What is normal anyway? Two parents, two and a half kids, a dog and a mini van? A table for 4 or maybe even 6? A kitchen with only one high chair? A dozen or so baby bottles for a newborn baby? Locks on the lower kitchen cabinets so toddlers don't drag out the pots and pans?
Normal at the Bartlett house looks something like this:
Mom who is 54.
Kids ranging from birth to 16.
Kids of various races.
Kids....many kids.
Three tables, one that seats eight and two that seat four each to hold the people who dine here on any given day.
One to three high chairs depending on who is there.
Feeding pumps instead of bottles to feed the babies.
Oxygen in the corner in case it is needed.
Locks on every cabinet within anyone's reach.
All medications are locked up including the Desitin.
Seven car seats but not all being used at the same time.
Five strollers, just in case.
I love our normal. I thrive on being a mommy, but I get tired, too. I wouldn't change being a foster and adoptive mom for anything....not even an air conditioned condo on the beach with servants to tend my every wish and all the Tony Roma ribs I can eat.
Normal to us has been four car seats in the van, having to take two vehicles to church to get everyone there. There have been years that our church nursery was staffed based on our attendance. We haven't ever been able to take a spontaneous family trip. A family trip to us is packing everyone up and going to a ballgame across town or to a local restaurant. It takes no less than 30 minutes to gather and load everyone today. In years past, it could take an hour or more to prepare for dinner out with the kids.
Dinner out with the Bartlett's is always an adventure. I remember the Sunday afternoon we decided to pack up and go to the lake to one of our favorite restaurants. It was a lovely little place with windows all along one side that allowed patrons (and most importantly our children) to see the lake in all its beauty. Water holds some sort of mesmerizing effect on most children. Between the water and the buffet of of every sort of dish imaginable, it was perfect for us. What we didn't foresee was Baby D. While Baby D was fed exclusively by a feeding tube, he needed social time. We are required to expose our children to social situations as much as possible and must document our efforts.
Once seated, we began to take turns filling kids plates and then our own. Baby D lay quietly in his car seat while all of this took place. About the time we all had our plates full and the waitress brought our drinks, Baby D came to the conclusion that he was in an evil place. His eyes got so wide, I thought they would pop out of his head. Just as I thought he would be okay, the waitress spoke to him in Chinese. That was it! He began to shake and cry. He quickly began screaming like an Indian on the war path.
The waitress came to our table with a panic look on her face and said, "Your baby cry. He needs to stop." All the while, we are trying to console him, we are also trying not to laugh at the scene before us. Five young children and two adults were quietly eating at our table as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. Lee was standing with Baby D trying to convince him that he would survive to see another day. The waitress was becoming frantic. She said, "Your baby loud. You take him home. Make him stop cry." Lee and I looked at each other and cracked up. Lee took the baby into the parking lot and walked with him until the home health nurse had finished her meal, then they changed positioned. Lee came in to eat and Darlene walked the parking lot with Baby D while he screamed. The waitress continued to watch the front door for fear that someone might bring Baby D back inside. We finished our meal and headed home. The waitress will probably never be the same. For the Bartlett's, this is normal.
May your day be full of laughter.
Judy
Still loving life as a Foster and Adoptive Parent for over 20 years and 58 children.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Autism is not for sissy's
2:30 a.m.
Silly Bear is awake standing by my bed clapping. I sit up and smile. Silly Bear can read my face and anything but a smile typically elicits tears and wailing. I am now programed for smiles even at 2:30 in the morning.
Inside, I am not smiling. Inside, I am grimacing, wishing there is an easy way to get Silly Bear back to sleep. I roll out of bed and hug Silly Bear. I take him to the kitchen for a drink. He wants juice. There is none in the refrigerator. I try to convince him that water is the best thing to drink in the night. He begins to melt, his face distorting into something resembling an extreme muscle spasm. The sound starts from his toes and works its way up. Before he can stop, drop and scream, I interject another option for a drink. There is juice in the pantry, it's just not cold. He grins and wipes the tears off his face with his sleeve.
I open the pantry door, quickly take out the juice before Silly Bear spies something he might want to eat. I put ice in his cup and fill it halfway with juice. He takes one sip and puts it down. He then begins the question game; each question louder than the one before. "Why do I need to drink juice?" Why do I need to have ice?" "Why is it dark?" "Why do I have to wear pajamas to sleep?" "Why is the refrigerator cold?" What color is juice?" "Is the baby crying?"
3:00 a.m.
Silly Bear's questions disturbed the baby so now there are three of us awake. Now, just for the record, I am extremely proud of Silly Bear's communication skills. If it weren't for Becca, Silly Bear would not be able to ask questions. So, where is Becca anyway? Maybe I should call her and thank her for the hard work she has done with Silly Bear. Oh, it's now 3:00 o'clock in the morning and she is sleeping peacefully in her own home. That, and she refuses to give me her phone number. I digress.
I quickly scoop Silly Bear up and carry him back to his bed. I tuck him in, say prayers just like we did the first time we went to bed and tell him to stay in the bed so I can get him a surprise in the morning. I hurry down the hall to the baby's room. Baby Bear is standing there looking at me with blanket in hand. I gather him into my arms and sit in the big comfy rocker to lull him back to sleep with my sleepy, off key version of the Veggie Tale song.
3:25 a.m.
The toilet flushes and I hear small footsteps in the hall. My mind is alert now, knowing that Silly Bear is headed to my bed and I am not there. I gently toss the baby back into the crib. (He's not asleep anyway.) I begin calling Silly Bear's name, first quietly, then louder. Waking the rest of the children was not my concern at this point, it was waking the neighbors if I didn't get to Silly Bear before he begins his rendition of a human being mauled by an angry Siberian tiger.
Once Silly Bear is assured that I am here and not leaving him, he and I go together back to his bed. We are only there to retrieve his pillow, blanket and the collection of rocks he took to bed with him. Hand in hand we walk down the hall like we're on our way to the park. As we enter the living room, I explain to Silly Bear that the baby is awake and I must get him out of his bed so he will stop crying. Silly Bear plopped on the couch to wait.
3:30 a.m.
With Baby Bear, his blanket and pacifier, I hollow out a place on the couch beside Silly Bear. I thank God for the recliner built into my couch, pull the lever and lean back. The baby snuggles down on one side and Silly Bear on the other, complete with a large comforter, pillow and hand full of rocks.
I reach for the remote, turn on Dora, help Silly Bear get settled and hope they both go back to sleep before I do.
4:45 a.m.
I wake to my arm throbbing from lack of circulation coupled with the odd position it is in. Though I was disoriented from lack of sleep, I knew something wasn't right about the situation. The baby was asleep, thank goodness, but under Silly Bear's comforter was nothing but a pillow. Silly Bear and the rocks were gone.
I listened. Nothing. I quietly called, "Silly Bear." No answer. Maybe not as fast as greased lightening, but fast for an old lady with very little sleep and a baby in her arms, I returned Baby Bear to his bed and went in search of Silly Bear.
4:50 a.m.
I discovered Silly Bear in the hall bathroom with the door closed and locked. Using my skills learned from my grandson's "How to Pick Lock's for Dummies" manual and a small tool, I opened the door. There he stood, like a research scientist deep in thought, on the brink of discovering a cure for the common cold. His test tubes (medicine syringes from the kitchen), flasks (various cups and glass goblets also from the kitchen), tools including spoons, straws, thermometer, sticks rocks and a small sword, and his ingredients: toilet paper, two kinds of toothpaste, water, juice (bet you guessed that one), shampoo and something very blue.
5:00 a.m.
After observing Silly Bear for the better part of ten minutes, searching my mind for words that were appropriate, I said, "Wow! You put in lot of hard work here but now we have to clean it up." That is a lie. Surely you don't think I am that good of a mother. Honestly, I said, "Silly Bear, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I wiped him off, threw a towel in the floor to soak up the liquid I would have to clean up in a few hours and helped Silly Bear change into clean pajamas.
5:20 a.m.
Silly Bear and I snuggled down in my bed this time. Power Rangers are on the TV and I doze off hoping to catch another hours sleep before the day starts. My alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. Before I could open my eyes, I hear, "Time to get up Mom. Can I have my prize now?"
Such is the night life of the mommy whose child is affected by autism.
Silly Bear is awake standing by my bed clapping. I sit up and smile. Silly Bear can read my face and anything but a smile typically elicits tears and wailing. I am now programed for smiles even at 2:30 in the morning.
Inside, I am not smiling. Inside, I am grimacing, wishing there is an easy way to get Silly Bear back to sleep. I roll out of bed and hug Silly Bear. I take him to the kitchen for a drink. He wants juice. There is none in the refrigerator. I try to convince him that water is the best thing to drink in the night. He begins to melt, his face distorting into something resembling an extreme muscle spasm. The sound starts from his toes and works its way up. Before he can stop, drop and scream, I interject another option for a drink. There is juice in the pantry, it's just not cold. He grins and wipes the tears off his face with his sleeve.
I open the pantry door, quickly take out the juice before Silly Bear spies something he might want to eat. I put ice in his cup and fill it halfway with juice. He takes one sip and puts it down. He then begins the question game; each question louder than the one before. "Why do I need to drink juice?" Why do I need to have ice?" "Why is it dark?" "Why do I have to wear pajamas to sleep?" "Why is the refrigerator cold?" What color is juice?" "Is the baby crying?"
3:00 a.m.
Silly Bear's questions disturbed the baby so now there are three of us awake. Now, just for the record, I am extremely proud of Silly Bear's communication skills. If it weren't for Becca, Silly Bear would not be able to ask questions. So, where is Becca anyway? Maybe I should call her and thank her for the hard work she has done with Silly Bear. Oh, it's now 3:00 o'clock in the morning and she is sleeping peacefully in her own home. That, and she refuses to give me her phone number. I digress.
I quickly scoop Silly Bear up and carry him back to his bed. I tuck him in, say prayers just like we did the first time we went to bed and tell him to stay in the bed so I can get him a surprise in the morning. I hurry down the hall to the baby's room. Baby Bear is standing there looking at me with blanket in hand. I gather him into my arms and sit in the big comfy rocker to lull him back to sleep with my sleepy, off key version of the Veggie Tale song.
3:25 a.m.
The toilet flushes and I hear small footsteps in the hall. My mind is alert now, knowing that Silly Bear is headed to my bed and I am not there. I gently toss the baby back into the crib. (He's not asleep anyway.) I begin calling Silly Bear's name, first quietly, then louder. Waking the rest of the children was not my concern at this point, it was waking the neighbors if I didn't get to Silly Bear before he begins his rendition of a human being mauled by an angry Siberian tiger.
Once Silly Bear is assured that I am here and not leaving him, he and I go together back to his bed. We are only there to retrieve his pillow, blanket and the collection of rocks he took to bed with him. Hand in hand we walk down the hall like we're on our way to the park. As we enter the living room, I explain to Silly Bear that the baby is awake and I must get him out of his bed so he will stop crying. Silly Bear plopped on the couch to wait.
3:30 a.m.
With Baby Bear, his blanket and pacifier, I hollow out a place on the couch beside Silly Bear. I thank God for the recliner built into my couch, pull the lever and lean back. The baby snuggles down on one side and Silly Bear on the other, complete with a large comforter, pillow and hand full of rocks.
I reach for the remote, turn on Dora, help Silly Bear get settled and hope they both go back to sleep before I do.
4:45 a.m.
I wake to my arm throbbing from lack of circulation coupled with the odd position it is in. Though I was disoriented from lack of sleep, I knew something wasn't right about the situation. The baby was asleep, thank goodness, but under Silly Bear's comforter was nothing but a pillow. Silly Bear and the rocks were gone.
I listened. Nothing. I quietly called, "Silly Bear." No answer. Maybe not as fast as greased lightening, but fast for an old lady with very little sleep and a baby in her arms, I returned Baby Bear to his bed and went in search of Silly Bear.
4:50 a.m.
I discovered Silly Bear in the hall bathroom with the door closed and locked. Using my skills learned from my grandson's "How to Pick Lock's for Dummies" manual and a small tool, I opened the door. There he stood, like a research scientist deep in thought, on the brink of discovering a cure for the common cold. His test tubes (medicine syringes from the kitchen), flasks (various cups and glass goblets also from the kitchen), tools including spoons, straws, thermometer, sticks rocks and a small sword, and his ingredients: toilet paper, two kinds of toothpaste, water, juice (bet you guessed that one), shampoo and something very blue.
5:00 a.m.
After observing Silly Bear for the better part of ten minutes, searching my mind for words that were appropriate, I said, "Wow! You put in lot of hard work here but now we have to clean it up." That is a lie. Surely you don't think I am that good of a mother. Honestly, I said, "Silly Bear, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I wiped him off, threw a towel in the floor to soak up the liquid I would have to clean up in a few hours and helped Silly Bear change into clean pajamas.
5:20 a.m.
Silly Bear and I snuggled down in my bed this time. Power Rangers are on the TV and I doze off hoping to catch another hours sleep before the day starts. My alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. Before I could open my eyes, I hear, "Time to get up Mom. Can I have my prize now?"
Such is the night life of the mommy whose child is affected by autism.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Autism Awareness Month
As I have heard many say and I join them, "It's Autism awareness at my house everyday."
I always said I would not take a placement with Autism. I didn't think I was equipped with the necessary skills to successfully parent such a child. Some days I still feel that way. I am relieved to say that most parents of children with Autism feel that same way.
Silly Bear came to us at a few weeks old. He had been born a full term, healthy baby. The sad part is his birth mom did not have the skills to parent. She took him home by herself, no support system, no one to turn to. She lacked the ability to bond to her baby or care for even his basic needs. Malnutrition caused Silly Bear lung damage and other problems and almost took his life.
Silly Bear struggled medically, including surviving on donated breast milk for the first two years of his life. His development was delayed with speech totally missing. Papa Bear and I intended to adopt him from the moment we knew he was free. We knew we were up to the challenge of whatever this little guy needed. No one ever said the word Autism in all of the therapy sessions, specialist's appointments, assessments or other visits. When he was four, it was suggested that he was PDD but he was not diagnosed. I did not connect PDD and Autism as I had virtually no training in either. I have now!
Silly Bear talks well. He is in a mainstream second grade class with help. He is not reading but is learning sight words and has a desire to read. He can be very social, which has been to his detriment when being screened for Autism. He hugs and kisses, though not always appropriately. He no longer flaps but has his own stemming. Yet another missing marker in the "diagnosis" process. (Flapping is expected but lying belly down on the floor with his legs stiffly outstretched and crossed, his hands pushing down on the floor pulsing in rhythm to his own inner need is not.) He is gangly and silly. He can read facial expressions on me, one of his teachers, and sometimes one of his siblings. Again, this has counted against him in receiving a diagnosis. Some people stare and some look sympathetically at him. He is oblivious to both. I could go on and on but you get the picture.
There are frustrations and celebrations everyday in the lives of an Autistic family. I believe a family living with Autism survives on a sense of humor and lots of prayers.
There is comfort and validation in sharing a common bond. This is my mini-account of Autism in my family. Tell me yours.
Pray for those affected by Autism.
I always said I would not take a placement with Autism. I didn't think I was equipped with the necessary skills to successfully parent such a child. Some days I still feel that way. I am relieved to say that most parents of children with Autism feel that same way.
Silly Bear came to us at a few weeks old. He had been born a full term, healthy baby. The sad part is his birth mom did not have the skills to parent. She took him home by herself, no support system, no one to turn to. She lacked the ability to bond to her baby or care for even his basic needs. Malnutrition caused Silly Bear lung damage and other problems and almost took his life.
Silly Bear struggled medically, including surviving on donated breast milk for the first two years of his life. His development was delayed with speech totally missing. Papa Bear and I intended to adopt him from the moment we knew he was free. We knew we were up to the challenge of whatever this little guy needed. No one ever said the word Autism in all of the therapy sessions, specialist's appointments, assessments or other visits. When he was four, it was suggested that he was PDD but he was not diagnosed. I did not connect PDD and Autism as I had virtually no training in either. I have now!
Silly Bear talks well. He is in a mainstream second grade class with help. He is not reading but is learning sight words and has a desire to read. He can be very social, which has been to his detriment when being screened for Autism. He hugs and kisses, though not always appropriately. He no longer flaps but has his own stemming. Yet another missing marker in the "diagnosis" process. (Flapping is expected but lying belly down on the floor with his legs stiffly outstretched and crossed, his hands pushing down on the floor pulsing in rhythm to his own inner need is not.) He is gangly and silly. He can read facial expressions on me, one of his teachers, and sometimes one of his siblings. Again, this has counted against him in receiving a diagnosis. Some people stare and some look sympathetically at him. He is oblivious to both. I could go on and on but you get the picture.
There are frustrations and celebrations everyday in the lives of an Autistic family. I believe a family living with Autism survives on a sense of humor and lots of prayers.
There is comfort and validation in sharing a common bond. This is my mini-account of Autism in my family. Tell me yours.
Pray for those affected by Autism.
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