Words and Phrases That Hurt, part I

I was raised to treasure the idea of free speech.  My mother was a product of the 60s, and I am most certainly a product of my mother.  She detested the idea of banning a book, no matter how disturbing.  The rule in our family was that I could read any book in the house, as long as I discussed it with her.

(As an aside:  When I was nine I asked her what the word irony meant.  Normally, she would have made me look it up in the dictionary.  This time, she went to the shelf to get a book, and insisted I read A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift.) J

I write all of this as an introduction because I want you to understand that my intention is not to ban words or dictate feelings.  I merely want to open up a conversation about how the word retarded makes me feel.

My son is six years old, and he has some fairly invisible disabilities.  After about 30 seconds of talking with him, however, anyone over the age of four could see that he is severely speech delayed.  I have every confidence that he is treated with kindness and respect by every child and adult at his school.  My concern is NOT about what names people call him to his face right now.

Many years ago, I forwarded an email with the word “retard” as a joke.  That was before I was a mother.  I was wrong.  A colleague gently tried to tell me I was wrong, and I could not hear her.  It was not a shining moment for me as a human being, and I am not proud of it.  Although this email was not directed toward a specific person; although I was not pointing and laughing at someone else, it was (and is) unkind to have that word in my vocabulary.

For those who do not have a developmentally delayed loved one, I think it is difficult to empathize with us.  It is difficult to understand how uncomfortable this word might make us.  It is easy to think (as I once thought) that this word does not inflict pain if it is not aimed toward a person. 

Lately, here are a couple of contexts that I have heard this word from thoughtful, caring people:

Fellow grocery shopper:  I was trying to finish that report, but my computer started acting retarded.
College student: Crap, I missed that negative sign.  I am so retarded!
It seems that some people feel that this word is ok as long as there are no names called at people.

They were NOT pointing at my son and laughing. 
They are NOT mean people. 
That word was NOT meant to hurt anyone.
BUT…

·        In that moment, that word cuts me emotionally.  It is a small cut, but it is a cut based on the knowledge that “retarded” is exactly what some people would objectively call my sweet, amazing boy.

·        In that moment, I recognize that the word “retarded” is not dead.  Every time I see how easily someone uses it in everyday language, I fear for the day that he will face children in a schoolyard who easily aim it at him.

·        In that moment, I am hit again with the realization that some people will think my child is less than because he has challenges.  I face again that most people think “retarded” is a thing to be feared and avoided. 

·        For some, it represents things not working or mistakes in thinking.  It represents viewing of Life as a crazy race in which my kiddo cannot keep up.

Again, it is not my intention to police words.  I am not offended when people use it in my presence. 

But it hurts a little…every time. 

Our Zoloft Journey 2

My little guy is three weeks in taking anti-anxiety medication, and the people closest to him have noticed a marked difference.

He is noticeably more talkative and less cautious at school. He has significantly less anxious behavior at home. He has become more independent, vocal, and sassy. His most obsessive OCD actions are fading a bit.

I should be happy, right? I am relieved that it is helping. However, I still am afraid.

I can't find any long term studies on this drug for children (other than the Zoloft website). I can't find any other momma out there giving it to a little one (which is one reason I started this blog).

I just want to make sure this really is in his best interest. I want to make sure our observations are accurate and not viewed through the screen of self-justification. As for now, I am convinced.

I also want to make sure all this vigilance doesn't keep me from enjoying the good moments with him. That's not too much to ask, right? I will let you know when I get good at doing those at the same time...

What the Mother?

"Maybe we're all like that with our mothers.  They seem ordinary until one day they're extraordinary."  ~Shanghai Girls


I have been thinking about my mother often lately.  She died in 1994; I was 22.

I am lonely for a momma.  These past years I have learned how to mother myself pretty well.  It sometimes hurts, though, not having the comfort of someone a little further down the path, someone who can warn me about common mistakes and tell me she knows everything is going to be fine because she made it through.

My mother was extraordinary, and it was her best secret.  She taught me to stand on my own and never lose my sense of humor.

 She also was a cautionary tale illustrating everything you can lose when you refuse to feel the brunt of self-reflection.  I have never known anyone so brilliant and so brittle.  So understanding and wise, and so critical and defeated.

Like everyone's mother, she looms large over my Life. Like everyone's mother, she represents so much more than her human form.  I miss her so much; I am so grateful I knew her as well as I did.

Ironically, it is in mothering my own children that I have healed the most.  Being a mother, I know how much she loved us; how hard she tried; how scared she must have been raising us all alone.  Those doubts and regrets from the days right after her death melt in the laughter of my children.

I am not sure what I believe about an afterlife, but this is what I hope.  I hope she has found a bridge table, with lots of Coke, and a partner who finally knows what a bid of 1 no trump means.

I love you, Mom.

Where is the zen in screaming?

Where is the zen in screaming?

I ask myself that sometimes. I realize that I am in charge of my inner peace. I realize that the only thing I can control is my reaction. Then, my precious, complicated, anxious five-year old son starts screaming his frustrations at me. He is severely speech delayed, but his only diagnosis(so far) is social phobia. His anxiety level is often quite high.

And though he is mostly inarticulate during the screaming, all I hear from him is that he needs something that I cannot give him. Every molecule in my body gets drawn into that place with him. No matter how I work at trying to stay calm...stay calm...stay calm...

I feel my desperation rise and burst into tears. And I think "where is the zen" And I then hold him until he calms down, and wonder what he is thinking, what he needs, will this ever get better. I love him so much. He is so worth it.

In the good moments, I feel the deep peace of being his mother. In the happy moments, I have faith he will be ok. In the bad moments, I wonder how I can ever be good enough to give him what he needs. In the scary moments, I worry how he will ever make it in kindergarten if he refuses to talk. Most moments, I try to guess my way through motherhood and hope for best, trusting the peace is still there just waiting for us.