Domestic Psychology

She’s leaving home

// January 17th, 2011 // 8 Comments » // parenting

Sarah leaves in one week. Seven days. That takes my breath away, but you wouldn’t know it if you get within earshot of me. While Sarah Toy Story 3′s her room, I talk to her. I talk to her when we are in the same room. I shout across the house to talk to her. I stand outside the closed bathroom door and talk to her. What does all this talking sound like? Like this:

“And be sure to follow the laundry instructions on the tag and never leave your drink unattended and always have a working flashlight where you can find it in the dark and keep your phone charged.”

No matter how much I say, it doesn’t feel like enough. There isn’t enough time and I have a giant knowledge hole about all things New York. I feel like I should remind her to always keep enough credit on her Metro pass that she will never be stranded far from home. Then again, maybe not. I just don’t know. Is New York a ‘don’t talk to people on the elevator’ place? Are there restaurants that only the locals know about?

So, I need help. I need to know what YOU would say to a 17-year-old moving from Knoxville to Manhattan. You can leave me a comment or send me an e-mail. You can text my phone or call and talk to me. Send me a tweet. Leave me a comment on facebook. Please send me your wisdom. Just send it quickly, because . . . seven days.

Leaving the nest

// December 11th, 2010 // 2 Comments » // parenting, school, teenagers

I changed my mind. It started when Sarah drove to Nashville with a friend for portfolio day. She came home with an enthusiasm and excitement about college which forced me to accept that she is ready. A realization that I had been ignoring despite the quiet cheering for Sarah from the allies she doesn’t know she has on Twitter. Sarah has a dream and it is my job to let her reach for it. She’s my baby, but this is her life.

In January, I am sending my 17-year-old daughter to college in Manhattan. I know more about the environment on Mars than I know about New York. She is going to a city that is a location for television and movies. New York is where celebrities live. It’s not a real place. I feel like I am catapulting my child into a foreign land without so much as a medpac or cricket bat.

It’s not just the unknown that frightens me. Sarah has never experienced a real winter. She doesn’t have the clothing for New York weather. How will she learn to live on her own when she doesn’t have the skills to function in a city? A really big, crowded city of people who don’t all have a family or friend connection is something she can’t possibly understand. A starving college student isn’t funny when it’s your own child and she is 720 miles from home.

This is what Sarah wants. Sarah has never been anything but wonderful. She is an amazing daughter and sister. She is a good student and talented artist. Sarah suffered in silence during the difficult times that Autism controlled our lives. She works hard to contribute to our home and harder to do her best at school. It is not unusual for Sarah to study until midnight and paint until sunrise. She does it all herself. Even in elementary school, she refused help with projects and insisted upon doing it herself. She has earned the school of her dreams.

There will be no ceremony, party or pageantry to symbolize the enormity of what is happening. Sarah is leaving home. When she falls, she will get up and keep moving forward. We are her past and her future is elsewhere. If we’re very lucky, she will come home for holidays, but she will only be visiting us. Sarah has a dream college and an infatuation with a city, but she is stubbornly determined to work hard and be her own person. She isn’t waiting for her dream to happen, she’s making reality her dream. She is already planning on a series of apprenticeships to find where she fits. I’m a weeping mess, but Sarah is going to be fine.

Hooray! Sarah is going to college. Wah! Sarah is going to college. I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m terrified. My heart is ripped into pieces, but I’m stashing a few of those bits in Sarah’s coat pockets. No matter where she goes, I’ll be there too. If the zombies get too close, she can toss my heart to distract them while she gets away safely.

where’s the hitchhiker’s guide when you need it?

// March 25th, 2009 // No Comments » // aspergers, school, teenagers

We always knew that the group bathroom in the college dorm would be a problem for Tommy. It has been a constant source of annoyance for Tommy and the resulting poor hygiene has been the topic of far too many weekend conversations. Still, I was caught off guard yesterday, with just a few weeks remaining until finals, Tommy sent me a rapid-fire series of text messages complaining about the bathrooms.

“Ever since Spring Break, the bathroom is ALWAYS crowded.”
“I can’t even shower late at night now.”
“Too many people.”
“They talk in the bathroom.”
“You’re not supposed to look at other people in the bathroom.”
“I can’t do anything with all those people talking.”
“They’re mostly *foreign students talking.”
“I guess it’s different where they’re from.”
“We don’t do that.”

Tommy was worked up and having a tizzy over something that I can’t control. I tried to convince him to visit Student Services and just talk to them until he could calm himself. He wouldn’t do it. Despite dozens of e-mails, phone calls and meetings, Tommy still won’t use Student Services. He won’t talk to professors. He will not ask for help of any kind. After 18 years of being the center of attention, Tommy has connected succeeding with blending in to the woodwork. Apparently, life hasn’t been difficult enough for Tommy. Now he wants to make it more difficult.

*I don’t know what he meant by this. He might think students from Texas are foreigners. The middle of Asperger drama was not the time to discuss it.

smells like . . . oatmeal

// January 13th, 2009 // 5 Comments » // aspergers, parenting, school, teenagers

Tommy: “Mom, can you get by the co-op this week?”
Me: “Umm, why? Do you need something?”
Tommy: “Yeah, my dorm room gets really stinky, so I want some horse feed to leave out in a bowl to make the room smell good. Not the cheap feed though. The good stuff that smells so fresh.”
Me: “Horse food as potpourri?”
Tommy: “Yes. Thanks mom.”
Me: “Would you like some wood chips or hay to throw down on the floor in your dorm room?”

college is not summer camp

// January 11th, 2009 // No Comments » // aspergers, parenting, school

Tommy’s first semester away at school we learned exactly how much he has changed and just how much things remain the same. The biggest surprise was that Tommy made friends. Real, honest-to-goodness, not orchestrated by parents, friends. Tommy and his friends played games, watched movies and went shopping. You know what they didn’t do? Study. At least one member of the merry little group of campus campers didn’t return this semester. Tommy almost joined his friend in the stay at home and go to community college club. He is back at school now, but under a microscope of parental supervision.

Tommy’s first experience with an unsupervised play group wasn’t the only problem last semester. Tommy was supposed to check in weekly with a counselor who knew Tommy’s entire life story. The counselor had an envelope proving Tommy’s disability that was to be used to get Tommy accommodations. Tommy’s handwriting hasn’t improved since the first grade. It’s not just illegible, it’s a source of stress and anxiety that needs to be fought separate from a college classroom. Tommy needs to do assignments and tests on a word processor or verbally or anything except a blue book. Those adaptations were never made. The appointments with the counselor stopped within the first few weeks and we didn’t understand what was happening until Tommy was deep in the semester. Eventually we learned that when the counselor transferred to another department, Tommy’s files were stuck in a box and dumped in someone else’s office. It’s not the college’s fault. The real world doesn’t hold your hand like elementary school does. We were just so elated that Tommy was happy and interacting with NT peers for the first time in his life that we forgot Tommy has no self management skills. The balance between not treating him like the little boy that he is maturity-wise and the young man that he is physically is incredibly difficult and we don’t have it figured out yet.

I want to say that if this semester goes poorly academically, it was a wonderful year of social growth, but I’m just not feeling that open-minded yet. I don’t want to have to say that. I want to say that we stumbled when we threw Tommy to the wolves without any help and then we learned as we went how to help the child who wasn’t supposed to read, make it through college.

Dear Tommy,

// October 5th, 2008 // 1 Comment » // flickr, home, parenting, pets, siblings

I am beyond thrilled that you are happy at school with your friends. I can see that if this college doesn’t work out, you are going to need to live away from home to be happy and functional. However, we need to talk about two things. First, let’s talk about your room. I like it staying clean from non-use, but there are still six people in this small house. Four of those people are actively campaigning for custody of your room. If we are only going to see you one day a month, you are going to find your new room is a cleared out space in the basement. I know it’s not fair to you. This will always be your home, but the people who are still sharing bedrooms are higher priority than the family member who only comes home for laundry and food.

The other thing we need to discuss is your snake. I enjoy giving him attention every day and his weekly swim is very entertaining. I don’t love that the only meat in our freezer is a bag of small mice. Dad cleans out the litterbox, but somehow, cleaning up the snake’s poop that looks like it could have come out of the cat has become my job. Again, I am less than thrilled with this new chore. If you pass your classes this semester, your snake is either going to live with you or we are going to be honest and call him my snake. When he is mine, the first thing I will do is change his name. Bahamut is a very intimidating name and this little guy is extremely gentle and quietly curious. He’s more of a Monty.

I love you and I miss you.

Mom

Up, up and away

// September 29th, 2008 // No Comments » // aspergers, parenting

After taking Tommy to the Greek food eatathon, we dropped him off at Pellissippi to spend the day watching hot air balloons with his friend. Then, we went on an extremely rare dinner outing with our friends. Before we even had our food on the table, my phone rang. “The glow is at eight. You have to be here.” Tommy could have clarified that the glow was a low tech laser light show. It didn’t matter though, we were having dinner, not watching balloons. I ate a few bites and my phone beeped with a text message. “It’ll be cool.” A few more bites and another message. “The world’s largest hot air balloon is here.” After a dozen text messages, I gave up on getting to talk to the grownups and we rushed to find out what was going on with Tommy. As we walked toward the crowd, Doug wondered aloud if Tommy was overstimmed by the festival. I was instantly aware of the muggy heat, large crowds, loud music, flame noises, food smells and fuel vapors. I distractedly clicked pictures while searching for Tommy. We made our way around the lake and searched the balloon area. Doug spotted him first. I just stood there in disbelief. My child, who I worry about constantly, was intensely focused on the hot air balloon at the end of the rope he was holding. I walked closer, my mouth hanging open so wide I could have captured half a dozen gnats. Tommy saw me and barely nodded. He worked the rope with more concentration and physical strength than I have ever seen from him. Not only did he work the balloon crew all day, he stayed there for several hours afterward to help with the takedown and packing. Except for the part where I was recruited to hoist the flattened and folded balloon into its’ storage cart, I watched Tommy instead of the balloons. I watched a completely different person than the boy who I left at college last month. I don’t know if Tommy will pass his classes. He went such a long time without any education during his childhood that he has serious gaps in his abilities. He can tell you about history, but he can’t write down what he knows. Tommy is going to be okay though. He may live a nomadic life following hot air balloons around the world or he might work on a horse ranch. I am no longer clearing the path for him. Tommy is paving his own road.

world’s longest umbilical cord

// September 14th, 2008 // 6 Comments » // aspergers, parenting

Thursday night, Tommy called to say that he wanted to stay at school instead of coming home. Fine. Then, he asked me to bring him clean clothes. Not fine. I explained that ALL of his pants and underwear were already in his dorm room. Without a moment’s hesitation he asked me to drive up the Kentucky border and do his laundry for him. Doug said no. Friday, as *gas prices soared and stations ran dry, I texted Tommy that he would have to do his own laundry. Tommy sent back, “PLEASE Mom. I need you.” My heart shattered in a million pieces. Doug sat silently while I hysterically explained why I shouldn’t go and what a bad precedent it would set. Then, he handed me $20 and told me to drive safely.

I criticized myself the entire drive there. I sang along with the radio. “Stupid, stupid, stuuuu-pid me.” Sometimes, I didn’t have to make up my own lyrics. “Insane in the membrane. Insane in the brain.” As with every trip before it, the drive on the Interstate was the easy part. Once I hit the two lane highway, the drive became drudgery. Just as I thought I was going to fall asleep, the mountains came into view. Mountains take my breath away. I found myself breathing short, shallow breaths and I drifted the rest of the journey in a hypnotic calm. Perhaps it was this calm that caused me to be so surprised by the sight of my son jumping up and down on the road that leads to his dorm. The child who is twice my size and usually operating in low gear was waving both of his arms and smiling as if he hadn’t seen me in ages. The two weeks felt like forever to me, but I didn’t expect him to be so happy to see me. I parked the car and readied myself for a rib-crushing hug. Tommy opened the car door as he called, “Molly!” He gave the DOG my hug and the two of them raced around the building.

After showing off the dog who he missed more than me, Tommy loaded his laundry in the car and we went out in search of a laundromat. Yes, the dorm has a laundry area. I think the only thing worse than your Mommy driving two hours to do your laundry would be your Mommy doing it in the boys’ dorm. We drove into Kentucky, to the town that distributes the Christmas shoe boxes and care packages to the very neediest people in Appalachia. The dirty, crowded laundromat made me homesick for the luxury of my neighborhood laundromat. I talked, talked, talked laundry as Tommy cheerfully sorted and loaded the machines. He did his own laundry until it was ready to be folded. Then, I thought I would have a seizure if I didn’t jump in and fold the clothes with him. I tried ignoring the way he was folding the clothes. Really, I did. It was just so very wrong. Do you know why Doug never folds laundry at home? Because he does it wrong too. What? Like you don’t have things at your house that you think nobody else can do correctly? Riiiight.

With Tommy’s laundry done, we made a quick stop at WalMall for Tommy’s Sprite and cereal needs. No, he doesn’t mix them together. I drove through the small, square burger restaurant and dropped Tommy back at his dorm. He was calm and content. I was glad I made the foolish trip. I didn’t realize it, but I needed to see Tommy. I drove home listening to the Hurricane news reporters. They bragged about staying in a hotel with flooded first floors. They stood outside and described trees flying through the air. They deserve a diagnosis more than Tommy does. I texted Tommy today and asked him what he does on the weekends. “Be normal. Be happy.”

* Doug told me that the only thing anyone wants to read or talk about right now is gasoline. This is the only time I am going to mention the whole media-induced panic.

testing his wings

// September 7th, 2008 // 6 Comments » // aspergers, parenting

Earlier in the week, Tommy called to tell me he wanted to stay on campus for the weekend. He then asked me to make the 4 hour round trip drive to give him clean laundry. I told him he could go into town and buy himself a pair of jeans and a bag of underwear or he can do his own laundry. His confusion at my response made me question myself all week. Maybe I was expecting too much. Maybe I should drive up there.

Even though he decided to stay on campus for the weekend, I still made my daily phone call to ask Tommy if he is leaving his room for meals. In my mind, he’s hiding in his dorm room, eating cereal three times a day while immersed in computer games. “Sigh. This isn’t a good time for THIS.” What? Did the child who still occasionally asks me to clarify what the tone in my voice or expression on my face means just avoid acknowledging who he was talking to as if I was embarrassing him? I asked him if he was alone. “No.” He’s . . . hanging out with peers? I asked him if I should call back later. “No. I’ll call you.” Did my son just diss me? Why, that is just so, so, so freaking NORMAL! He’s making friends. He would rather be with peers than with his parents. I am so happy that I don’t even care if he passes all his classes. I’ll care when midterms roll around and he realizes that college professors aren’t accepting his disdain for adjectives, straight to the point style of answering questions. Right now, it doesn’t matter. Tommy is happy. That makes me happy.

Why colleges should medicate parents

// August 17th, 2008 // 6 Comments » // aspergers, parenting, school

Friday night I stayed up until 2 packing for Tommy. The rest of the night I stared at the clock. Saturday morning was a blur of car loading and trying to get out the door. I busied myself with paperwork the entire drive to LMU. As the car entered the campus, Tommy whispered, “I have butterflies in my stomach.” As long as I live, I will never cease to be proud of Tommy when he identifies his emotions. The amount of work it took for him to be able to do so is indescribable to NT parents.

We stumbled into the student center and the LMU students snatched Tommy and put him on the assembly line that is freshman check-in day. I leaned back into a wall so hard I probably left a large booty sized dent. I watched Tommy signing papers, getting his room key and talking with the other students. The room was ice cold and I felt a familiar but distant panic and fear. It was the exact same feeling that I had 18 years earlier as I checked into the hospital to force the overdue Tommy to make his entrance into the world. After a long labor and an epidural that left me completely numb below the chest for HOURS after delivery, Tommy emerged and his Apgar scores blew chunks. Instead of being in my arms, he was surrounded by a growing Army of NICU nurses who rushed him out of the room 5 minutes after he born. Fifteen minutes after Tommy was born, I sat alone in my room and said out loud to nobody, “I just had a baby.” A stared at the door, the phone and the clock over and over again. Waiting. After 30 minutes, I told myself my baby had died. I wept and tried to will my heart to stop beating. I just wanted it to stop. An hour after delivery I was shown a picture of my baby that did not make me feel better and told that he had a pneumothorax. Many hours later, I was wheeled to NICU to see my son. I went back to my room and cried more. The nurses said it was just hormones and told me I would get over it. The next day I was discharged and my crying continued. The doctor said, “this too shall pass” and walked away. I lived on the couch outside the NICU for a week. When I finally left the hospital with my son, I felt like I had a bullet lodged in my heart that I would carry forever. Leaving my child at school and driving away on Saturday afternoon, that bullet shifted and the pain was immense. The daily daggers from the rest of my life were unbearable.

Tommy called and texted all night. My phone no longer sits on my desk. It is clutched in my hands day and night. “Make sure my snake gets a swim tonight.” “I walked to the grocery store.” “The showers are cold.” “I’m going to play paintball now.”

I could enroll 15-year-old Sarah in college right now and have no fears. She would adapt instantly to dorms, make friends and be a straight A student. Now. She already has the maturity and the ability. She will pack up her belongings, drive herself to college and move herself in without any help wanted or needed from us. I will miss her horribly, but I won’t have the anxiety that I have now. Noah? Noah will probably skip college and be a freegan beach bum. Amy is going to be enrolled in military school before adolescence to learn to control that nasty little temper of hers. Evan is still my baby. Don’t talk to me about 3 not being a baby. I can’t hear you with my fingers in my ears. La-la-la-la-la.