured child) who is too upset to explain for a few moments.  There are wet hugs and calming words as I try it figure it all out.  Finally, between hics and sobs, the child will explain that "He took my wolf puppies and threw them out the wi-wi-windoooowww and I can't get them baaaaaaccckkkkk!"

Yes, we have officially entered the age where make believe takes over for hours or days at a time.  The places where reality ends and imagination begins are not at all clear-cut, and the supposedly rational adults are at a decided disadvantage. 

I regularly resort to putting imaginary toys in time-out, pretending to rescue imaginary animals, casting imaginary magic spells on one child or another (or myself), all in the name of peace.  We have spent entire meals calling Spencer "Inspector Austin of the Paris Police" and weeks when Lexi insisted on being our friendly family dog, Sparkles.  We are reminded that Sparkles can't speak, likes to play fetch, likes to be patted on the head, needs a bed on the floor, and would like (pleeeaaase, Mommy!) to have a water bowl in the kitchen from which she could drink.

It's pointless to try to explain that she's not really a dog.  Likewise, it's seemingly impossible to make them remember there is no unicorn, so of course it isn't hurt even if Spencer said he shot it with his arrows.  Or that you don't really have a rocket ship so you don't have to worry about the engine being broken stranding you in space. 

"Lexi, there aren't really any wolves in our house, are there?"

"But Mommy, he threw them out the window!  And they might be hurt!!"

While these exercises are exhausting for me, I can't help being impressed with how completely they are able to create these fantasies and how very real they believe them to be.  Clearly, imaginary conflicts can cause real distress.  Even so, I struggle to find the patience to accept such intense emotion about made-up characters.  Especially when that emotion sounds like kiddie torture and interrupts my shower!

So one recent morning after rescuing some pretend creature in peril, I hiked back upstairs to the shower muttering and grumbling about those damn make-believe crises always interrupting my very real showers when I'm in a hurry and suddenly I had to laugh.  At myself.  After all, I imagine God may be indulging me and my current trials the same way:  What!  What's the problem?!! Are you OK??  What?  Oh, riiiight.  I almost forgot. Ok, you're a human now and humans need sleep.  I see. But you do know that's not really who you are, don't you? 

Don't you?

The Good Book of Bird Songs

As I know I've mentioned before, we try to take the kids to church with us on a regular basis.  Church, for us, is typically the late morning 'folk mass' at our Catholic church, and it's a pretty exciting mass as Catholic masses go.  The church is big, typically full, and the music is what I believe they call 'contemporary Christian', led by a large folk group.  This isn't for everyone, but having spent most of my formative years suffering through nearly silent masses punctuated by the somber chanting of the priest and hymns led by an almost catatonic and ever-so-slightly off-key choir director, this is a great change of pace.  And of course the kids enjoy the music, too. 

Spencer, music-lover that he is, is an especially big fan of the songs at church.  He began clapping along before he could sing, and singing Hallelujah's shortly after that.  They were the first songs in his repertoire, and although he has added many other kinds of songs since then (his current favorite being a single line from a They Might Be Giants song about "a shoehorn, the kind with teeth", which he sings over and over and over until I think my head might burst) he still belts them out with some regularity.

So this Saturday, as he does almost every Saturday, Spencer accompanied Paulo as he did the week's shopping.  This has become much more complicated in the last few months as we cut as much fat from the budget as possible by buying in bulk, cutting coupons, and comparing prices between stores.  Paulo's taken this on as a sort of second job, and has already saved us a lot of money, but it does mean that the Saturday grocery trip takes him to the wholesale club, the health food store, and the supermarket.  It's a long trip. 

But Spencer is an eager helper.  He looks forward to these Saturday shopping trips with Daddy like a special adventure for the two of them, and they've developed their own patterns and rituals in each place.  They often come home with all kinds of stories after these outings, and this week was no different.

Apparently, while Paulo was busy looking for one of the items on this week's list at the wholesale club, Spencer discovered a wonderful new book: The Backyard Birdsong Guide for Eastern and Central America.  It is a truly wonderful find:  a book that lists all the birds in this part of the country complete with pictures, descriptions and habitat, and sample recordings of their songs.  It's the perfect addition to our current collection of bird information, and especially well-suited for Spencer who is fascinated with bird calls.

So of course Paulo said we could get it, much to the boy's delight.  They then continued on their way until it was time to check out.  At some point during the check-out, however, Spencer decided to celebrate his new book for all to see.   Without warning, he held the new bird book in front of his forehead (similar to the way that the Bible is frequently carried during mass) and began singing "Glory, Glory to the King of Kings!" at the top of his lungs while parading about.  Paulo (slightly amused and no doubt aware that his follow shoppers were thinking he must be some sort of zealot to be teaching his kid to hold a book like that and belt out church songs) tried to redirect him, but he wasn't to be distracted from his new joy:  The Good Book of Bird Songs!

Figuring Out Faith

Like many couples and potential parents-to-be, Paulo and I spent quite some time discussing faith and child-rearing even before we were married.  In fact, we had long detailed debates on the subject as we hashed out what we did and didn't believe personally, where and how we felt about our own faith and organized religion, and what it was we wanted to do when it came to our future children.

In the end, we agreed.  While we respected their right to make their own faith decisions as adults, we felt that raising them with faith offered them the opportunity to accept our faith or choose their own later in life, but that raising them without faith would make it much harder for them to ever 'believe' later on.  In other words, we decided it is harder as an adult to adopt a faith you never had than it is to either keep or reject the faith you grew up with.  And for many of us, faith offers a comfort and a solace and a moral challenge during life's journey that is like none other. 

Some of this faith development is pretty straight-forward. By the time the children were born, we were both active members of our church and (mostly) regulars at Mass each week.  The children were baptized and they participate at church.  We say prayers each night before bed and read Bible stories.  Lexi goes to Vacation Bible School in the summer and attends a Christian kindergarten.  Spencer will, too, starting (hopefully) this year.

But it's not all so simple.  They're both asking some big questions and struggling with such abstract concepts as God and this guy Jesus who is dead and yet alive and how they can both be everywhere but you can't see them.  Lexi has decided on more than one occasion that she's "afraid of God" because he's an old man with a white beard. (Same goes for Santa, by the way.) No amount of reasoning will change her mind on this description because she saw a picture of God in a book at school.   At the same time, she's not convinced that God isn't imaginary like dragons and unicorns and fairies, and is skeptical that He can see her all the time when there are so many people to watch.  Her logic here is good, and it's hard to make her understand that we make exceptions for matters of faith that we don't make for fairies and unicorns.

Spencer loves church, but he has voiced his own doubts about God.  At Christmas time Lexi's church class made little gifts for the baby Jesus.  They wrapped them in paper and put them under the tree.  Spencer wanted badly to open Jesus' present and see what it was, but Lexi insisted it was just for Jesus.  Spencer's frustrated response to this was "But Jesus isn't REAL, Lexi!!"  Naturally, we spent some time trying to explain that just because you can't see something doesn't mean it isn't real, but Spencer stood firm.  Unless Jesus could walk into the room and open that present he wasn't 'real enough' to have a 'real' present, and he (Spencer) would never get to see what it was!

The present stayed wrapped, and several weeks after Christmas Spencer found it again and brought it to me.  "God doesn't need this,"  he informed me.  "Can I open it now?" 

I guess I had imagined that the hard questions would come later in their young lives, and that they would start with that easy blind faith.  Isn't that sometimes called child-like?  Well, not with these kids.  Already their 'child-like' faith is pushing and challenging and skeptical. I find myself struggling for the best way to address their questions: how do I help make the inexplicable and mysterious easier to digest while remaining honest and respectful of their doubts and concerns? I find myself pushing back (how do you imagine He might do that?) and sometimes just admitting that no one knows all the answers (we don't know exactly what happens when we die, but we believe...).

On the one hand, I love the way they think and question and challenge assumptions because these are such wonderful intellectual traits and they will be served well by them in life.  But as the parent trying to build a founding faith there are days I wish they'd make it a little easier!