Off the meds

My son calls medication a tool. He can focus and listen to the teacher when he needs to learn something new that he is not interested in (mostly French.) The grades went up 20-30 points where necessary. He feels better about his accomplishments and that positive energy feeds itself into other aspects of his life. For her, it is about anxiety. She is calmer and able to navigate the world more peacefully.

This summer the children are at the pool from 8:15 till 2pm. They are both on the swim team, take lessons, synchro teams, Waterpolo (son), and diving lessons (daughter.) I take them back to the pool each night from 5-6:30pm to drain them of the last bit of energy I can. 

Being off the meds has lasted a lot longer this summer. My son has grown two inches in four months. He lost two teeth in a week. He has two more that are loose. The tooth fairy is on-call at my house this summer. They eat every two hours. They are both so strong. 

He drags me across the pool like I weight 50 pounds. We played monkey-in-the-middle for 2 hours in the pool yesterday from 3-5pm. 

Last week he begged for a root beer, onion rings, and two cheeseburgers for lunch. We laughed the whole time and then played in the pool together for another two hours. Tonight when I put him to bed, he said, "I just wanted to spend time with you. I love you so much."

Have I mentioned the giggling?

The summer is exhaustingly amazing.

I can fill the air

I called today to tell you I am a friend and I care about you. You do not have to tell me about your life because I know it is replete with hardship right now. I will never push you to talk about the sad. I can be an ear or a voice that can just FILL the air -- to make it less lonely. To make life more bearable. All I need you to do is call and say talk. Or answer when I call so I can make you smile -- when the smile and lighthearted laughter seems to far to reach. 

Life is not always successful. People die, jobs are lost, children get sick, promises are not kept, debt piles up, houses are foreclosed upon, bankruptcy, and marriages collapse. It is not pretty or easy. Some of these I know about, others I don't, but I'm smart enough to realize that these troubles don't define me.

The true test of a person is what they do with what's been done to them. How we choose to rebound and show ourselves what we are made of. How we find the strength to push forward every day for a better life. You have to rally after the FAILURE because you were just on the wrong path.  

It is what you become after you fall that makes you the better version of yourself. Choose to re-build.

Where is your Mama?

I have two children and they are all I need. I love the family I created. To that end, I am not interested in parenting your child unless someone is in imminent danger.  

When I hear children around me using their mouths and words in a way that I wouldn't approve ... I steer clear unless my child is involved. I am more LIBERAL than most and probably tolerate more sass than the typical Montrealer-mom. But I stand by my assertion my children need to defend themselves and be strong. To blossom into problem-solvers and develop the skills necessary to survive in the world. 

But when they can't, I show them how to. That is my job as a parent.  

When children need to be reigned in, a quiet and strong, "Where is your Mama?" stops the nasty words and bullying immediately. The child knows how their parent would react if they heard what the child said. 

These 4 words are MAGICAL. Maybe once the kids are 12 they won't work. But, for now, they do!

Why I love being tall

Dear Autumn,

At five, I witnessed how my friends never called me cute because I was already four feet tall. Teachers and children don't define cute as the tallest girl in the classroom. In all childhood games with other little girls, I was never “the baby.” Babies got piggy-back rides and were carried. No one was interested in carrying me. In EVERY class pictures, I stood in the back row next to the teacher. You could never see my pretty skirt and shiny Mary-Jane shoes. By eleven, I was five foot six inches tall. I never wore a training bra and wore a starter-B cup bra. By thirteen, I was five foot ten inches tall.

Assumptions abound about tall people: Tall people don't know everything but almost everyone else thinks they do from the ages of 4-15. This assumption fades once everyone is in the throes of puberty and self-importance overrides all other beliefs. Hold on, my sweet-sweet girl, you are only eight, so there is plenty of time for people to assume all kinds of things about you. Don’t worry. I don’t care what other people think, so I am ready to defend you and crush their ignorance.

Sports: Everyone will think you should be brilliant at basketball. When I wasn’t the failure was monumental. I played for my freshman high school team. I scored once the entire season. The shortest girl on the team, Julie, scored all the time. She then went onto Varsity and I went to the stage. Fast. Everyone will assume you are fast because your legs are already 2 feet long. Luckily you are crazy fast, so enjoy that. Thank your dad. He is the coordinated one.

At 16, I stopped growing when I hit six feet tall. My figure measured at 38-28-36 and stupid people told me I was fat. People can be stupid and mean. Identify them early and release their toxicity in your life. I would pose nude now if I looked like that still.

Your best friend will most likely be really short. Mine was. Most of my friends are significantly shorter than me. It will be harder to find other Amazons like yourself. Cherish the friends that can feel secure around you. Those are the ones to keep for life.

I always get lost in crowds but I am easily found. All you have to do is look up and you’ll find me. You are a massacre when it comes to directional sense. I’ll buy you a smartphone with a GPS. But when you are in crowds, tell your friends to look up. They’ll see you before you locate them.

Never shrink or hunch yourself over. Never make yourself smaller in any way for anyone else in the world. No one should define you, limit you, or make you feel or act smaller than you are.

No one ever says I wish I was short, once they grow up. I make all my short friends tell you this for a reason. Listen to them. They love you like I do. Everyone is beautiful in their own package, Your package is TALL, hilarious, elegant, goofy and cute! Your face is shaped like a heart and your heart is kind and filled with love.

Questions and Feelings - a nightly ritual

In therapy yesterday, my daughter told her therapist how each night we have "Questions and Feelings" time together. She can ask me anything and I will answer honestly. The questions can range from:

Will I ever like fish? 

When will my breasts start to grow? 

Will they be big like yours? 

Why is melted cheese gross but I like grilled cheese? 

Will I be in a bad mood when I have my period? (Implying that I am when I have mine.) 

When I lie on my stomach, I can see my butt, can you?

There are three questions each night.

The "Feelings" part is a little trickier for me. Feelings to her equate to her take (see: critique) on what I did that day that to her was not appropriate. Or measured.  She couches the language in a way that shows me how I could have done better. Her therapist found her perception compelling. Oh goodie. My daughters' perception of her feelings is, in fact, a comment on my behaviors. Each night during, "Questions and Feelings," I brace for my nightly critique.

Last night, she begins, "Why do you curse?"

"Because it releases stress, for me, like a balloon popping, it's an instant feeling of release," I answer.

"Do you think there is a better way to release your stress?"

"I'm sure there is," I say.

"I get mad, and I don't curse."

"What do you do?" I ask.

"I scream," she says.

"Is that better or the same?"

"I'm not sure. Cursing is gross," she admits.

"Ok. I will not curse and you will not scream. Is that a fair deal?"

"Yes. Do you think we can do it?"

"If we do it together, I think we have a better shot," I say. "Now tell me a feeling you have about something I did right today."

"You love me. You do this right every day," and I crumble in a puddle of admiration for my eight-year-old daughter. I would rip the skin from my body if that meant she would always feel loved and happy forever.

The Square Root of ADHD is ME

My little baby-girl daughter who is 7 years old got her diagnosis: Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) with anxiety. My 9 year old son puts his arms around my daughter and says, "I got you. We got this. I will take care of you forever. I promise."

His compassion fills the room. 

My husband I have known for months -- maybe even a year -- that my daughter has ADD. My son's therapist alerted us last summer and we informed the school in Sept 2014. They didn't listen. Girls manifest differently than boys. We explained this to anyone that would listen and they didn't. Now we know. This is not something I wanted or needed but it just IS. I would rather know and help her then not know and continue to let her feel frustrated. I never imagined that she was Hyperactive as well but my husband and I slowly began to suspect something new and exciting was developing this summer.  After both children exercise at the pool for over 4 hours a day they still NEEDED the extra 2 hours of swim time with me, from 4-6pm, to settle them properly for a smooth transition into nighttime. 

My daughter looks confused. Her brow is furrowed. 

"You are just fine, baby-girl. We are all here to help you and make you feel good" I say and reach for her hand. She stands up and looks at me. My words are not enough. I can tell by the way she is looking at me. She blames me. It's in her eyes. If there is a reason for something - anything - I own that answer and I have to make it understandable to her. That is what she expects. I can see clearly from her facial expression that I have not comforted her to her satisfaction.

"What did I do wrong?" she says and I see her eyes begin to fill with tears.

"Nothing" I say to her just above a whisper.  She looks at me. She takes my hand.

"You. Are. Not. Wrong." I say slowly and deliberately.  

"You did nothing wrong. Neither did I. We are not wrong. We think faster and about more things than other people. We are better -- enhanced. I was diagnosed at seven also" says my son.

He has a way of making her feel better when I cannot. 

"You did nothing wrong" I say again. I look at the doctor and he sits up straighter.

"I am diagnosing you with ADHD. That means we all believe that you think in a way that we can label as ADHD" says the doctor to my daughter.

"What is a diagnosis" asks my daughter. Her voice dripping with fear. Her eyes are big. Her anxiety palpable.

"It is a label. The diagnosis for the wall is that the color is yellow" explains the doctor.

"I understand that" she says in a small voice. I see her shrinking. We have crushed her. She won't feel good about this. I can feel it. We needed to know. She didn't deserve to feel so frustrated. I don't want her to waste years on insecurity like I did. I want her to know that she is amazing in so many ways and that the world doesn't need to validate that. She can know that for herself. She has to learn to own her awesomeness so she makes the right decisions.

"Mommy doesn't like labels. She says I am not a "tomboy" or "girlie girl" I am both. I am more. I am a funny artist that can dance and sing. I am an excellent swimmer who can speak French. I am smart and kind and super fun. I am really good at the hula-hoop. What is the label for that?" challenges my daughter.

"You. That's the label" says my son thoughtfully. I kiss him on the cheek and my daughter hugs him. My husband smiles.

"Asking a child to exist in a setting (social, classroom, hockey, dance class) and expect them to compete at the same level, as a non ADHD child, is like asking the child with ADHD to play dodge-ball blindfolded. The blindfolded child will never know where the ball is coming from but they are expected to react as if they are not blindfolded" says the doctor.

I never thought of it that way.

I sit there and look at my beauties. Smart, sweet, strong, funny, and healthy.  They are rarely quiet and still. Life around them is rarely calm.

The doctor continues to ask questions and everyone answers together. I want my daughter to be heard. There is no Oxygen in the room for her or me. My son directs the conversation. He answers questions like he is "the father" and not "the brother." I look to him and say "stop" silently. I say "stop" at least 10 times a day to him, always silently, as I do not to attract any unneeded attention to him or me. After the tenth "silent stop," I begin to question the dose of his medication. Is it high enough? Maybe he metabolizing his medication too quickly? Currently, his ADHD is FULL BLOWN and we are also experiencing a healthy dose of REBOUND. 

The room feels smaller. My daughter stands and says "I need to move." We walk into the hallway and follow the doctor inot another room. 

A few days later I was sitting in the Principal's office. School starts next week. My daughter is going into second grade. After discussing the diagnosis the Principal says, "at least she wants to please. That is great."

"I don't think that is necessary great. It makes everyone's lives easier but that is not her role in life" says her therapist. I love her BTW. She is a crusader for my daughter. I might have to leave my husband for her if she asks. 

"What I mean to say is, she wants to be part of the community and that will help her learn how to be a great part of the greater community. She is also a natural leader and likes to be in social control but she has to also learn the rules and what is expected of her" says the Principal.

"That is true." I say, "she has to learn when to please and when not to. She doesn't have to make everyone happy. I am more concerned that people make HER happy because she is already too kind to those who don't deserve or haven't earned it" I say. I look to her therapist and she nods in agreement.

Welcome to a new GIRL power!

Porn at the Pool

This week I began my work-out in my new size 16 bathing suit. After a few moments of jogging I started having issues. I side-stepped my way to the deep end so I could address my bathing suits' multiple malfunctions.

"My bathing suit is simultaneously rolling up and down." I say to my girlfriend.

She laughs, "How is that possible?"

How is that possible? It's called my belly. My suit is rolling up over my stomach until it stops at my breasts. Every jump under the water is way more fleshy than I want observed. My bottoms are rolling down from my waist, over my hips, and thankfully stop right above my cookie. I continue to jump but manage to maintain no cookie exposure. The suit looks great and feels great but it is a 2-piece nightmare. I guess these are 2-piece problems. I am a 1-piece lady overexposed in a 2-piece world. The other ladies with 2 pieces have flat bellies. That might be a crucial difference. 

"It's like a porn show under here!" I say and roll the suit down and up while simultaneously frog jumping in the water. I want to keep my heart rate up but I am preoccupied with not getting arrested for indecent exposure.  I begin the wide side to side steps and move my arms in small inner circles. I love this exercise and my new triceps are the benefit of this particular exercise. I look down and swear I am about to have a nip-slip at any moment. I move deeper and laugh at myself. Another woman turns and I see she is adjusting in the water. I think her whole left breast popped out. 

Good times! Good times!

Here is a picture a friend took of me last night at my children's swim meet. The squash is impressive but all I see are my awesome arms, thigh, and youthful neck.