School's Out

The end of the school year is always a whirl, this one seemed especially so. Finally we've reached summer vacation. Yesterday Roscoe the Graduate walked upstairs in the late morning sort of befuddled because he had Nothing. To. Do. That big backpack of papers, that planner could just be tossed.

I always approach summer with fear and trembling--How will I get anything done??--and then quickly remember how luxurious it feels to live days at our own pace instead of by the tyranny of the school bell. And I think of so many things I want to teach/work on with the kids when I have them to myself (not the least of which being how to quit being such grumpy whiners and obey your mother and play nicely with your siblings). But in the fear and trembling phase I can never remember exactly how I transition into the luxurious phase. Sort of like the transition phase in labor?

So to recap, here are some of our springtime happenings:

Piano Recital

Levi and Haley are both becoming accomplished pianists and performed perfectly at the annual recital. Haley performed Spy Song, a piece of her own composition. Levi played a jaunty waltz. Because he was nervous, he started it off at a fast pace and I was nervous he wouldn't be able to keep it up. But he did!

Children playing the piano makes me feel like all my dreams as a mother are coming true.

9th Grade Graduation

Logan lobbied hard to skip this little event, and I almost gave in. I think we're both glad he took the opportunity to mark this chapter with his friends.

Oh I love this blurry little pic. Walking down from receiving his "diploma." What a handsome actor.

My favorite part was the speech given by his student body president--who seriously, watch for him, may grow up to rule the world. He described how intimidated each of them felt when they started middle school and how they made friends and rose to the top of the heap, and how they'd be starting the same process again as high schoolers. His closing line: "We did it once; we can do it again!"

Cub Scout Advancement

That same night, Levi walked the bridge from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts. And of course, he did it with cheer and panache.

Isn't he a doll?

The best part? When they passed out pinewood derby cars for next month's pack meeting and we didn't get one! A whole year of no Cub Scouts for me!

High School Graduation

I told the kids it would be long and boring. But their little hearts trembled with fear when it took a full half hour for the graduates to march into the arena four-by-four. There was some beautiful music and a wonderful speeches from one of Roscoe's cohorts with autism and one who endured a terrible car accident last year.

The distinguished graduate...

...and his bling.

I have to say, I'm relieved Roscoe is done with high school. He had some great experiences, learned some great things, and put on some truly great performances. But the pressure was so high, the workload so relentless, the competition so stiff. Let's just say I'm looking forward to Roscoe moving on to bigger, better, more uplifting things.

A Paen to Ms K and Ms Z

Today was the very last day of Jesse's second year of kindergarten. His class aide, Ms K, held his hand and walked him to the door to meet me. After he walked away from her, she called his name. When he looked back, she crossed her arms over her heart, then pointed to him. Ms K loves Jesse. And oh my does Jesse love Ms K.

Jesse and Betsy on their last day as the stay-at-home lunch buddies.

Two years ago, I wasn't sure if I would send Jesse to kindergarten at all. I knew he wasn't ready. I met with the school's staff in the spring and they encouraged me to enroll him, assured me that they adjusted to each student. So I did.

When the school year began, I still wasn't sure I had made the right choice. Jesse often had to be dragged out of my car by the teacher. He wasn't at all equipped to learn the kindergarten curriculum. The teacher was pretty strict and demanding. But early in the year, I brought Jesse to some after-school activity. As we walked down the hall toward his classroom, we could see his teacher standing in the doorway. When Jesse saw Ms Z, he broke loose from me, ran down the hall, and he and his teacher wrapped their arms around each other. That's when I knew Jesse would be okay in kindergarten.

Two years later, here's Jesse with his teachers:

See that smile on Jesse's face? That's a special brand of smile we see only a certain moments. Like, for example, nights when he's having a hard time falling asleep and is invited into his parents' bed to snuggle in that sweet spot in the middle. Apparently, he also feels that same sense of peace, cozy, and love when standing between his teachers.

Each day for the last two years, I know Jesse has made Ms Z and Ms K's jobs harder. Some days, much harder. Some teachers would have felt frustration and eventually resentment toward him. But these two never did.

In my experience, successful elementary school teachers fall into two categories. The Administrators get their students to learn by monitoring and planning and regimenting every move their students make. The Nurturers forego discipline and organization. But they love their students so completely that the students will do anything--walk on water, learn the alphabet, speak Swahili--just to please them. These teachers were the best of both worlds. They held high expectations. They were demanding and tough. They stretched and pushed him. But they loved him to bits. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

The Call

See this?

This little one-minute event sort of hijacked my week. As you can imagine. This is the moment we learned that this October, Roscoe will leave for a twenty-four month mission to Neuquen, Argentina.

We expected the envelope on Wednesday, but the mailbox held only bills and ads. So I spent that day feeling alternately pumped up and deflated. Then on Thursday I felt irrationally hopeless until I padded outside and found this in the mailbox:

I then spent the day in a useless adrenaline rush that made it harder to stage snacks for a crowd, shuffle the kids to a soccer game, and generally, you know, function. Eight o'clock was the appointed hour for Roscoe's school and church friends to witness The Opening of the Envelope. What you can't see in the video above is the crowd of thirty well-wishers crammed into our kitchen.

So then I spent Friday--still unproductive--awash in Emotions. I phoned Mark's ninety-seven-year-old grandma to tell her the happy news and wept to think of the generations of love and faithfulness that brought us to this moment. My normal absorption with meals, housekeeping, discipline, carpools was eclipsed for the day by a clearer vision of our family's larger purpose in living and sharing the gospel. Roscoe's mission has been a blessing for our family already. And I expect it'll go on.

Taking the Plunge

Yesterday I got a Ritalin-type prescription for Jesse for ADHD. I had reached the conclusion a while ago that this was the right course, but I was surprised as I walked out of the doctor's office by the wave of sadness I felt.  I guess I have always felt that one of my strengths as a mother is to understand and champion my children for who they are. And most of them are quirky and strong-willed. For Jesse especially, I have worked hard over the years to reach him on his level, to love everything that is good and wonderful about his manic little self, and to guide and teach him at his own pace. So I guess taking that prescription felt a little like a betrayal, like pathologizing him instead of embracing him.

On the other hand, this is so, so the right choice. The boy is seven years old and still operates on many levels like a four-year-old. He is finishing his second year of kindergarten and the prospect of a full-day of first grade next year is just a no-go. And I'm so, so tired of managing his behavior on a minute-by-minute level. It's time for him to learn a bit of self-control.

And--this is the most compelling part--he wants to learn those things. He has reached the point where he can see what he should be able to do--focus enough to finish a task, manage his emotions, control his impulses--and he wants to do those things, but he can't. You can see him struggle, try, fail, and feel disappointed.

Case in point: I hadn't said anything to Jesse about medication or ADHD or the purpose of our doctor's visit, but at one point when the doctor was out of the room, Jesse told me that he had had to stay in from recess today because he hadn't finished his math work, and that in fact he missed one of the stories too.  (Don't get me started on staying in from recess as a consequence for a boy who has excess energy.) His tone was sad but resigned. I said, "You know, the doctor wants to give you a medicine that will help you stay on task." His face lit up, "Really??" When we got home, he told Haley, "I'm getting a new medicine to help me stay on task!"

I feel like if the boy is that ebullient about the prospect of help, then it must be right.

_______________________

More deets for those of you curious or who may be struggling with a similar decision:

~ The way it worked was I got an official bubble questionnaire from the doctor. I filled out one and so did Jesse's teachers. We scored his focus, attitude, etc. The doctor reviewed those questionnaires and said, "Looks like he's definitely in the range for the hyperactivity-type ADHD."

~ She gave me a low-dose prescription, but I guess it's all very trial-and-error. We go back every month to assess until we feel like we've hit the magic combination of medicine and dosage.

~ The medication is a "controlled substance" so filling the prescription is going to be a logistical hassle. Doctor can't call it in, can only give one month at a time, can't re-write if I lose the prescription, etc.

~ You administer the medicine in the morning and it lasts about 10 hours. Enough to get through the day but leave him unmedicated enough to eat a good dinner and be able to get to sleep at night. Apparently it'll totally kill his appetite, so the idea is to make sure he gets a good breakfast before it kicks in and dinner as it wanes and not worry too much about lunch.

~ The doctor said her view is to use the medication as a temporary crutch until the child can mature and learn their own coping skills and work-arounds. Which I love. That's totally my view. Jess just needs a leg-up to make the transition  into first grade. Eight-year-olds suddenly develop such a greater degree of maturity, problem-solving skills, executive functioning, etc. I said, "It seems like once he has experienced being on task and in control, then he'll be able to figure out how to maintain it better on his own." The doctor said that's exactly what  happens. So yay for a doctor who's not advocating for a lifetime of medication. She kept saying, "Let's just keep him on it all the way through first grade."

~ We're starting the medicine now and will continue it over the summer even though many people leave their kids unmedicated when school is out. My thinking is let's get everything totally figured out and running smoothly so he's ready to rock on the first day of first grade.

Twenty-Five Months

I marked it on the calendar, the day came and went, but I still didn't know how to feel about it. According to my calculations, on April 22 Betsy reached exactly the age Haley was when she first arrived on our doorstep.

Watching Betsy advance happily through her sweet baby months has made me grieve all the more for what I have missed with Haley. Mathematically speaking, those twenty-five months aren't much. But they feel like a lot.

About 3 weeks after Haley arrived. 

I always feel that I am still literally one being with an infant, that their birth only widens the gap between our hearts and bodies a bit . And now, even though Betsy is a very independent little lady, she and I are still so closely attuned. I can understand almost every word she lisps, every reference she makes. When Betsy says, "Guck sneak up," Mark raises his eyebrows. But I can tell him, "She's telling you about how a duck walked across our front lawn and she wanted to sneak up on it." I know when she's getting frazzled, when she's hungry, when to distract her, when to reason with her, and when to just hold her for a while.

Her life has had so much consistency. She has slept almost every afternoon and every night in the same crib, with the same blankets, snuggled in by the same people, usually at the same times of day. She is surrounded every day by the same adoring cadre. She spoons oatmeal into her mouth almost every morning. I have watched over her for almost every hour of her life. And the hours she's spent away from any member of our immediate family number just a few handfuls.

No one person knows the full story of Haley's first twenty-five months. She lived with her parents, then her aunt, then her birth mother, then a shelter home, then the hospital, then with us. I don't know how many different places she lived in; she and her mother bounced from one shelter to the next. I know she was often left in bed with a bottle. I know she was loved by her birth mother and aunt. I know she didn't receive food at regular, trustworthy intervals. We assume she saw violence. I believe she was alternately coddled and neglected.

To me, it's so easy those first two years of a baby's life to give them love, consistency, attention, care, nurturing. But for Haley's well-meaning, loving birth mother, those things turned out to be impossible. We've been working to fill the holes ever since.


So now, when I lay Betsy in her crib and snuggle her into her favorite blanket, I often think of Haley. I wish that the love I'm here to give Betsy now could somehow feed Haley. I pray, "Make  it as if I had done this for Haley."

"I can go anywhere."

Last Sunday, Roscoe filled out his application to go on an LDS mission.

For those unfamiliar with the process (as were we), your bishop initiates an online application, then gives you the login info to access it. You print off forms that your doctor and dentist must fill out and mail directly back to your bishop. You fill out a questionnaire about your family background, health history, language skills, hobbies, etc. Roscoe wrote that his father went on a mission to New Jersey, that he has taken six years of Spanish, that is he an excellent student, that he is "moderately" (but not "extremely") interested in going to a foreign country.

At the end of the questionnaire was one of those catch-all questions, something along the lines of, "Are there any other special considerations we should be aware of?" I watched Roscoe type this:

I can go anywhere.

And that about sums it up. He is willing to go anywhere. But also he is prepared to go anywhere. Healthy, smart, righteous, hard-working, unafraid, obedient. Send him anywhere on God's green earth. He'll give it his all and bless everyone around him.

(We're hoping to get the application submitted this week. Then it gets vetted by our bishop and, we think, our stake president before getting sent to the mission dept. Roscoe is eligible to go after his birthday in July. I'm lobbying for him to indicate that he will be available in late August, after we have a family reunion and he has a summer to earn some money. But we're leaving the choice to him, and of course, they have discretion to call him whenever, regardless of our preferences. So stay tuned!)

Evening Slices, because every once in a while they're all home at once

Seen this evening.

Betsy...is putting on footie pajamas. Herself. One of her favorite phrases is "I do it."

Jesse...is fresh from the tub as well. He's waiting for me to serve him some zucchini bread, which we made inspired by a pbs show he watched as he was home sick today.

Haley...is assembling her class Valentines. Meticulously.

Levi...is working on a PowerPoint he's been making. I'm not sure what it is exactly. Some kind of guide to Greek mythology.

Logan...is blaring Eminem from the basement while getting packed for the Klondike Derby.

Roscoe...is tap-dancing. He's been learning a Broadway routine that involves jumping, swinging arms, and tapping.

And later.

Betsy...is in her crib asking for "potty talk." She means a book called Once Upon a Potty which has really captured her imagination.

Jesse...has somehow gotten his sheets all in a tangle and now they're in a heap on the floor and his mattress is bare.

Haley...is reading Ella Enchanted in bed.

Levi...is listening to a Rick Riordan audiobook in bed.

Logan...is simultaneously playing a computer game, watching a Jackie Chan movie, and chatting with a friend on the phone.

Roscoe...is playing a stupid computer game because for once he doesn't have any homework.