“Everyone is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”
My son likes to spend his allowance at the dollar store. He hasn’t learned that cheap toys don’t last. For him it’s all about stretching his two dollars as far as he can. That’s fine but ten minutes after we get home most of his choices fail the usage test. Still he smiles and marches to the cashier, generally presenting money before the item being purchased, and week after week buys junk.
Victory! I talked him into saving and with the help of some extra side jobs, he has nine dollars. Now he’ll see the error of his ways. Off we go to Wal-Mart in search of a more substantial choice than a hollow plastic dinosaur or a set of cars with axles already falling off in the bag. Nope. That’s too much money. Take me to a different store he says, clinging to his green. Ugh. We need more than nine dollars to shop at Toys-R-Us so now what? His suggestion … back to the Dollar Store. Oh for Pete’s sake!
Well, a dollar lighter we are home with a super duper lime green butterfly net which will momentarily be adorned with duct tape to better secure the net to the stick. Chasing butterflies, bugs and hopping critters is a great spring pastime and I applaud his choice in theory.
This spring has been unseasonably cold and we here in mid-America are still getting thermostatic whiplash with a hard freeze following right on the heels of an 82 degree afternoon. Another freeze is coming next week. I’ve told Munchkin that we are not likely to be inundated with morphed caterpillars while the nights still feel like December. Undaunted, he dons a coat and goes in search of the illusive butterfly. I get a cup of tea, wondering if the net will survive long enough to ever whip through the air in pursuit of a Monarch. (No I don’t think we get Monarchs here, but using the word butterfly again in this short blurb would create a grammar gaff that would leave me sleepless. And, well, chasing a Painted Lady with a net just seems kind of inappropriate for a four-year-old.)
A bit later I’m in search of a too quiet Munchkin. There he is, net full of bright yellow flowers, smiling.
Find any butterflies?
Nope. But I got these. What are they?
Dandelions, I say resisting the urge to call them weeds.
Well, Mama, when butterflies aren’t flying, just hunt dandelions!
Eyes watering and fighting back a sneeze I congratulate Munchkin on his catch just as the net full of bounty is bunged beneath my nose. Back inside I grab a glass of water to wash the pollen from my throat. Munchkin stares at me through my half empty glass. There is something naively profound in what he said I murmur, knowing he sees my glass half full.
1. Listen, listen, listen
As much as I sometimes want to stick my head in the sand it’s important to stay involved. Good advice for every parent, but vital to those of us with mentally ill children of any age. Clues are everywhere – even in their silence. If you practice listening on purpose you’ll gain insight into their thinking that you wouldn’t otherwise have because they can’t or won’t tell you. You’ll know how they handle pain; you’ll know where to start looking if they go missing; and you’ll learn to know when they’ve been quiet too long.
2. Take every threat seriously
Don’t put threats from your children under a bushel basket of fear or denial. Whether directed inward or outward, every threat needs to be addressed. Even very young children can be dangerous to themselves and others. I’m throwing myself onto the proverbial sword here but as bad as it sounds children aren’t all fluffy puppy-like creatures and it’s unwise to stereotype them like that. I’m not saying that all children with mental health issues are dangerous and you shouldn’t read that into what I’m saying, but be willing to be honest with yourself and others if you think there is a problem. It’s an act of love. I feel compelled to add this word of forewarning: adults accusatory of the very young will themselves be viewed with mistrust and put under a microscope of suspicion. This is especially true if you don’t yet have a firm diagnosis. Don’t let that stop you.
3. Isolation comes with the territory
Stigma isn’t just a word thrown about in discussions of mental health. It’s very real pain. There is a stigma that comes with being different, or having someone different in your family, and being different sets you apart – sometimes very far apart. You lose friends. You get shunned and uninvited. Play dates for a kid who overturns furniture without provocation or enjoys shredding paper into tiny bits to create cherished collections are hard to arrange. Even trips to the ER with an adolescent who self-harms can lead to medical professionals publically shouting “it’s the cutter again” and your wish to become momentarily invisible.
4. Siblings can be peripheral damage
Your other kids can get lost in the shadows. Siblings are victims too. They have lost a person they loved and are faced with someone they don’t know. They fear it will happen to them. It kills them to see you hurting and they want to fix it. But like you, they are helpless.
5. Love and Rescue are not synonyms
There is a time to stop making things right. It can be hard to define the line where helping becomes enabling. A good first step is admitting that the line exists. Don’t stop looking for resources, but stop replacing wrecked cars, covering debts, paying bail and buying the lies.
Having mentally ill children is frightening whether yours is a child carrying a lunch pail to elementary school, a defiant teenager killing emotional pain by creating physical pain, or an adult who follows voices you cannot hear.
What have you learned from your love of the mentally ill?
This week’s writing challenge is a poem. Not a good fit for me. I blog about parenting challenges, childhood mental illness . . . . there’s no Roses Are Red in that.
Or maybe there is.
Here’s my take on childhood mental illness presented in as much poetic format as I could manage. I’ve developed a new respect for WordPress blogging poets who wrangle with formating features on an ongoing basis. My hat’s off to you.
The Golden Child Sparkling child so full of promise, Wherever did you go? Do you hide beneath the lily Waiting to surprise? I lift the leaves prepared to start As you spring blithely forward. No hand find I to clasp in mine And show me toward the future. ~ Radiant child once full of love Why hidest you so long? Hear you not the blue bird singing As sunshine warms your face? Old things are left behind, Outgrown but not replaced; Leaving cobwebs in the places That used to give you reason. ~ Reclusive child once full of questions, Queries beyond your age. Where is the passion of your search For keys and magic doors? Hinges rust and creek On doors that lead to knowledge; Well greased are portals that devour And strip away the nymph. ~ Street child beguiled By legions of deceit That lure you into secrets And darkness in their lair Seek strength and wisdom from the light And power not your own. Hope and Peace are calling you. Turn not a deafened ear. ~ Saddened child once full of joy That cascades onto others, Your swirling ribbons and gifts of paper Brought smiles amid the wrinkles. So many blessed by little gestures You seem to think unnoticed Now sit in prisons, hands extended, Hoping to catch your glitter. ~ Half child and half adult Caught in tentacles of self reproach Flailing against yourself To quash your gilded hue. Fear not refining fire That purifies -- renews. Remember, child, from whence you sparkled: Your heart is solid gold. ©Sandra Lafferty 2013
Note to self: stop leaving electronics logged on when you leave the room.
I just discovered that I invited 8 people to play Words With Friends, locked myself out of a protected app by trying the password too many times, and left my blog page in favor of YouTube — All while I was making a PB&J sandwich.
I’ve been hacked by a preschooler.
Being only a few feet away was enough of a buffer to allow exploration into grandma’s icon land. I’m still not sure if the 3’6” hacker sent an email or shared a blog comment.
So, if you receive an incoherent message from me using letters primarily from the middle row on the keyboard, either I forgot the advice I just gave myself or I’m having a very, very bad day. Either way …. Oops.
The Great Depression taught my parents and grandparents to save. They saved pennies, broken things with usable parts … and buttons.
The button box held a wide array of closures from garments worn beyond repair. If a shirt or coat could not be passed along to another wearer, the buttons were salvaged and stashed in the button box. Searching through the button box hoping to find a ‘matchie’ for replacing a lost dress button gave me the opportunity to listen to stories of need that my grandmother saw as bounty, anecdotes my mother remembered from her childhood, and the occasional fashion history lesson.
The button box was always a favorite with my own children as well. It has survived the generations, gaining and losing buttons along the way. There are history, math and sensory lessons hidden within the colorful assortment. The tactile experience as they run through a child’s fingers and the sound of the buttons toppling down upon one another inside the box has delighted every child who shared in the treasure that now belongs to me.
Over the years I’ve gone beyond sharing the family history and incorporated Grandma’s button box into lesson plans and spontaneous learning moments. What does it feel like to squeeze a handful of buttons? Can you find the one that is made from a sea shell? I try to keep the “planned” learning short and simple so that I don’t encroach on the exploration. Chances are if I sit back and just share the moment I’ll be answering instead of asking questions. Little minds are always full of questions.
We sort by color, number of holes, size and shape. We match them to the clothing we’re wearing and giggle when they look silly. We search out buttons, huge and wooden, that went on coats. We find small white buttons like the ones on Grandpa’s shirt. We wonder how long rectangular buttons got through their button holes. We rub our fingers on leather covered buttons without any holes at all. All the while we’re bumping into accidental learning.
Even ADHD kiddos seem to stay focused when using the special buttons as manipulatives for math or arranging into letter shapes for phonics.
Counting, addition and subtraction can easily be hidden in button play for those who don’t relate to flash cards and rote learning.
Autistic children don’t connect well to the interpersonal world but thrive in the button box collection. Often collectors themselves, seeing my collection gives us a touch point to join our worlds. And isn’t that what life is all about?
From time to time I will be writing about educational moments you can share with the children in your life. Children of all abilities. Some will involve modern technology and others will need only the magic of creativity like the lessons found in Grandma’s button box.
Admittedly, that’s a little outside the norm on two levels. One, that I still prefer brick and mortar bookstores, and two, that it’s an odd book choice since I’m not a psychiatrist, psychologist, social worker, or attorney working with the mentally ill. Truth is I’ve had some edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, a guide to mental disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association, on my bookshelf for many years.
Yep. Throw a log on the fire, pour a cup of tea, and curl up with the DSM – the perfect evening. That officially makes me some sort of nerd I suppose. However, nerd conjures up images of tortoise shell glasses, tailored shirts, high-rise trousers and plastic pocket protectors.
I think I’m only missing the pocket protector. Kind of an embarrassing image when you consider that I’m a middle-America soccer mom.
Nonetheless, as someone who has morphed from a psychiatric research wannabe to a special ed teacher-in-training to a stay-at-home professional parent, I have an intrinsic interest in mental and educational challenges. From the day a psychiatrist and room full of social workers told me to choose another child because the one I’d selected had deficiencies and should be institutionalized instead of adopted, I’ve been fighting to make a difference in the lives of differently-abled and at-risk children. It’s never been wise to tell me something can’t be done. I have this annoying habit of replying “watch me.”
So, if you see someone in the reference isle of a bookstore snatching up editions on educational methodologies or mental health topics with all the enthusiasm of an avid yard-sale shopper, please overlook the yellow highlighter stain on my shirt. I don’t have a pocket protector.