The Yeah...But....Club

    

           I've never thought of myself as much of a complainer, but lately I have noticed how things get on my nerves--"on my last nerve" as the kids say.  We really weren't allowed to complain much when we were growing up or we'd get......let me see how to say this politically correctly....oh yeah, we'd get spanked.  My father, a Commander in the Navy during WWII, didn't "cotton" to much fussing or making excuses or plain 'ole complaining.  We were told, "Just say Yes Sir and that's all!" 

     So I was well trained.  Until now. 
     Now I hear myself saying out loud----a lot...."Yeah, but.....I....." and then some excuse or reasoning or poor-pitiful-me type words will come gurgling out.   When friends say they lost a lot of weight walking two miles a day, I am quick to chirp,  "Yeah, but, so do I and yadayadayada."  I can "Yeah, but" myself to death about money, friends, work, travel, dieting (oh yeah, I already said that one), and well, you name it.  "Yeah, but, that would take so long."  "Yeah, but, nobody told me it started early." "Yeah, but, I have to get a sitter."  "Yeah, but, I don't want to give up my Saturdays."  You get it.  Yeah, but, nobody wants to read my blogs anyway.
    I got really defensive yesterday when an acquaintance commented that I made it  seem like raising Taylor was so hard.  She, too, has a child with Down Syndrome; we were just comparing notes.  And I heard all of this come out of my mouth: "Yeah, but, your daughter is not in pain.  Yeah, but you are married and have a husband who helps 50/50.  Yeah, but your daughter is still in school.  Yeah, but she is higher functioning than Taylor.  Yeah, but ya'll have more money.  Yeah, but you have more kids at home to help you."  I Yeah-Butted myself all over the place.  But were they just hollow excuses?
And I knew I was feeling defensive and like maybe I wasn't a good mother and like I didn't know how to do this life thing so well----yeah, but, here I am and who better?  Yeah, but.....maybe all of you would be better at my life.
     This is not my temporary so-called life.  This is not like, "Ok, Taylor's going to be retarded for a while and then when he's 32, he's going to read and write on grade level and become a lawyer."  This is the real-deal way it is.  For as long as our lives are---I mean our physical lives.  It's not, "Well you only have to do this for six months and then we're sending in a replacement---or extra troops or a new set of chromosomes or that new pill that's going to make you lose weight and make Taylor pain-free and with an IQ way above room temperature. "   (Yeah, but most of us have that high IQ and look at us! Ooops!)
So, I am taking stock today. 
My "Yeah buts" are keeping me stuck and creating a longing for parts of a life that probably will never be.
Yeah, but, can I love the life I have?
Yeah, but can you love the life you have?
Yeah, but, can we help each other learn to live wholly/holy and fully and happily in our lives? 
Ok. Ok. Yes!  But To loving our lives just as we find them.
Yeah, but, does anybody know how to make my legs look thinner?

Sitting Halo

       

       Last week I got an email from my brother, along with his daughter's blog about  missionary work she is doing with children in Mexico.  Beka's blog updated her family and followers about how she hangs out, shares her heart, and is a witness to the children she is there to serve.  I can't remember now if she left out a word or if I left out a word, but here's what I read from what she wrote: "Sometimes I just sit.......halo."  Within minutes, and after checking lots of other emails, I wrote back to my brother and asked, "What does she mean to "Sit Halo"? (See, I had already unconsciously taken her words for my own meaning.)  I began to picture my precious niece just being a present and caring presence in the lives of children in a very impoverished country. Perhaps without using words, without pushing her beliefs on them---I could see Beka "sitting halo" for the children she  is there to reach.

        Well, come to find out (is that an old person's expression?), Halo is a video game and sitting and playing halo literally meant sitting and playing that video game.   Shucks! Darn. Even damn.  My whole image and the meaning I had assigned "Sitting Halo"  was crumpled up--null and void.  I had about thirty seconds of disappointment that I had so misread her words, but something stuck with me---those words, "Sitting Halo" kept clamoring around in my head.  There was meaning there for me. I was touched by that expression and I  let it just sit inside of me for several days. 

Sitting Halo. 
Holding a person you love--or loved---or need to love---or can't love (you get the picture---insert your favorite name now)--holding a person in a sacred space---in a holy light---surrounded by grace and compassion--and of course--by light.  Light that might give them a bit of hope or a new perspective or a glint/glimmer that they are going to find their paths.  Sitting Halo---my new best phrase--- means even sitting right next to somebody you want so desperately to "fix" and make better and steer down a different road----but maybe your words are all used up and broken-record-sounding---maybe your words would fall on deaf ears or a hardened heart.  And, anyway, maybe your words are not what they need. You know exactly what I'm talking about; you've been there.  You might be there right now.  So, don't say anything.  Just Sit Halo for that person.  Just pray--- if that's the word that makes sense for you life.  Or meditate---- Send them love.  Ask for them to be sheltered and nourished and to be "healed"-----and yes, I know that can mean a zillion different things.  But you get it, don't you? 
      Sit Halo.
 Today I could not do anything to make Taylor feel better.  I had done all there was to do.  I was frustrated and close to tears.  So, I just stood close, was silent, and "Sat Halo."   For me, that meant I prayed for him to be out of pain.  It felt like such a relief to have a place to "go" with my thoughts and for the love I hold for him. I didn't need to tell him what I was doing or why I was doing it.  It is simply (and beautifully) a prayer for watching over---for whatever that person needs to live his /her life's purpose full out.
   For the woman who cuts in front of you in line at Wendy's:  Sit Halo.  For the  friend we have who is  lost and not knowing where to turn in life:  Sit Halo.

For the sister/son/friend  who has not  made contact with you in months:  Sit Halo.  Hold them in that sacred and holy place in your heart.  Say their names---pour  love on top of their names.  See them in your mind's eye completely surrounded by grace and luminous light.  Ask that they will know hope.

Sit Halo. 

I am honored and so touched  to know that there are those of you "out there" Sitting Halo for me. 

Don't say a word.  Hold that intention----for love---for them.
Sit Halo. 

    

Taylor and Hawkeye

Movie...Two Words....Rhymes With....

a

                     Raise your hand if you like to play Charades! Ok, that's all of you as far as I can see from here. I know, I know. Some of you would rather have a root canal instead of being made to play Charades. But, didn't you ever go to camp or youth group or family holidays where you had to play? I am thinking how intense and intent we become when we actually play that game. All of us stay poised on the edges of our seats making guess after wild guess as the clues come flying at us-----giving it everything we've got to make sense of/understand/find out what the person is trying to have us know. And we keep at it---scanning our brains for any possible connection we can make with all of those, "Sounds like....rhymes with...four words....three syllables....second syllable.' We are like dogs with a bone---not letting go---nothing getting in our way----to get the "thing" that is being communicated. Are you with me? And it can get pretty competitive as only Charades can get. (Oh, come on! Can't you remember your Aunt Hazelnut trying to act out The Titanic?)

      Yesterday I realized again for the 98th time that Taylor and I talk in a form of  Charade-like conversation all day long. This is a typical conversation for us.
Taylor: Lake. Jet ski. Alabama. Aladdin. Call Joe phone. Murphy home.
Me: Taylor, put on your shoes.
Taylor: Wait wait wait. Lake. Jet Ski. Alabama. Aladdin. Call Joe phone. Murphy home.
Pete and repeat sat on a fence......
     I continue to give him directions and he hangs on for dear life to the clues he is trying desperately for me to hear. "Wait. Wait. Wait, " he implores until I finally stop and truly hear what he is saying. I have things I want for him to do. I am impatient with my own agenda.  He has things he wants to make sure I hear. He needs to know that he is heard.  And by golly, he is relentless.
Me: Oh, so you want to go to the lake in Alabama and see Mary Love and ride the jet ski, take your movie, Aladdin, call Joe on the phone when we get there and leave Murphy at home.
Taylor: Stage direction Taylor nods Yes.
And then---and only then, is he willing to put on his shoes or pour his juice or get into the car. He will not budge until I say back to him or reflect back to him what it was he was trying to tell me---what he wanted me to know about what he needed.
      You and I, I and you---we give clues to other people all day long. And we long for them to pick up on our awkward, veiled, poorly expressed words that somehow link way down deep to what our hearts are feeling---and trying desperately to convey.  And we want them to hear us-----really hear what it is we are saying or acting out or dividing into parts and phrases. "Hear me. I'm giving you clues. I want you to connect with me. I want to know that you've heard what I have said---and what I mean."
But somehow in our very real daily lives, we do are not in Charade-playing- mode, so we tend not to guess with the same fervor and interest we conjure up during  the game. Isn't this backwards? Shouldn't this be the other way around? I mean, like, wouldn't it better if we just realized and acknowledged that all of those around us are trying to tell us something---something important to them--about their lives---inside or out? We get tons of clues----verbal and not-so-verbal--from people we see every day? Would it be safe to guess that they (me/you/they) would really love to be listened to.....and then truly heard?
Gosh, doesn't it feel so so so??......good, so complete, so healing...when we know that the person beside us/close to us can take all of our cues, all of our clues and come up with the response that hits our meaning right on the head?
I love it that Taylor insists that I "Wait. Wait. Wait," until he is fully assured that I "get it." I have to say back to him my interpretation of his words until he is satisfied that we both understand what he wants/needs.
Pretty cool, isn't it?
Wait. Listen. Try again. Wait.
Offer a translation. ("This is what I think I heard you say.")
Wait. Listen.
We just want to be heard.
He does. I do. You do. 
Can we try.....harder....more better?
It's the best kind of love.
One word, one syllable, first syllable:  Love
In life, it rhymes with:  I Hear You. I really hear you.

Beautiful Love

Last night, I was working on my computer in Taylor's room while he was about to go to sleep. Without warning, Taylor hopped up out of bed, came over and gently touched me on the shoulder. In his sweetest, rather high-pitched/angelic--in his, "This is me being authentic and meaningful" voice, he said to me, "Mama bee--u--ti-ful! Mama pre--tt-tie!" I was so caught off guard because he delivered those lines with such conviction and warmth--to me. I looked up at my dear 26 year old son and said, "No, Taylor, I'm overweight. Mama's old and I don't look good. Honey, I'm not pretty." He just stared at me. My words bounced off of him as if he had a protective coating the words could not penetrate. "This does not compute, " was what he might have spoken back to me if he had articulated what he felt. I, on the other hand, was determined to prove him wrong. Within about 8 seconds all of my massive judgements about my physical self came flaming up and hung suspended in my throat. "You're wrong. You're retarded. What do you know about beauty and who's pretty and what the world expects from us?" These thoughts of mine screamed and raged, but they didn't make it out of my mouth. Taylor was not convinced. But, he had set something in motion. Grapple. Grapple Grapple with.
     Who is the judge? Who do you, who do I assign as THE judge that decides who is beautiful and who is pretty--- Or who is whatever.... There must be some body, some one, some thing to which we have all given our power because Lord knows we spend enough time, money, worry, exercise, surgery, media, therapy trying our best to be....beautiful.
      Don't we? Are am I wrong? And with two little bitty sentences this precious living human being touches me and says, "Mama beautiful." AND I ARGUED WITH HIM! And made him wrong---so that I could, so that I could....what??? Be so right about being all wrong about how much I buy into judgements about physical beauty? Let me see now.....he's "retarded" and I'm so darn smart....Something's not right here because he sees beauty and I'm trying to convince him that no he does not see beauty.  After all, what on earth does this fellow know? Does his vote count? I mean as much as yours and mine? Because I've seen Elle and GQ.
I mean....I know what the rules are.  Right?
Stop. Push pause.
      What if we allowed ourselves to bask and bathe in the love that others have for us---with all of our seeming imperfections and flaws. What if we did not treat ourselves so brutally and harshly? (Am I alone in this or are there others of you out there who beat up on yourselves pretty regularly---like hourly?)
         I can honestly say that without exception, I have never ever seen Taylor judge any person----not even one person---based on physical appearance. We have been in physical therapy with severe burn victims, quadriplegics, men with no limbs, all sorts of disfigurements, dirty hair, women with beards, acne, scars, obesity, anorexics---and not even once has Taylor winced, made a face, looked away, made a joke, or compared himself or others to that person. Not once. What he does repond to is love---and being accepted and being welcomed and being acknowledged for being in the room or at the table or right in front of you.
Taylor is right.
What he sees in people who love him is beauty.
Why is that so hard to accept?
Love is beautiful.
Did a rocket scientist have to figure that out?
Taylor is waiting for the rest of us to catch up and catch on.
He knows.
I want to know what he knows.

Emergeny Exits

         

I guess I'll jump on the Jet Blue/Steve Slater bandwagon here like everybody else.  Come on, folks!  How many times have we wanted to scream, "It's been a great ride!",  grab a beer and slide down that ramp to freedom?  Isn't that right up there with that country song, "You Can Take This Job and Shove It?"  I've been there.  You've been there. The hard part is after we slide and come to our senses and decide we need to make it back up that inflated slide.  Maybe things weren't so bad anyway.  Oops.  Or maybe they were.  Sometimes landing at the bottom of the ramp is exactly where we need to be.  It's a new starting over point.  Time to take off running in a new direction.
    Taylor and I have traveled a whole bunch this summer.  We've flown all over the country on lots of airlines.  He does quite well and I know most of the tricks of the trade now to make flying do-able for us.  When I get to any airport at check in, I immediately go to one of those kiosks and change my seats so we can move closer to the front of the plane.  Three times this summer, an actual, friendly, overly zealous airline helper agent-type, has walked me through the computer steps. 
Here's what's so weird:  Taylor is always standing right next to me.  He is 26, clearly Down Syndrome, has profound speech delay, cannot read, and mostly wants to hug.  So, when we see that the Exit rows on the kiosk computer screen are available, each agent has, with all seriousness, looked at me (and Taylor) and asked, " Is he over 15?" "Does he speak English?" " Could he open the  plane's emergency exit during a flight?"  I am standing there knowing the obvious answer is, "NO" to all of the above, but these agents are asking me these questions.....for real.  So, naturally----because of all of that extra leg room, we (the agent and I) answer "Yes" to all of those life and death questions and click "Continue."   Jumping to the chase:  The agents at the boarding gate are appalled (too strong a word?) and roll their eyes when I explain that one of their own agents helped us make this move. 
So our seats are moved.....again, but closer to the front.  Mission accomplished.
     What has stayed with me in my  love of life's metaphors is how I really love and seem to need to be close to the  emergency exits.  In so many ways, I think I have lived so much of my life planning an escape....from my own life....from situations in my life.  When things get too rough and hard and all gnarled up, my inclination is to emotionally bail out.  There is often that underlying, unvoiced fear that says,  "This is going to be the situation that I won't be able to handle."  And yet, I'm 56 and I've handled every single thing that's come my way.  I wonder then, why I cling to the notion that I need to sit next to the emergency exits in my life.
        What I've come to.....even though I color hair that should be gray and wise....what I've come to, is that I/You/All of us want options in our lives.  We want to know......need to know that in every single situation there is more than one way to think, to feel, to react, to behave....to live.  Trouble comes to me when  fear takes over for me and I forget that in all situations, there are options.  Sometimes we have to dig around for them.....or think outside of that proverbial box...or better yet, be brave (with ourselves.)  But there are options.
There are emergency exits for us even if they are not clearly labeled.
We don't need to speak English or really even have to know how to help others slide down that ramp, nor be able to follow the airline crew's directions.
The directions we need to follow are from that still, sure, sacred voice inside of ourselves. 
That voice is always our gateway to an emergency exit---if we need one.
It leads us to our wherever we need to go in this life.

Sometimes it  does help to take a beer along.

O Come, All Ye Old Faithful....Friends

    Whew. Whoa. Wow. And Whew again.  Taylor and I just got back from a week in Yellowstone.  Traveling with Taylor is always eye-opening and without fail it calls up in me a whole bunch of my own fears and insecurities. I am so aware of what I have convinced myself is true about life---mine and yours and the universe's.  (Don't you just love it how I just launch right in to real junk?  Well, again, maybe you don't.)  OK, this is brutally honest, but I realize how isolated I keep myself even though I have a gregarious exterior.  This is way too much information and as my ex-husband/friend/it's complicated father-of-my children....says, "Save something for your diary."  The wonderful thing about traveling is that it gives one (us/you/me) time to reflect on who we are and what we want our lives to be about. The bad thing about traveling is that it gives us time to reflect on.......yep.  All of the above.  Reflection. Inquiry.  Worry.  Doubt.  And more what and why and how come questions. 

So, we watched geysers and then found some more geysers to see  and then checked the schedule to see when the oldest and most faithful of the geysers would go off.  Taylor was not impressed.  If he could talk, he might have said, "We came here for this?"  And I watched the throngs of people.  I am always so keenly aware of other handicapped people because I like to see them with their families.  I was  so lucky to be with my sister, a hoard of her friends and with my older son.  As we rode horses and walked the boardwalks, I  guess I was trying to decide if I was  on track or out-of-bounds or on course in my dealings and relationship with my 26 year old Down Syndrome son.  I'm not quite sure from whom I might get my cues when we're out and about in a public and new place.   Can't you see that all of this is just inside of me and not inside of Taylor? He doesn't see the stares and perhaps the looks of sympathy.  As I have to always take Taylor into the "girl's" bathroom with me,  the discomfort of others is palpable.    I can sense it but it makes me up my game and go into "mother of the year" mode.  Help me out here.  Is that sad or necessary or weird or what?
Anyway, what I came away with from this trip is that I want to connect and need to connect with people---with friends---with those around me.  I'm not exactly sure why that's so hard. Well, actually I am but you would need to come sit on my sofa with me for a couple of hours for me to share this part with you.
For those fellow travelers who reached out, made eye contact, initiated conversation, took an interest, allowed us more time and space, I felt so grateful---and connected.  So many kind people opened themselves up to me----to Taylor.
And I was reminded that when I do that---when I open myself up to you----when you open yourself up to me...to others---there is such abundance....of love.
Cheezy. But true. 
I bet you already knew that.
See, I really am the retarded mother. 
I am slow to catch on to these things.

Going Nice

I am fresh out  of "profound thinking"---as if.  As if I ever had any profound thoughts.  But, for those of you who know me, I know I live that ad nauseum sense of making meaning out of ordinary events.  "What does this mean? or What is our lesson here?"  I even make my own self sick with delving deep.  Sometimes clam chowder is just clam chowder.  I can't think of when that might be, but lots of you tell me that it's true.
Which leads me to being polite.....or more directly, "Is it ever ok to be rude?"  When?  I taught in a school system whose motto for years was to be "Firm, Friendly and Fair."  Those guidelines, in tandem, work pretty well.  But rude? Almost never.
Taylor and I just returned from a week in New York City.  We don't do the Central Park carriage rides or have lunch at The Plaza.  We did take in the zoo and scooted along the Hudson River bike path for miles.  Neither  of that challenged our need to be polite/rude.  I had to wrangle with a couple of city bus drivers who wanted to refuse Taylor's scooter on their bus, but I simply said, "It's either this or his wheel chair.  Pick one."  So it was all good after that brief multiple choice option that left them "duh-less."  I mean, what can they say to that??
When the universe did start messing with me again (and my "what are the lessons here?") was when our flight home was cancelled.  Having already been delayed earlier in this crowded airport, tensions were high and true characters rose to the top.  Simply put, I was appalled and stunned at how some fellow travelers approached and treated the airline employees.  OK, it was true that we had no wedding to attend, no graduation to get to, no doctor's appointment to make---so we were not behind that deadline eight-ball.  But still, waiting with Taylor in an airport is not right up there with my favorite things to do in life.  But it gave me another opportunity for a "practice test"---practice what I say I believe---and see if meditation is paying off.

 I watched and wondered, "Do I act like that?  Am I like that?" Gosh, I don't want to be like those people; is there ever a time to emotionally eviscerate an airport agent?

My vote is NO.

As my stomach tightened and my OCD/need for order/planning was turned upside down, I observed Taylor being calm, patient and not having that panic most of us get when we would kill to be at the head of the line.  Our sense(s) of entitlement kick in and we are aggravated that we've been inconvenienced.  Don't we? I am really just having this conversation with myself because it washed over me how attached I am to outcomes and having things work out exactly as I have them planned in my head.  But as Taylor tugged on my sleeve, responding  with, "Go nice" to the angry folks around him, I had to stop and re-think how I behave when a wheel falls off in my life.  I hate wheels to fall off---just so you know.

Taylor does not know the concept "Firm, Friendly, Fair." 

He does know, "Go nice."

He lives Go Nice.

Gosh, we all have so much to learn.

I mean.....I do.

Journeys

 Oh Lord.  My older son, Cole, left this week on a sojourn.  A college graduate, smart as a whip, compassionate and wise---he is off to find out what he wants to to do with the rest of his life.  The business for which he has worked for eleven years was sold.  Now real life shows up calling again, "Who is it that you really want to be in this life?" 
It was a tender and touching moment to watch Taylor give Cole a hug as Cole loaded his backpack and other gear into his truck.  Taylor said, "My brother. Trip."
That's all he knows.  Actually, that's all any of us knows.  I watched those tail lights leave down the alley behind our house and I said out loud, "Go forth into the world in peace. Be of good courage."  And then I sang the Rutter anthem I know that is built around that text.  I sang it all day and I wondered and worried that I have not prepared either of my boys to live this life in their full magnificence.  (Is that creepy to say? Ooey--gooey bag kind of question?) I wondered that about them because I ask myself the same question every single day, "Am I living my life to its fullest magnificence?  And, if I'm not, what is holding me back? Where is the fear blocking me?"  (Yes, I am huge reader and supporter of Debbie Ford.  Google her and her work.  Phenomenal!)
I have not climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. I have not paddled the Amazon.  I have not been on all seven continents.  Some days---most days, my adventures seem so small in comparison to those who are "really living."  But wait.  Hold.  Put your brain on pause.  What about the life-changing journeys that many of us try to take every day?  Do they count? 
I love the text from  Book of Common Prayer. Wherever we find ourselves at this very exact moment---these are powerful guides for living---in magnificence.
I ask you....how huge are  these assignments/journeys in our very real lives:
1. Go forth into the world in peace. Your world---the minute you wake up, you are in your world. Before you even get out of bed, you are in your world.   Enter it in peace.  This might be a little like sailing the Indian Ocean on a raft. 
2.  Be of good courage.  Be brave. Do what your gut tells you.  Follow the inner spirit inside of you.  It will always lead you to your best path.  Ok, that's a Mt. Everest climb for me.
3,  Hold fast to that which is good; render to nobody --"not no one" evil-for-evil.   A trip to Antarctica anyone?  I mean, how hard is this assignment? I could ice trek Antarctica more easily than I am willing to give up rendering evil for evil. I mean, my feelings really get hurt and I get mean. And you?
4.  Strengthen the faint hearted.  Support the weak. Help the afflicted.
Sounds like a full time job to me.  Oh yeah, right in our own worlds---wherever we find ourselves---in the bank, on the subway, on a hike, on I-95,  at Macy's, at work, in our own kitchens with our own families. 
5.  Honor all people.  Ahem.  Even the homeless.  Even ugly people.  Even people with rashes and warts and not-so-smart people--even people who use food stamps illegally or cheat the IRS.   That means we can't even make a hidden list of people we don't feel like honoring.   Oh, doing a tri-athlon is sounding easier and easier than honoring all people----when we go forth into the world----in peace.

 In closing (don't you just love to hear those words in a speech---that's why I threw them in just now) the best way for me to teach my own boys is to live my own life the best I can.  They'll catch on.  Anyway, talk's cheap.  Watch what I do.
It's a challenge worthy of National Geographic Explorer proportions:  Go forth into the world (Kroger, neighborhood, bank, dentist, nail salon) in peace.
And all the rest of those things.  Huge inner journeys take us far. Sort of like climbing a mountain or sailing around the world---Be of good courage.
You don't really even need a backpack. 
Let's all meet out there in the world as we journey. 
You'll recognize me. 
I'm the one struggling---but willing. 
Oh, I hope my sons know this.

Shoot the Moon

Yesterday while I was at the gym, (I love for you to know that. It's better than saying, "Yesterday when I was at Dunkin Donuts" and then I get to hear all of your judgments from even as far away as my house. OK, a journalist might have just noticed "I buried my lead" so back to the very true--or mostly true-story of my gym life.) So, while on the arc trainer, another gym goer/acquaintance and I were chatting. In talking about our lives, inevitably it came out: "That's just the hand you were dealt, Marianne." Sometimes, and it's always so well-meaning, the capsule that I so often hear summing up my life is, "Well, having Taylor is the card you drew." I get it. I know what I mean when I talk like that and I know what other people mean. Life is not a card game, but yes, I am all about extended metaphors. This is the hand I was dealt---deal with it. Have you ever noticed that people only offer that line when something "bad" has happened? I don't think I've ever heard those pearls of wisdom around a topic like, "Oh, she's Miss Universe? Well, that's the hand she was dealt." It's like the penalty cards are thrown at us in a random way. And all of a sudden, life is a deck of card---house of cards maybe.  But who gets what cards?  Who's the dealer?  Do we have any say? Oh my goodness, this could get thick on us, couldn't it?

Actually, I do love metaphors and symbolism and figuring out how to see things  that are cloaked in irony and camouflage.  I fancy myself as a closet Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Right before she bursts into "Do(e) A Deer...." she has that inward thought and summons all of her ways of knowing......."Let me see if I can make this a little easier," as she makes that teaching leap  towards clarity. . You know, "How can I get this concept across to you?" and so she bursts into song. I've done it myself in my lifetime of teaching. Burst into song and leapt for that metaphor. (If you're still reading, then you've come to where I wanted to begin this blog in the first place. Thank you for still holding on to the rope with me. Back to the card game and hand we've each been dealt---and in particular, since it's my blog--the hand I've been dealt) [Since I'm all over the map here today, what would your blog be about? What hand have you been dealt?]
Actually, I am a a terrible card player ---losing all metaphors.  But I always did love a good game of Hearts. Of course, I cringed until I got rid of the queen, nor could  I ever keep up with who had played what out of their hands.  And there were those brilliant  Heart sessions when somebody would "shoot the moon."  Talk about strategy--or luck or both.  Or maybe the hand that had been dealt was perfect from the start.  But it was that going for broke---going all out, having a plan, risking it all----playing the hand that was dealt with finesse and a driving will  that brought the moon--the winner-take-all into focus.
  My experience in this life, with the hand I've been dealt, is that most people would honestly have to admit that I drew the Queen of Spades in giving birth to Taylor.  (Isn't there always that collective sigh of relief in us when you don't get left with those big-deal cards in our own lives?--Not my child, not my family, not my home and the list goes on of "Thank goodness it wasn't me.")  So, my job now is to have a plan,  use carefully what I already have, and plug away---go for broke, take risks, do all that I can to shoot the moon.
I have already been collecting hearts along the way.  Thank goodness that hearts can be shared because there is certainty that I will be able to come up with a full hand---of hearts---to go along with that tricky spade queen. The good and the "bad."
Because what I'm thinking is this: If we stack our decks with a whole slew of hearts, then we can offset just about anything.
So, give me all your heart (s).  Please.
I'm carrying the queen.
It's only a penalty card if we treat it like one.
Fair warning---since you can see my cards anyway:
I'm going to shoot the moon.

"The risk is high.....but the reward is great. "
That's what the rule book promises: great rewards.
I'm in.

















".

Happy Birthday

Today is Taylor's 26th birthday.  More on that in a minute.  I'll circle back and pick you up.  My friend, Terry, is one of the funniest and most compassionate people I know.  She told me the other day that I should collect all of these writings and publish a book.  And she came up with a title and then made me promise that  I'd give her credit if I used it.  Terry's suggested title for my life's blogs is: Chicken Soup My A**!!   I howled when she advised me.   Underneath my laughter was the truth;  It's a perfect title---Chicken Soup----My A**.  It fits.
    So, 26 years ago,  while still in the recovery room, the doctor (s) told me to have someone round up my family right away.  They  said they needed us all together so they could speak with us.   We sent somebody---a nurse?---rushing down to my room where my sisters were tying up balloons and hanging celebratory signs.  Martha and Deanie showed up at my bedside within seconds--out of breath and clearly not knowing what we were all about to be told. 
Dr. H. wasted no time, but she struggled with her words and hesitated as she did her best to break the news to us about our newborn son.  (This has got to be right up there on their  list of  "this is not my favorite part of being a doctor.")  And, then she hit us with the news that would change our lives in one split second----causing us to cough up everything we had ever believed about life up to that point.  "Yes," she lamented, "he will be retarded."  Slam.  1-2 Knock out punch.  What????  Ok, you get it. Huge news.  Devastating news.  Not-what-we-had-expected news.  How-in-the-hell-will-we-ever-do-this news. 
But here is the most incredible and truly beautiful part of that birth-day.  Without hesitating, without skipping even one beat, both of my sisters heaved (visibly) a huge sigh of relief.  "Oh, thank God.  Is that all it is? We were so afraid you were going to tell us there was something wrong with Marianne.  Whew.  We can handle this.  We couldn't have handled the other."  So let's get on with this---- is what they were saying.
 Retarded?  Piece of cake.  We've still got each other and that's all that really matters. ----that was the distinct, unequivocal,  spoken and unspoken message that day.  We can do this.
Isn't that just the sweetest thing you've ever heard? And so it was.....and is. 
And Mr. Taylor is 26.  He knows it's his birthday but he has not handed me a list of "I want this and I want that."  He just wants to blow out some candles.  Candles that he won't be able to count.  So, we'll count them for him.  And remember and celebrate.  Besides taking him to NYC and Yellowstone this summer, I bought him three sticker books.  Now, buying those did make cry.  The salesperson at Borders inquired, "Oh your son will love these Disney sticker books.  How old will he be?"  I gulped.  Should I have lied?  It would have been so much easier and I wouldn't have had the sales lady shifting from one foot to another trying to figure out what to do with my tears.  Maybe when Taylor turns 50 I can buy sticker books without caving in.
So, here's how I'm celebrating.  For 26 years I have told people I couldn't do sit ups "cause my stitches still hadn't healed from childbirth." That, of course, is a big fat lie.
I am going to do some sit ups. 
I think my stitches have finally healed.  Well.....are healing.
Let me just try a few. 
Happy Birth---Happy Life-----Happy Love----to my sweet son.
Bring on the chicken soup--for the soul, for the mama, for the son, for living this life.

Healing Hands

I dragged/drug (?) Taylor to church yesterday.  Not only did I take him to church, we had a little road trip to Montreat, NC, so we could worship with a thousand other Presbyterians at the Montreat Conference Center.  The guest minister was a man  known in national and international circles as “the preacher’s preacher,” the Rev. Dr. James A. Forbes. He was quite eloquent I must say.  Plus, I was just ready to be there. I think it sort of matters how we show up at any event or to any situation or gathering.  An open heart and mind is just so much easier to mold and mend and let stuff in than when we've got that iron door pulled down over us.  So, yeah, I was ripe to be ministered to. (Is it ok to end with a prepostion there---ministered to?)   Taylor does not like church per se.  Because we don't go anymore, he is always on his best behavior when we find our way into a sanctuary of any kind.  He knows there will be singing and that we have to sit still for a while.  He's still not sure about marry and bury and just regular, plain 'ole, "we're just at church now" kind of thing.  I cry pretty much every time I'm in a church, so Taylor gets no clues from me about the poignancy level of the service.  It's all a service to me.
  But anyway....here I am dragging you along too.  Stick with me.  At one point in the service, Dr. Forbes asked us to hold out our hands  in front of us and look at them.  Because Taylor had not been doing the standing and singing much up to that point, I was caught a bit off guard when he joined in; Taylor, like having heard his own name being called,  put his sweet litle hands out in front of himself  to examine them.
Dr. Forbes would go on to invite us and encourage us and challenge us to use our hands---connected to our hearts and God and love and our callings within---to use our hands for healing and service.   This preacher's preacher, convinced that we are all healers,  beckoned us to use our hands to heal---to heal relationships, to heal yucky parts of our jobs, to heal wounds from our past--and present.  All the while, we looked at our hands--each person's hands/gifts/tools right out in front of ourselves----looked at our hands as a real and vital connection that can touch, calm, become a balm---and healer to people whose paths we cross. 
(Yes, I was moved.)

   I put my hand on the deep scar of Taylor's neck.  "Heal him," I prayed.  Here are my hands.  Here is my prayer.  And then I felt Taylor's hand on my face---on my cheek---just brushing at that tear he saw.  All of these years I have taken Taylor "in" for healing---Lord knows we've been to every western and eastern medicine man and religious person that I can find on the map.   But what was clotted up in my stomach on Sunday morning was not my own hands used for healing.....but Taylor's.  What about his hands?  What about how he uses his touch (and gentleness and kindness and love) for healing?  As I watched him in his own precious reverent way hold out his hands as if he were hearing a call very special and particular to his life, I was struck silent and still.  All of these years I have yearned and begged and pleaded and prayed for Taylor's healing---physical healing from pain.  But yesterday I was startled into seeing how Taylor's hands are his gifts too---his gifts and tools for healing.   Why had I not expected him to join in and have something to offer?  Why had I assumed that the service--the message was only for me (and the other 1000 people in that sanctuary) and not for him?   Why do I need to be reminded so often and so vividly that Taylor has his own holy journey?  Why am I hogging this show?

        I know good and well that some of you are just like me.  We decide who has worth or who has more worth or less worth---whose life is more important or meaningful or valuable.  I think I probably have a ranking order (please God tell me it's not a conscious thing!) for other people on this planet.  I bet you $10.00 that I am not alone in this.  So, let me just ask you this: Are outstretched, giving, healing hands all valuable?  Are some more so than others?  "Hmmmmm" is the only answer I will allow myself right now.
And I look at the picture of my sister's hands making a puzzle with Taylor.   Healing hands.  Hands that bring a gift, a touch, comfort, reassurance, help, kindness.   Taylor examined his hands yesterday.  He, too, seemed to be reminded that he has something to offer.
You can't hear me singing, but I am. 
Offer your hands and all to which they are connected--your heart, your skills, all that you know, your hope.  Your hands.

Ring Bearer

Yesterday,  my 22 year old nephew got  married.  Jack has just completed four years at West Point.  (His twin brother just completed four years at The Naval Academy.)  America's brightest, most talented, most promising: our future.  I love these boys (men.) I do. Politically I am probably not very much like them or their parents, but our love and respect for each other is strong and real.  And, for all of their lives , both of these young men have embraced, included, and interacted with Taylor in meaningful and loving ways.  Early on, the contrasts were not so glaring or vast.  Today, the gap between the boys (the twins and Taylor) ---intellectually,  physical abilities,  potential earning power, "America's most valuable resource"--the differences can not even be compared on the same chart---if there were such a chart.  (I guess I have an ongoing chart in my head.)  Taylor, 25---the groom, 22--both taking part in the same life----same stores, same speed limits on the same highways,   same family picnics, ---but totally different lives.

    Jack and his bride, Joanna,  asked Taylor to be the ring bearer for their  wedding.  Taylor's "job"  was  to walk down the aisle, find the twin best man and give him the ring to hold for the groom. Gosh, that sounds so simple doesn't it?  Let me just say that it's a good thing we were able to practice. And, even with that, it was touch and go.  But, Taylor hung on to that pillow and found his way down an aisle amongst people who love him and made his way to an anxious and welcoming groom.  Everybody cried.  Cried to see this man child taking so seriously this one seemingly simple and sacred task.  Cried that he was included----"one of the gang" at a grown up wedding---a celebration and ceremony that he, himself will never experience.  Tears came from many layers and for all sorts of reasons.  I am beginning to see that this will be a life-long, kick-in-the-gut, "Oh, but this is my life," process for the rest of my life with Taylor.
     Perhaps the most touching part of the day----the day of the ring-bearer---happened in our home as we worked to get Taylor ready for church.  He is a bit confused about "bury" and "marry" and it became clear that he thought maybe somebody had died and that we would be singing at a church somewhere.  He knows bury better than he knows marry.  Working on my eye liner from another room, I could hear Taylor and his older brother, Cole, wrestle with working the belt through its loops.  Cole, who would later rapture the ears and hearts of  wedding guests,    violin-ing  Saint-Saens , Debussy, and Pachelbel----patiently belted and buttoned his younger brother before his  little ring-bearer  march down the aisle.  Cole left with his violin case and his remarkable, brilliant talent. Taylor carried a pillow and an innocence and un-knowing that most of us cannot begin to re-create. Two brothers and later two cousins, side-by-side with everything and nothing in common.  How delicate---how difficult, how real.  We cried.  You would have too.
       What I witnessed and felt so strongly was the acceptance that was shared with Taylor---in public, in a sacred place with caring people.  To love Taylor---or people like Taylor--- just means that you just become your best self---your higher self---your transformed-by-love self.  Because including him (and others like him) won't "get you anywhere" if any where is where you're looking to be.  But, it will get you to special place--a place that I have come to see as holy and tender and way down deep real.
Bearer of the rings......that he who brings them and they who receive them may abide in peace.

Wise Words

My eight year old friend, McLaren Jansen, comes up with the most insightful and endearing comments on a regular basis.  Not long ago, his mother (and my friend), told me a about one of their "Taylor" exchanges.  We are in and out of their house a good bit.  McLaren and his little sister each have their own interaction and relationship with my about-to-be 26 year old man child son.  Just awarded "Most Compassionate" for his 2nd grade class,  McLaren accepts Taylor lovingly---if not with a bit of "I'm not quite sure about this guy, but I'm going to damn well love him."  It's really touching.  McLaren reaches out to Taylor--at a restaurant, in the pool, while riding in the car---and Taylor is often silent.  Still McLaren presses on--with questions, with chatter, trying to involve Taylor like he would a regular 'ole 2nd grade buddy.  Last week McLaren, in seeing a photo of Taylor on his mother's computer, commented, "I love Taylor.  Everybody should love Taylor.  Taylor does no harm."  Breathe that in.  He does no harm.  Although that sounds at first hearing so benign, those words have grown on me and have forged a certain sort of comfort around them. McLaren "gets" the essence of Taylor.  He does no harm.  He has no agenda or judgements. Taylor sees us just as we are---fat legs, bad hair, grumpy moods, wrinkled shirts and all.  No harm done.  No harm felt.
     Last night McLaren taught me another lesson---another gem.  In relating something to his mother McLaren remarked, "You can't be mad at me for talking so much, mama.  My talking is a compliment from God."  A compliment from God.  A part of our personality that may tend to chaff others---a compliment from God.  Breathe into that concept too.  I mean, who has ever thought of a "bad" trait like that as a gift---from God? (Did anybody else gets Cs in citizenship for talking too much??)  My head was sent to swirling in thinking about how all parts of ourselves are compliments from God.  Even the traits that get us into trouble or the parts that we have hated ourselves for having.   I mean, how long have you tried to get rid of something in yourself? Can't you just hear your mother or sister or friend accusing you of, "You are so bossy or sarcastic or insecure or nosey or rude or arrogant or aloof......." And then we beat ourselves up because we're not perfect and we have all of these "bad" parts that we should get rid of . 
Well, listen to McLaren (and other great teachers.)  All parts of ourselves are compliments from God.  We need each trait and harder than that....we need to love each trait----yep---even our jealousy and anger and discontent.  Even those traits we try to bury and deny.  Those hard ones---the ones we hide.  You know what I'm talking about, don't you? 
     McLaren and Taylor are on the same page in so many ways.  Taylor has been complimented by God with so many qualities.  He just lives them out without arguing or trying to fix them.  The rest of us---me...you?....spend a whole lot of time trying to fix stuff in ourselves that is not even broken. 
We are not flawed.
We are whole, complex, beings.
And God has complimented each of us in so many unique ways.
Believe McLaren.  You and I ---all of us....each of us....has been complimented by God.
I love that. 
Now I'm going to try to live that.

Building Muscle

“Motivation is what gets you started.

Habit is what keeps you going.” ~ Jim Rohn

I find myself being irritated lately.  I am straying from my center and paying more attention to outside noise.  Even though I know better, I am taking my cues from "external" things.  This will get you (me) into trouble every time.  Have you ever noticed that?  I swear I did not mean to launch into this, but I am going to take this little detour for one second and talk about looking inward and---looking outside of ourselves.  I know so many things in my head, but absorbing them into my cell membranes and making them part of my cell memory (love that concept) are two different things.   Ooops. That was a bumpy sentence.  Here it is in plain English:  When we look for answers, solutions, comfort, approval, gratification, acceptance --"out there"--in external things (people, places, things) then we will forever and ever go without---and just keep on looking frantically to fill up that unnamed emptiness we feel.  News flash---and one I wish my parents had taught me from birth:  It's never out there that we long for. It's an inside job---so to speak.
It's so alluring to believe that what we need is outside of ourselves.   That's probably why we all keep doing that dog-gone, relentless tap dance trying to get recognition, approval. love, acknowledgement from a degree, a job, a spouse, or a smaller size pair of pants.  But, it's a a phantom route---and we all fall for it...day in and day out. 'Cause very simply put:  If we don't go within.......we go without.   (Say that to yourself 100 times and see if it makes sense by supper time.)
   Ok, back to the bad mood/irritability.  Taylor has been perserverating a whole bunch lately.  That means he says the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again until I want to scream.  His perseverating  is in direct correlation to  how much pain he is in.  And, because we can't seem to find out what is causing him pain, his broken record words just keep repeating and repeating.  (Please cut and paste that 200 times so I won't have to write it out.) Here's the thing.  When I'm with Taylor by myself, I get into his rhythm and work around it.  I go into my own head, settle into my center, and just let him do his thing.  But, when we're out in public or out to dinner, I can see how it irritates the living daylights out of everybody-----and then I feel responsible---and helpless and like a bad mother.  Irrational but true.
I can see people just shrug and wonder how I do this---maybe why I do this..  "This" meaning have patience again and again for doing what I do during my day.  Here's the deal.  I guess dealing with Taylor day in and day out is a lot like doing crunches or practicing  Hanon scales or flossing your teeth.  There are just some things in life that may not be gobs of fun, but to make our lives function---and better, we have to develop habits that just kick in without our even thinking about them.  "It's just what I do."  I know you have stuff like that in your own life.  Some of you walk every single day no matter what.  Some of you  meditate, or do yoga, or create a habit of writing, praying, vocalizing or applying your Oil of Olay religiously---every night, no matter what. 
We all have our own particular motivators.  Our values, beliefs and even our fear of failure often motivates us.  But it's our ability and willingness to honor our habits that give us grit.  Feel the fear (irritation, fatigue. pissed-offness)---and Do it Anyway!  Putting this into writing allows me to get a clearer idea of  why I have been so irritable.  I have looked outside of myself---fallen for some illusions that are probably not true---and have fought with the loving muscle that I must have to be Taylor's mama. 
I can see some of you so clearly right now in my mind's eye.  I am imagining what habits  that you have been forced to hone and perfect in your own lives---whether you have wanted to or not.  You have had to reach deep---inside of yourself---to do those emotional crunches so that you---and someone you love stays alive or gets fed/bathed. or has an outing or gets to work or stays sober or sees you as a beacon of light.
I am motivated to be a good mother to Taylor.  I know this is a life-long contract---for better or worse as it were.  But motivation with  the practiced  habit of living this life with grace, humor, and yes, "101, 102, 103....however many times it takes..."   is the joyful journey I have been called to make.
I want to walk this path with heart.  It's easier that way.
Now, if I could just find some motivation for doing those sit ups.
The sit-up habit falls into warrior category-------Please, God, don't send me down that path too.

Jumping to Conclusions

You know, since I have assigned myself the role of being  God's wife, that means I tend to believe I know what everybody's thinking and feeling.  Yeah, just putting it right out there, I guess you could say that I jump to conclusions about other people--and then act on them (the conclusions.)  Psychology 101 might teach us to call this  "projecting." We project onto other people beliefs we actually hold about ourselves.  Good grief.  Can't I just write about something simple and "fluffy" for once?  Are you asking yourself that or I am projecting?  Here I go again jumping to conclusions about what I think you are thinking.  I am so often wrong, but let me tell you that I will go down fighting.  Is that a "right fighter"-----somebody who would rather be right than happy?  Oh, I don't like to think of myself like that.  Do you?  Fess up.
   What has made me laugh this week is thinking back to a time when a group of people jumped to conclusions about Taylor.  It was pretty funny actually.  Three summers ago we spent a couple of weeks up in Iowa University Hospital while Taylor had his second C-1 and C-2 vertebrae fused. (Big stuff that operation.)  For the 16 months prior to that surgery, Taylor had completely shut down --stopped talking, walking, hands curled up--pain galore.   Just an awful awful time in our lives.  But here we were in this excellent hospital.  I had not been in a setting that was so homogeneous in years. Having always taught in public schools in Georgia, my rainbow world pretty much turned all white.  It was different for me---and yes, I'd probably jump to the conclusion that they were more conservative than I. Which leads me right on in to the funny part. 
   After Taylor's miraculous surgery, he began talking again.   Delighted, jubilant, full of thanksgiving, I danced my way up to this funky little store in Iowa City.  I couldn't believe it when I found the exact right button to put on his hospital gown.  The button read:  Silent No More!!  I ceremoniously pinned it front and center on Taylor's gown---and then stood back and marveled at how he began to talk (Talk in Taylor language...but talk none-the-less.)  Oh, I was such a proud mama!  Ok, and ok.....it was about four days into this "homecoming" of sorts that one of the nurses, while taking Taylor's vital signs spoke so compassionately and honestly with me. "I did not know that Taylor was a homosexual.  It is wonderful how you embrace that in him along with everything else."
"WHAT??????????"  Where on earth had she gotten that?  (Not that it's a bad thing; it just did not fit Taylor.  Actually, I have never known a gay Down Syndrome person.  Anybody????)
This precious nurse, in seeing us proudly display the "Silent No More" button, had jumped to the conclusion that we were "outing" Taylor at Iowa University Hospital.   My whole body did a double take.  I felt like I had been  psychologically body-slammed---in a good way--well, at least in a funny way.  And then I thought about how the nurses must have been talking about Taylor in the nurse's station trying to piece it all together so that he made sense to them.  We all got a good laugh out of this---and were jolted into remembering some valuable lessons along the way.
    I jump to conclusions often.  Unfortunately, I often fill in the blank that is left empty with a thought that I have done something wrong or messed up somehow.   That is really self-defeating, not necessary and is right up there with self-sabatoge.  I am working really hard on not believing everything I think--about myself---about you.
When we are not invited,  not emailed, not noticed, go unrecognized,  are not admired,  do not get hired,, when love is not returned or we are not called back----don't we so often jump to conclusions about the other person and what they're thinking, doing, believing?  And then we make up something about what it means about us--about who we are and what we are worth. 
This is a slippery slope----making assumptions and inserting our own junk on top of everybody else's.
Here's what I know (and am building muscle around): To be whole and healthy and happy,  it is critical to rethink what we tell ourselves about others and especially what we convince our very own selves---about ourselves.  Save the best .....and lose the rest.
We all need a delete button and then an "Empty Trash" button for so much of what we think.
Taylor is silent no more.  That's pretty much what it means.
What have you concluded just today about yourself....about a friend?
Rethink it.

Wake Up Calls

I love being in DENIAL (Don't Even Notice  I Am Lying).)  Well, I say I love it but that's not  really what I mean.  I just know that that we never do anything unless there is some sort of payoff for us.  I must get something from being is denial.  I guess that's not really the same thing as loving being in denial.  (Have I been gone too long and lost my ability to write a clear sentence?)  But, my denials have been making a lot of noise lately.  Something is trying to wake me up. Wake up calls are like having cold water thrown in our faces. Maybe sort of like that.  When my pajama bottoms get too tight, that's a big wake up call.  Pajama bottoms are supposed to be loose and baggy----ooops.  Was I really gaining weight? Denial.  I refuse to count how many pairs of shoes I actually own  or I find myself watching too much junk tv. I can lather myself up in denial pretty well and talk myself into just about anything.  Do you do that?  Justify just about anything that soothes you in the moment?  "But I didn't spend too  much or eat too much or say too much.....blahblahblah." Denial.

   For the past few weeks, I have been having a tug-of-war with reality and my longing to stay hidden and "safe."  Safe from tension---away from the complexities and requirements that being in the world thrusts us in.  I can sort of even see why people become stay-at-home-aholics.  What if something comes up I can't handle?  What if I meet a person who needs too much from me?  What if there is just too much commotion out there?  What if I won't know the answers? Part of me thinks I am just getting old.  The other part of me knows that fear is my good friend and constant companion.  I give anxiety  lots of power and a big place in my life.  Dammit.  By the same token, I try to pretend like I don't---Denial again.  I heard this really interesting man on  one of my funky "serious transformations" podcasts say something like  this, "One reason why we absolutely refuse to be truly  happy is because we know that so many  qualities in  ourselves would immediately become unemployed."   It got me to thinking (now there's a sentence for you!)...what if I "fired" the parts of me that keep me in denial---and you know....stepped  into the sunshine and bright lights in my world?  Throw my fear to wind--or better yet, embrace it.  (Yes, I go to many retreats where I practice embracing my shadow.)  Still it's hard.  You might be sitting at your computer desk reading this thinking that I am off the deep end again.  I know I'm not alone on this denial train.  I swear it's a "train" (if you will) that keeps us small because we listen to that voice that says, "You can't" or "You shouldn't" or "Who do you think you are??".   Aren't those just trip-us-up-words that turn us into scaredy cats---and into not being risk-takers?

  I watch Taylor not being  afraid in this life.  On the other hand, I am a worry wart; I tend to buy trouble.  Last week I obsessed over the fact  Taylor still cannot count to ten without leaving out a few numbers. How much he couldn't do gripped me at times---so I went  into denial mode to avoid feeling the pain.   (See how this works?)  I have a secret fear that I will not be enough---do enough, know enough, give enough, provide enough for my son.  I just don't feel like I'm very good at this job.  How in the heck do you raise a handicapped son anyway?  Where does this road lead?  What's ahead?  Will I be able to handle it all? 
Readers and friends, I know that you have some of those exact same questions.  You have those questions about whatever it is that life has put in front of you.  It's not just me.  Insert your own situation with your  particular issues into the blank. We've all got them. Right?  Are you with me?   Gandhi reminded us that we each one needs to be the change we want to see in this world. But how can we be that incredible change if we don't live full out?  And yet, I know I cling like crazy to things not changing.  I admit that I sometimes wait for that other shoe to fall.  (Look at me being all brave here and sharing all of this. Will you share back with me? )
I hear some wake up calls nudging me in my life.
"Get up,  Wake up.  Be aware."
That's what I'm hearing.
My pajama bottoms don't fit right. 
Time for changes.  I am going to furlough--un-employ Denial.
And, I'm going to go count how many shoes I have. 
I'm sure I have enough---more than enough.
Reality check.  Wake up. Maybe I don't need to know all of the answers.

TV Time Out

Sometimes it gets to me

Isn't it so weird how a seemingly benign comment can just get stuck right in your gut and gnaw at you?  Do you know what I mean?  Can you think of a time when somebody---a friend, a sister, a neighbor, a store clerk made an innocent comment that maybe stopped you in your tracks?  And then that comment swirls around in your head taking on a life of its own.  My belief is that we obsess on those comments until we can shed new light on them  and maybe even figure out why they get in our craw and fester.
   Yesterday a friend said, " Heidi is telling people that Taylor is her boyfriend.  She really has a crush on him and says she wants him to be her boyfriend."  It was really that simple a statement.  Purely innocent---even kind of cute in a normal world.  I had a delayed reaction because I didn't begin to cry until about five hours later when my knees buckled.  I felt like I had been kicked in the gut.  It hit me with one bolt of recognition. My son, Taylor, will never ever have a girlfriend.  He will never ever have an intimate relationship.  He will never know romantic love that is reciprocated.  It will not happen for him----ever.  A page that is in the "rites of passage" rule book has been torn out.  Another rite of passage will be  skipped over and  will never even be on his  radar. 
From wherever you're sitting, you might be saying, "Well, how do you know that for sure, Marianne?  He may surprise you."   I don't think I'm being overly dramatic here.  I am just saying what is true.  Taylor does not have the emotional depth or intellectual capacity to form a relationship with a girl his age.  He does not interact on that level at all.  I don't see that changing as he grows older.
     Of course, none of this matters to Taylor.  He does not understand the nature of most relationships.  He knows his mama, daddy and brother love him.  So, it's not that he is lonely or wants for more.  I guess that's a blessing.  I guess I just needed to throw myself a pity party---so just did.  All rites of passage that will  not happen get to me at some point.  It just takes me a while to regroup and focus on all the good things.
Like, there are ice cream sandwiches in the freezer.
Like,  Taylor has great insurance.
And, he can ride a scooter.
 Whew.  I already feel better. 
Count your blessings, name them one by one.
I've gotta hang up now.  I need to start counting.